by Mary Feliz
When a hang-gliding stranger is found fatally injured in the cliffs above Monterey Bay, the investigation into his death becomes a cluttered mess. Professional organizer Maggie McDonald must sort the clues to catch a coastal killer before her family becomes a target . . .
Maggie has her work cut out for her helping Renée Alvarez organize her property management office. Though the condominium complex boasts a prime location on the shores of the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary, aging buildings and the high-maintenance tenants have Renée run ragged. But Maggie’s efforts are complicated when her sons attempt to rescue a badly injured man who crashed his ultralight on the coastal cliffs.
Despite their efforts to save him, the man dies. Maggie’s family members become the prime suspects in a murder investigation and the target of a lawsuit. Her instincts say something’s out of place, but solving a murder won’t be easy. Maggie still needs to manage her business, the pushy press, and unwanted interest from criminal elements. Controlling chaos is her specialty, but with this killer’s crime wave, Maggie may be left hanging . . .
The Maggie McDonald Mystery
Address to Die for
Scheduled to Death
Dead Storage
Disorderly Conduct
Cliff Hanger
Cliff Hanger
Maggie McDonald Mystery Series
Mary Feliz
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Mary Feliz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: July 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0527-4 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0527-3 (ebook)
First Print Edition: July 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0530-4
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0530-3
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
The Maggie McDonald Mystery
Cliff Hanger
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Maggie’s Homemade Anti-Skunk Shampoo
Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
Meet the Author
Address to Die For
Scheduled to Death
Dead Storage
Dedication
For George, without whom there would be no books. Thanks for keeping the mystery and the dreams alive, always.
Acknowledgments
Thanks, as always, to my editors Martin Biro, Rebecca Cremonese, and Jennifer Fisher. And to everyone at Kensington and Lyrical, including those I’ve not yet met, who have worked to put Maggie’s stories into the hands of readers. And to everyone in Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America, fantastic organizations of generous women and men who get it. And to my husband George, who, among all the many other wonders he brings to my life, holds everything together while I spend time with my imaginary friends in Orchard View.
As promised, I also need to thank Amanda Terry for her willingness to proofread nearly all the books in the series. Any errors that remain are mine and mine alone, but readers can thank Amanda for scouring out typos and keeping Maggie’s friend Elaine from cleaning her gutters on a daily basis.
Thanks to Michael. His expertise helps me confidently write about my tech-savvy characters. But again, it’s all on me when I veer from the possible by mistake or for the sake of the story.
For this book particularly, I’d like to thank the hardworking people of the resort that inspired Heron Beach. Their expertise, patience, and creativity assure the actual location is nothing like the fictional one, except in the unsurpassed setting they share on the shore of Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary (MBNMS). The team at the real Heron Beach do their best to keep residents and guests safe, comfortable, content, and able to spend as much time as possible experiencing one of the most amazing wildlife sanctuaries in the world.
I’d also like to thank those who work in all the federal, state, local, and private agencies that protect and explore the sanctuary and surrounding communities. Sometimes referred to as “The Serengeti of the Sea,” MBNMS protects more than six thousand square miles of ocean. Designated by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in 1992, the sanctuary aids in understanding, utilizing, restoring, and maintaining the preserve as a center for research, education, recreation, tourism, commercial fishing, and resource protection.
The preserve offers unique research opportunities in the form of a submarine canyon whose depth rivals that of the Grand Canyon and offers deep-water exploration opportunities just offshore. As engineering breakthroughs make it possible for scientists to explore more of the ocean floor, new species of plants and animals are discovered along with new information that expands our understanding of biology, ecology, acoustics, oceanography, geology, evolution, and many other fields, including space exploration.
I hope it will remain a rich environment for discovery and recreation for many generations. For more information about supporting, visiting, and exploring this amazing resource, visit https://montereybay.noaa.gov.
And finally, if you can read this book, please thank a teacher. If you were able to find this book, please thank a teacher, librarian, or bookstore owner. Without the members of all these professions, I would not be able to do what I do.
I remind readers that this is a work of fiction. I’ve taken great liberties in creating unique characters who are nothing like the honest and hardworking farmers, agricultural workers, young people, and law enforcement officers of Watsonville and the counties of Santa Cruz and Monterey.
