Boardwalk Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  "This place?" Zac said. "Don't you know where we are, sis?"

  "You mean you know? You know what's going on?"

  "Of course, Windy. We're under the boardwalk."

  "What do you mean, disappeared?"

  Kyle paced back and forth in front of her, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Vanished, vamoosed, disappeared. I mean Zac's gone." He stopped pacing and faced her for the first time. "Lord, Hallie, anything could have happened. He's been missing since yesterday, I figure. Since that phone call or maybe even earlier."

  He was all coiled energy, restless and wild. She took him by the hand and led him to the bench. He sat down.

  "Slow down a minute," she said. "I don't understand. How do you know he's missing?"

  "He didn't show up for work today."

  Hallie sighed. "Is that all? Relax, Kyle. So he's off goofing around—kids do that kind of thing. It doesn't mean anything's wrong." Still, that tension in him scared her.

  Kyle stood up and began to pace back and forth in front of her again, talking half to himself. "No, see, he left a message on the answering machine at home yesterday. He said he was spending the night at his friend, Brandon's."

  "So—they got to goofing around and he forgot about work. I still don't see why you're so upset. You're not making any sense."

  Kyle stopped and took a deep breath. "Okay. Look. This is the deal. I went to Brandon's house to pick Zac up this morning. No one's there. Turns out Brandon's family left for a vacation back East a week ago. Then I came back here and talked to Eva—the office manager—and she said Zac left work around noon yesterday and never came back. Yesterday afternoon he called and left a message on my answering machine saying he was with Brandon, who's in Vermont. Zac went to a lot of trouble to lie to everybody, and I've got to figure out why." He fell silent, staring at the ground.

  "And Windy? What does she have to do with this?"

  "She hasn't been seen by anybody in San Juan Bautista. It was a lie, too."

  Hallie sat down on the bench. "I knew it. I just felt it in my gut. Something was off yesterday."

  "I know. And I didn't listen to you."

  Around them the afternoon crowd swirled. The sun was out, and the air was filled with sounds of music and laughter.

  Hallie felt a chill run through her. "It wasn't your fault. You had no way of knowing."

  "No," Kyle said firmly. "I should have known something was squirrelly here. I should have taken you more seriously."

  That chill in Hallie's spine told her he was right, although it still made no sense. But Kyle, usually so calm and cheerful, was a restless cat pacing in front of her again.

  "I've gotta go see Joe—Deputy Serrano. He said he wanted to hear the answering machine message. I just stopped here to tell you what's up." He ran a hand through his hair and looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He tried out that sheepish grin, which looked so out of place in his tense face. "Listen, I'm sorry I stood you up for lunch."

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. "That doesn't matter. Lunch is the least of our problems right now." She glanced at her watch. "I guess I should be going back to work now, anyway."

  She started to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. "Wait, please."

  "What?" She pulled away from him, and he let go of her arm.

  "Come along with me to see Joe," he added.

  "I'm not holding anything back. I really don't remember."

  "I know. But—I want you there. Maybe you can help."

  "Then let's go," she said. She pulled off her staff vest and headed for the office to sign out.

  The sheriff's office was in a storefront on Calle Principal. Inside, Deputy Joe Serrano leaned back in his chair and looked from Hallie to Kyle.

  "Well?" Kyle asked.

  Joe smoothed down his hair. "Well, I think you have a point. My boss taught me that rule number one of investigation is, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, don't start looking for ostriches. Look for ducks."

  He glanced at Kyle. "I should call Ryan. He's my boss," he added for Hallie's benefit. "And the best investigator I know. But he's on his honeymoon, and they decided to spend it backpacking in the wilderness, so it might take a couple of days to hear back from him. But I've already put in a call to the county sheriff to start the process of tracking him down."

  He turned to Kyle again. "I'm no Ryan Knight, but I'll do my best."

  Kyle looked at him. "I trust you, Joe. I don't have any doubt about your ability, and neither does Ryan, or he wouldn't have left you in charge. I don't know. Maybe it's all a coincidence. Maybe nothing's actually wrong and I'm overreacting."

