Ravenwood Cove Cozy Mysteries Books 1-3

by Carolyn L. Dean

  Amanda suppressed her emotions and her voice was steady and calm. “I’m sure the papers will have more news soon.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She couldn’t pass along what James had told her and she was hoping that her vague response would satisfy Mrs. Mason.

  Apparently not. Mrs. Mason’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well, I’m sure they will,” was all she said as she handed Amanda the bags of candy and turned to help the next customer.

  A trip to Madeline Wu’s fish store for smoked salmon, and a quick chat with the Hortman brothers as they were setting up a good-sized Christmas tree lot next to Petrie’s hardware store, and Amanda had had enough excitement for one day. Time to go back to the Inn and get ready for her next batch of guests at the bed and breakfast.

  Chapter 7

  So much for the romance of decorating.

  By the time she’d wrestled the freshly-cut holly branches into a thick plastic bag, Amanda was truly grateful that she was wearing heavy leather gloves and had brought a pair of long-handled kitchen tongs. The glossy green foliage and bright red berries would look wonderful on the carved mantle over the main fireplace, but after being poked repeatedly she was rethinking her brilliant idea. When she’d first thought about pruning her huge holly tree at the back corner of the Ravenwood Inn’s acreage, she had no idea how tough it was going to be to avoid getting stabbed by countless little thorns. She was almost regretting taking advantage of the time her guests were gone, off to a local tour, but it gave her time to get her outdoor chores done, including gathering greenery to decorate.

  No wonder nothing eats these leaves, she thought, gingerly pulling together the edges of the bag. Not even the deer like a mouthful of ouch.

  Holding the sack of holly carefully in one hand, she picked up the wire egg basket with the other. There weren’t as many eggs as there had been a few weeks ago. The hens had started molting, so that meant there were loose feathers blowing around the chicken coop, and the hens were laying fewer eggs. The first time Amanda had come outside to see a rumpled hen with bald patches and a naked tail she was sure that the poor bird had contracted some rare avian disease and would need a vet and maybe last rites. She didn’t calm down until Jennifer had come over, because of her frantic phone call, and laughingly assured her that molting was a natural process and that the birds weren’t infected with some dread disease.

  Sometimes it wasn’t easy being a transplanted city girl trying to live in a rural small town.

  The only bird that hadn’t been affected by molting was her multi-colored rooster, Dumb Cluck. He was still as gorgeous and loud as ever. His beady eyes watched her warily as she double checked the gate to be sure it was latched, and as she walked back toward the Inn. Even though he was loud and obnoxious, she made sure that he had a good, warm place to stay and all the healthy chicken feed he needed. Dumb Cluck was just a chicken, that’s true, but he was also a hero. He had alerted her when the Inn had been set on fire, and that got him privileges for the rest of his days. Amanda was determined that he and his new harem of nearly-bald hens were going to have long, happy lives.

  It was quite a walk back over several acres, and she could feel the chill seeping through her jacket. It was getting colder, that was for sure. Amanda had watched until there was a break in the drizzle, and timed her chores between rainclouds. According to the forecast, dry weather was on its way and that suited her fine. She missed seeing the unparalleled brilliance of diamond stars in a clear sky over the ocean, and was getting tired of having to take an umbrella everywhere she went. She’d just started to figure out that many townspeople were so used to the weather they just wore good raincoats with weatherproof hoods, and simply buttoned up when they stepped outdoors on a wet day.

  By the time she’d reached the garden, she could make out a tall figure sitting on her back-kitchen porch, reading the latest copy of the Ravenwood Tide. Even with his face buried behind the broad pages of the newspaper, she’d have known those well-worn cowboy boots anywhere.

  “Afternoon, Detective. What’s new in the Tide?”

  “Hmmmmmm. Hometown Holidays are coming up. Time to check that you have snow chains and good tires.” He flipped the page. “Deep mulch can save your flower bed from freezing. The Catholic parish is having a live nativity scene on Saturday and Sunday. Ian Victor’s bought a bigger boat and he’s scheduling guided tours for whale watching, weather permitting. Oh, and the road to Likely has been cleared of mud and is now open.”

