Songbird Cottage
A Pajaro Bay Mystery
Barbara Cool Lee
Pajaro Bay Publishing
Contents
Introduction
Newsletter
Copyright & Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Booklist
Newsletter
Charities
Stay in Touch
Introduction
Robin Brenham finds a mysterious unfinished cottage while scoping out real estate deals in Pajaro Bay. But someone in the village doesn't want her to figure out its secret—or why a photograph of her long-lost grandmother is hanging on the wall. With the help of hunky co-worker Dylan Madrigal, she'll have to solve the mystery of Songbird Cottage before someone puts an end to her snooping... permanently!
Welcome to Pajaro Bay, the little California beach town where the cottages are cute, the neighbors are nosy, and it's always possible to find your personal Happily Ever After.
* * *
1. Honeymoon Cottage
2. Boardwalk Cottage
3. Lighthouse Cottage
4. Little Fox Cottage
5. Rum Cake Cottage
6. Songbird Cottage
7. Sunshine Cottage
8. Riverstone Cottage
Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Cool Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Neither the author nor the publisher claim responsibility for adverse effects resulting from the use of any recipes, projects, and/or information found within this book.
Originally published: February 20, 2018
2020-05-25-J
Chapter One
Pajaro Bay, California
Sunday, September 10, 10:30 a.m.
* * *
Dylan Madrigal parked his battered Jeep Wrangler on Calle Principal and got out.
He came around and opened the passenger door. "Allons-y, Alonzo!" he said, then lifted his elderly German Shepherd out of the seat to join him.
He and Alonzo headed down the sidewalk, threading their way through the throngs of tourists who were savoring their last weekend at the beach before winter storms drove them back home to the city.
The locals he passed gave him knowing smiles as they glanced at the gawking vacationers. Soon the little coastal village would be quiet again, with only a few thousand permanent residents sticking around through the winter.
When he passed townspeople of the older generation, they nodded to him in deference to the Madrigal name, which carried weight in the village. He was used to that, even though he thought it absurd. He was from a poor offshoot of the Madrigal clan, and had nothing to show for the legacy but curly black hair—and the weight of enough family history to sink a ship.
But the respect did no harm, so he just nodded back at them, and smiled in a practiced, friendly way to make clear he didn't expect any special treatment.
The dog at his side did the same, slightly tilting his gray muzzle at the smiles he got, as if he, too, considered himself a Madrigal, and of esteemed lineage.
They stopped at the corner, where a carved wooden sign for The Surfing Puggle marked the entry to one of Pajaro Bay's famous little cobblestoned shopping alleys.
The front window of the fancy pet store was filled with a display that made him pause to smile. Little plastic sharks swam on a sea of ocean blue paper, jaws open to bite unwary prey. Looming above them stood a life-sized toy Saint Bernard clad in a striped lifeguard tee. It had dog-sized flip flops on its paws, a whistle hanging from its neck, and wore a white cap with PAJARO BAY SURF PATROL emblazoned on it in blue.
Dylan had been one of those lifeguards, back in the day, and he was sure all the cute tourists who glommed onto the guards would have abandoned him in an instant for the charms of the mournful-faced dog.
He looked down at Alonzo, who sat patiently at his side. "What about it, Boy? Wanna sign up for surf school and meet all the ladies? You ready to give up your unrequited love for the Chihuahua next door and make a fresh start?"
His dog just looked at him as if the question were beneath the dignity of a serious canine like himself.
"Come on, then. Speaking of unrequited love, you know where we're headed."
Alonzo did. He walked ahead down the little alley that led them away from the main drag in Pajaro Bay. There were shops lining the way, including a florist with buckets of blooms spilling out from the doorway in a riot of color. Alonzo stopped briefly to sniff the roses, then moved on.
He kept going until he came to a blue Dutch door, its top half open to the morning sea breeze. There he lay down with a sigh and put his head on his paws, as if stoically waiting for his owner to come to his senses.
Dylan could hear a voice inside talking on the phone, and even that little bit of sound was enough to set his heart to aching. His dog was right—he was being an idiot.
He was a 42-year-old man, with hair showing the first touch of gray. He had a couple of successful businesses, a variety of interests, and a full life to enjoy.
Yet the sound of that particular voice made him feel like a giddy teenager again.
He stood under the sign for Robin's Nest Real Estate and waited for the owner to finish her phone call. Through the window of the little office, he could see her.
