DUNE, DOCK, and a DEAD MAN: A Ravenwood Cove Cozy Mystery

by Carolyn L. Dean

  “Uh-HUH,” James said, obviously skeptical. “I know you, Ian. You’d work over your own mother to scrape an extra nickel out of her. Show me the contract you had with Anderson Bowles.”

  The expression on Ian’s face was almost a defiant pout. “I never did anything illegal, and you keep my mother outta this.”

  “Fair enough. I’m sorry I said anything about your mother.” James held out his hand. “Contract, Ian.” After a bit of searching in the back of the small office, and a loud slam of a metal file cabinet, Ian reluctantly returned to the half-door, piece of paper in hand. James took it from him and quickly scanned the contents.

  “You charged him triple your normal rate.”

  “So what if I did?” Ian blustered. “If you had a business you had to keep running and one of your customers was a little bit weird, you’d charge him extra, too. These days you can’t be too careful.” He put out his hand for the contract, but James ignored him until finally Ian dropped his open hand and sighed. “Look, I didn’t know if he was off his meds or on drugs or what. It’s a lot easier to get money up front than it is to try to get someone to pay to replace an entire boat later on.”

  Seeing James’ dark expression, Amanda stepped in. “I can certainly understand why you’d want to protect yourself. You were worried about your business, right?”

  Ian shrugged. “Even with all the new tourists, things still aren’t easy. I need all the money I can get.”

  Detective Landon seemed much less sympathetic. “I’m taking this contract as evidence, Ian, and we’re going to talk about this again later.”

  Even though he shook Amanda’s hand dispiritedly, Ian’s eyes never left James’ face, and when they turned to walk back to Amanda’s car, they heard the top part of the office door quickly slamming shut. Apparently Ian had had enough human interaction for one day.

  Chapter 7

  It was a lovely Oregon day in fall at the Ravenwood Inn, with a soft rain outside and a pot of fragrant beef stew on the stove in the warm kitchen. During a rare break in the weather Amanda went outside to pick the herbs for the stew from the recently-replanted garden and then dashed to the back of the Inn’s property to feed her small flock of chickens. One would think that a chicken coop wouldn’t be very pretty, but Amanda had made sure it was when she told her contractor Roy Greeley the details about what to build. The tidy little shed was painted sage green with cream-colored trim, and boasted a large fenced enclosure with plenty of shade outside and warm straw and roosts inside. Sometimes, when she was throwing corn to the inquisitive hens or gathering warm eggs, she couldn’t believe how much her life had changed since she left LA. No one could’ve guessed that she’d go from being an unhappy cubicle dweller in a gray-colored office to owning a historic inn on a bluff overlooking the Oregon coast. As she clucked to the hens, she kept an eye out for the protective rooster, Dumb Cluck as she checked the feed and water, and counted the eggs as she clicked the gate shut behind her. Almost a dozen. They were so fresh that the fat orange yolks would stand up firm and bright when cooked, and they were amazing for baking.

  Maybe some snickerdoodles later today, she mused, and headed back to the Inn.

  When Amanda walked into the kitchen Oscar, the huge orange cat that Amanda had adopted, was in his customary place in a large upholstered dog bed in the corner. He meowed at her once in greeting, then hopped out to see what goodies she’d brought inside. Sniffing her basket and obviously disappointed that it didn’t contain fish, he rubbed against her ankles to remind her of his nearly-empty food dish. Amanda couldn’t help but chuckle when she reached down to pet the big cat’s head. “Just a second, Oscar. I need to put this stuff away first.” The orange cat obviously understood, looking up at her and purring like a buzz saw. It made Amanda happy to see how healthy Oscar was now. When she’d first found him, hiding under her porch and begging for bits of her tuna sandwich, the cat had been terribly thin but her indulgence and his enthusiastic appetite had given him much more padding and a glossy coat.

