Murder in Mendocino

Murder in Mendocino

A Short Mystery

By

Vincent E. Henley

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Copyright © 2012 by Vincent E. Henley

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Cover Photo by Vincent E. Henley

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The second week of July blew hot into Northern California. The Fourth of July holiday was now a distant memory and Brian Carroll had successfully engineered his escape from work. After completing the last of his obligations he secured his office and strode rapidly to the company parking lot where his car baked in the noon sun. That was three hours ago and he now drove rapidly down a twisting road a hundred fifty miles north of his office in Silicon Valley.

Brian was tall and fit and looked neither like a nerd nor a writer, but he was both. Some people initially thought he was a sort of playboy, but he wasn’t. Brian’s corporate title of Principal Engineer at an iconic computer firm hid his real aspirations as a writer of mysteries and solver of puzzles. It was a side business that resulted in a few mystery novels that sold well. His editor expected another one this year. Brian’s destination today was an inn on the Mendocino coast that hosted a three-week-long informal retreat of artists and writers who wanted the remote solitude of the individual cabins and proximity of the ocean as a place to work on new creations. Brian was a charter and founding member of the group, and the informal membership was remarkably constant, allowing the addition of only one or two new members each year as some dropped out or went on to other things. As he approached his destination he considered what he intended to accomplish during the next three weeks and

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thought he could get considerable progress on his new novel so long as he wasn’t interrupted needlessly.

When Brian pulled into the parking lot of the MeadowCliff Inn he noted that nearly everyone had arrived before him. Patricia Longwell, the innkeeper, smiled from behind the desk when he walked into the reception area. Patricia was an attractive widow, still able to turn heads. She and Brian went back many years to when she and her husband had just acquired the inn. Patricia and Brian were good friends and kept in contact.

“Hi Brian,” she said, standing and giving him a hug. “I was beginning to think you were going to abandon us this year. It’s good to see you.”

“Hi Pat. I almost didn’t make it due to a really bad problem with our latest product release, but I got it solved this morning,” he responded. “Any new people here this year?”

“Just one. She has the cabin next to yours. She’s an artist, and a good one. Right now, I think she’s somewhere around back sketching the local wildlife.”

“Are the usual regulars here?” he inquired.

“Yep, including Suzanne,” she grimaced.

“Gawd. Who is she after this time?”

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“I think it’s a toss-up between Robbie Jones and Joe Whitcomb, but you know Suzanne,” she confided.

“Only too well. I’ll don my tortured-soul writer’s persona as armor against her attempts to add me to her collection of trophies. Dora Jones won’t take kindly to her attempts at Robbie and I wouldn’t sell Annemarie Whitcomb short either. Those quiet types sometimes boil just below the surface.” Brian made a face and raised one eyebrow as high as he could.

“Well, good luck with your tortured soul. Here’s your key. You know the way. See you at dinner around seven. I’m really happy you’re here.” Pat gave him another quick hug and went back into her office.

The MeadowCliff Inn had one main building that was rather complex. It contained the restaurant and bar along with a couple of decent meeting rooms as well as the owner’s quarters. Flower gardens penetrated by well tended pathways surrounded this building. The guests resided in individual cabins of various sizes, mostly designed for two to four people and arranged in a shallow arc across the property facing the ocean. The property was a long narrow strip between the coast highway and the cliffs that dropped two hundred feet to the constant surf slowly pounding their feet into sand. A meadow of native grasses and wildflowers in front of the cabins lead to the edge of the cliff where a rickety fence kept people from falling over accidentally. On occasion,

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mostly during winter storms, pieces of the cliff would fall away and add their rubble to the jagged rocks below. Eventually, the strip of land where the inn sat would return to the sea, but not soon.

Brian unloaded his car and brought his clothing and writing materials into the cabin. He had the same one every year because he liked the fact that it sat a bit apart from the others and faced toward the southwest. The slope of the meadow meant he could watch the pelicans fly in graceful lines just above the waves. He marveled that such an ungainly bird was an elegant flyer, perhaps excelled only by the albatross. He enjoyed seeing the birds while he wrestled with a new story. A rough redwood table and bench sat halfway between his cabin and the cliff’s edge, and he often used these for writing on fogless mornings and late afternoons. During the height of the day he preferred to work inside. It was now several hours before the dinner hour, and he carried his laptop and the notebooks he had been filling with story ideas to the redwood table. He set up the template for the new manuscript, and started the first few paragraphs of his mystery when he saw a woman he didn’t recognize approaching from the direction of the main building.

Her shoulder length blonde hair, blown gently by the wind off the sea, curled loosely at the ends. She wore a tan shirt with loose fitting tan jeans over her petite frame. Her feet were clad in sturdy walking shoes and

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her head was covered with a floppy canvas hat to protect her fair skin. One hand carried a watercolor sketch pad of heavy paper and the other clutched a pencil box. As the woman came closer, it was apparent that her figure was fit and shapely. He could see the details of a square face that had rounded corners and a straight nose. She wore clear aviator-style glasses, with their characteristic teardrop shaped lenses, perched on her nose. He was appraised through the lenses by brown eyes tinged with green. The effect was very attractive.

“Hi,” she said, stopping next to him. “I’m Madeline. Madeline Sinclair. You must be Brian.”

“I am,” he responded as he stood and extended his hand. “Brian Carroll.”

She set the sketch pad on the table and grasped his hand. Her touch was cool and dry and he held her hand a bit longer than necessary, but she didn’t pull away. Her voice had a pleasant lower register as she began:

“Pat told me that you were one of the originals but I expected you to be a lot older for some reason. What sort of art do you paint?”

“I don’t. I’m one of the other sort; a writer.”

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She smiled. “I keep forgetting that this is both an artist’s and a writer’s retreat. I just haven’t yet met any of the other writers.”

“Well, it started out as a writer’s and artist’s retreat, but over the years the artists have become more numerous as the writers declined. I think there are only three of us here now. Nancy Brotherton and Dora Jones are the other writers this season. Everyone else is some sort of a fine artist, mostly landscape and seascape painters. One does copperplate engraving as well. What do you paint?”

“I work in pencil and pastels,” she said. “Just now I’ve been sketching rabbits over by the restaurant.”

“Beatrix Potter rabbits or Albrecht Durer rabbits?”

“Aha! You do know something of art. You judge,” she smiled as she opened the sketchbook. “But remember that Durer did hares, not rabbits.”

He bent over the finely detailed drawing that seemed to show every hair in the fur of the two rabbits depicted in the grass. One had a sprig of grass in its mouth that was almost in motion with the chewing. The slight breeze brought a scent of lavender and crushed pennyroyal from Madeline. He thought that she might have been sitting in the herbs as she sketched.

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“Definitely Durer,” he said. “This is great. How do you get the fur that realistically detailed?”

“Hmmm,” she mused. “Mostly with a lot of practice and much more patience than I can normally muster. In this case, the subjects seemed to be content to just sit there and let me work.”

“I think they’re all but tame over there. One can often see them from the restaurant windows during dinner,” offered Brian.

“Well,” she said as she gathered up the sketchbook. “I need to do some more work on this before dinner. It’s been nice meeting you.”

“I’m certain we will see one another during the retreat. Welcome. I hope you enjoy our little gathering,” he smiled enthusiastically.

She walked off toward her cabin and Brian watched her go with some regret.

Some hours later he relaxed in the restaurant at his usual window table, and studied the menu. He drank a good Pinot Noir from a winery about thirty miles inland and had almost decided on a local lamb dish the inn did particularly well. In the bar area Robert and Dora Jones sat at a small table enjoying glasses of red wine. Dora was short, sexy and very curvy with long

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black hair that reached to her waist. She was one of those women who simply oozed charm and sex appeal, but suffered fools not at all. Joe and Annemarie Whitcomb occupied another table. Annemarie was a tall elegant slender blonde who was quiet, soft-spoken and beautiful. You would never guess that she had two grown sons. Angelina Rutherford, a widowed grandmother who painted seascapes and small coastal town scenes came in, found a table and ordered sherry. Angelina was one of the steady rocks of the group, not given to excess emotion in any way and who had more than her fair share of common sense. It was often useful in this eclectic group. Sam Titus, who was ex-military and looked it, was behind the bar. Cindy Jackson, a cheery and likable thirty-something slender blonde was one of three servers covering the restaurant tables. Other patrons lined the bar and a few sat at tables in the main eating area, including Mike and Nancy Brotherton. Nancy was medium in height and build with soft brown hair, a clear pale skin and striking green eyes. She was confident and assertive, and, like Dora, suffered no fools, especially not Suzanne. Suzanne Montrose, a tall beautiful redhead of a certain age and showing an impressive amount of cleavage, sat at a table across the room from Brian. She caught his eye and smiled. Brian went back to studying the menu.

“Definitely the lamb...,” he thought.

“May I join you?”

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He looked up to find Madeline Sinclair standing by his table. She had changed into a cream-colored blouse and a pleated black skirt. She wore low heels in black patent leather and her left wrist sported a ladies Rolex watch. A string of pearls with matching earrings and just enough understated make-up completed the picture. Brian stood and pulled out the chair opposite his seat.

“Of course, please do,” he said.

“Most of the others I’ve met seem to be either couples or less than welcoming,” she said as she sat. “You at least seemed friendly.”

“Ah, I understand. I’m the default,” he grinned as he regained his seat opposite.

She colored a bit. “No, if you must know, I really wanted to talk longer this afternoon, but you seemed busy, and I wanted to do more work on my rabbits. I thought I might be intruding then, but I also thought we would both probably be at dinner this evening. Dinner is different.”

“So it is,” he agreed. “Would you like some of this wine? I know the winery and winemaker and it is really quite good.”

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She smiled. “I would. Thanks for letting me join you.”

“Everyone will talk,” he said as he poured the wine. “I hope you are prepared for that. It’s a small community.”

“Whatever would they talk about?” she smiled as she gave him an all too innocent wide-eyed gaze over her wine glass. “Cheers!”

Their glasses rang with a bell’s tone as they clinked together.

“What do you recommend for dinner?” she asked.

“It’s all good. I was thinking of the lamb when you arrived, and that still sounds good to me.”

“I think I’ll try the baked salmon on cassoulet,” she decided.

“Good choice,” commented Brian. “It’s not very common and they do a great job of it here.”

