Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 9)

by McKeehan, Vickie

  “Is that a subtle way of saying you’d rather I leave his murder alone and not ask questions?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. You should do what you feel is right. If finding out who killed my Jacob will bring you the peace of mind you need after all these years, then you should do it. But you should be prepared to dredge up the pain of an investigation. Ask yourself if you can handle that kind of gut-wrenching emotional rollercoaster. And if it’s still something you feel strongly about, then you have my blessing.”

  He stared off into the waves. “I was only twelve when someone snuck up behind him and put a .45 up to his head. Which tells me the killer didn’t even have the balls to face him when he pulled the trigger. Beckham was even younger when his father was killed.”

  Winona patted his hand. “Then perhaps, at some point, it should be a journey that you and the boy could take together.”

  Twenty-Seven

  That journey with Beckham wasn’t meant to start on Sunday. The boy went off to work the tree lot while Quentin made an early morning house call to check up on Reverend Whitcomb. But he didn’t linger long. His mind was on spending the day with Sydney.

  When he got back to Bradford House Sydney had everything all packed and ready to go. She’d even enlisted Winona to sit with Charlotte. And with help from Stone, she’d fixed a picnic basket filled with cold subs—thick ham slices and white cheddar—smeared with the tastiest spread he’d ever put in his mouth.

  After loading up the Woodie, they cruised north along the curvy coast highway, hugging cliffs and rock. The sun was out, the water blue, and the whitecaps frothy as the scenery flew by. Sydney gave directions to head off on a more westerly course that led into a valley surrounded by rolling hills. They found a place to park the car, a deserted cove where they could unload the gear they’d brought.

  Quentin toted the picnic basket and his own backpack while Sydney grabbed her satchel. They began the trek down a steep, rugged trail that butted up against the cliffs. At one point, they trudged onto a narrow path with a big drop off—right into the blue sea of the Pacific.

  “This is a bit harrowing,” Quentin commented as he teetered on the brink right up to the edge and looked down.

  “I’ll agree it’s challenging. The balancing act got to me the first time. But wait until you see the cave. It’ll be well worth it.”

  “You’ve certainly painted a beautiful picture of this place.”

  “You tell me if I’ve exaggerated its beauty.” She held tight to a rock and changed the subject. “When you got back this morning you didn’t say how the reverend was doing?”

  “His EKG looks good. The bruises on his chest are healing. And Dottie assures me that he’s taking his meds. I think he’ll be fine.”

  “Ain’t modern medicine grand when it works?” Sydney said with a grin. “The man’s almost eighty and will probably still be going strong for another decade.”

  “If only we could say the same for Charlotte.”

  “Don’t go there. I don’t want to feel sad today. Today is about you and me. We shut out everything bad.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  They came to a crossroads of sorts, a peninsula of rocks butting up against the dunes and a field of beach grass. To their left the ocean glistened like a brilliant sea of jewels.

  They were standing on several hilly mounds of sand. They’d drifted into another valley where two adjoining rocks formed an A-shape frame. A closer look, and he realized it was the opening to a cave. Heavy brush guarded the jagged entrance. The abundant growth of manzanita tangled and curled its vines around the rock formation like a gnarly sentry.

  Quentin surveyed the landscape. “I’m guessing whoever owns this is trying to discourage sightseers, that would be us, from getting inside. I’m sure this is someone’s sacred ground. Chumash?”

  “Probably. But I’ve already been inside and I didn’t disturb the historical significance.” She ducked under the set of twisting vines and low-hanging branches, making her way into the first circle of the cave.

  Quentin followed. Once his eyes adjusted to the difference in light, he spotted the brightly colored pictographs on the walls and ceiling. “I’ve only seen these kinds of pictorials in books.”

  “Same here. They tell a story. See?” She pointed to the brightly colored tribesman on the hunt and to a series of animal figures like turtles, fish, bear, and deer. “Some of these are carved in the stone. And the rest were painted with colors they made themselves. Isn’t this place amazing?”

  For Quentin it was like stepping back twelve hundred years. There was a natural fire pit used for cooking and keeping warm. The cave made a perfect shelter out of the elements.

  “Look up at the ceiling,” Sydney directed.

  If he thought nothing else about this place could surprise him, he’d been mistaken. Above his head was a natural skylight, a perfect position for studying the stars.

  Sydney turned in a circle. “There’s no mention of this at the Chumash Museum in town. None.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I checked. Twice. I could ask River but she’s a been a little busy with the new baby. And listen.” Sydney pointed to an area behind them. “Thirty yards back that way is the waterfall. It’s small but it drops into a natural hot spring. The Chumash had everything they needed in this one spot.”

  “They’re definitely keeping this off the radar for a reason. If anyone else finds this place, it’ll be desecrated by vandals in no time. I wouldn’t want this ground to be lost to history forever. My guess is that’s why no one talks about its existence.”

  “I stumbled on it because I thought Brent and Ethan were talking about a really cool place to hike. I had no idea of its significance until I saw it for myself. Should we truly not be here? You’re Native. Couldn’t we consider this a hospitable sanctuary just for today? Couldn’t we pretend like the Chumash are taking us in and giving us refuge from everything that’s wrong out there in our world?”