  He seemed to hope they'd agree with him that there was nothing to worry about, but both Hallie and Joe shook their heads.

  "This isn't San Francisco," Joe said. "Two mysteries in one day is a mighty odd thing in a town this size."

  "Three," Hallie said.

  The deputy nodded. "Yeah. Three. Your car accident, Windy not in San Juan Bautista, and Zac lying."

  Kyle got up. He went over to a bulletin board and began studiously reading the flyers posted there. Hallie sat glumly and stared at her feet.

  The deputy picked up a file from the corner of his desk. "I'd really like to have a word with that hit-and-run driver before we rule anything out. Now that we suspect Windy has been missing since the accident, it all looks like it could be connected."

  "You don't suppose—?"

  "—That she was thrown from the car or something like that? I've got the search and rescue team dispatched to search the hillside."

  "But Windy sent a text message after the accident."

  "Exactly. That's why I'm not combing that hillside myself. We'll look, but just to be sure. I can't see how Zac and Windy sending false messages after your car accident could be a coincidence."

  She nodded. "This is something else."

  "What do you mean? Have you thought of any other details that might help us find him?"

  Hallie shook her head. "No. I just meant there's something else going on, not that I know what it is. I want to help, but I really can't remember anything."

  "Then we're back to square one."

  "But in such a small town—I mean, nobody can just disappear, can they?"

  "In winter, we've got a population of about 3000, give or take a stray surfer. But it could be more like 10,000 in the summer, with day-trippers included. And there are more people outside of town, on the ranches and farms in the hills. And we haven't seen a trace of Windy and Zac yet. So yeah, it seems even here, somebody can disappear."

  Hallie leaned back in her chair.

  Deputy Serrano had switched mental gears. "How about if we listen to Zac's message, Kyle."

  Kyle handed him the old answering machine, and Joe plugged it in and played the messages.

  Hallie couldn't help shivering when the disembodied voice came on: "Hi, Kyle. I'm staying over at Brandon's tonight, so don't wait up for me." Again Hallie heard the voice quaver, and now, hearing it a second time, she reconsidered her original assumption that it was just the sound of an adolescent boy's voice in transition from soprano to baritone. Was it her imagination, or was that the sound of fear? Somebody mumbled something in the background on the tape, and Zac added, "Oh, yeah. Tell Chris to feed the horses for me—give Smoky some extra grain too." The call ended, and deputy Serrano played it again.

  After the second run-through, they all stared at each other.

  "That was definitely a second voice," Hallie said.

  "Yes, it was," Joe said. "But I don't know if we'll be able to identify it from such a small snippet. We'll try, though."

  "And I told you that Brandon's family is out of town, so what he said makes no sense," Kyle said. He sat down in a chair next to Hallie. "The whole call is bizarre."

  "He lied about that," Joe said. "We'll double-check that, too. I called Brandon's dad after I heard from you, and he's given me permission to search their property, just in case Zac actually
was there for some reason."

  "They've got seventeen acres," Kyle said.

  "That's why I've got four more deputies coming over from the county to help. We'll follow up on every lead."

  "It was Chris's turn to feed the horses," Kyle mumbled.

  "Really?" Joe furrowed his brow. "Maybe Zac didn't know it."

  "They switch off every week. It'd be hard for him to forget. He's not stupid." Kyle rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, Joe," he said. "I'm just worried about him."

  "Relax," Joe said. "We'll work this all out. So, this is all we have to go on? He called and said he was staying with Brandon and asked Chris to feed the horses."

  "Who's Smoky?" Hallie asked.

  "What?" Kyle said.

  "He said, 'give Smoky some extra grain'," she said. "Who's Smoky?"

  "Smoky? He said Poky."

  "Okay, who's Poky?"

  "One of the horses. Poker. It's a retired saddle mare Windy got a few summers ago. She just hangs out in the pasture now.

  "Does she eat extra grain?"

  "No...," Kyle said slowly. "No, she doesn't."

  "I could've sworn he said Smoky."