Chapter 1
Packing for a vacation on the central California coast means packing for weather extremes. While the average temperature in June ranges from a comfortable sixty-five to seventy-five degrees, summer daytime temperatures can plummet to fifty degrees or climb into triple digits—sometimes within a 24-hour period. On a typical summer day you’re less likely to need your bikini than a warm coat.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Monday, June 17, Late morning
“Mom, you sure those directions are right?” Fourteen-year-old Brian leaned over the back of the front seat. His sixteen-year-old white-knuckled brother David clutched the wheel and peered into the fog bank. “GPS says this road runs straight into the ocean.”
David lifted his foot from the accelerator and hovered it over the brake. The car slowed to a creep. “Seriously?” he said with a hint of panic in his voice. “I can’t see a thing. Let me know if your feet get wet and I’ll start backing up.”
“You’re doing great, David,” I said to my newly permitted driver. “Up here on the right, you’ll turn and take a narrow road out to the condos.”
“Narrower than this?” David’s voice squeaked a tiny bit as he tried to keep an eye on his mirrors, his speed, the fog-obscured road ahead, and the deep drainage ditches on either side of a road barely wide enough for two cars. The speed limit was 40 mph. The speedometer hugged 25. Luckily, there was no traffic on the rural road flanked by fields growing strawberries, artichokes, lettuce, and Brussels sprouts.
As we approached the turn, the fog lifted. David easily navigated the narrow bridge over the slough.
“Blue heron!” shouted Brian as one launched itself from a dead log partially submerged in the slough. With a few pumps of its massive wings, it disappeared behind the ridge separating the farmland from Monterey Bay.
I rolled down my window to appreciate the cool salt air. We’d left oven-like temperatures behind us when we’d left the Bay Area less than an hour earlier.
Our golden retriever Belle shoved her nose between the headrest and the window frame for a sniff. Santa Cruz County was home to some five hundred species of migratory and resident birds. She appeared to be smelling and identifying each one.
“Ultralight!” shouted Brian again, pointing out the back window.
“That hang-glider thing?” I asked, locating a lime green and shocking pink oversized kite that looked much like a committee had tried to reverse-engineer a dragonfly. It roared above us.
“They’re like hang gliders with engines,” Brian explained. “You don’t need a pilot’s license to operate them.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I said in response to the note of anticipatory glee in his voice. “Ultralight aviation is not included in our summer plans.”
“It could be…” Brian began.
“Nope. Not while I’m your mother.” I squinted at the aircraft. “Is it supposed to fly like that? All wobbly?” A sharp explosive sound echoed through the hills. “Or is there something wrong with the engine?”
David ended our discussion when he pulled the car onto the gravel shoulder immediately after we drove over a second small bridge. Flexing his hands and fingers, he turned to me. “Can you drive? That last bit was nuts.”
As we changed seats, I shivered. The condominium resort complex was only three miles from the nearby agricultural town of Watsonville, but I heard no cars or other sounds of people or civilization. Water lapping in the slough, the screech of a red-tailed hawk, and the crashing waves of the still unseen Pacific were the only sounds I could identify. A brisk wind coming from the ocean, refrigerated by the sixty-degree temperature of Monterey Bay made my summer outfit of shorts and a T-shirt seem ridiculous. I grabbed a sweatshirt off the back seat and put it on quickly before taking a deep breath and restarting the car.
There was no going back and no way I wanted to. The boys were looking forward to their summer vacation at a beach resort, days filled with surfing, skimboarding, hiking, and doing odd jobs. I was committed to helping the condo association management through a contentious transition. The new manager, Renée Alvarez, was a cousin of my best friend, Tess Olmos, who had vouched for Renée’s honesty and work ethic.
In exchange for the use of a condo and a small stipend, I would use my professional organizing superpowers to help. The plan was to organize office storage and files, and compile a history of the complex. If time allowed, we’d clear out a few neglected units whose owners had long since abandoned them, unable to sell them or keep up with the taxes, mortgages, and association fees following a market downturn.
It was an idyllic proposition, and I’d agreed to it readily. My husband Max planned to join us every weekend. During the week, he’d commute from our home in Orchard View to his engineering job in Santa Clara while juggling the supervision of several home-remodeling projects that would be easier for construction workers to tackle while the boys and I were out of town.