  “I suppose, but we should be extra careful not to disturb anything or take anything with us when we go.”

  Sydney dropped her backpack and dug out a blanket, spread it over the ground. “Picnic time. Did you work up an appetite getting here?”

  He snatched her around the waist. “Right now food is secondary.”

  He covered her mouth as he unzipped the jacket she wore, ran his hands underneath her top. “Let’s lose some of these clothes.”

  He undressed her while she undressed him. There were no barriers now. “I want to take my time with you, here, in this sacred of all places.”

  He proved that by tugging her down to the mat. The blanket didn’t provide much of a cushion on the hard ground but it was all they had, and now, all they needed. Quentin pulled her over his hips to straddle him, let his body act as a buffer.

  Ripe need flew into urgency. His hands skimmed down her back until he cupped her rear end, fitting her to him. He began to graze little kisses along her throat.

  She snaked her arms around his neck and offered her mouth again.

  He dipped his head, his tongue toying with a nipple.

  Pleasure rippled into her, lapped over her. She ran her hands along his chest, used her arms to brace herself on his powerful shoulders.

  He plunged into her while the roaring cascade of the waterfall looped behind them.

  Losing himself in her was only the overture. There was so much more. Anticipation became a rhythm of lust, yearning.

  He took her as high as the eagle in flight while her nails dug into his flesh. They worked to find the tempo. They built on need and that urgency that wouldn’t be stopped. The surge came like a storm battering its way onto the land. Like a burst, hot and quick, in a blast of fiery heat, all the emotion they knew erupted into each other.

  Overcome, she collapsed on his chest, her head nestling under his chin. She ran her fingers through his hair, much shorter than before, and toyed with several strands. “You should let y
our hair grow out, even longer than it was the first time I met you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because the longer hair suits you. And because that night on the beach during Beckham’s ceremony, I stood there watching you, picturing you as a young warrior riding his horse along that strip of sand, long hair flying in the wind.”

  Quentin chuckled. “Sounds like a fanciful picture. In truth, the Miwok tribe pretty much avoided the valleys near the water. They stayed mostly in the Sierra, keeping to their mountainous region so much that I’m not sure they ever wandered down toward the beaches.”

  She took his chin and stared into his gray eyes. “So you’re the first. I’m trying to tell you that I misjudged you, woefully so. I’m usually not like that. What will you do with Beckham when Charlotte…?”

  He put his finger to her lips. “Shh. We agreed not to talk about that or let it intrude on our day. Are you cold?”

  “A little. I’m lying here without a stitch of anything on except you.”

  “I’ll build a fire.”

  After tossing a few logs into the fire pit, he took her hand. “Come on, the fire is for later.” He pulled her to her feet, scooped her up in his arms. “Let’s try out that hot spring. That’s probably how the Natives did it.”

  The pool was a shimmering sapphire, so clear they could see the bottom. They swam like children, naked as the day they were born. The water was warm and soothing, therapeutic. It seemed to wash away their aches and pains and worries.

  “I don’t want to leave this place.”

  He kissed her hair. “Now I see why. You should know I’m attracted to that side of you, the side that loves anything and everything in nature. Your sense of adventure is nothing short of inspiring.”

  “Since we’re being honest, I like the way you treat people. You have a warm heart that’s so hard to find these days, especially in the medical profession.”

  “The days ahead will be tough.”

  “But maybe together we can make it work by drawing strength from each other.”

  “I like the idea of it, finding brief periods of peace, like today, in each other’s arms.”

  Twenty-Eight

  What the town lacked in snow it made up for in holiday decorations. By Monday, cords of silvery garland and tinsel began popping up along Main Street. By nightfall, strings of white and red lights twinkled from the roofs and eaves of businesses.

  Houses in the neighborhood glowed with lights dangling from the rooftops. Lawn displays depicted Santa with his reindeer or his trio of favored elves. There were oversized ornaments in red and green or giant snow globes that glittered silver.

  Mayor Murphy and the city council met to put the finishing touches on the first ever Christmas Festival, a week-long sidewalk celebration where residents could sell candy, cookies, and homemade crafts to bring in extra money for the holidays. The booths had been planned months in advance. Each one would line the street in front of Phillips Park.

  The gazebo there would act as a base for Santa Claus where the jolly fat man could hold court and have his picture taken with the kids. Carolers would take shifts to entertain the crowd.

  The surrounding trees glittered like clusters of golden stars while playing second fiddle to the forty-foot-tall California balsam Beckham had picked out.

  While not exactly bursting at the seams, the town was slowly growing. There were several notable newcomers besides the brand-new doctor.

  Since Flynn McCready had waived his right to a trial and pleaded guilty, the former bar owner was on the fast track to North Kern Correctional Facility. Scuttlebutt suggested he’d spend no less than a year there. However long his stretch, Flynn wouldn’t be coming back to Pelican Pointe after his parole. So it made sense that he’d let go of his prized bar. With help from the bank, Durke Pedasco scooped it up and had plans for a grand reopening the second week of December.