Brian’s words still hung in the air when a high-pitched screech from the bar area shattered the ambience of the restaurant, followed by a crash as a chair was knocked over. Then, shrill voices spiraled up in volume as two women began hand- to-hand combat.

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Suzanne Montrose, covered in dripping red wine from her face down, straddled Dora Jones and tried to punch her face as the two women wrestled on the floor for advantage. Suzanne, being the taller of the two, had the weight advantage, but Dora had her hands clenched around Suzanne’s throat to hold her off, doing a realistic imitation of choking the life out of her. Both women snarled incoherently. The other patrons were momentarily paralyzed.

“Excuse me,” said Brian to Madeline as he stood up and made for the conflict. Sam Titus made his way from behind the bar at about the same time.

When Brian reached the fighting women, he bent down and grabbed Suzanne by the back of her belt and heaved her off Dora. As she came upright she took a swing at Brian and connected with her nails against his left cheek, removing a divot from his skin. Brian kicked her legs from under her and held her suspended by her belt. Sam grabbed Dora and lifted her upright as he pinned her arms against her sides. Dora tried really hard to get at Suzanne, but Sam hung on.

“Let me go!” screamed Suzanne as Brian kept his grip on her belt and held her off balance. “I’m going to rip that bitch apart!”

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“I’ll cut your f____ing heart out if you ever so much as look at Robbie again, you rotten whore!” shouted Dora.

“I’ll help,” said Annemarie Whitcomb a bit more loudly than she needed. Her husband, Joe, gave her a warning glance and held onto her arm.

The two women expressed considerably more incivility to one another as Brian and Sam carried them farther apart. Eventually Brian dragged Suzanne outside the restaurant and tried calming her down.

“Jesus, Suzanne, how many drinks have you had?” he asked. “What was all that about?”

“I didn’t do anything, Brian. I just wanted to say hello to Robbie and was bending over the table when Dora threw that wine in my face for no reason at all,” she sobbed.

Brian glanced at her soaked cleavage and could see why Dora might have been a bit defensive of Robbie.

“Look! Go back to your cabin, get cleaned up and either sleep this off or find another place to have dinner this evening. Stay away from Robbie and Joe. They’re taken. This will all blow over by tomorrow. I think you’ll be lucky if Pat doesn’t throw both you and Dora out.”

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“But, you’re not taken,” she wriggled suggestively. “You want to help me clean up?”

“Go!” He pointed her in the direction of her cabin and gave her backside a gentle nudge.

“I’m sorry about your cheek,” she said as she began walking toward her cabin.

His cheek? Brian felt his left cheek and came away with a bloody finger. He used his handkerchief to soak up the blood and stop the flow as he walked back into the restaurant. By the time he returned, Robbie and Dora Jones had left and Sam was back behind the bar. The rest of the patrons were still there and the wait staff was trying to recover from the incident. Cindy had placed the tables and chairs back in proper order. The spilled wine had been mopped up and she was taking orders from her tables. Pat Longwell was getting the details from Sam. Brian rejoined Madeline.

“Are dinners here always so interesting?” she asked as he regained his seat.

“Not usually, although Suzanne does love to make an entrance,” he shook his head.

“What on earth happened to your face?” she said, reaching a hand across the table to turn his head.

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“Suzanne,” he replied, a bit ruefully. “I think it was unintentional and I didn’t notice at the time, but now it’s beginning to hurt.”

“Come with me,” she said as she stood up. “I have a good first aid kit in my cabin.”

“We’ll be back in fifteen minutes or less,” Madeline told Cindy as she came over to take their orders. “We can order then. Just hold the table.”

Madeline took him firmly by the hand and led him to her cabin where she turned on the lights and guided him to the bathroom.

“Sit,” she pointed to the toilet seat.

“Why here?” he asked.

“The light is better and I need water,” she replied.

She left and returned moments later with a black bag that looked very professional. After opening it, she took out some gauze pads and a container of antiseptic, and then washed the wound in his cheek using a washcloth and warm water from the sink.

“That looks very much like a doctor’s bag,” he commented.

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“It is,” she replied. “When I am not deluding myself that I’m an artist I’m a pediatrician, and kids are always getting banged up. I’m prepared for most minor trauma. Hold still.” Madeline made certain the wound was clean and applied antiseptic, an antibiotic cream and a wide band-aid that she had trimmed with scissors.

“There,” she said. “The bleeding has stopped and you won’t need any stitches. It’s really just a shallow scrape and should heal without a scar. Keep it protected and treated with a topical antibiotic for a few days and it should be fine. I’ve done everything I can do except kiss it and make it all better.”

Brian smiled. “Well, Doctor, I wouldn’t want you to cut any corners on your normal therapy.”

Madeline gazed at him for a moment with that disconcerting wide-eyed look she had. Then, she very deliberately kissed him on the lips with a prolonged kiss that went way beyond normal therapy. The scent of lavender and pennyroyal came faintly.

“There,” she whispered. “That should cure most things that ail you.”

“I think all that did was increase my temperature.”

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“That’s good. It’ll help fight any infection,” she replied, closing her bag and walking from the bathroom.

Brian joined her as she replaced the bag on the closet shelf.

“Shall we try once more for dinner?” she asked. “Perhaps we could arrange to have a bit less excitement this time, if that’s okay with you.”

“By all means,” he said, offering his arm as they left the cabin and returned to the restaurant. During the walk back, Brian began to notice how comfortable and companionable this woman felt near him. Alarm bells began to sound in the back rooms of his contented single existence compartmented life, but not very loudly.

Brian and Madeline finished their dinner without further incident and turned their conversation to becoming better acquainted. Afterwards he walked her back to her cabin, where he wished her a good night outside her door. Her lips gave him a soft, therapeutic booster shot for his injury and then she was gone, leaving only the scent of lavender and pennyroyal hovering in the night air.

“Damn!” he thought to himself. “I don’t need anyone in my life right now, especially someone really nice.”

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Brian walked back to his cabin thinking that it was going to be a long night. He always slept well here at MeadowCliff, falling asleep to the low sound of the booming surf at the base of the cliff. But on this night, brown eyes tinged with green and the memory of very soft lips were going to make sleep difficult.

After a restless night, he cowardly avoided having breakfast in the restaurant and running into Madeline. Leaving MeadowCliff, he drove north up the coast road to Fort Bragg, the nearest town of any size. He needed a new flash drive and some more paper and ink cartridges for his printer. On the way up the twisting road he drove by a turnout where he spotted Suzanne’s red Mercedes convertible. He got a brief glimpse of the artist herself, with her large straw hat, red hair and trademark scarlet scarf; she seemed to be working at an easel set up close to the cliff. The view across a canyon was of redwood trees and craggy rocks, just the sort of thing that Suzanne was known to paint. He just happened to notice the time on his watch: 0930.

Brian found what he needed in an office supply store in Fort Bragg and decided to have lunch in town after browsing a book store. There was a good Mexican restaurant where he knew the owner and which served superb Chile Verde, one of his favorite dishes. After lunch and a bottle of Dos Equis, he started the return trip back to MeadowCliff. When he approached the turnout where he had seen Suzanne in the morning, there were

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two Mendocino County Sheriff’s vehicles, a rescue squad truck and an ambulance parked next to her Mercedes. He pulled over, parked and got out. A deputy he didn’t know waved him back to his car, but Deputy Keith Newcomb beckoned Brian to come over. Brian was surprised to see Keith here as he had a beat that covered several inland valleys and the surrounding hills and didn’t normally patrol the coast. Keith was bigger than most men, topping out at about six feet four inches and massing close to two hundred fifty pounds of muscle. Most of the local criminals knew Keith and he knew them, which tended to keep things peaceful on his beat.

“Hi Keith. What’s up?”

“Hi Brian. We got trouble. Do you know this car?”

“Yes, it belongs to Suzanne Montrose, one of the artists at the MeadowCliff Artist’s and Writer’s Retreat.”

“Not any more, it doesn’t,” replied Keith.

“Why ever not?” asked Brian.

“Well, pending positive identification, she’s dead. Very dead,” said Keith, and walked with Brian over to the edge of the cliff.

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Two first responders had rappelled down the cliff and were examining and photographing the body. The quarrelsome woman was dead. Her body, dressed in a light tan jumpsuit, was draped oddly across the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, one shoe off and half floating in an eddy of the surf. Her large straw hat was wedged between a stunted bush and a rock part way down the cliff; her trademark scarlet scarf partially covered her face. Her long red hair floated around her head and rose and fell with the surges in the water. Brian felt both shock and disbelief as he stared down the cliff to where her body had come to rest. Brian and Suzanne were not close friends, but they shared a distant affection for one another and often engaged in lively banter as she tried to add him to her string of conquests. He had just seen her here a few hours ago. He could barely believe the evidence of his eyes as the surf gently lifted her limp form from the rocks.

At first glance, the scene appeared as if she could have been painting as Brian had seen her earlier, stepped back to examine her work, and slipped off the cliff. It was a good two hundred feet down to the rocks and surf. The field easel with its unfinished painting sat where Brian had seen it earlier.

Brian turned away from the cliff and thought that, troublesome as she was, she would be missed in the artistic community. It was a tragic way to die.

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He idly examined the painting, the easel, paints, brushes and palette that remained next to her convertible. He made mental note of the paints on the palette and brushes and looked over the paint tubes, all from Winsor and Newton, the cans of medium and the content of the easel’s two shelves. He touched nothing. Something bothered him about what he saw. He examined the painting more critically. It was definitely Suzanne’s style, as near as he could tell, and was a good, if incomplete, rendering of the redwoods and rocky cliff across the canyon.

Suddenly, Brian realized what was bothering him about what he saw. He walked over to Keith.

“Hey, Keith, have you guys found any other painting materials either around the scene, on the cliff or on her person?”

“I don’t think so, Brian. I’ll ask.”

Keith called the first responders down below on his radio and asked them if they had found anything. The answer was negative.

“Nothing, Brian. What we have is what you can see. The guys on the cliff didn’t find anything on the way down and there is nothing on her person except her car keys.”

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“What about in her car?”

“First place we looked. We found her purse and wallet, a car blanket, some more canvas stretched on frames, a couple bottles of water, some granola snack bars and the usual glove-box junk. That’s it.”

“I’d be interested to know what the medical examiner finds, especially whether or not it was the fall that killed her.”

Keith eyed Brian suspiciously.

