Murder on the Lost Coast (He said, She said Mystery Series Book 2)

by Jeramy Gates

  I tackled Miguel just as he reached the balcony doors. He was surprisingly strong, and though I hit him with all my weight, Miguel took it in stride. I hung onto him with both arms as we went crashing through the glass and out onto the balcony.

  The wind was blowing, and a wave of frigid air hit us. The roar of the ocean filled my ears. Miguel spun around, trying to throw me off, and I managed to get a foot back on the ground. I brought my right arm up, encircling it around his throat. I yanked back, trying to choke him into submission. Miguel responded by throwing his weight back against me.

  The sudden movement caught me off guard. I had no way to stop our backward motion as we hit the balcony rail. It wavered, and the rotten old two-by-fours split apart with almost no resistance. They gave way with a moan and the next thing I knew, we were twenty-five feet in the air, plummeting toward the slope below.

  The last time I had tackled someone off the roof of a building, I was lucky enough to land on top. That was the little misadventure that earned me a damaged hip and my early retirement. This time, I wasn’t so lucky.

  Miguel and I hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The moment we hit, I felt the ungodly mind-shattering pain of my hip twisting out of the socket. Every nerve in my body screamed. A wild howl escaped my lips, and I saw spots in my vision.

  The soft, muddy slope absorbed much of the impact, but we continued to roll downhill. We rolled over a few times before we hit the bottom of the slope. As we hit the path, I vaguely recall the sound of Miguel moaning next to me, but I couldn’t see anything. My vision had gone black. That was the last thing I knew before I regained consciousness on the helicopter.

  The next few hours were a haze of senseless imagery and mind-numbing pain. My eyelids fluttered open as the Coast Guard rescuers were loading me onto the chopper. Again, on a gurney in the hospital. At some point, someone injected a local anesthetic and began the work of straightening my leg and taking X-rays. I was semi-conscious at the time, but blacked out the moment the technician pulled on my ankle.

  Later that evening, I went into surgery. In my drugged-up haze, someone tried to explain to me that the bone was too shattered to repair; that the surgeon would use a “polyfibrous nanochromistic plaster” on me. That was nonsense, of course, a jumble of words and sounds that made no sense whatsoever even after I’d come out of surgery. I later learned that what he had actually described was a carbon-fiber reinforced high-density polymer plastic with a ceramic coating. It was a new technology -and still somewhat experimental- but a good choice for a patient my age, who was still young and physically active.

  Thankfully, my wife was there to make the ultimate decision, because I was out of my mind. I swear to this day that I woke once during surgery to see the big bad wolf operating on my hip in a white surgical gown, and Tinker Bell buzzing overhead, handing him surgical tools.

  Chapter 17

  Tanja

  Joe wasn’t quite the same after the surgery. I think it affected him in a way that I couldn’t quite understand. It took a while for me to put things in perspective. To me, it seemed wonderful that the surgeon had been able to restore him so thoroughly after such a catastrophic accident. But for Joe, it was like losing part of himself -maybe even part of his masculinity. In fact, while he was recovering from surgery in the hospital, Joe even made an offhanded comment about giving up detective work.

  “Why would we do that?” I said.

  “Our team is defunct,” he said with a nod at his leg. “Everybody knows you’re the brains of this operation and I’m the muscle.”

  We laughed about it then, but it occurred to me later that his sentiment may have been genuine. Then again, it’s hard to say what Joe was thinking, because he wouldn’t talk about it at all. When I asked him about his leg, he would either ignore me or mumble something about it being “fine.” When I talked to him about getting back to work, he suddenly found something around the house that needed fixing -a broken faucet, a leaking toilet valve, a piece of rotten siding that needed to be replaced- anything to draw his attention away from the thought of getting back out there.

  Finally, one morning three weeks after the accident, I was sitting at the kitchen table with Grandma and Sheriff Diekmann. They were absolutely glowing, having recently completed their “shacking up” process, and I couldn’t have been happier for them. Diekmann looked younger than… well, than he ever had in the years that I’d known him. I could have sworn a few of his wrinkles had actually vanished!

  It was nice to see the two of them so happy. It had been hard for Joe at first. The death of his grandfather had been tough on him -especially since his grandfather had been more of a father to him than his real father- and it had taken a while for Joe to get used to the idea of Annette being with someone else. A bit juvenile perhaps, but nonetheless understandable. He seemed to be getting used to the idea finally. At that moment however, Joe happened to be out front messing with the sprinkler system.

  “I’m worried about him,” I confessed, holding my coffee mug in both hands before me as I gazed at my husband through the window. “He’s been moping around here ever since the surgery. It’s like he doesn’t have any… enthusiasm anymore.”