  "Smoky was Zac's pony," Kyle said.

  "Was?" Hallie asked.

  Kyle gave her a strange look, then cleared his throat. "He's dead."

  "What?"

  "The pony," Kyle explained. "He died a long time ago."

  "What happened?" Joe asked. "How did he die?"

  "Oh, natural causes. He lived to a ripe old age—25 or something like that, and then he died out in the pasture under an apple tree—this was years ago, mind you. I think Zac must have been about 10 or 11."

  "Was Zac upset?" Hallie asked.

  "Yeah, sure. But it wasn't a surprise when he went. Like I said, he was real old." Kyle put his head in his hands. He looked up after a moment. "I didn't even think about it yesterday," he said. "I thought it was a slip of the tongue—he meant Poky, not Smoky. Smoky was his favorite pony when he was a kid, and you know how it is, when you're in a hurry, you might use the wrong name."

  "What do you think now?" Hallie asked.

  "I don't know. I just don't know."

  "Look," the deputy said. "This is off the main subject."

  "Is it?" Hallie asked. They both looked at her impatiently, but she plunged ahead. "Zac went to all the trouble to call and this is what he said: he's staying with Brandon, when Brandon's out of town. He asks Chris to feed the horses, when it wasn't his turn. He asks him to give extra to his pony, who's been dead for five years. That's the entire message. Three lies, or mistakes, or whatever you want to call them."

  "Your point?" Joe asked.

  "He could be trying to tell us something," she said.

  Kyle looked skeptically at her. "A coded message? This isn't The Maltese Falcon, Hallie."

  "Let's say Zac's in some kind of trouble," Hallie said, ignoring his frown. "Wherever he is he can't talk freely. He calls home, he leaves an innocent-sounding message that has information in it that only a family member would know makes no sense."

  "I know I said you had a vivid imagination, but you're pushing the envelope here."

  She set her jaw stubbornly. "More vivid than Zac's?"

  Kyle nodded. "Sorry. You're right. It's exactly the kind of thing he would do."

  "Okay," Joe said. "We'll keep that possibility open. But in the meantime we're going to canvas the town, get the word out. We've got an Amber Alert activated for all of Central California."

  Kyle handed the sheriff a photograph. "That's Zac's school picture from last fall. His hair's longer now, but it's a good likeness." He messed with his cell phone for a bit. "And here's one of Windy. Should I send it to you?"

  "Yeah."

  Kyle and Hallie left the sheriff's office, and stood together on the sidewalk. Pajaro Bay was a quiet little tourist village. There was no sign of mystery here. The little street outside the sheriff's substation was lined with shops in converted cottages, all colorfully painted. Baskets brimmed with pink-flowered fuchsias and red begonias. Tourists strolled along the street, some stopping to take photographs of the houses and flowers, others sipping coffee at tables in a café across the street. How could everything look so normal when Windy and Zac were missing?

  "Ready to go?" Kyle asked.

  "Where do we start?" she asked.

  "I've got an idea."

  "Hey, Alec!" Kyle shouted.

  Across the street, a man turned, key in his hand, in the midst of locking the door to an old building—a former cannery, from the faded lettering still visible high up on the wall. When they crossed the street to meet him, Hallie saw the words The Pajaro Bay Sentinel etched on the plate glass window at the front of the building. In smaller print below the name she read: All the news that fits on twelve pages. Alexander O'Keeffe, editor.

  "Established 1899," she read aloud.

  "I haven't been here quite that long," Alec said with a smile. "Although it sometimes feels like it, Ms. —?"

  "Reed, Hallie Reed." They shook hands. Alec O'Keeffe was a dark-haired man a few inches shorter than Kyle, with a small half-moon scar on his chin, hornrim glasses that looked more practical than hipster, and vivid blue eyes that took in every detail around him, from the way she habitually shoved her scarred hands in her pockets to how Kyle's arm settled protectively around her waist.

  "What's wrong, Kyle?" he asked.

  "I need your help."

  Alec unlocked the door to the office and ushered them inside. "What can I do?"