“Do you have an interest in this or do you know something I should know?”

“I knew the woman, and I saw her painting right here this morning.”

“What time was that?”

“0930. I looked at my watch. I spent the morning and part of the afternoon in Fort Bragg and came back to find you here.”

“Brian, you should stay out of this and just tell us everything you know,” said Keith. “I know you, and when you get that curiosity of yours going there is no stopping it. But, if this isn’t a simple accident and you know something that can shed any light on it, you call me. Okay?”

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“I don’t know anything,” responded Brian. “But you will certainly hear that she had a pretty knock-down, drag-out fight with another woman at the MeadowCliff Restaurant last night.”

“What about?”

“The other woman’s husband, what else?”

“Sweet Jesus,” sighed Keith. “And here I thought this was going to be routine.”

“Keith, wait for the medical examiner. It may be just what it seems: a tragic accident.”

“Well, no matter what, I suppose I’ll need to come down to the MeadowCliff and interview everyone who knew her before you all disappear.”

“The retreat just began yesterday and it goes for three weeks. Nobody is going anywhere, but come on down. I’ll buy you a beer.”

“I’d rather have a Pinot Noir,” grinned Keith.

“Okay,” said Brian. “By the way, what brought this to your attention?”

“I’m filling in for the local deputy who is off to Quantico for some special training and I saw the parked,

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open car with nobody around. I stopped to check it out and spotted the body. I called everyone else in.”

“So, nobody called 911 or anything like that?”

“Not that we know about.”

Brian was about to leave when Keith received a radio call from the men down the cliff.

“Hey Brian, could you hang around for a bit? They’re about to bring the body up. Since you knew this person it would save us some time if we could get you to make a positive identification.”

“Okay, Keith. I wasn’t in any hurry.”

Brian watched while the rescuers winched up the basket stretcher with the body bag secured. They took their time and were careful not to snag it on the rocks. When the stretcher reached the top of the cliff and lay flat on the ground, Keith unzipped the body bag and exposed the face.

“Can you identify her?” asked Keith.

“Yes, that is Suzanne Montrose,” replied Brian. “I last saw her working here this morning at 0930.”

He touched her face and moved her red hair to frame the pale skin of her face. Her eyes were closed.

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She had been a troublesome, and troubled, woman, but Brian felt regret and sadness at her passing. She looked calm and at peace and he wondered what her last moments were like.

“Do you want to look at anything else?” Keith asked.

“No, I’ll wait for the medical examiner’s report. He will mention it, but I can see that there is some slight bruising about the neck. I’m certain that was from the fight last night. Dora had a pretty good grip on her. Also, she scratched me on the cheek when I broke up the fight and there might be a bit of me under her fingernails.”

“Okay, I’ll make a note of it so whoever we get is aware of the potential cause. You know, we don’t have a regular medical examiner on staff. We need to farm that task out here in Mendocino County. We frequently get different local pathologists for this job.”

Keith closed up the body bag and the first responders loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and secured it for the trip to the morgue. Other deputies were securing the area as a scene of an ongoing investigation and making arrangements to have Suzanne’s convertible towed to a sheriff’s impoundment area. Brian walked back to his car and drove south toward the Inn. When he arrived, he went straight to Pat

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Longwell’s office. She was there doing the paperwork chores that never seemed to be finished. She rose as Brian came in.

“Pat, can you tell me when you last saw Suzanne?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen her at all today, Brian, but I saw her last evening.”

“I think we all did that,” he said a bit regretfully.

“No, I mean later. She came by the office between ten-thirty and eleven, just before I shut the place down. She wanted to know if I had some aspirin. Said she had a pounding headache. I gave her a small bottle and she went back to her cabin. I think she had a snoot full by then and was paying the consequences. She looked pretty dragged out, but she was coherent, even a bit apologetic for the earlier ruckus. She had cleaned herself up from the wine and the fight, including an attempt at fresh makeup. I actually felt a bit sorry for her. That was the last time I saw her.”

“I have some bad news. She’s dead,” said Brian.

“No! Where? How? How do you know?” Pat sat down heavily in her chair with distress and anxiety written on her face. “Is this some sort of a bad joke?”

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Brian took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m afraid not. Suzanne was working up the highway about ten miles where the road makes a sharp curve. She had parked in that turnout just before the curve where it looks across the canyon toward the cliffs and redwood trees. It looked as if she fell off the cliff and died on the rocks below.”

“People don’t fall off cliffs, not even Suzanne. How could that happen?” Pat asked, shaking her head doubtfully. “This is horrible news!”

Brian sat down in an extra chair next to Pat’s desk. “Suzanne had set her easel up close to the edge to get the view she wanted. The current thinking is that when she stepped back to get a different perspective on her work, she stepped too far. No guard rail is there, just the edge. But, something about the scene at the turnout really bothers me. Anyway, Keith Newcomb found her when he stopped to investigate her open car when nobody was around.”

“I’d heard Keith was filling in here on the coast for a while. He’s a good man. Why are you bothered? I know you, and nothing bothers you without good cause.”

“I’d rather not talk about it yet. Keith will be arriving soon and will want to talk to everyone here about Suzanne.”

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“Why? Does he think it’s anything but an accident?” she asked.

“Not at the moment. He needs to wait for the result of the autopsy and the conclusion of the medical examiner, but he does want to get as clear a picture as he can of her last activities. I think he’ll be especially interested in the fight last night. Some pretty harsh words were said.”

“Yeah, but all the parties were drunk and upset. I doubt it meant anything.”

“Let’s go look at her room before Keith arrives, but don’t touch anything.”

“Brian, the maids cleaned the room this morning. If there was anything interesting in there it’s long gone by now.”

“Just the same, let’s go look.”

Pat retrieved the room key from the board at the desk and followed Brian out. When they opened the door to Suzanne’s cabin everything looked neat and clean, just as Pat had predicted. The bed was made, carpets vacuumed, wastebaskets emptied and the bathroom cleaned. There were painting supplies and canvases in one corner. The bathroom was neat and had

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Suzanne’s sundries on the counter next to the sink. A small bottle of aspirin was among the things there.

“Is that the aspirin you gave her last night?” asked Brian.

“Looks like it,” Pat responded. “It’s the same brand and sort of bottle anyway.”

Brian used a pen from his pocket to slide open the closet doors. Suzanne’s clothing was there in neat profusion, most of it high quality stuff. No fewer than ten pairs of shoes sat on the closet floor. Brian used the pen to open each drawer in the bureau and found the rest of her clothing neatly stored there. Nothing stood out as unusual. He would not have suspected Suzanne was quite as neat as things looked.

There were two photographs in a double frame on one night stand. One photo showed a young girl, perhaps five or six years old. The other showed a younger Suzanne, and a handsome man of a similar age, perhaps taken at a park or at a picnic.

“Was she ever married? Is there someone we should be calling?” asked Pat.

“Not that I’ve heard, but we weren’t close friends, so I really have no idea. The authorities should

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take care of contacting anyone who needs to know when they find out who that is.”

“I don’t see anything here that looks a bit sinister. It all looks really ordinary and just what I would expect from someone going out to paint all day,” said Pat.

“I think you’re right. Let’s go wait for Keith. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. I could use one.”

Brian and Pat left Suzanne’s room exactly as they had found it, having touched nothing. Whatever “evidence” remained in the room would still be there when Keith arrived.

Pat and Brian went to the bar where Sam Titus was polishing glasses for the evening patronage. They had agreed to not say anything about Suzanne until after Keith arrived. Both ordered gin and tonics and carried their glasses to a table against a window and watched several rabbits browsing the lawn. They talked quietly about the day’s events. Seeing the rabbits, Brian wondered what Madeline Sinclair had been doing all day. They had been talking quietly about forty minutes when Keith Newcomb arrived and joined them. Keith was drinking water.

“Hi Pat. Brian. I suppose he told you what happened,” Keith said to Pat.

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“Yes. It’s terrible. I still don’t fully believe it. Tell me what you need from us and I’ll get it organized.”

“Thanks. I’ll start with a guest list. Then, I need to talk with each of them. Those who didn’t know Suzanne or haven’t seen her today won’t be of much interest but anyone who saw her between yesterday and today can help us understand her movements. They might also help to identify any people with whom she might have had contact. We’re already looking for motorists or hikers who might have seen her at the turnout,” explained Keith.

“It isn’t a big guest list,” stated Pat. “We have sixteen people at the retreat, counting Suzanne, the usual staff, and ten other guests who have bookings for one or more nights. None of these other guests is staying for more than three nights.” She continued, “But you should be aware that not all the guests will be here right now. Some of the artists or their companions frequently go off by themselves for a day or more. For example, Joe Whitcomb left this morning and he told me he was planning to be gone for two days. I believe his wife Annemarie has been gone all day; at least I didn’t see her here, but I think she may have returned. If she is working on copperplate, she mainly does that in their room.”

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“Well, let’s round up everyone who is here now and I can get hold of the others in due course. If it’s free, can I use your large meeting room?”

“It is. Come over to the office and I’ll print you a guest list. I’ll start calling the rooms and get everyone to gather in there. You can call them into the small conference room for the interview. That one also isn’t being used today,” replied Pat.

Keith left with Pat. Brian took the glasses back to Sam at the bar.

“What’s up?” asked Sam. “Keith doesn’t usually patrol this coast area.”

“Suzanne had an accident,” replied Brian.

“Really? How bad was it?”

“About as bad as it can get. She’s dead. I can hardly believe it myself and I saw her body.”

“No! Oh boy! Are you kidding me? What happened?” Sam leaned over the bar and spoke quietly.

“She fell off the cliff onto the rocks and surf about ten miles up the road.”

“How? Did anyone see it happen?” asked Sam.

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“Not that anyone knows, but it’s early yet.”

“Whoooee! That will make that catfight with Dora last night have special significance. I doubt Dora will be among the grieving mourners,” exclaimed Sam. “I suppose that’s why Keith is here; to talk to everyone,” he concluded.

“Yes, including Pat and the rest of the staff. Tell the staff as they show up that Keith wants to see them in the large conference room. Someone will come get you when it’s your turn.”