  “Give him time,” Grandma said, squeezing my hand. “It’s a big change for him.”

  “I know, Annette. It’s just that he won’t talk about what he’s going through. How can I understand it when he refuses to talk about it?”

  “That’s normal,” said the sheriff. “Joe’s a physical guy. He’s defined his life by the things he does. He played sports as a kid, right?”

  “Of course, and skateboards, and motorcycles…”

  “Exactly. And then he grew up to be a cop. Joe’s self-image is centered on his physical prowess. He feels like he’s lost that.”

  “His self-identity is in turmoil,” Grandma said sagely. “Joe must come to grips with his new self.”

  “But it shouldn’t be that hard,” I said. “The doctors told us Joe would be able to do almost everything he used to.”

  “Knowing that and believing it are two different things,” Diekmann said. “Joe’s come face to face with his mortality. It’s shaken him. I can see that.”

  “I know,” I said. “But what can I do to help him?”

  The sheriff shrugged. Grandma took a sip of her tea, thoughtfully considering my question. “You have to build his confidence,” she said. “You have to convince him that he’s still as strong as he used to be.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “You can’t do it,” Diekmann said. “You have to make him do it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Get him out,” Grandma said. “Take him somewhere: rock-climbing, or canoeing… whatever it is you kids like to do these days. It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to show Joe that he can still be strong, like he used to be. Plan a weekend. Bill and I will watch Autumn for you. You know we’d love to.”

  Joe came back into the house just then, and that was the end of our conversation. He was sopping wet, dripping water all over the hardwood floors, his sneakers making squishing noises as he came into the kitchen.

  “What happened to you?” I said, racing for the mop.

  “Sprinkler broke.”

  “Oh, no. Will you have to replace it?”

  He shrugged. “We can just use the hose.”

  “The hose? You want to water the lawn by hand every day?”

  He sighed. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  The three of us watched him head down the hall. When I heard the door to our bedroom close, I turned to face Grandma and the sheriff. “You see?” I said. “See how apathetic he is?”

  “He’ll come around,” said the sheriff. “You’ll think of something.”

  They had to go, so I saw them to the door. I carefully guided Grandma around the wet spots on the floor. It wasn’t until after they’d gone, when I was sopping up the last pool of water in the kitchen, that I knew what I had to do…r />
  A few days later, I packed a small bag for the two of us. I didn’t bring much, just some warm jackets and a picnic. I coaxed Joe into the Suburban and then drove him down to the Sheriff’s Department, where Grandma was waiting to take possession of baby Autumn. Sheriff Diekmann guided us through the back of the building, to the chopper waiting for us on the pad outside.

  “What’s going on?” Joe said as we exited the building. “I thought we were going on a picnic.”

  “We are,” I said, dragging him forward. He started to speak, but I silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t argue,” I said. “Just get on the helicopter.”

  He did, and a minute later, we took off. He was a little tense at first, wanting to know where we were going, but I wouldn’t say. Eventually, he leaned back in his seat and watched the vineyards gliding by below us. We headed north, following the Russian River for a few miles, until the pilot swung left and took us over the coastal mountains. The vineyards disappeared, replaced by redwood-covered hills and lush green valleys.

  Finally, about an hour later, the Lost Coast lighthouse came into view. By then, Joe must have figured out what we were doing. He didn’t say anything as the chopper settled on the top of the hill and we climbed out. I thanked the pilot, and he gave us a few seconds to get away from the draft before taking off.

  We stood there a minute, the picnic basket on the ground between us as the helicopter vanished over the hills to the east. The chop-chop of the blades faded away, and we found ourselves alone in almost perfect silence. I could barely hear the distant sound of waves crashing on the beach. It was sunny and warm, which is saying something in that place, with a light breeze blowing in off the water. According to the forecast, high pressure had been building off the coast, and we could expect unseasonably mild, sunny weather for the next few days. This time, I had made sure to check the weather before heading up north.

  Joe turned to face me. I smiled at him, and he took me in his arms, pulling me close. “How did you arrange all this?” he said.

  “It wasn’t that hard. The sheriff was happy to help.”

  “But the helicopter…”

  I wrinkled up my noise. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to pay for gas. But it was worth it.”

  He turned, gazing down at the inn. The place was abandoned; the windows dark, not a sign of life anywhere except for the Agatha rocking steadily on the waves, just like we’d left her a month earlier. All of the other boats were gone, except for one lonely rowboat up the beach, past the tennis courts. Pieces of rotting two-by-fours still lay scattered on the sand below the inn where Joe and Miguel had landed. He pointed them out.