  While Kyle explained about Zac, Hallie looked around. The office was small and tidy, with two desks and a door that presumably led to a back office. She picked up a copy of the paper from one of the desks.

  "Sure it'll be front page," Alec was saying. "With a picture of the kids as big as life above the fold. We'll do everything we can to help. But this is so hard to believe."

  "I know," Hallie said. "It doesn't seem like this could happen in Pajaro Bay. It's hard to believe there could be any crime here."

  Alec smiled gently at her with those knowing eyes. "We've had a crime or two here, even in our sleepy little town."

  Kyle's glance flicked to Alec's scar, and Hallie bit back a question. She'd spent the last two years living with strangers' curious questions about her hands. She knew better than to put someone else through that.

  "But that's old news," Alec said, breaking the silence. "Right now we need to get to the bottom of this story. You're right," he said to Hallie. "It's hard to believe Zac could be involved in anything dangerous. They're great kids."

  "You know them?" she asked.

  "Oh yeah. Windy interned here when she was in high school. And ever since Zac got the family history bug, he's been through our morgue a dozen times, looking for one thing or another."

  Hallie wondered what "one thing or another" a person would look for in a morgue.

  Alec read her expression. "The morgue is the place where we keep the dead newspapers—the file copies of old stories," he explained. "From before the days of online papers. Zac's got a real flair for research. And he's a born storyteller, too. If I had the money I'd take him on as a cub reporter any day. But we're not exactly the Daily Planet. There are just the two of us—Karen Martinez is the business manager/brains of the outfit—she's off drumming up advertising at the moment."

  "And you're everything else?"

  "Yup. Chief cook and bottle washer. I do have a couple of part-timers who string for me, though. I'll get on the phone with them as soon as we're done here and get them out scouring the town for info. Don't worry," he said to Kyle. "Between us there won't be a soul in the village who won't get interviewed or investigated. We'll find them." He shook his head. "It's strange. Zac was here on, um, it must have been Saturday morning."

  "You're serious?" Kyle said. "Why was he here?"

  "Doing research on family history is all he said."

  Hallie glanced at the back door. What could Zac have been looking for?

&nbs
p; Kyle noticed her glance. "Could we take a look at your morgue, Alec?" he asked.

  "Sure," Alec said. "But it's just a bunch of dusty old clippings." He led them to the back room.

  "We can't get our hopes up. Zac's always doing school projects on local history," Kyle said. "There's nothing odd about him hanging out here."

  She started looking around. The room was lined with cubbyholes, a few papers filed in each one.

  Alec scratched his head and looked around at the dusty cubbyholes. "Let's see. It was something to do with the Madrigal family, at least I'm pretty sure that's what he said.

  "They're filed alphabetically, or what?"

  "By subject," he answered. "Each cubbyhole's a separate topic. And, if nobody's been screwing around with them, the stories'll be filed chronologically within the subject area."

  "I suppose this is just a waste of time," she muttered. "City Council, Logging, Fishing Industry," she read off the labels on the cubbyholes. Each file had a few clippings in it. "Earthquakes, Floods, Cougars. Cougars?"

  "Mountain lions—we've got an overpopulation problem up here in the mountains."

  "Oh. There's a lot of stuff here."

  "All the news that's fit to print."

  "You said he was looking up something about the Madrigal family?" she asked. "Did he say what subject he was looking up?"

  Alec pointed to a cubby stuffed with clippings. The label beneath it said "Madrigals."

  Hallie gingerly pulled out the pile of yellowed clippings. "There's gotta be a hundred of them here." She sighed.

  "The Madrigal family's been here as long as the newspaper has," Alec said.

  "Longer," said Kyle from over her shoulder.

  Alec left them and went back out to the office.

  She flipped through the clippings. "They're out of order," she said. She stopped at one reading Madrigal Patriarch Dies at 79. "This one's from 1920." She started reading. "What's 'Arturo's Folly'?" she asked.

  "The amusement park. Great-Grandpa, Arturo Madrigal, built the amusement park and everyone thought he was nuts—until the tourists started showing up in droves, that is."