Brian could hear people begin to arrive in the conference room and left Sam to join them. Madeline had already arrived along with most of the artist and writer group. Joe Whitcomb was missing and so were both Mike and Nancy Brotherton. Surprisingly, Robbie and Dora Jones were there as were Annemarie Whitcomb and Angelina Rutherford. Cindy Jackson and another restaurant waiter had come, having been sent over by Sam as they arrived for the evening shift. Other guests filtered in as they got the word from Pat to gather in the conference room. Another deputy joined Keith and directed people in the main conference room to the interview room when their turn came.

Madeline came up to Brian and stood very close.

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“What’s going on?” she asked quietly. “I understand the local sheriff wants to talk to us about something.”

“That’s right,” replied Brian. “This is just a routine they need to go through. It will probably be over rather quickly. I think they will just ask a few questions about last night and today.”

She fixed him with a quizzical look through her glasses that said she didn’t believe it was routine at all, but she said nothing. Brian felt surprising comfort at Madeline’s presence. No alarm bells were going off anywhere in the back of his mind.

“Did you find more rabbits to draw today?” he asked.

“No, today it was shore birds, flowering bushes, a beach and the surf. Joe Whitcomb showed me a way to get down to a beautiful little beach about half a mile up the road. He said he was going to be gone for two days walking up the coast and back. He seems to know how to get around all these cliffs and canyons. What about yourself? I missed you at breakfast this morning. How much writing did you get done?”

“None,” he replied. “I skipped breakfast and spent the morning up in Fort Bragg getting some things I

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needed and had lunch there. I got distracted on the way back and it took longer than I expected.”

“That’s too bad,” she commiserated. “How long does it usually take you to write a book?”

“My publisher likes to see one a year, or so he tells me. Mostly, I can manage to meet his expectation, even working part-time on it,” he responded. “My day job occupies most of my time.”

“I know all about that problem,” she said.

Just then the deputy called Madeline’s name and she left to be interviewed.

Brian was the last of the available guests to be called. Keith had him reconfirm what he had said earlier and describe the events of the previous evening.

“Well, at least it all seems consistent,” Keith told him. “Everyone who was around last evening tells the same story of the fight, including Dora Jones. Pat seems to have been the last person to see her last night and nobody saw her today except you this morning, at least so far as we’ve been told. Hopefully, someone else will be able to confirm seeing her at the turnout today, either before or after the time you saw her. The medical examiner should be able to give us a time of death that

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can help. Apparently she left before breakfast this morning, or at least she wasn’t seen in the restaurant.”

“Artists frequently go places to get just the right light, and it’s possible she did that,” offered Brian.

“Possibly,” replied Keith. “We may never know why she did what she did. It’s beginning to look more and more like a simple tragic accident.”

Brian and Madeline had dinner together that evening, but the conversation was dampened by the news of Suzanne’s death. Madeline learned of it in her interview with Keith, and Brian told her as much about the accident as he knew. Madeline, who wasn’t a friend of Suzanne’s and who had just met her yesterday, felt a bit uneasy and saddened by her death. They ate dinner quietly with little conversation. Brian walked Madeline back to her cabin where she gave him a hug and a warm kiss at her doorstep and then went inside. Brian’s thoughts about Madeline were anything but platonic as he returned to his cabin. He thought to himself, and not for the first time, that this woman was disturbing, but in a good way.

Brian was determined to sleep a bit later the next morning but was awakened by the ringing of his telephone at 0630. It was Keith Newcomb.

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“Brian, can you come up to Fort Bragg this morning and meet me at the hospital?” asked Keith.

Brian was immediately alert.

“Of course, Keith. It must be important for you to call this early. What’s up?” he responded.

“I’d prefer not to talk about it on the telephone. Can you meet me there at 0800?”

“Yes, I think so. If not, then shortly thereafter,” replied Brian.

“See you when you get here.” Keith hung up.

Brian went through his morning routine as quickly as he could. He decided to skip breakfast again and was on the road by 0715. He didn’t see anyone else as he left. He drove as quickly as he could up the winding coast highway, getting delayed a few times behind slower traffic. There were few places for passing along this road and it was scenic enough that tourists felt no urgency to miss any of the sights, even early in the morning. Brian arrived at the regional hospital a few minutes before 0800 and found Keith waiting for him at the door.

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“Good morning, Brian. Sorry to drag you up here this early, but it’s important,” said Keith as they shook hands.

“It’s OK. I haven’t been able to write anything anyway,” responded Brian.

“We have a conference room available and the doctor who did the autopsy will meet us there. It’s Doctor Joshua Gold, the resident pathologist. He’s pretty good,” explained Keith as he led the way through the doors and down the corridor.

Dr. Gold was waiting for them with a manila folder of papers and photographs. He was middle-aged, tall and slender, with partially balding dark hair and bright blue intelligent eyes.

“Good morning,” he greeted them as they arrived. “We have coffee and some pastry on the side table. Help yourself.”

Brian and Keith poured themselves cups of coffee and then sat at the table. Brian munched a sweet roll, his missed breakfast. Dr. Gold opened the folder and pulled out several sheets stapled together which he handed across the table to Keith. Keith set the papers on the table so that he and Brian could both read them. Dr. Gold looked at Brian.

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“I understand from the sheriff’s report that you saw the deceased alive at 0930 yesterday. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” replied Brian. “She appeared to be painting, least as far as I could tell from a moving car, maybe a hundred feet away, as I drove past.”

“I don’t think it’s possible. At least you couldn’t have seen the person we have in the morgue. If you refer to page two, you’ll see that I’ve fixed the time of death between 0200 and 0300 yesterday morning. Further, she wasn’t killed by the fall. She had been dead for some hours before her body was thrown over the cliff.”

Brian felt a moment of horror and then a sense of justification of his earlier suspicion that this was not an accident as it was seen to be.

“What killed her?” asked Brian.

“Something I suspect we were supposed to miss. I might have missed it except that the condition of the body was not consistent with having died in the fall. There was no fresh bleeding from some rather massive injuries caused by the fall, so I looked more closely. She was deliberately killed, and by someone who knew what they were doing.” He passed a photograph across the table to Brian and Keith.

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Dr. Gold continued: “What you are seeing here is evidence of a small puncture just above the hairline at the base of the skull. Her hair hid it quite well. That puncture was made by a stiff, slender weapon with a rectangular cross-section that penetrated the Foramen Magnum, the hole in the base of the skull where the brain communicates to the spinal column. It penetrated into the brain several inches and was then moved about violently, ripping the brain to shreds where it passed. Death would have been nearly instantaneous. When the killer withdrew the weapon there would have been little bleeding. The body was then thrown over the cliff some hours later. It’s possible, perhaps even likely, that she wasn’t killed near where she was found.”

“My God!” muttered Brian. “Now it begins to make sense. Someone else was there.”

“What do you mean?” asked Keith.

“Remember yesterday when I asked whether or not you had found any artist’s materials down the cliff?”

“Yes,” replied Keith. “So what?”

“There was no tube of red paint,” replied Brian.

“Huh? I’m not following you,” said Keith.

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“There was red paint on the palette, and on one of the brushes. People who aren’t artists usually don’t understand how much red is in a landscape painting. I’m not an artist but I’ve been hanging around other artists for a lot of years and I’ve come to know a few things about painting techniques. Suzanne, and any other artist, would know this and use it as a matter of course. The incomplete scene on the canvas at the turnout also contained red in the mix, but there was no tube of red paint to be found anywhere. That means that either the canvas was not painted at the scene or that whoever did so may have taken the tube of red paint with them, perhaps accidentally. We now know for certain that she could not have carried it over the cliff when she died, because she was already dead. Whoever I saw was wearing her hat and scarf, or something similar, and possibly a wig, because I saw the red hair as I went past.”

“I see,” said Keith thoughtfully. “So now all we need to do is to find a spare tube of red paint and someone with a red wig somewhere along the Northern California coast. Great!”

“It will be a tube of Winsor and Newton paint. I don’t know which of the reds it will be, but we can get a match from the paint left on the palette. There are more than a dozen reds available but two common ones are Cadmium Red and Alizarin Crimson,” offered Brian.

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“You eventually learn a few things by hanging around artists.”

“I doubt we’ll ever find it. As soon as the killer discovers he has it, he’ll simply dispose of the evidence. At least that’s what I’d do,” said Keith. “If we do find such a tube, I don’t see how we can prove it or the person who has it was ever at the scene.”

Brian thought Keith had a point, but still wondered why that particular paint should be missing. He thought that finding a tube of red paint that could be associated with Suzanne might be important.

“Dr. Gold, is there anything in your exam that would indicate whether the killer is a man or a woman, or anything else relevant about them?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” replied Dr. Gold. “The key to this method of killing is knowledge of anatomy, not strength. Once the weapon penetrated the brain the victim would have been helpless and it wouldn’t take much strength to tear the brain tissue with such a slender instrument. If you remember your high school biology classes, it would very much be like pithing a frog. It would have been helpful if the victim had been face-down and the killer straddling her back, but there is nothing to indicate that it happened that way.”

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“What more can you tell us about the weapon?” asked Keith.

“The blade is less than two millimeters in thickness, about three or four millimeters wide and at least 110 millimeters long. Only the tip is sharp. The sides are smooth. The weapon forcibly ripped the tissue instead of cutting it as a knife would.”

“Something like a chisel?”

“Perhaps. I’ve never seen a chisel that thin and a chisel tip would have sliced the tissue but this didn’t. The sharp point was offset, aligning with one edge. It behaved more like a punch than an edged weapon.”

“One other thing,” he continued. “She had sexual intercourse within a few hours before she died. We might be able to get a DNA match from the semen, but that wouldn’t prove that the sex partner had anything to do with her death. I’ve taken samples anyway and we’ll send them off for analysis.”

Dr. Gold went over the rest of the autopsy report with Keith and Brian but there was nothing additional that provided any information about Suzanne’s killer. After the meeting, Brian and Keith walked to the parking lot together.

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“This puts a different light on the incident,” commented Keith. “Where we thought we were dealing with an accident before, we now have a murder investigation. It was a brutal and skillful murder at that, for which we have no weapon, no current suspect and no motive. Just what I needed.”

“Ah, you were getting bored out here on the coast anyway,” teased Brian with a grin. “There isn’t the same level of violence and mayhem here that you were accustomed to inland with the dope growers.”

Keith fixed Brian with a fishy eye. “Is that what you think? With me so close to retirement?”

“Keith, you’re never going to retire. The criminals wouldn’t know how to behave without you around.”

“You’re probably right. Sara says the same thing.”