As we approached the visitor gate, the fog rolled back in, a gust of wind shook the car, and Belle growled. I shivered, but this time it was due to trepidation rather than the chill. I eased the car forward, fighting off the sudden sense that I was heading into unknown and possibly dangerous territory. I shook off the feeling. Nonsense. Just because a few of my recent jobs had led to serious trouble for my family and friends didn’t mean I was the professional organizer’s version of Typhoid Mary. Heebie-jeebies aside, I had every reason to believe we were starting our best family vacation ever.
“Good morning,” said the guard, leaning through the drive-up window.
“I’m Maggie McDonald,” I said. “Renée Alvarez is expecting us. She said she’d leave a key here in the office.”
The guard smiled. “Are you an owner?”
“No, no. I’m working for Renée and the homeowner association this summer. She’s giving us the use of a three-bedroom condo. She said she’d leave the key and information packet here for me.”
“I’m afraid that only owners are allowed to bring dogs, though I can recommend several good local kennels.”
Belle snorted, and I couldn’t have agreed with her more. Part of the attraction of taking this underpaid job was the prospect of allowing our golden retriever the freedom of swimming in the ocean and chasing waves, tennis balls, and birds she’d never come close to catching.
“I think Renée said she’d asked the association to make an exception. Is she available at the moment? We can check with her.”
A pickup truck pulled up behind me, and I became conscious of holding up traffic. The security guard must have felt the same way. “Tell you what. Pull your car around to the parking spaces. Maybe the boys can walk your dog while you and I straighten this out with Renée.”
I followed the instructions. Brian and David took turns holding Belle on a leash outside the building while I sorted out our accommodations. The guard, who had introduced himself as Vik Peterson, handed me a dog biscuit bigger than my hand. “You’ve got a beautiful pup there,” he said, nodding toward the door, outside which Belle sniffed bushes and barked at a rabbit. “Please give her this cookie with my apologies for the confusion. I’ll give Renée a ring.”
Again, I followed instructions, cheered by Vik’s upbeat demeanor and attentive customer service.
“What’s up, Mom?” Brian asked as I joined the boys outside. Belle snuffled my hand and took the biscuit. “Are they trying to cancel?”
“I don’t think so. The guard is calling Renée right now.”
“Should we phone Tess?” David asked. “She set this up, right?”
David was correct, as usual, but I wasn’t worried. “Working with a new client can be a bumpy road. If they didn’t have a few organizational problems, they wouldn’t need me, would they?”
I glanced into the guard station, and Vik waved. When I opened the door, he held up a key.
“I’ve got the key to your unit,” he said, looking triumphant. “I still haven’t reached Renée, though.” He glanced at his watch. “She’s usually the first one here, well before seven o’clock. But her chief lieutenant and head of maintenance says you can go ahead and get settled in.”
“Great! Thanks. And Belle?”
“Sorry, no. You wouldn’t believe the number of complaints I’d get if I admitted a visiting dog without Renée’s say-so.”
“I guess we could get groceries and come back, but if Belle doesn’t have access, it will sink the deal for me.”
“Dogs are welcome at the state beach down the road. You passed it on the way in. You could hang out there while you wait to hear from Renée.”
I thought for a moment, considering.
Vik barreled on as though I’d already approved the plan. “Do you have a cell number you can give me? I’ll get in touch as soon as I hear from her. I hope she’s okay. It isn’t like her to be even a few minutes late.”
“Do you know where she is? I was under the impression she spent more time on site here than she did at home.”
Vik checked his watch and frowned. “Could be anything. There’s a first time for everything.” He pushed a notepad and pen toward me.
I handed Vik my business card and thanked him again. We all climbed back into the car and were about to set off when Vik opened the office door and called out.
“Your unit is in Building F. Fourth building from the north end of the complex. It’s a short hike from the state beach if you want to check it out.”
I saluted and put the car in reverse. After a small false start, it looked like the tide was starting to turn on our adventure.
* * * *
The boys had changed into their wetsuits in the picnic area of the state beach. Now they were boogie boarding while Belle chased them and tried to catch waves in her teeth. I checked my phone and my watch. If I didn’t move I’d be lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves. I told the boys I’d walk down to the Heron Beach Resort property to check out our unit.