  Today she had the inn all to herself. Her one guest, Richard Loomis, had checked himself out the day before by leaving his key on the small desk in the foyer when Amanda was in the sunroom, and Amanda had already decorated the wide front porch with fat pumpkins on the stairs and two groups of corn stalks on either side of the huge door. A couple of hanging lanterns attached to hooks under the eaves, and she was done. She’d already pulled the old-fashioned decorations out of the attic and added touches of fall color to every room. Wreaths of red and gold leaves dusted with subtle gold glitter were hung in every front window, and she’d put out covered dishes of candy corn and spiced nuts on the carved side tables in the parlor. With all of her chores done, she was looking forward to a rare day of reading and lounging around in her bathrobe, something she never got to do when she had paying guests at the Inn.

  Once Oscar was fed and plowing his way through the mound of squishy food in his bowl, Amanda settled onto the biggest sofa in the parlor with a good book and a thick quilt. The raindrops gently running down the large window was the perfect accompaniment to a day of relaxation and puttering around the inn, and her cat was happy to settle in beside her for a warm spot and a long nap.

  Of course, it didn’t last. There was a loud rapping on the front door, then a pause and a smaller, more timid knock. Amanda slapped her book shut and tried to get her annoyance under control as she pulled her robe more tightly around herself and went to answer the front door.

  As Amanda swung the door open her friend Meg came barreling in without even a greeting, throwing her purse on a nearby setee and heading for the kitchen, Amanda trailing behind in bewilderment. She’d been wanting to talk to her friend about Anderson Bowles’ death, but she’d been putting it off, almost afraid of what her sweet friend might reveal if she pushed too hard.

  “She burned it. All of it.” Meg’s mouth was a thin, bitter line. “Got any wine?”

  Amanda automatically pulled a bottle out of the wine cooler under the kitchen island and reached for a corkscrew. “Who burned what? What are you talking about?”

  Her usually-cheerful friend plopped down in one of the tall stools and leaned her elbows on the gray marble. “Guess.”

  Amanda didn’t need to guess. In the short time she’d known Meg, the only person who could frustrate her that much was her grandmother, Mrs. Granger.

  “What did she do this time?”

  Meg almost looked embarrassed. “Remember all that wood you gave me, from when they pulled down your kitchen porch and rebuilt it after the fire?”

  Amanda nodded. The insurance company had paid for a brand new porch, and every bit of wood that had been affected by the fire had been scrapped. Meg had come by to visit one day and deliver some much-loved cinnamon rolls for the guests’ continental breakfast, a few hours before the dumpster had arrived to dispose of the scattered planks that Roy Greeley, the local contractor, had pulled off the inn to make way for construction of a replacement porch. Megan had looked over the piles of unwanted wood and finally had asked Amanda about the possibility of hauling the unpainted pieces of wood away and giving them to her grandmother. The ninety=year-old lady had an older cottage near the outskirts of town and her main heat for cold weather was her woodstove. Since Mrs. Granger was on a fixed income, Meg had explained, it would be wonderful to have some free wood for her grandmother to use during the winter, and Amanda had been very happy to give it to her friend.

  At Amanda’s silent nod of confirmation, Meg continued. “Well, you know how my Gramma keeps her house spic and span inside, even if she can’t keep it up outside.” Another nod, and Meg gave a deep sigh. “When I had Pastor Tom drop the wood by, you’d have thought I was bringing by blankets contaminated with smallpox. She pitched a fit and flat out refused to let us pile it up in her woodshed or anywhere near it, saying it was filthy and it’d get the whole inside of her house covered in soot from the fire at your place.”

  Mrs. Granger had a reputation for be
ing house proud so Amanda wasn’t surprised, but she had a feeling there was more to the story.

  “So, what happened?”

  Her friend leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “We went back and forth a few times and she kept telling me she wasn’t going to take the wood, but I know she needs some help heating her place over the winter months so I finally raised my voice at her and asked if I had it stacked neatly by her compost pile, if she’d burn it. She said she would.”

  Something clicked in Amanda’s brain, and she had an instant suspicion what her devious ninety-year-old friend had in mind when she’d brought up the topic of fire.