Sara was Keith’s attractive and competent wife who did a great job of raising their two sons and a daughter while Keith was keeping the peace between the county’s citizens and its criminal element.

“Well, I think you’re in this whether or not you wanted to be, so let’s go find this lady’s killer. Just don’t go off on your own. Whoever did this might be

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very dangerous to confront. Leave that to the professionals.”

“Okay. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open and let you know if I find anything. She wasn’t a close friend, but I liked her. We had fun in an odd sort of way and she was a good artist who added color and interest to our annual gathering. She’ll be missed for the chaos and turmoil she caused if nothing else.”

As Brian walked away, Keith got a call on his radio. He listened for a minute and then called just as Brian was getting into his car.

“Hey Brian, you know a Joe Whitcomb, right?”

“Yes, he’s part of our group, or at least his wife is. He usually comes along but he’s more interested in birds than art or writing. He wasn’t at the Inn yesterday when you did the interviews, but his wife was.”

“He just called into the Sheriff’s station in town here. Claims he saw the victim late the night before last. He’s at the station now. Want to hear what he has to say?”

“Sure. I’ll follow you.”

Normally, the sheriff’s department would not have allowed a civilian like Brian anywhere near a

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murder investigation, but Brian had helped the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Department several times in the past. Keith knew this, and made an executive decision to let Brian participate. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it. Keith drove through town to the local Sheriff’s station and parked in front. Brian parked across the street. The two men went inside and saw Joe Whitcomb in the office with another deputy.

“Hello, Joe,” said Brian

“Hi, Brian. What are you doing here?” Joe seemed surprised to see Brian with a sheriff’s deputy.

“He’s helping us in our investigation of this death,” interjected Keith. “Do you mind if he hears what you have to say to us?”

“No,” said Joe. “It might actually be useful.”

“Okay, come with me,” said Keith as he led both men down a corridor to an interview room. Another deputy followed. Brian took note of Joe’s current state of dress, and demeanor. He was dressed for hiking and had a small back pack and a camera case. Joe didn’t seem to be nervous or upset in any way and Brian wondered what he was about to tell them.

“I heard the news about Suzanne in a cafe where I had breakfast this morning. I couldn’t really believe

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it,” Joe began. “I saw her night before last, quite late, in her cabin.”

“What time was that?” asked Keith.

“It was a bit after eleven, but not as late as eleven-thirty. I was outside sitting on a bench on the lawn and had seen her return from the main building to her cabin. After about fifteen minutes I went and knocked on her door and she let me in. She wasn’t feeling great and said she had a headache and had taken some aspirin for it, and I made all the right soothing noises. One thing led to another and we got naked and made love. It wasn’t our first time. By the time we were finished, she mentioned that her headache was gone. When I left she was acting like her normal self – seductive, sexy and wanting more. I still can’t quite force myself to believe that she’s gone. I’ll miss her,” Joe concluded sadly.

“What time did you leave?” asked Keith.

“It was about fifteen minutes past midnight. I remember looking at my watch.”

“Where was your wife all this time?”

“Annemarie was already asleep. She knows about these occasional trysts with other women.”

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Both Keith and Brian raised their eyebrows at this bit of news. Brian would never have suspected that Annemarie would tolerate any such thing.

“Does she really?” asked Keith.

“Yes,” replied Joe. “We have an arrangement. She has her liaisons and I have mine. We don’t let them get in the way of our relationship. It’s an old arrangement that suits us both. You can confirm this with her.”

“We will,” replied Keith. “Why are you telling us this?”

“When I heard the news, I thought that I might well have been the last person to see her alive, and there might be physical evidence to show that we were intimate. I thought it prudent to come forward as soon as I could.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday? Did anyone see you during the day?” inquired Keith.

“Yes. I saw Madeline Sinclair yesterday morning around ten and showed her how to get to a place where I think she intended to sketch. Later I talked with several people at beaches and overlooks along the

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coast between here and MeadowCliff. I can probably account for nearly the entire day.”

“Madeline told me about Joe showing her how to get to one of the small isolated beaches yesterday,” offered Brian. “So, that part seems to check. So does the time when Pat last saw Suzanne and gave her some aspirin.”

“How about later that night after you left Suzanne’s?” probed Keith.

“Annemarie can probably verify approximately when I returned to our cabin and that I didn’t leave again,” replied Joe.

“We’ll ask her,” affirmed Keith. “We would also like to get a DNA sample from you to help in the analysis of the evidence.”

“Okay,” agreed Joe.

The interrogation went on for two more hours, after which Joe signed the typed statement that resulted from the interview. Brian agreed to give Joe a lift back to MeadowCliff when the business at the sheriff’s was concluded. On the return trip, Brian learned that Joe had not seen Annemarie the morning he left on his hike and he assumed she got an early start on her art project. Joe’s hike had been planned, so he didn’t think it

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unusual that she had gone about her own activities without seeing him off. Joe said he didn’t know where she had planned to go that day. He said he had not seen Suzanne that morning either.

When they arrived back at the Inn, Joe went to his cabin. Brian went in search of Madeline and found her sitting at the outdoor table he normally used for writing. She had her sketch pad and drawing materials arranged neatly on the table, and was working on a sketch that showed a line of pelicans flying just above the wave tops where the surf began. Brian sat down beside her.

“Pelicans,” he said. “They’re one of my favorite things. How did you know?”

She turned to him and smiled, again with that disconcerting wide-eyed gaze that tended to turn on all the warning bells. “I didn’t, but I really like them. They are such graceful flyers for such ungainly birds. I’m not surprised that you like them. I think you secretly want to fly, just like they do; carefree, effortlessly and just above the waves, but life keeps intruding.”

“Well, well, well,” he spoke quietly. “In addition to being a pediatrician are you now a psychiatrist too?”

“No,” she replied, almost as quietly. “But you’re not that hard to read and relate to. You’d really like to

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fly away and hide from someone like me, just like the pelicans, but can’t quite do it.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is. Eventually, you will come to see it the same way and life will be different for you,” she grinned infectiously.

All the alarm bells in Brian’s head went silent. He thought about putting his arms around Madeline and holding her closely, but didn’t. The herbal scent drifted from her hair as it was blown by the breeze off the ocean. They held each other’s gaze quietly for a long minute and then the matter of Suzanne intruded in Brian’s mind. He reluctantly loosened his focus on Madeline and shifted back on the bench they shared.

“There’s news about Suzanne’s accident,” he told her. “It wasn’t an accident. She was murdered, long before her body was thrown over that cliff, and probably not there. It seems more likely that she was murdered elsewhere, perhaps even here, and later disposed of. I may have actually seen the murderer impersonating her at the turnout where her car was parked.”

“My God! Are you serious? This is frightening. Who would have done such a thing and why? Does the sheriff think that someone here could have done it?

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Should I plan to leave?” these words came out all in a rush as she stood up abruptly.

“How was she killed?” Madeline continued as she sat down heavily on the bench once more.

“I don’t think I should tell you that right now,” replied Brian. “Until the sheriff releases that information I think it best if very few people know the details. I can only tell you that it was brutal, but quick. She would not have suffered. I don’t think you should plan on going anywhere. I believe it likely that she knew her killer.”

“You’re not making me feel very safe. Why should I stay around here? That seems like a really bad idea.”

He could hear a hint of panic in her voice, but she kept it damped down. He was impressed.

“The sheriff would want people to hang around until the immediate investigation is completed, and I think you could be helpful.”

“Helpful? How?” she asked with asperity. She pointed a finger at his chest. “Wait a minute; you’re involved in this aren’t you? What’s your part in this? Pat mentioned to me that you tend to get involved in

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criminal investigations like this. She called it ‘Brian’s Curiosity Curse.’”

“So you’ve been talking to Pat, have you?” he grinned back at her. “That could be a hazardous pastime.”

Madeline shrugged. “Pat has been forthcoming on the subject of Brian Carroll. How could I possibly be helpful and why should I be? For all you know I might have killed her.”

“You forget that you were talking with Joe Whitcomb very close to the time I saw the person who might well have been her killer. That was ten miles away at the turnout where her car was. I don’t think you could have been in two places at once and you aren’t as tall as the person I saw. I don’t think it’s possible that you could have killed her and disposed of the body.”

Madeline was quiet and seemed to think deeply to herself for a few moments. She appeared to be frightened to remain where a killer might possibly be on the loose, but at the same time she seemed to be considering conflicting decisions. After a few moments, she shrugged.

“Okay. I’m in. I don’t see how I can contribute to the solution of this crime, but I’m willing to try.

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Whoever killed Suzanne should not go unpunished. Just what is it that you want me to do?”

“Thanks. For now, just keep your eyes and ears open for anything that seems unusual or out of place.”

She seemed to be thinking for a moment or two longer, and then spoke: “I did see something I thought unusual, or at least it seemed so at the time.”

“What was that?”

“Yesterday, when I was drawing at that little isolated beach I saw our bartender, Sam, coming from the north along the beach. He must have been walking along the shore, although how he could manage that I have no idea. What I thought strange is that he had one of those field easels that fold up into a paint box with him. I didn’t know he painted. I thought he was ex-military, Special Forces, or something like that. Anyway, I was sitting a bit above the beach in the rocks and he didn’t see me or acknowledge me in any way. I didn’t call out to him. He went on south toward the inn. It was about four or so, about an hour before he would have been on duty in the bar. It’s probably nothing, but I did think at the time that Sam with a paint box was unusual,” she concluded.

Brian thought to himself that Sam with artist’s equipment would indeed be unusual. He had never seen

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Sam do any art or even express interest in anything that was done at the retreat. That didn’t mean anything. Sam kept pretty much to himself when he wasn’t on bar duty and had no real reason to mix with the attendees at the retreat. He tucked the information Madeline had just given him into the back of his mind. He thought the timing could work out. He had seen the Suzanne impersonation at 0930. On a good path, a person could walk the ten miles between the turnout and the inn in about three hours or less. Taking a more rugged route would add time, but there were at least six hours available. A fit man with military experience could easily accomplish it. What was missing was any connection between Sam and Suzanne. Brian had never seen any contact between the two, other than that any patron might have had with a bartender. He had a lot to think about this evening, and one of the subjects of his thoughts was currently sitting beside him. Brian and Madeline spoke for a few minutes longer and then Brian walked back to the main building complex and Madeline continued her drawing of the pelicans. She smiled a bit to herself. Eventually, she finished and went to her cabin to rest and think about what she would wear for dinner. She and Brian would no doubt dine together once more.