  Durke was a longtime friend of Eastlyn Parker’s, who wanted to own his own business more than anything. The two had hung out together since they were kids back in Bakersfield. His reason for coming here, much like Eastlyn’s, had been to make a fresh start. The former bartender figured opening the bar was the quickest way to become an integral part of the town.

  He’d stopped wearing his hair in a spiky cut and opted for the more traditional style to look the part of a businessman. He’d waded through countless paperwork and lengthy forms just to get his liquor license. By the time the actual renovation started, it seemed like a piece of cake. He’d done a lot of the work himself. Things like painting walls and refurbishing old wood gave him a chance to put some real thought into making The Shipwreck his very own.

  He’d gotten plenty of advice on how to make the pub less of a man-cave and more of an upscale draw for women. Durke wanted to see the bar become a gathering place where everyone could stop in and find a relaxed atmosphere waiting. And if he had to work night and day to see it happen, he was ready to do that.

  Then there was Cora Bigelow, who’d worked for the postal service for thirty-five years. Which meant she could’ve retired if she’d wanted to. But at fifty-five Cora wasn’t ready to sit on her ass and draw a pension. Not Cora. This was a woman who had the energy of ten people, who’d long ago set her sights on the glitz and glamour of an actress’s way of life down in L.A. Long before she ever packed up her ratty old Datsun and hit the bright lights of Burbank, she’d dreamed of starring on the big screen. She spent two solid years going out on auditions only to get turned down for every role she tried out for.

  That hadn’t stopped Cora. But she did have to figure out a way to make a living. Tired of low paying fast food jobs and waitressing on her feet all day, she took the civil service exam. Cora passed it with flying colors and started out delivering mail to other out-of-work actors and wannabe models and nightclub singers along her postal route in Studio City.

  After five years, Cora was aware she’d never appear on the big screen. But what she could do in her spare time and on weekends was work on her craft in community theater. Sometimes she got the lead, sometimes she didn’t. When that happened, she’d make do with sewing costumes, building sets, or working on makeup. It didn’t matter to Cora. She’d do any theater job, including selling tickets, if she got to hang around the stage.

  But when her elderly mother, Beatrice, got sick and could no longer take care of herself, it became apparent Cora had a tough decision to make.

  Which was what had brought her back to where she’d started out. But Cora, never one to give up, had a plan. She simply opted for a transfer. She’d wangled a deal out of her higher-ups to move back to Pelican Pointe and reopen the old post office. She’d still have money coming in to help with expenses and maybe, just maybe, she could talk the townspeople into starting a community theater group.

  So after spending decades walking the same route, lugging her pouch filled with mail, Cora was back in town. This time, however, she oversaw her own branch, such as it was. The little white house sat sandwiched between the bank and a vacant storefront. It had a red door that opened into a front room. The house itself was little more than four hundred and fifty feet of space with a teller window on one side. On the opposite side of the wall were the postal boxes—thirty-six small, eight medium, and four large. It had a mail slot for sliding in letters and a little table where you could fill out your labels before getting in line.

  She’d repainted the inside herself, just as she’d given the old mail receptacle outside a reboot in postal blue.

  The day she reopened, she rescinded Murphy’s ability to act as a surrogate for the U.S. Postal Service.

  She’d also set the stage just as she’d done for so many years working in the theater. She hung out a small shingle that read, United States Post Office, Pelican Pointe, California, 95096. She’d picked up an old bench at Reclaimed Treasures that she set out on the little stoop. She talked Tucker Ferguson into putting up a new pole on the smidgen of grass outside near the curb so she could raise th
e United States flag out front.

  And just like that, Pelican Pointe had an official post office again, something that hadn’t happened since Richard Nixon left office in 1974. Postmistress Cora Bigelow was now open for business.

  The same could be said for Barton Pearson. Two months ago, he’d reopened the old funeral home at the far end of Tradewinds Drive. Most people couldn’t figure out why. But the former guidance counselor got into the job of funeral director because he liked helping people.

  After losing his parents at the age of eighteen in a freak fire back in Redding, Barton came to appreciate the kindness and understanding he’d received from the local funeral director. He toyed with the idea that he’d be good at the same thing, comforting the bereaved.

  But it took him another six years to shake off the stigma of becoming one. It wasn’t until a close college friend died in a horrible car accident that he decided to throw caution to the wind and pursue it as a career.

  He went back to school. This time, a mortuary academy. He obtained all his state credentials including his mortician’s license. After looking all over the state of California for a suitable place to start his business, he got sidetracked off the freeway one day and drove through Pelican Pointe.

  Barton ended up falling in love with the town. And when he learned the old funeral home had been abandoned in 1981, he knew this was the place for him.

  Despite Sydney’s belief that he resembled Mr. Smithers from The Simpsons, Barton looked nothing like the cartoon character. Despite the fact he wore wire rims and sported a crewcut, he’d never owned a bowtie or an ugly brown suit in his life. He prided himself on wearing the perfect stylish suit with the appropriate business tie and always making a good impression.

  Since coming to town he’d directed fourteen funerals. He took part in everything from selecting the casket or urn based on whatever budget the family had to work with, to picking out the music, to pointing out the right burial plot.