  Amanda set the egg basket and bag of holly down on the porch, settling into a wicker chair next to James. Thank goodness there was a deep overhang that protected it from most weather.

  “Nothing about a murder, I take it?”

  “Oh, that.” He folded the newspaper carefully and held it out to her, front page on top. “Thought you’d already seen it.”

  The article was written by Lisa, and as so many of her articles were, was factual and clear. It detailed the discovery of the body, had basic information about Desmond Martin’s job and where he lived. A small photo, probably from his Facebook profile, was set off to the side of the columns of text. There wasn’t much beyond that, and Amanda could tell the police were doing their best to keep details about the victim’s life and their investigation as private as possible.

  Amanda studied the victim’s picture. It might have been taken at a wedding, or a school dance, but the grainy photo told her very little about the short life of a man who’d met a terrible end. He was wearing a suit and smiling nervously in the photo, with carefully-combed hair and slightly crooked tie.

  “Lisa didn’t say anything about cause of death, just that foul play was suspected.” She folded the newspaper and looked at James. “I take it you didn’t tell her about the two bullets?”

  The detective uncrossed his long legs and got up, reaching for the bag and basket. “We didn’t give her details. The killer already knows how he died, and if anyone comes forward to talk to the investigators we need to know they actually have info that isn’t just made up or something they read in the paper. People do that sometimes.”

  After the bracing cold of the outdoors, the Inn’s kitchen was almost too warm. Earlier, Amanda had started a pot of chicken soup on low heat, and the steam added to the cozy atmosphere. Turning down the stove so the soup wouldn’t boil, Amanda sighed as she stripped off the heavy leather work gloves and jacket.

  “Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “That’d be great.”

  By the time she’d poured two mugs full and plopped down onto one of the chairs at the Inn’s long harvest table, James had already corralled the little pitcher of cream from the fridge. From the pensive look on his face, Amanda could tell that he had something on his mind. Pouring the coffee, she asked, “So, what’s new with you, James? You don’t normally stop by so I’m guessing you have a reason.”

  “Maybe I just wanted a piece of leftover pizza.”

  “You’re too late. Jennifer and I already split it.” She smiled at him, waiting, until he finally came clean.

  “Actually, I do have a reason. We got some more information back from the medical examiner and the investigation team. It turns out our victim was hiding a secret that he really didn’t want to share.”

  “A secret? What kind of secret?” She could feel her heartbeat quicken, as it always did at the beginning of a really good mystery.

  “He was hiding a key. We missed it on our first go-round, because it was hidden so well. It was actually sewn into the lining of his sneaker, under the padding. When we examined it we could tell that it had the info filed off the top. Whatever that brass key was for, Desmond Martin knew he had to hide it.”

  “So, do you think the person who turned out his pockets was looking for that key?”

  James unzipped his jacket as he considered her question. “That would be my guess. No one would hide a key like that unless they were worried someone was going to find it. Mr. Martin obviously had a reason.”

  “May
be that reason was what killed him.”

  James’ face was grim. “Maybe it did.”

  “And there’s no way to track the key? To find out what it goes to?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, lady.” James’ grin was lopsided, but he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, obviously prepared.

  Unfolding it, he said, “Whatever was stamped on the metal has been filed off, as you can see, but the shape of the key itself is unusual. I did a bit of investigating on the shape and it doesn’t appear to be any standard style of key. This one was probably custom made, and probably old.”

  Amanda leaned over the photocopied photo, intrigued. The picture was large and detailed, showing every scratch and groove in the old, brass key. The top of the key was worn smooth, but the outline was distinctive – four rounded lobes, with a hole punched at the very top so it could be hung on a chain or keyring. It looked old, the nicks in the grooved part that went in a lock showed its age and previous use, and there was a tarnish to the brass.