Keith came to the Inn to interview all the people he hadn’t talked to the day before and Brian bought him a glass of Pinot Noir after he was off duty. Keith indicated that there was no further news about Suzanne’s

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death as a result of these new interviews and that the other investigations had turned up nothing new. Keith left for home and Brian returned to his cabin to dress for dinner.

Brian and Madeline met at the inn’s restaurant, as if by agreement although they hadn’t spoken about it. She wore a form-hugging basic black dress, cut square and low in the front, mid-heeled patent leather shoes and a diamond pendant necklace with matching earrings. Brian wore a navy blazer, tan slacks, a blue shirt and striped tie. He wondered why he had decided to dress up a bit, but when he saw Madeline, he remembered. Brian thought her easily the most beautiful woman in the room.

Eventually everyone in the artist’s and writer’s retreat group filtered in, except Suzanne, and soon the buzz of conversation filled the space. The bar was busy and Sam had his hands full with the drink orders. Brian watched Sam carefully, but didn’t see any evidence of a behavior change. If Sam was involved in this murder, he was one very cold person, or perhaps he thought he was completely secure from discovery.

During dinner, Madeline steered the conversation subtly toward Brian’s life and his writing career. Before he was aware of what was happening he had confided his innermost wants and needs to her and was in turn receiving a pretty fair reciprocal coverage of her own life. The conversation was not strained and seemed most

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comfortable. Dinner and a good bottle of local wine passed quickly and they decided to sit in the bar for an after-dinner glass of Armagnac. As they sipped their brandy and Sam polished glasses, Brian decided to probe a bit.

“Hey, Sam, someone told me that you did a bit of painting,” Brian commented. “How come you’ve never signed up for our little retreat?”

Sam looked up from his polishing. “I can muddle paint about on a canvas, but I’m not in the same league as the people in your group. At best I’m still a student.”

“Aren’t we all,” replied Brian. “Learning is never complete. Do you have anything you’ve painted that you’d be willing to show?”

“I have a few canvases in my place. I can bring over one or two tomorrow afternoon.”

“Okay. I’ll see if I can’t get some of our painters together for a viewing. We have scheduled lectures and workshops tomorrow and everyone should be around. I’m certain they might be able to give some valuable criticism. What medium do you use mostly?”

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“I prefer oils. Acrylics dry too fast for me. I like to keep things a bit wet so I can make changes if I want to,” explained Sam.

Madeline picked up the conversation. “Do you ever do watercolor or pastels?”

“No,” replied Sam. “Those require a precision and spontaneity I don’t have. I’m more of a planner and plodder. It takes me a fair amount of time to produce a canvas.”

Madeline nodded. “I can see where those forms might not work for you. What sort of paint do you prefer?”

“I seem to have gravitated toward Gamblin paints. I get them from one of the big on-line suppliers. It’s less expensive that way. I’ve been using Gamblin almost since I started,” answered Sam. “I also prefer the more traditional mediums, like turpentine, but it’s getting harder to find at a reasonable price.”

“We can thank the environmentalists for that, the same for some of the traditional paint formulations. Don’t get me started,” responded Madeline with some force.

“I hear that,” said Sam.

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The conversation went on for a while longer as Madeline and Brian sipped their brandy. They left the bar assuring Sam that they looked forward to seeing some of his work the next day. As they walked back toward their cabins, Brian complimented Madeline on her part in drawing Sam out about his painting.

“You don’t know this, but we are looking for a certain tube of red paint, but it will be Winsor and Newton, not Gamblin,” he told her.

“Really?” she asked. “Why?”

“We think a tube of red paint is missing from the scene and that the killer may have unknowingly taken it with him. If we can find it, whoever has it might at least be placed at the turnout where Suzanne’s body was found. There is a good chance that this person is also the killer,” he explained.

“It is hard to believe that Sam is involved in any way,” she said. “But I did see him coming from the north yesterday.”

“Yes. It would be good to get a look into that paint box of his. Maybe we can persuade him to bring it along tomorrow. We still need to establish a connection between him and Suzanne, and at the moment we don’t know of any. Let’s go talk to Pat.” Brian turned sharply

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back toward the office and Madeline hurried to keep up with him

Pat was in her office as Brian and Madeline came in. Pat smiled at them both.

“Have you convinced him that his life is horribly empty yet?” she addressed Madeline.

“No, but I’m working on it,” Madeline smiled back.

Clearly the two women were continuing a conversation that had begun long ago. Brian looked from one to the other, feeling that this was a conversation way too dangerous to join.

“Pat, do you know if there was ever anything between Sam and Suzanne?” asked Brian.

“Suzanne helped him with some of his attempts at art, but that was outside the retreat. I think it was months ago, but Suzanne came here and stayed for a week. I could look up the dates. I saw them, usually in the mornings, working on canvases together. I think she really helped him. She could be very generous when she wanted to be, especially with budding artists. I don’t know if there was anything more to it, but Sam is good looking and you know how Suzanne was,” replied Pat. “Why do you ask?”

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“I’d rather not say right now,” responded Brian. “I’m working on some things that bother me about this whole incident.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s more likely that Sam and Annemarie Whitcomb had a fling around that time,” confided Pat.

“Really? Why?” asked Brian.

“Because Annemarie showed up here without Joe while Suzanne and Sam were working together and I think Sam was attracted to Annemarie. I never saw them together except at the bar, but Annemarie spent a lot of time sitting at the bar and Suzanne didn’t. Call it just a suspicion.”

“It doesn’t quite sound like Annemarie,” said Brian. But, considering what he had learned from Joe Whitcomb earlier, it sounded perfectly reasonable to him now. He said nothing more about that subject.

“Why do you care about any of this?” asked Pat.

“He is ‘helping them with their inquiries,’” interjected Madeline.

Pat raised one eyebrow and addressed Madeline. “Sweetie, you had better get this guy out of here before I clobber him. I can see that the infamous Curiosity Curse

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is at work here and that can drag you into all sorts of trouble. Just ask Keith Newcomb next time he comes around; you will not believe some of the stories.”

Madeline chuckled. “I think I’m dragged in already, but don’t clobber him. He hasn’t recovered from Suzanne’s scratch yet.”

Pat grinned. “Get out of here, both of you. The night is young and I’m certain the two of you can find something interesting to do.”

Madeline and Brian both turned red, but were momentarily too flustered to say anything. Brian recovered first.

“I’m certain we can find something to talk about.”

“Damn! And here I thought I was a matchmaker. Goodnight to the both of you. Get!” she pointed to the door, grinning even more widely.

Brian and Madeline walked back to their cabins with their arms linked. Neither of them said anything, preferring to let their roiling thoughts take all their energy. At Madeline’s door, Brian put his arms around her and pulled her close. He expected a soft warm kiss as before, but what he got was a burst of passionate

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kissing that took on a life of its own as they both spiraled toward abandon.

Brian had fitful dreams that night, mostly about brown eyes tinged with green and a faint fragrance of lavender and pennyroyal. How did she do that? Nobody uses pennyroyal as a fragrance, but it followed her everywhere. He also thought about the possibility of Sam being a killer. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Sam was capable, but he just didn’t seem to be the type. If anything, Sam was straighter than a straight arrow. An affair with Annemarie Whitcomb didn’t fit either. Sam had plenty of opportunities as the Inn’s bartender to make liaisons with any number of attractive and lonely women, but Brian had never heard that he had done so. Nothing fit. Dawn came all too early.

Brian was up and about early and headed to the restaurant for breakfast. The formal lectures and workshops started this morning at 0900 and he wanted to line up a few artists to look at Sam’s work before the formal sessions started. He thought Madeline would be good and so would Angelina Rutherford. Annemarie Whitcomb would also be good and that interaction might either confirm or debunk any rumor of something between her and Sam. Brian had just ordered breakfast when Madeline joined him. She was dressed in navy blue slacks and a light blue silk blouse this morning. Her only jewelry was her watch and pearl studs in her ears. She wore stylish black flats made of soft leather.

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“Well, what’s the plan for today?” she asked.

“I’m lining up a few artists to review Sam’s art and I hope we can get a peek at his paint box in the process. So far, you are my one member of the review committee and I hope to get Angelina and Annemarie as soon as I see them,” he replied. “I don’t expect to see Sam until this afternoon sometime, so you can go to the lecture and workshop before then.”

Just then Annemarie and Joe Whitcomb walked into the restaurant.

“Excuse me,” said Brian and walked over to their table. He exchanged pleasantries with both and then explained to Annemarie what he wanted. Madeline could see her nodding in agreement. Brian returned to their table.

“Annemarie has agreed. She even seemed a bit enthusiastic,” Brian related to Madeline. “I’m certain Angelina will as well.”

“It sounds like you have it under control,” said Madeline. “Personally, I am looking forward to the lecture, and I want to see exactly how they plan to do this workshop.”

“I think you’ll find it pretty casual,” Brian told her. “This is a supportive group, even if some of them

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have big egos. They may not agree on technique or style, but everyone recognizes that the others have definite accomplishments and they respect that even if they don’t agree with it. My guess is that if you have a question or a difficult problem, at least three people will have useful suggestions on how to solve it. Even the writers help one another.”

Their breakfast arrived and the rest of the meal passed uneventfully in pleasant conversation. Angelina Rutherford came in after they had finished breakfast and were drinking their last cup of coffee. Brian went over and Madeline could see that she had agreed to review Sam’s work as well. The review committee was in place. It was now up to Sam to bring his work.

After breakfast, Madeline went toward the lecture room and Brian went back to his cabin to begin the day’s writing. The lecture and workshop today were for artists and not writers, so until Sam arrived, Brian was free. He thought he would set up outside as it was a fair morning with no fog.

Brian had settled in on the table facing the ocean and was musing about pelicans as he saw a line of them gliding just above the surf. He turned back to his book and tried to write. He was making good progress when after about an hour and a half his cell phone rang. It was Keith.

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“Good morning, Brian,” said Keith

“What’s up?” responded Brian

“We had forensics take another look at Suzanne’s car after we learned that it was murder and not an accident. We found quite a lot of red hair fibers stuck to the upholstery.”

“I’d expect that,” replied Brian.

“Yeah, but some of them were acrylic, and those were on top of the natural hair fibers.”

