Murder at the Marina

by Janet Finsilver

  When it was time to go, I took out my Jeep keys and said good-bye to Helen on my way through the kitchen. I was tempted to ask her to wish me luck. As I sat in the driver’s seat, a text alert sounded from my phone.

  I checked, and there was a message to the group from the Professor. The fired employee’s name was Rick Stapleton. The lease agreement listed Alexander as the manager and the owner as the Williams Corporation. Oddly, there were two sets of surveillance cameras. One was obvious and meant to alert customers they were being filmed. The other set was well hidden and seemed to be aimed mostly at where the employees worked.

  I thought about this new information on the way to see Scott. Alexander didn’t own the shop which was the impression I’d gotten at the meeting. The hidden cameras seemed to indicate the owner wanted to keep tabs on the employees. Had something happened to create distrust? I’d ask Daniel if he knew Stapleton. We’d figure out the next steps regarding the Williams Corporation at the next meeting. I put investigation thoughts aside as I pulled into the parking lot.

  Scott had developed and now managed the Redwood Cove Community Center, which was only about ten minutes away inland. It was the brainchild of our boss, Michael Corrigan. He had wanted to give something back to the community, as well as reach out to homeless or struggling veterans in the area. To that end, a variety of classes, ranging from organic gardening to nutrition, had been created. Cottages had been built for the veterans. They lived onsite and were getting whatever assistance was germane to their situation.

  Living at the community center with only the small town of Redwood Cove nearby had been a big change for Scott. He had traveled extensively all over the world for Resorts International to solve problems as they arose. Scott loved the job as well as the big city excitement he encountered as he went from place to place.

  When Michael decided to build the center, he’d offered the job of creating it to Scott. It would require months to build. I was surprised when Scott accepted. He had told me he wanted to experience what living in the area would be like. Besides, he’d added with a grin, he could experiment with new recipes.

  As I parked, one of the new shuttle buses pulled in and stopped at the front of the building. A half a dozen men and women disembarked, all chattering happily and smiling.

  I knew classes had started last week but hadn’t looked at the schedule yet. The Silver Sentinels had been on the committee to create the center and decide what would best fit the needs of the Redwood Cove residents.

  I followed them in the front entrance. They were met by a tall man I knew to be Jim Patterson, the master gardener. Overstuffed chairs and couches, all draped with colorful soft throws, filled the lounge they were in. A variety of magazines were stacked on end tables. A fire burned in the large fireplace. The room was designed to make people feel comfortable and relaxed, and it succeeded admirably.

  I went on through to the commercial-size kitchen and stopped. The large island in the center was filled with pots, bowls, measuring cups, and various implements I didn’t recognize. Two glass containers with screw-on lids held what I suspected was sugar and flour. A bag of apples was next to the sink. This was a big project in the making, and I was the one who would be doing it. Why had I ever suggested a pie? I had survived my first lesson of mac and cheese, sort of, but this was a whole different ball game.

  Scott wasn’t in the room, so I decided this was a good time to go see the llamas the center had purchased for their wool, which would be used in a weaving class. I knew bags of llama snacks were in the refrigerator. I grabbed a few and fled as quickly as I could, lest Scott returned and the baking started.

  I went out the back door to the pasture, where the herd of five females grazed. The Silver Sentinels and I had named them. We didn’t own them, but we referred to them as our llamas.

  Rudy and Ivan had named the large white one Natasha, after a Russian snow queen. The Professor had added a literary touch and named his black one Louisa May, in honor of Louisa May Alcott. Nell, the tan one, represented Gertie’s aunt, and the butterscotch one answered to Miss M, the moniker Mary and her sister, Martha, had decided upon.

  I called out, “Annie! Annie!”

  A brown-and-white-spotted head shot up on a long, slender neck and looked in my direction. She immediately headed for me. I pulled a carrot from one of the bags I’d snatched from the kitchen. I held it out and she gently took it from my hand. I ran my fingers through her soft, tight reddish curls. They were the reason I’d decided to name her after Orphan Annie.

  The other llamas weren’t to be left out, and soon all five lined the fence and I doled out my treats.

  “Kelly, I’m back,” Scott said from the back door.

  I gave each one a last pet, took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and turned. There he was, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. My thought was a cliché, but it just fit some men perfectly and Scott was one of them. I followed him into the kitchen.

  “Sorry for not being here. I had to step out to help one of the veterans with some boxes. He just moved in.”

  “How many are living here now?”

  “Six men and two women,” Scott said. “They’re all involved in training post-traumatic stress disorder dogs for veterans. They received good news last week. Michael said they could have dogs of their own as long as they passed the Canine Good Citizen program.”

  My boss loved dogs and believed they helped people live fuller lives. I agreed with him.

  “Wonderful! A while back, one of the men mentioned he hoped that would happen. I know Michael allows employees to have dogs on the Resort International properties if they pass the test.”

  Scott rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get started. This will be fun.”

  Fun was a subjective word. I wasn’t sure it fit here at all.