Robin Brenham leaned against her desk, her long legs clad in cinnamon-colored trousers. She wore a soft copper silk shirt that highlighted the rich glow of her deep amber skin. Her dark eyes were filled with humor as she laughed with the person on the phone. The gold charm bracelet on her wrist jingled, and her graceful hands fiddled with a gold Cross pen as she chatted. Her long fingernails, as always polished to match her outfit of the day, wore a deep bronze. Her appearance was perfectly elegant in a way unusual for this casual beach town. But that wasn't what set his heart to racing.
He had fallen for her intelligence, humor, and gorgeous looks the first time she'd walked into his real estate office five years ago. She had met him as an equal, eye to eye, and he quickly learned that he could talk to her about anything and get a straight answer. But always she held back, never revealing much of herself to him. Even though he'd known her for years, he'd only met her mom for the first time at a chamber of commerce party this summer.
From the start, his young apprentice had made it clear she wouldn't date him, and he had to respect that. He had let her know he was interested if she ever changed her mind, and they'd left it on those terms. Over time they had become friends—a friendship born of mutual respect, companionship, and a certain affection that seemed to be mutual. He had assu
med she would get married somewhere along the way, since she was about the biggest catch in town. But, though the village grapevine kept him informed of every man she went out with, she was still single.
And so was he.
And that should have been perfect.
Nope. He was in love with her, but she didn't feel the same way.
So he'd squashed those feeling down and made himself think of her as a business colleague, and a platonic friend.
At least that's what he told himself every single time he saw her.
She was joking with the person on the phone, cajoling a potential buyer into looking at a mid-century modern beach house a few miles down the coast. From the conversation, it was obvious the buyers had their hearts set on one of the funky little cottages for which Pajaro Bay was famous, and just as obviously, they had no idea what the cottages were really like.
"No," she was saying, "it's really not possible to have an open-concept floor plan in a Stockdale cottage. That property I showed you is on the historic register, and any remodeling will need to be approved by committee. The historical society has strict guidelines for making changes to the cottages, and I don't think they'd allow you to tear out the vintage oak staircase to make room for a big-screen TV. But in this modern property I'm dying to show you, it would be easy to get that great room effect by removing an interior wall and…."
He listened as she continued, painting a picture of exactly the kind of uncluttered, sleek home the buyer was apparently looking for.
Finally the call wound down, concluding with her convincing the client to come during the week and see some non-Stockdale homes that might be more to their taste.
She ended the phone call and glanced up.
When she saw him, she smiled, and he smiled back casually in the way he always did. He was way too old to waste his time on unrequited love. And that, also, was something he told himself every time he saw her.
He leaned over the Dutch door to look in.
"Got time for a field trip?" he asked.
"Sure," she said. "Where to?"
Chapter Two
After greeting Alonzo and getting a big lick on the nose in return, Robin locked her office, then walked with Dylan to his Jeep.
"So what is it you want to show me?"
"I want your honest first impression on a new listing, so I'm not going to tell you anything about it."
She glanced over at him. He grinned back at her, like he was joking, and she wondered what he was up to. He was usually very straightforward, so this felt odd.
"Being all mysterious?"
"I have my reasons," he said cryptically.
They got in the Jeep, with Dylan lifting Alonzo into the back seat on the driver's side before getting behind the wheel himself. The dog pawed at the seat cover, then finally settled down to rest with a loud grunt.
"What's the matter, Old Man?" she asked the dog. "Too tired?"
"Not too tired," Dylan said. "Oh? Didn't you mean this old man?"
She laughed. She had to remind herself he was too old, compared to her own age of 28. Too bad, really, because he was a fine hunk of man—and kind, and artistic, and smart, and successful enough on his own to not lust after the millions she would someday inherit. Dylan Bartolomé Madrigal was pretty much everything she found attractive in the opposite sex. Except for the deal-breaker. His age.
She knew he kayaked almost daily, and usually made the couple of miles to the lighthouse island and back before she'd even had her first cup of coffee in the morning. When she had worked for him, every morning he would come in to the office with his hair still damp from the shower, and she'd notice his assistant and the other agent who worked there both eyeing him with open admiration. But not her.
Now that she owned her own real estate company, and was technically his competitor, they didn't see each other every morning, but she still found herself meeting up with him regularly to discuss business, and do lunch, and share leads. It was all very nice and friendly. And neutral.
She glanced over at him as he drove, noticing the way he filled out his navy T-shirt and beige linen jacket (formal business attire in Pajaro Bay), as well as the smile lines in his tanned face and the little bit of gray in his dark curls, and she reminded herself to stay firm about her policy of avoiding emotional entanglements with older men.