“Really? That means someone wore a wig when they were in the car.”

“Yep. All the acrylic fibers came from the driver’s seat. Interesting enough, we also found some of the acrylic fibers in Suzanne’s hat. So it’s possible that the killer wore her hat before dropping it over the cliff. We found the hat part way down the cliff, not with the body. There was another thing we missed at first. We found the imprint of a bicycle chain on the front of the rear seat. The dirty chain oil stained the leather. I don’t think it can identify the bike with any certainty, but it might explain how the killer left the car and body where we found them and got away. One more bicyclist on the Coast Highway would never be noticed.”

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“This gets better and better,” said Brian.

“Do you know if any of the guests are bicyclists?” asked Keith.

“Maybe all of them at one time or another,” replied Brian. “The Inn keeps a few loaner bicycles for guests. Anyone registered here can simply take one that is available and return it when done. They aren’t locked up. They’re stored in a shelter at the front of the Inn near the parking lot. I doubt that anyone would even notice if one was missing or think it unusual unless it disappeared forever. They’re out of sight, so casual thieves won’t see them and be tempted.”

“Well, I don’t think it will help, but I’m coming down with some photos of the chain marks we found in the car and we’ll see if anything matches, or if everything does.”

“Okay. I’ll be around. See you when you get here.” Brian went back to his writing.

Keith showed up after lunch and was shown where the bicycles were stored. All the inn’s bikes were in place. There were six bicycles in the shelter and Keith examined the chain on each. They were all identical and all matched the chain stain found in Suzanne’s car. Keith suspected that a few million bicycle chains would match the stain. Keith asked Pat if any had been out the

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day Suzanne was killed, but she didn’t know. Pat told him that she tended to check inventory about once a week and had not done so on that day. They might have all been gone, and she would not necessarily have noticed. Keith made a few notes and then left. Brian stopped by the restaurant bar to see if Sam had arrived, but it was too early. He went back to his writing.

He had been writing for about an hour when Madeline came and sat beside him.

“How’s it going?” she asked, pointing to the laptop screen.

“It’s going well,” he replied. “The plot is coming along and I’ve created some really good characters. I think this is going to be a good book. How’s the workshop going?”

“It’s actually good. I’m enjoying it, especially watching the other artists doing their own thing with the same subject. Annemarie is doing some engraving on her copper plate. She needs to work in a mirror image you know, and that just bends my mind, but she can do it easily. By the way, Sam has arrived and brought some of his work. He’s setting it up on some easels now. Shall we go?”

“By all means,” replied Brian, shutting down his laptop.

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When Brian and Madeline returned to the large conference room, the various artists had set up around the room and all were working on a common theme. Some were doing watercolors, some oils and some acrylics. Madeline was using pencil and pastels. Annemarie had a sketch that she had transferred to a copper plate clamped to a table. Her tools were laid out in a neat row by her work area. Joe Whitcomb was also there, browsing the works of the various artists.

Sam had set up four paintings on easels along one wall of the room. The three artists Brian had recruited were viewing them and making comments to Sam. There were two seascapes and two landscapes. Even Brian could see that Suzanne had influenced Sam’s technique and he wondered if Sam could have created the incomplete painting found at the turnout where Suzanne’s body had been dumped over the cliff. As he examined each painting critically, he could see, even with his untrained writer’s eye, that Sam’s techniques were very different than Suzanne’s. Her influence was plain to see, but Sam’s brush strokes and choice of color were completely different. Brian concluded that Sam had no part in painting the canvas found at the scene.

“Hey, Sam, do you have your paints here?” asked Brian.

“Yeah, in that box over on the table by the door,” replied Sam.

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“Mind if I look at them?” inquired Brian.

“Help yourself,” agreed Sam.

Brian went over to the table and opened the box, which was also cleverly designed to form an easel. It was a rig commonly used by artists painting “plein air” or outdoors in the same location as their subject. When he opened the box he found a selection of tubes of Gamblin oil paints, just as Sam had mentioned the other evening. But, to his shock, there was one tube of Winsor and Newton Cadmium Red paint, exactly the sort that he thought might be missing from Suzanne’s paint box. He called Sam over.

Brian pointed to the tube of paint.

“Didn’t you say you used only Gamblin paints?” he asked Sam.

Sam nodded.

“Funny thing about that tube of paint, Brian. When I took out the bar trash the other night I found it in the trash bin next to the bicycle shelter. It was just sitting there in the can on top of some other rubbish. I picked it out and added it to my collection. It looked perfectly good and given the cost of paint these days I couldn’t imagine why anyone would throw it away so I decided that I could use it. Why? Is there some problem

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with it? Has someone reported it missing? If so, they can have it back, but it was in the trash,” explained Sam.

Brian looked at him. Either Sam was telling the truth or he was a very good liar. Sam didn’t seem to be worried about the paint at all.

“Sam, this is important and I hate to ask this, but were you and Suzanne having an affair?” he asked.

“Me and Suzanne? You gotta be kidding! She was helping me with my art, that’s all, and she was a good teacher. Mind you, she tried to seduce everything in pants, including me, but I’m already in a relationship and I told her. She backed off a bit after that. Cindy Jackson and I have been together for over a year now, but since we both work here we keep it quiet. We plan to get married in September.

Brian thought about what Pat Longwell and Joe Whitcomb had told him about Annemarie, but he decided that he would not go down that path with Sam.

“Congratulations to you both,” said Brian. He indicated the tube of paint. “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?”

“No, go ahead. But if you don’t find an owner, I want it back,” replied Sam.

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Brian thought the likelihood of any forensic evidence remaining on this tube of paint to be remote at best, but still he picked it up using his handkerchief and wrapped it carefully without touching it. Brian and Sam went back to the area where the critics were reviewing Sam’s paintings. Brian went over to Joe Whitcomb.

“Joe, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

“Sure, I was just about done in here anyway,” said Joe.

“Let’s use the small conference room across the hall,” said Brian, leading the way.

When the two men entered the room, Brian closed the door behind them.

“Joe, you mentioned that Annemarie and you have an arrangement about your respective liaisons. Do you know if she and Sam Titus were having an affair earlier this year?”

Joe stared at Brian for a few heartbeats and then smiled. Suddenly, he burst into hearty laughing that was obviously genuine.

“Whooeee, Sam and Annemarie? Don’t I wish!” he continued to laugh. When he finally stopped, tears of mirth were running from his eyes.

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“Brian that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in forever. Annemarie’s liaisons were not with other men. They were with women! She was most certainly not doing anything with Sam except buying drinks from him and chatting at the bar. I almost wish she was with another man.” He continued. “When our kids were starting college, Annemarie decided she was a lesbian. I think she got a taste for it when she was in nursing school before we married. Our relationship is otherwise pretty good, so we decided not to divorce and developed an agreement about satisfying our sexual needs elsewhere. We have been doing it for years now and it seems to work out generally well for all concerned. Some people know about it, but we don’t publicize it and we figure it is nobody’s business but our own. We still act like a normal married couple so far as our public interactions are concerned.”

Brian sagged heavily into one of the room’s chairs. He was completely surprised by this revelation, as he had been by Joe’s earlier revelations in Fort Bragg. It certainly explained why Annemarie didn’t seem to care about Joe and Suzanne having sex. It also seemed to exonerate Sam from having any illicit relationship with either of the two women.

“My God, Joe. I’ve known the two of you for more than five years and I had no idea about this,” said Brian shaking his head in disbelief.

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“Like I said, we don’t publicize it,” replied Joe. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around.”

“Of course; I’ll do my best to honor that request. I’m not sure anyone would believe me anyway,” replied Brian. “Okay, I think we’re done. Thanks for telling me about this.”

The two men left the small conference room. Joe went outside toward his cabin and Brian returned to the main conference room. The informal review committee was still talking to Sam about his paintings. Brian wandered toward the group and his path took him by the table that Annemarie was using to engrave her copper plate. Brian, who had a fondness for fine tools, could not help but look over the gravers neatly laid out for use. He picked one up and noted how perfectly it fit his hand. After he set the tool back in its place he left the room and was gone about ten minutes before returning. By then the review group was beginning to wind down and Sam was putting away his paintings. He needed to get the bar ready for the evening’s trade. The other artists went back to their own projects.

Brian intercepted Sam on his way to the bar. “Well, did you learn anything useful?” he inquired.

“Actually, there were some good suggestions, more than I expected anyway,” Sam replied. “I think I can use some of them to really improve my work.

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Annemarie’s comments reminded me a bit of Suzanne’s help and I felt a little saddened. Suzanne was a troublesome woman in many ways, but she could be very generous when giving of herself. Despite the chaos she left in her wake, I’ll miss her.” He finished in a voice with genuine sadness.

“When do you start at the bar?” Brian asked.

“Officially at 1700 hours, but I thought I’d go out there early and tidy things up a bit. Also, Cindy will be there soon.”

“Do me a favor and hang around here for bit, would you?”

“Okay. Any special reason?” responded Sam.

“Let’s just say that it might be useful,” replied Brian a bit cryptically.

Brian left Sam and the others and went to Pat Longwell’s office. Pat was behind the desk.

“Hi, Brian, do you need something?” she asked as he came in.

“Maybe not. Keith is on his way back here. Let’s see what he needs when he gets here,” he replied.

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“Why is Keith coming?” she inquired. “Has something new turned up?”

“Not really. But I have a hunch that may be useful to explore when he arrives.”

“Aha! The Curiosity Curse! I warned Madeline about that,” she chuckled.

“I may have words with you later, woman. We need to talk about this thing between you and Madeline,” he said a bit forcefully.

“Brian, she did ask. I told her what I know.” Pat then added with a grin, “I also told her what I thought.”

As she finished speaking, two sheriff’s patrol cars drove up to the Inn. Keith got out of one and two deputies exited the other. Keith came into the office.

“Did you get it?” asked Brian.

“Yes, I did. But the judge wasn’t very happy about it.”

The deputies and Brian returned to the large conference room. The artists were still gathered in the main conference room. Sam had remained and was chatting with Madeline and Annemarie at the end of the room. Everyone looked up as Brian, Keith and one deputy entered the main door. Just then, Pat Longwell

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and the third deputy came through and stood by the other door.