  James tapped on the picture. “We’re kind of at a dead end about the key. We don’t know what lock it goes to, and we don’t know why the victim wanted to hide it so bad. I’d be pretty sure that whatever he was trying to hide –“

  “Or protect,” Amanda interrupted him. “Maybe he was protecting something.”

  James looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Either way, we may never know. The bottom line is, he didn’t want anyone to find it.”

  Amanda studied the photocopy again. “Is this your copy?”

  “Doesn’t have to be.” When she looked up, Amanda could see the surprise in James’ eyes. “You want to have a crack at figuring out this key?”

  She paused. “Well, I’ve been talking with the ladies at the historical society a lot lately, trying to get info on the Inn. They’ve been really helpful about finding me old photos, and we get along well. Maybe someone there could point us in the right direction. It’s at least worth a try.”

  James shrugged. “I can always print off another copy of the photo. It’s yours, and just let me know if you find out anything. But Amanda,” he paused until he had her full attention, “don’t forget to use your good judgement. You’re a sharp cookie, and I expect you to know when to stop. Promise?”

  Folding the paper and tucking it into her pocket, Amanda laughed. “I promise. I’ll use good sense.”

  Chapter 8

  “I want a smartphone. I’ve already told Meg I wanted one for Christmas,” Mrs. Granger said, putting her purse on the table.

  Amanda paused, a box of cornstarch in her hand, the cabinet door in Mrs. Granger’s kitchen still open. Her ninety-year-old friend had her arms crossed across her chest, a look of absolute determination on her face.

  “Why would you want a smartphone? You have trouble operating your home phone.”

  “Don’t be cheeky, young lady,” Mrs. Granger huffed in disapproval. “I’m not too old to learn, am I?” Sitting on the sturdy plastic seat of her walker, she shook a finger at Amanda. “I have as much right to be on the innerweb as anyone. I could figure out how to use The Google. Besides,” she finally smiled a bit, “Meg says these days they have all sorts of games on phones that I’d like. I used to be quite a poker player in my day, you know.”

  Amanda kept putting the groceries away. Meg hadn’t been able to drive her grandmother to the store for her usual Tuesday shopping trip due to a dentist appointment, so Amanda had volunteered. She always enjoyed spending time with her opinionated ninety-year-old friend, and she’d needed to get supplies for the Inn anyway.

  “I’ll bet you were. Who taught you to play poker, Mrs. Granger?”

  “Hubert did,” she replied, referring to her long-dead husband. “My daddy used to play with friends at our house when I was growing up, but he never thought it was right that a girl would play gambling games like that. Said it wasn’t proper.” She smiled. “Hubert didn’t worry about stuff like that so much.”

  “I think I would’ve liked Hubert.” Amanda carefully folded the paper bags and tucked them into the small pantry. Every shelf was crammed full of saved foil, recycled string, grocery sacks, and rows of home-canned food.

  “You ever going to clean this pantry out?” Amanda asked. “I could help. How many rubber bands do you really need?” She picked up a Mason jar, full of twisted bands in all colors.

  Mrs. Granger looked over the top of her glasses. “My, aren’t we just uppity today. Didn’t your Mama ever teach you the little poem ‘use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without’?”

  “I can’t say she did.” Amanda thought back to how hard her mother had worked to make a living for the two of them, and the solitary holidays where her mother was busy working at the hospital. Amanda had spent a lot of time on her own when she’d lived with her Mom, and she’d certainly never heard her give advice about making do. It was just a reality in their house, and one of the reasons Amanda had worked so hard to get through college. She wanted more of a life than her worried and eternally-tired mother seemed to have.

  Mrs. Granger continued. “Well, my Mama did. She lived through the Great Depression and two World Wars, and she taught me the importance of being thrifty. It’s gotten me through some very tough times. Now,” she said, apparently wanting to change topics, “what’s going on with the murder investigation? There isn’t squat in the papers that’s new.”

  Amanda looked at her ancient friend, considering. Out of all the people she knew, Mrs. Granger was the most knowledgeable and certainly one of the best historians for the area. James had cautioned her against divulging details of the state of Desmond Martin’s body or the way he was killed, but he’d given her permission to ask some questions from the local historical society.