  “So, she waited until I left, and then she dumped some kerosene on it and set the whole woodpile we’d brought on fire. Burned it down to ash. The smoke got the neighbor’s attention so they called the fire department, and I got called by Burt to come deal with my grandmother. Guess what she was doing when I arrived?”

  Meg always seemed to want Amanda to guess, but she only asked so she could tell her more details.

  “She was sitting in her walker in the backyard, roasting marshmallows. Said she wanted s’mores.”

  Amanda tried to stifle a laugh, but clapping a hand over her mouth couldn’t muffle the sound of her chuckle. She could just picture the determined old lady, roasting stick in hand and jaw set in defiance as she toasted a marshmallow.

  At Meg’s look of disgust at her friend’s laughter Amanda straightened up and held up both hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

  “Now I’ve got to figure out how to replace that wood, all because of an old lady’s ego.”

  Amanda was suspicious Mrs. Granger wasn’t motivated by ego as much as she motivated by proving she was still independent and could live on her own. Meg could be a bit overprotective sometimes, and her grandmother was very strong-willed.

  “We’ll find some more wood for her. I’ll bet the pastor or Roy would know where we could get some cheap wood.”

  “I’ve had it with her. I don’t even know what to do anymore.” Amanda had heard that phrase a couple of times before, but Meg never meant it. Even though her grandmother was a handful, she loved her fiercely.

  “Would you like me to go talk to her?” Amanda offered. “Maybe I can set her mind at ease that we’ll get her some new wood for winter.”

  “And clean. It’s gotta be clean,” Meg added glumly. “If it’s not, next time she’ll be roasting hot dogs when I show up.”

  Chapter 8

  It only took a few minutes for Amanda to drive to Mrs. Granger’s, splashing through the puddles and listening to her windshield wipers swipe back and forth. Mrs. Granger’s home was on the outskirts of town, and even though Amanda hadn’t visited inside before, she’d dropped Meg off a couple of times after she’d had a tiring day at work. Coming around the last bend in the road, Amanda was surprised to see another car parked in front of Mrs. Granger’s leaning picket fence.

  It was a very familiar-looking unmarked car, and just around the side of the house Amanda could see someone in a dark green windbreaker stacking freshly-split wood inside the moss-covered woodshed. He was so busy working that he didn’t notice her coming up the brick walkway that wrapped around the small cottage. Once Amanda could see the backyard, it was very apparent where Mrs. Granger had set the woodpile on fire and had been sitting with her marshmallow sticks. There was a blackened area right in the middle of the yard, with a bit of smoke still stubbornly rising in the fall rain, and an aluminum patio chair set nearby.

  Amanda waited a bit until James turned to grab another piece of wood and he nearly jumped at her sudden appearance.

  “Lady, you’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

  She grinned. “Well, hello to you, too. Is this official detective business?”

  James grinned back and ran a hand through his wet hair, trying to get the rain out of his eyes. “Nah, just a friendly drive-by for an old friend. I heard she had a…ahem…fire recently and thought she might need some new wood.”

  Amanda arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, I heard that, too. You sure this stuff is clean enough for her?”

  The tall detective straightened up, a chunk of firewood in each hand. “Split it myself, so I’m pretty sure it will pass inspection. I know a bit about her eccentricities.” He chucked the wood into the shed. “My brother’s just joined the fire department here and he filled me in on the whole thing.”

  “Ethan?”

  James shook his head, still working on the woodpile. “Derek. You remember him, don’t you?”

  Oh boy, did she remember him. The last time she’d seen Derek he’d been intent on using his devastating charm to great effect at Mrs. Granger’s ninetieth birthday party. “Vaguely,” she lied, and James’ answering smile showed he knew she was fibbing.

  Amanda remembered that Mrs. Granger had been the after school babysitter for James and his siblings when he was a schoolboy, and he still seemed to treat her like she was part of his own family. “You could’ve gotten someone else to help you, you know.”

  “Derek would have but he’s working today. They’re taking the firetruck to drain Mrs. Sandford’s pool for the winter. After all the excitement of Mrs. Granger’s backyard barbecue, odds are there won’t be much for them to do for a few days.”