  I put on the apron Scott offered, washed my hands, and rolled up my sleeves. The project began.

  Peeling the apples was a cinch, because I’d peeled a lot of potatoes on the ranch. Scott showed me how to use an apple corer, and he had a nifty metal straight-edge tool for leveling off spices. I was beginning to feel more confident.

  Then came the crust.

  A short while later, I had flour on my face, flour footprints dotted the floor, and the once-neat counter looked like a train wreck—one that had been carrying a load of flour. Scott had said toss a handful of flour on the pastry board. So, I’d scooped up a bunch and thrown it on the board. How was I to know it would create a white cloud? And I didn’t realize how far it could travel with one small toss. Knocking over the jar of flour hadn’t helped the situation.

  I sneezed once, twice…and kept on sneezing.

  Scott handed me some tissues. “Here you go. Let me show you how to flour the board.”

  He demonstrated, and I learned that he meant a little flour in my palm, not a fistful, and toss meant to gently place the flour on the board.

  “I’m so sorry for the mess. I’ll clean it up.” I dashed for the sink and grabbed a sponge. I turned and headed for the island.

  “Kelly, wait!” Scott shouted.

  Startled, I slid to a stop on the powdery floor.

  “Don’t you remember making glue in elementary school? It was flour and water. That’s not the first step in cleaning this up.”

  My heart was beating faster. I was such a dunce. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  I grabbed the wastebasket from the corner and began sweeping the flour into it with my hand in swift, jerky movements.

  Scott started to walk by me. “I’ll get the vacuum.”

  Just then, I accidentally pushed the flour container off the counter. As it began to fall, I made a grab for it, as did Scott. I managed to get hold of it and held it up in a sweeping motion, causing another dreaded white cloud. This time it floated into Scott’s face.

  His dark eyebrows were now frosted white, as
was part of his hair.

  I couldn’t suppress the laugh that came welling up. “You’ll make a very distinguished Silver Sentinel.”

  His eyebrows rose in a questioning manner, and he went to look at himself in a mirror on the broom closet door.

  He turned. “Well, at least as a member I can keep an eye on all of you.”

  This time we both burst out laughing.

  Scott cleaned himself up, and we worked together on the floor. When that was done, he kept his word and helped in making the crust. He handled some of the delicate finishing touches, like doing the final rolling out of the crust and transferring it to the pie pan. He showed me how to crimp the edges, and I managed to do it successfully, if not exactly making it look pretty as I squished the soft dough between my fingers.

  “I’m really sorry about the mess,” I said.

  Scott shook his head. “No problem. You know you’ve been baking when a little flour sifts into your life. You didn’t do badly for your first time out.”

  I knew he was being kind. We cleaned up the kitchen, and it was in decent shape by the time the pie began to fill the kitchen with a wonderful aroma. We sat in the window seat, sipping coffee, while waiting for our creation to be done.

  “So, what’s been happening this week?” he asked.

  I emitted another inward groan. Scott didn’t like what the Silver Sentinels and I did in terms of solving crimes because of his concern we might get hurt. He respected our right to do it and understood our reasons, but it was a sensitive subject.

  The local newspaper only came out once a week, and the murder had happened after the latest edition. Scott, being new to the area, wasn’t connected to the communities’ lightning-swift communication chain. I was sure he had no idea what was coming.

  How did I tell him we were trying to solve a murder?

  Chapter 11

  The timer went off and gave me a few moments to gather my thoughts. Scott signaled me to follow him to the oven. He opened the door, and we peeked in.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  The delicious smell of warm apple pie and spices was making my mouth water. Maybe there was something to this baking bit after all.

  “I want you to do the honors of taking it out.” He handed me oven mitts and pointed to a cooling rack on the counter.

  I slipped on the mitts, opened the oven door, and reached in for the pie. Pulling it out, I turned and placed it on the rack. Juice bubbled out of the slits on top of the evenly browned crust.

  “It needs to cool,” Scott said. “Now, where were we?”

  I was trying to figure out how to tell you I’m investigating a murder case with the Silver Sentinels.

  The answer was to just tell him.

  “Actually, there’s been quite a lot going on.”

  I went on to share with him about the dagger, the murdered man, and Rudy’s fear at being questioned by the police because of his connections to the dead man. I shared Rudy and Ivan’s life story. I told him everything I’d told the Sentinels. “The Sentinels and I met this morning and put together a plan to gather information.”

  Scott’s lips had increasingly tightened as I shared what I knew. “We’ve talked a number of times about what you and the others are doing, so I won’t do it again. It’s always hard knowing you and the Silver Sentinels are involved in crime solving and possibly putting yourselves in danger. If there’s any way I can help, please let me know.”

  The tension that had built up in me as I told the story and saw his expression change began to dissipate. My shoulders, which had inched up a bit, now relaxed into their normal position. I appreciated the fact that he wasn’t the lecturing kind. He’d said his piece a while back. He knew I didn’t need to be reminded.