  “You weren’t the only one to come out of that little misadventure in pieces,” I said. “The landing broke both of Miguel’s ankles.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You’re not kidding. He actually tried to make a run for it, until he tried to get on his feet. After that, he was perfectly happy to sit back and wait for a ride to the hospital.”

  Joe laughed. “That must have been awkward.”

  “For him. For the rest of us, it was more than a little amusing. He confessed everything to the sheriff. He’s now sitting in jail, awaiting trial for both murders. Plus, he’s being sued by the life insurance company.”

  “No better motivator than pain,” Joe said.

  “Maybe.”

  He gave me a funny look. “What do you mean?”

  I smiled. “Miguel never even found out that I was bluffing about my tablet. I didn’t have one second of video evidence against him.”

  “What? You made that up?”

  “Sure, why not? I knew he would confess the second he thought we had hard evidence against him.”

  “He didn’t confess,” Joe said, glaring at me. “He bolted, and took me right over the balcony with him.”

  I pulled him close, leaning my head on his shoulder. “Sorry about that.”

  He squeezed me, and then we turned back to the view. “It’s like a ghost town down there,” Joe said.

  “No town,” I said. “Just ghosts.”

  “What’s going to happen to this place?”

  “In a few months, when the property comes out of probate, the contractors will come in and destroy all of this.”

  “The sale was approved?”

  “It will be. Right now, it’s a matter of waiting periods and red tape. By next summer, this will all be gone. They’re going to build a big modern resort, with an airstrip north of here.”

  “What about the lighthouse?”

  “They can’t tear it down, it’s a landmark. It’s the only thing that will still be here when it’s all over.”

  Joe looked at me with his head tilted to the side, as if something had just occurred to him. “What about Gerard? I thought he stood to inherit the whole place.”

  “He would have, but Charlotte had already signed the sale agreement. Gerard could sue, of course. He could stall the probate proceedings. The thing is, it would be impossible to prove he wasn’t involved in Charlotte’s insurance fraud, and the company warned him that if he sued, they would counter-sue.”

  Joe’s eyes lit up. “That’s right, I’d almost forgotten! Jacob was his father-in-law. Gerard must have known who he really was.”

  “That’s exactly what the sheriff said. Gerard denied it, of course. He claimed Jacob had always avoided him, and the two never had a face-to-face encounter.”

  Joe chuckled. “Could be true, but no judge would ever buy it.”

  I drew my gaze across the property. “It’s sad, in a way. I can’t picture this place without the inn.”

  “We’ll have to come back and see it when it’s all done.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how well your pet detective business does this year.”

  Joe gave me a dirty look, and we both started laughing.

  We continued down the slope a few yards, and I noticed that despite the uneven terrain, Joe had a confidence to his stride that I hadn’t seen in years. I was so used to seeing him leaning on that cane… the thing’s absence seemed almost strange.

  “How’s your leg feeling?” I said.

  Joe paused, tilting his head thoughtfully as he leaned his weight on his left leg. “I hadn’t noticed it,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt at all. It still feels weak, though...”

  “Weak?”

  “Yeah, not like before. It’s all plastic in there now. It couldn’t possibly be as strong as before.”

  “Last time we were here, you couldn’t even walk down this trail without your cane.”

  A slight smile came to his face, and I got a glimpse of the old Joe. I put my arm through his and said, “Come on, let’s go get your boat.”

  Epilogue:

  Tanja

  The trip back home was completely different. The sun was shining, the sea was calm, and there was just enough breeze to keep our sails full. Once we were under way, there wasn’t much for me to do but lie back and bask in the sun while Captain Joe managed the wheel. It was my first glimpse of what sailing is really like -what it’s supposed to be like- and I was a little surprised to find myself enjoying the experience.

  My fear of sharks was gone. I knew we weren’t in any danger from them, or from storms, either. I’d been through all that. I knew the Agatha could get us home without even breaking a sweat. I had confidence in my husband, and equally important, confidence in his boat. There was nothing to fear.

  We made good time, and as we pulled into Bodega Harbor that evening, I had a whole different perspective on things. I was actually looking forward to taking the boat out again. Not right away, maybe in the summer, when I knew the weather would be nice and there wouldn’t be any hurricanes headed our way. But I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to sail somewhere nice… somewhere warm.

  THE END

  Thanks for reading He said, She said: “Murder on the Lost Coast.”

  If you enjo
yed this book, please take a moment to post a review at Amazon (click here) and don’t forget to tell a friend! Look for book three in this series, coming soon.

  Look for these exciting titles by Jeramy Gates:

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  (Written as Jamie Sedgwick)

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  Text and Artwork Copyright 2014 by Jeramy Gates

  ISBN-13: 978-1540647771

  All rights reserved. Any similarity to real events or people is purely coincidental.