They took Calle Principal out of town, all the way to the stop light that marked the edge of the village on the inland side. There Dylan made a left turn onto Highway One to head north on the famous route that paralleled the coast of California for 500 miles.
Here the Coast Highway was only two lanes, and at this time of day the road was clear of traffic. With one exception. He sped up to quickly pass an Airstream that was toddling along at about 35 miles per hour, then they settled down to a steady 60 after the first curve.
"How far are we going?" she asked. "I've got a two o'clock showing this afternoon. Please tell me this listing isn't way up in San Francisco."
"Nope," he said.
"Cryptic, aren't you?"
"Yup," he said, stifling a grin.
As they drove, the berm on the left side of the highway hid the view toward the ocean, though they might not see the bay from this spot even if the view weren't blocked. She tried to calculate how far away the sea was, knowing that made all the difference in the value of real estate in these parts.
The highway along here didn't offer the scenic views other sections of the road did, where each turn brought into sight a new panorama of the immense expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
The highway was inland a bit here, skirting the curve of Pajaro Bay to cut a straight line north toward the more populated cities up near San Francisco.
The views along this stretch were of dry hills studded with live oaks. Even the California poppies that usually dusted the hills with orange had gone to seed, leaving everything monochromatic, though starkly beautiful in its own way.
It was pretty, but this was not the view her clients paid a fortune for, and Dylan knew that as well as she did.
Just when she was about to ask him again where they were headed, he slowed down, and took a left turn onto a road that led back toward the ocean.
She leaned over to see the dash. "How many miles up the highway was that?" she asked.
"Only about three," he said. "We're in County land, outside of the reach of the Hysterical Society." The Pajaro Bay Historical Society controlled construction in the village, and its head, the elderly Zelda Potter, was both respected and feared by every builder in town. Being outside her realm had its advantages. The far-off county seat cared little for what happened out here in the boonies, and builders had more freedom to do what they wanted. For some of her clients, that would be a huge plus, and she said so to Dylan.
He responded with a noncommittal grunt. His cryptic behavior was beginning to annoy her.
After they made the turn, they passed a wooden sign, faded almost to illegibility, that read Songbird Lane.
The dirt road they had turned onto seemed little more than a deer track, and the Jeep shook as it rumbled over the rough road. "I've never been this way," she said. "Is it a private street?"
He nodded. "It dead-ends in a strawberry field."
They practically flew out of their seats as they hit a big bump, then the engine grumbled and Dylan shifted gears as the road rose up through a little dent in the berm, cresting to show thick woods on the other side, and a glitter of blue water peeking through the trees in the distance. The road, barely wide enough for the Jeep, made a beeline straight down the other side of the berm and plunged into the woods.
She hit the button to lower the window and the fresh air swept in, smelling of eucalyptus and dust, with a hint of the sea.
"How far are we from the ocean?" she asked.
"I think you get a great view of it from the edge of the property," Dylan answered. "But there's no direct access to the beach."
"That'll lower the value," she pointed out. "Bu
t if there's a nice view, that would still be worth something."
He nodded. "I haven't walked the whole acreage yet, so I can't be sure."
"Acreage? And it's a strawberry farm?"
He shook his head. "No. The farm's at the end of this road. The property I'm supposed to sell is only about four acres, just coming up here on the right. It's not surveyed, so the owner isn't totally sure of the size."
"So is there a house? Or is it bare land? And why do you want me to look at it, anyway?"
"You'll see," he said. Again with a smile, and she wondered whether he was playing some sort of game with her. But that seemed so unlike him.
"I could do a lot to market a farmhouse," she said. "And this close to the village it would be good for weekenders. The lack of beach access would lower the value a bit, but the modern farmhouse trend has people looking at these old places in a new light." She felt herself getting excited, imagining the possibilities of sliding barn doors for closets, enamelware pots hanging from rustic beams in the kitchen, and big open fireplaces with crackling cedar logs on a wintery evening.
"Not a farmhouse," he said, interrupting her soliloquy on copper apron-front sinks.
"Oh," she said, deflated. "Bummer."
He laughed.
"Not a farmhouse. Well, then, what is it?" she asked, not getting why he was being so close-mouthed about it. "Don't tell me someone did an angular Prairie style house overlooking the sea, like that Frank Lloyd Wright homage that's up on Madrigal Mountain? That would be an exciting find."
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