  It was an easy decision.

  “Actually, the investigation’s kind of bogged down, and maybe you could help. Would you mind if I showed you something, and see if you recognized it?”

  The old lady grinned. “I’d be happy to. James know you’re showing me stuff?”

  Amanda smiled and dug through her purse for the folded piece of paper James had given her. “Who’s being uppity now? You know I wouldn’t compromise his investigation.”

  “I know, but I just had to ask.” Mrs. Granger seemed wholly unrepentant. She watched as Amanda smoothed the sheet of paper onto the kitchen tabletop.

  Leaning over, the old lady adjusted her spectacles a bit as she examined the blown-up image of the key that had been found sewn in Desmond Martin’s shoe.

  “Lucky Rail.”

  Amanda’s heart stopped. “What?”

  “It’s a Lucky Rail key. I’d bet my boots on it.” She straightened up with a smile of satisfaction on her lined face. “My husband used to work at the local depot, loading cargo. I’d know that logo anywhere. Lucky Rail had everything marked with their four-leaf clover design, even the keys.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Mrs. Granger shot Amanda a look of disgust. “Didn’t I just say I was? That’s a railroad key. Might’ve gone to the depot door or some box they used on the trains when it ferried stuff back and forth through here.”

  “I didn’t know Ravenwood Cove had a railroad that went through here.”

  “We don’t now, but we used to have one. Lots of farmers sent their milk and produce to the big towns by rail, and the fishermen used to get the best price for sending oysters and fish that way, too. It used to be the roads around here were really rough, and the railroad was the fastest and easiest way to ship things.”

  Amanda was stunned. She should’ve know that Ravenwood Cove’s oldest resident, who’d made it her business to know what was going on with everyone in town, would’ve been a goldmine of information when it came time to figure out a mysterious key.

  “Is Lucky Rail still around?”

  The sound Mrs. Granger made with her pursed lips wasn’t very ladylike. “Not for decades. When the roads improved the railroads weren’t as necessary, and Ravenwood Cove was just a litt
le spur line anyway. Our town didn’t even make it on the scenic tourist train route that runs along the coast. When Lucky Rail closed up shop, Hubert was left without a job for a while, until he finally started up with the logging company. He didn’t even get his last paycheck when the railroad shut down.”

  A dead end.

  “Mrs. Granger, why would a young man have a key belonging to a defunct railroad?”

  The elderly lady was obviously thinking over her answer. “Well, I think it would be one of two things. Either he got that key from someone who used to work for the railroad, or maybe he’s been snooping around the property the railroad used. Lucky Rail left some equipment and things around here when they closed down, so maybe he was going through the stuff around and found the key.”

  Amanda leaned forward, her eyes intent on her ninety-year-old companion. “Left some things where? What sort of things?”

  Mrs. Granger shrugged. “Well, the abandoned tracks and the depot. That’s the only thing I can think that would be left. It’s north of town a few miles. It hasn’t been used in at least… I don’t know how many years, but if you wanted to find out something about this key I recommend you start there.”

  Amanda didn’t remember seeing a depot, but if Mrs. Granger said it was in the area, it must be there.

  The old lady pulled a plastic bag of paper napkins out of the grocery bag, still thinking. “There used to be another depot in Morganville, but squatters set it afire about a year ago. I think Ravenwood’s the only Lucky Rail depot for miles around.” She pulled out the drawer to the sideboard and put the napkins away. “They would’ve used several locks at the depot.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “The front door, the cargo door, the stationmaster’s office. My husband was kind of a packrat, bless his heart, and he never threw anything away. I know he had some stuff left when they closed the depot down, his whistle and keys and such, and I know he had a key. I think it went to the cargo room.” She looked around, as if searching for something. “He said it was the least they could give him since they never gave him his last paycheck. I’d bet that Lucky Rail key is still on his big, old keyring. I think it’s still in his desk in the office. Might not be exactly the same as the one in the photo, but it might be able to get you in one of the doors.”