  He kept stacking wood while he was talking to her, rainwater dripping from the edge of his jacket. “Besides, I try not to let people know about everything I do. Someone once said that the left hand shouldn’t know what the right hand is doing, and I believe in that. Otherwise,” he said as he fit another log onto the growing pile, “- you’re only doing it for your own glory. Not my style.” This was a new side of James that Amanda hadn’t seen before.

  “I guess I’m just used to you when you’re being a detective.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s more to people than their jobs. I do all sorts of weird stuff, lady, even when it’s my day off.” Although his back was turned toward her, she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

  “Sounds intriguing.” She hesitated, afraid to ask. “Um, do you want to get together for coffee later today?”

  He finally turned around, log still in hand, locking eyes with her. There was a flicker of happiness on his face, but then James sighed. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I’m meeting with someone today and it’s going to take some time. Can I get a rain check?”

  Amanda could feel the flush of heat to her face, even though she couldn’t see how pink she’d suddenly become. “No problem.”

  Some other person. It had taken her more bravery than she usually had to just ask him to coffee, and now she felt like she’d been blown off.

  Just then, Mrs. Granger popped her head out the front door, hanging onto the doorframe for stability.

  “Amanda! I didn’t know you were here.” She gestured at James, who had returned to quietly stacking more logs on the wood pile.

  “Says he’s going to try to get time to repaint the house, too, God willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Isn’t he a dear?”

  “Yes, he is.” Amanda was still watching his back but mentally shook herself a bit and turned her attention to her ninety-year-old friend, who beckoned her inside. “James, I’ll talk with you later, okay?” she said, and at his answering nod, she stepped through the door into the cottage.

  It was Amanda’s first time visiting Mrs. Granger’s house, and she looked around in surprise. It was neat as a pin, every piece of antique furniture or set of lace curtains as perfectly clean and organized as it could be. The rooms were small and there may have been a bit of wear on the carpet, but it was almost as though she’d stepped into a time capsule from years gone by. At her hostess’ bidding she sat carefully on the offered sofa, careful not to move the starched doilies draped across the back.

  Mrs. Granger pushed her walker, now with a tray of Oreos precariously sliding on the flat seat, and set the plate on the coffee table. “You’re just in time for tea. Well, not tea,” she added, as if remembering. �
�I’m actually out of tea. Cookies okay?” she asked as she pushed her walker aside and settled into the large armchair.

  Amanda wasn’t there for cookies. “Mrs. Granger, I hear you got a visit from the fire department recently. Everything okay?”

  The little lady looked up at Amanda, her tight smile enigmatic. “Right as rain. Did you see my new firewood James brought for me? Isn’t it lovely and clean?”

  “Gorgeous.” Amanda sighed and gave up trying to change Mrs. Granger’s mind. Sometimes respecting her elders was the better option. Also, she’d lose that argument in a heartbeat. Mrs. Granger had a look in her eye that said she wasn’t going to take any more guff about what had happened with the burned wood, and Amanda let the subject drop.

  Looking around the tidy little parlor, she tried to think of what to say. She could still hear the occasional thuds of wood being thrown into the woodshed outside.

  “Did you hear about Anderson Bowles?”

  The old lady scoffed as she fished an Oreo off the plate. “What do you think everyone’s talking about at Petrie’s? I haven’t heard hardly anything else for days and it’s all the same stuff and speculation.” Mrs. Granger was a regular fixture at Petrie’s hardware store, with a cozy bench by the woodstove and the window, and an endless appetite for small town gossip. Almost every weekday she’d settle in for hours at the store, knitting and warm while happily visiting and eavesdropping on every conversation she could, the store’s large gray cat pressed up next to her.

  “You’d think nothing else was happening in Ravenwood.” Her disgust was clear.

  Amanda thought back to the last time she’d seen Mrs. Granger, at the farmers market, and she suddenly remembered her fishing a gun out of her purse and offering to shoot something off of Anderson Bowles. Amanda didn’t know many people who owned guns in Ravenwood Cove, and the image of the ninety-year-old lady offering to loan the gun to her granddaughter came back with horrible clarity.