Keith walked over to the table where Annemarie had been engraving the copper plate. He picked up one of the gravers, an unusually long and thin one with a sharp triangular point. Keith carefully examined the handle and the ferrule where the steel of the graver was anchored to the handle, then produced an evidence bag and dropped the graver into it. The room was hushed so only the surf and wind outside could be heard.

Annemarie was the first to move. She grabbed Madeline around the neck and held a graver she had taken from a pocket in her apron against Madeline’s temple. She was taller and stronger than Madeline and held her tightly.

Annemarie shouted. “Everyone stay where they are or this bimbo gets to be brain dead. I’m leaving and she is coming along. Try to stop me and she dies.”

“Annemarie, you wouldn’t do that. Then you’d have no hostage,” Brian told her in a calm voice as he shifted toward her. Keith moved in the opposite direction along the wall. The other two deputies shifted likewise, their hands on their service arms, but they did not draw the guns. Sam shifted on the balls of his feet, and seemed to be a tightly coiled spring. Military reflexes died hard.

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Madeline whimpered a little and appeared to be terrified. Annemarie tightened her hold on Madeline’s throat and snarled, “Shut up! Or I’ll break your neck now.” She dragged Madeline toward an exit.

“Get out my way,” she shrieked at the deputy standing with Pat Longwell.

What happened next was too fast to see clearly. Madeline gave a huge sigh and fainted limp as a boned fish. It’s hard to keep a grip on a completely limp person’s dead weight. As Madeline sagged toward the floor her legs crumpled backwards and she just limply slid out of Annemarie’s grip. When Madeline’s knees touched the floor, she suddenly kicked backward and swept Annemarie’s leg into her grasp and then she stood up, throwing Annemarie heavily onto the floor on her back. At the same time she stomped on the elbow joint of the arm that held the graver. Brian heard the bone crack. Madeline then kicked Annemarie in the side causing her to shriek in agony as two ribs broke. Madeline stepped back.

“Never call me a bimbo,” she told Annemarie softly into the hushed room.

By then, the paralysis of everyone in the room had passed and the two deputies handcuffed Annemarie, who was gasping for breath. Keith radioed for an

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ambulance. He then read Annemarie her rights and arrested her for the murder of Suzanne Montrose.

Brian stepped over to Madeline, who didn’t seem to have a hair out of place despite her ordeal. “Remind me never to pick a fight with you,” he said. “That was pretty impressive.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “Finally, eight years of martial arts training turns out to be useful for something.” She tucked her arm under his without seeming to be possessive and said quietly enough for his ears only, “We are never going to have a fight.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself about this,” said Brian, looking down at her upturned face.

“Oh, I am. That’s another thing you’ll come to realize that will make life different for you,” she replied.

Keith came over. “Are you all right?” he asked Madeline.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

“That was impressive,” he echoed Brian. “Thanks for making it much easier for us. If you ever want a job in law enforcement, come and talk to me first. We can always use good people.”

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Madeline smiled, “I think my practice and my personal commitments will occupy all my available time from now on.” She held Brian’s arm more closely.

Keith raised his eyebrows at Brian who reddened, but didn’t quite roll his eyes. Instead, a bit of a sheepish smile crinkled the corners of his mouth. He shrugged. Keith grinned.

Keith turned back to Pat Longwell. “Can we have a key to Joe and Annemarie’s cabin?”

“Of course, but I think Joe is in the cabin. I saw him go there a while back and he hasn’t left,” she responded.

“Okay, maybe we won’t need the key just yet.”

Brian and Keith left one of the deputies with Annemarie and the other accompanied them to Joe and Annemarie’s cabin. Madeline stayed behind with Pat, and the two women seemed to be in deep conversation.

When they got to the cabin, Keith knocked on the door. After a short interval Joe Whitcomb opened the door. He looked surprised to see the three men standing there.

“Mr. Whitcomb, may we come in and look around the cabin? You can certainly be present and we

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won’t make much of a disturbance. It might help us a lot in our investigation,” Keith asked politely. He made no mention of Annemarie’s injuries and arrest.

Joe hesitated for a moment, and then responded. “Of course. Can you tell me what you’re looking for?”

“Not specifically, but we won’t be long. By the way, we do have a search warrant, but since you’re cooperating, we won’t need to invoke it.

“Okay. Come in.”

Keith and Brian entered the cabin and the other deputy stood outside. The cabin was neat. Joe’s hiking and photography equipment were in one corner and Annemarie’s art supplies were in another. The room’s desk was clearly being used by Annemarie to engrave copper plate. Keith went first to the dresser and opened each drawer and looked at the contents. He found nothing out of order there. He then went to the closet and took out two suitcases. He placed a powder blue one on the bed and opened it. It was empty. There was a smaller carry-on case in the same color and Keith opened that one. It was partially filled with make-up and sundries. There was a soft cloth draw-string bag in the bottom. Keith opened it and pulled out a woman’s wig of red hair.

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“How long has your wife had this wig?” Keith asked Joe.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. But she could have a dozen of them and I might not know. I’ve never seen her wear a wig as far as I know,” replied Joe. “Is that the only one in there?”

Keith didn’t reply and turned the bag over. Monogrammed on the side was a stylish “SM”. He glanced over at Brian meaningfully.

“Mr. Whitcomb, we’re going to keep this as evidence. We’ll give you a receipt for it,” Keith told Joe. Joe shrugged.

Keith next went to the closet. He began to examine the clothing hanging there. He came upon a pair of light tan women’s slacks. When he examined the right leg, there was a greasy smudge on the side of the pant leg, the side that would have been closest to the chain of a bicycle if one rode while wearing those slacks. None of the other clothing in the closet showed any evidence of similar stains.

Keith turned to Joe. “Has your wife been riding a bicycle since she’s been here?”

“I don’t know. We’ve spent most of our days apart since we arrived. I’ve been hiking and

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photographing along the coast and she’s been working around here. She could have done so, but I wouldn’t necessarily know about it. You can ask her. She’s over at the main complex at the conference. Is this important?”

“It may be. We’ll ask her,” responded Keith. “We’ll also take these slacks along.”

“You better make sure that she knows about that,” advised Joe.

Keith searched around the room a while longer and didn’t find anything else of interest. He wrote out a receipt for the two items and gave it to Joe. The slacks and the wig went into plastic evidence bags.

“Mr. Whitcomb, I need to inform you that I have just arrested your wife for the murder of Suzanne Montrose. She attacked Madeline Sinclair after we discovered the murder weapon in her possession and was injured in the encounter. An ambulance is on its way. After she is treated, she will be held in the Mendocino County jail until her trial. Given the circumstances of the murder, I suspect that bail is unlikely to be granted,” Keith informed him.

Joe sat down on the bed heavily, shaking his head. “Why the Hell didn’t you tell me that right away? I can’t believe any of this. Are you trying to tell me that

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my wife murdered someone I was having a fling with? It makes no sense at all. Suzanne and Annemarie were lovers. Suzanne told me the night I saw her last. It had been going on for some months. Suzanne laughed about it. She thought it was exciting to be doing both the husband and the wife. Frankly, it made me feel a bit creepy and that’s why I didn’t hang around that night.”

“Perhaps Annemarie didn’t see it quite the same way, but rather as a betrayal,” suggested Brian.

Joe shrugged and shook his head. This news was clearly a blow to him and he seemed to be in physical pain. “Why, why, why?” he muttered.

“I’ve got to go to her. Can I see her?” he asked Keith

Keith nodded. A siren wailed in the background as the ambulance arrived to take Annemarie to the hospital.

Three Months Later

The telephone rang. Brian picked it up and began a quiet conversation in which he mostly listened. After about fifteen minutes he set the telephone down and walked over to the window. He contemplated the view across San Francisco Bay with its heavy maritime traffic and dozens of sailboats within view. Madeline

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walked up behind him with two glasses of wine in her hands. She handed one to Brian.

“Who was on the phone, sweetie?” she asked pleasantly.

“That was Keith Newcomb. Annemarie Whitcomb has confessed to the murder of Suzanne Montrose in a plea deal that permits her to escape the death penalty,” he responded as they sat together on a couch facing the window.

“Oh, wow! Has she filled in the details?”

Brian explained: “Yes. It was done nearly as we suspected. She was infuriated with Suzanne’s dalliance with Joe after having been in a lengthy relationship with her. That night, after Joe returned to their room and had fallen asleep, she went to Suzanne’s cabin and suggested that the two of them go for a drive and a late night tryst. Suzanne agreed. When Suzanne got to her car Annemarie used her nurse’s knowledge of anatomy to kill her with the special graver. She left it in Suzanne’s brain to keep any blood from flowing. She then retrieved one of Suzanne’s wigs and her other clothing from her cabin and loaded one of the Inn’s bikes into the back of Suzanne’s car. She donned Suzanne’s wig and drove Suzanne’s car to the turnout on the highway and dumped her body along with her scarf over the cliff. She then donned another scarf and Suzanne’s hat and set up

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the easel for painting near the cliff’s edge. As it got light, she roughed out the painting, mimicking Suzanne’s style, which she knew well.”

Madeline interrupted. “Let me guess. She worked on the painting until she was satisfied that enough people had seen her impersonating Suzanne, including you, and then she split. She probably dropped the big hat over the cliff just before she left. Like you once said, nobody would notice another bicycle rider along the highway, especially one that looked like just another blonde California girl.”

“That’s about right. When she got back to the Inn, she returned the bike without being seen and discovered the paint tube in her pocket and dumped it in the trash where Sam later found it. She changed clothes but didn’t notice the stain from the bicycle chain. She placed the wig in her make-up bag, forgetting about Suzanne’s monogram on the bag. She then went about her business normally. She did attempt to clean the graver with alcohol to remove any physical evidence, but because she left it in Suzanne’s brain for so long, blood soaked into the wood of the handle under the ferrule and that remained. That was later matched to Suzanne’s blood. I saw the blood stain when I examined the graver and called Keith to ask him to get a search warrant. You pretty much know all the rest,” he finished.

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“Well, I hope next year’s retreat is a bit less ‘interesting,’ if you know what I mean,” she said.

“Oh, I think I can guarantee that it is going to be much more interesting,” he grinned and kissed her. “Just think; we will only need one cabin next year.”

“I told you that life would be different for you,” she smiled.

“Yes, you did,” he agreed. He raised his glass and clinked it against hers with a musical ring. “To us,” he toasted.

“To us,” she replied.

The End

Murder in Mendocino

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