  The smile that had been part of his face during our baking escapade had vanished.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Scott, you know we’ll be careful.”

  “I know.”

  “And this is something we need to do to help our friends.”

  “I know.” His face was still grim.

  I spied a computer on a small desk in the corner and came up with what I thought was a brilliant plan—change the subject. “Are you going to go to the Russian Heritage Festival?”

  “I’ll definitely check it out. I read about it in last week’s paper, and it sounds like there’ll be many unusual events.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look at the schedule. Let’s check it out while the pie cools,” I suggested.

  “Sounds like a good idea—and a better subject to discuss than the one we were on.”

  I wasn’t as clever as I thought. Scott knew exactly what I was doing.

  Scott went over and picked up the laptop and put it on the table. We slid our chairs into position to be able to look at it together. He typed in Russian Festival Redwood Cove and up popped the event’s website. Scott clicked on Activities, and the schedule came into view.

  “The Russian Heritage Committee met at the inn,” I said. “I heard people at the meeting talking about the festival’s purpose. They want people to learn about what Russian life was like for the early settlers.”

  “I see ongoing demonstrations by blacksmiths, spinners, weavers, broom makers, woodworkers, and many other craftspeople. Sounds like fun.”

  I pointed to the screen. “There’s a free horse-drawn wagon ride. I bet Tommy and Allie would enjoy that.”

  He scrolled down the page. “They’re certainly bringing in a lot of singing and dancing groups. There are performances every hour.”

  I read a menu that had been posted. “The food should be fun to try out. I love piroshki. I’ve never had blini before. It says it’s a Russian crepe with different kinds of fillings. I like sampling new dishes.” Then I noticed the pickled herring. “Usually,” I added.

  We did more searching through the ongoing events, the different food courts, and the scheduled activities. The Cossacks were listed twice.

  “I want to watch the Cossacks. They’re amazing horseback riders. Are you interested in seeing them? They perform at ten and two.”

  “Sure. Either time works for me,” Scott said.

  “Let’s go at ten. If I enjoy them, I could see the second performance at two.”

  “A deal and a date.” He stood. “Now, it’s time for pie. It should be cool enough.”

  A date? I’d just made plans to meet Scott and watch an event together. Yep. It fit the definition of a date.

  He smiled. “Get ready to taste the first pie you’ve ever made.”

  I could tell he was trying to let go of his upset. The smile he gave me wasn’t the lighthearted one he’d worn earlier, but it was a step in the right direction. However, I didn’t think we’d get back to our merry mood of earlier today.

  “Let’s get to the best part of cooking: eating.” He took two small plates from the cupboard and handed me a knife and a pie server.

  I took them. “I’ve cut Mom’s pies before. I should be able to handle this.”

  “Remember, you need enough for all the Sentinels…unless you want to make another pie.” He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  I rolled my eyes at him in response, then traced lines on the pie to make eight pieces. I could give one to Helen…that was, if it tasted good.

  I cut two pieces and placed them on the plates. Scott went to the refrigerator and pulled out a container of ice cream and grabbed a scoop from a drawer. He added French vanilla to each plate and returned the carton to the freezer.

  The grin he gave me this time looked tired but genuine. “Congratulations on baking your first pie.” He filled his fork.

  “Thanks.” I took a bite and relished the sweet taste of the apple mixture with a hint of cinnamon…and the crust was flaky!

  “I’d say your first effort was a great success,” Scott said as he took another bite.


  “It’s delicious. Without your guidance, I know it wouldn’t have turned out like this.” I put my fork down. “Thank you. I had a lot of fun.”

  “I did, too.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and I suspected the thought of our murder investigation had flitted across his mind.

  “You can store it at room temperature for a couple of days. I have a container the pie fits in. I don’t need it back right away.” A twinkle returned to his blue eyes. “You’re welcome to use it for your next pie.”

  “I don’t know when that’s going to be,” I replied. “I’m sure I’ll get it back to you before that happens.”

  He went to get the container, and I put our dishes in the sink.

  We walked together as he carried the pie out to my Jeep. The wind had picked up, bringing wisps of fog with it.

  He put the pie on the floor behind the seat. “I’ll see you Saturday at ten.”

  “Thanks again for the wonderful lesson…and your incredible patience.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you have any idea what you want to work on next?”

  I laughed. “Not right now. I need to get some of the flour out of my hair before I start contemplating lesson three.” I got in my vehicle. “See you this weekend.”

  “Great.” He turned and entered the community center.

  I drove down the road.

  A deal and a date, he’d said.

  A date.

  That was the first time the word had come up in our relationship. I mulled it over. It wasn’t a romantic get-together. It was just meeting a friend at an event. It didn’t really have any significance. Or did it? I’d been the one to suggest it. Maybe I was finally beginning to heal…and trust again.

  My ex-husband had cheated on me. The fact that it was with my best friend had ratcheted up the hurt a notch. The pain seared deep into my heart and my psyche. Scott had been open and honest with me. He didn’t strike me in the least as someone who would deceive me.