The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance)

The Honeymoon Cottage

(A Pajaro Bay Romance)

By Barbara Cool Lee

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First Kindle Edition, March 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Barbara Cool Lee

Excerpt from
In Deep Water
copyright © 2012 by Barbara Cool Lee

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

The Honeymoon Cottage
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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PAJARO BAY ROMANCES

The Honeymoon Cottage

In Deep Water

Under the Boardwalk

Billion Dollar Baby (Summer Short Read)

Christmas in Pajaro Bay

Silver Shells (Christmas Short Read)

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Contents

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Epilogue
Sneak Preview

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Dedication

As always, for Mom, my co-writer. :-)

~*~

The Honeymoon Cottage

Chapter 1

Pajaro Bay, California

Monday, April 9, 4:35 p.m.

Camilla Stewart stared at the rhinestone brooches pinned to a piece of blue velvet, but she was not really seeing them. All around her the dusty little junk shop was silent except for the incessant ticking of eighteen clocks on the wall. Eighteen. She'd had plenty of time to count them. She tried to keep her hands from shaking.

She moved on to a collection of old wooden chairs with peeling paint and missing rungs. What would she do if she couldn't sell the ring? She was completely out of money, out of gas, out of options. No. She always had options. She would find a way.

Little Oliver sat in the corner, his nose buried in a book. She would like to buy him the book. But she didn't have the money. That was the problem. She didn't have any money at all.

Correction. She had one dollar and thirty-seven cents.

She could strangle Dennis Hutchins! Or whoever he really was. He had taken everything when he'd disappeared. Except his son. She watched eight-year-old Oliver Hutchins, so like his father in appearance, so unlike him in personality. The darling boy's dark brown hair fell across his forehead as he bent down to silently mouth the words of the book.

She knew he was sounding out the hard words—they practiced that every night, and he was getting better and better. Now he had actually picked up a book by himself and started reading. It was a breakthrough, and she should be thrilled for him. But the thrill was tempered by the sour-looking woman behind the shop's counter.

"It'll be a little while," the woman had said when Camilla had offered up the ring for sale. Now the woman just sat behind a glass display case, one hand on the cash register, one hand fingering the ring. She seemed to be waiting for something. Why was it taking so long?

Camilla sat down in a chair that looked sturdier than the rest and tapped her fingers on the arms, then jumped back up, too nervous to stay still.

She looked out the front window of the shop.

The stupid convertible sat parked out front, windows cracking, paint job rusting, and gas gauge on empty. "A convertible is perfect for the California sunshine," she had joked to Oliver. She had been doing a lot of joking lately, trying to make light of the terrible mess they were in.

She missed her sleek fern-green Prius hybrid. She missed swinging into the Starbucks parking lot every morning on her way to work, zipping in wearing her favorite lavender suit and pearls, buying a latté for herself and a hot chocolate for Oliver, then dropping him at the private school for his extra tutoring.

The rush of being in her first year out of college, with a great job in the accounting department of the hottest high-tech firm in Silicon Valley, had made her feel like she'd really made it in the big world. She had been in control of her life then. She had been successful. She had been happy. It had been nice while it lasted.

Now in two months it was all gone. From a whirlwind courtship to court dates and jail staring her in the face, all in two short months. Thanks to her despicable ex-fiancé, her life had been reduced to begging in a junk shop for her next meal.

She had to get gas, get food, get Oliver and herself to the house on the hill before this podunk little town rolled up its sidewalks at dusk. And it would be dusk soon. What was taking so long?

~*~

Ryan Knight pulled the department's SUV into a parking slot in front of The Junque Shoppe. He parked next to a rusty red convertible that had seen better days. He got out and slammed the door shut.
To protect and to serve
, the logo on the door said.

Mabel Rutherford was a business owner in Pajaro Bay, so his job was to protect and to serve her. He sighed. Mabel Rutherford could make anyone wish he were a fisherman instead of the officer in charge of the Pajaro Bay Sheriff's Substation. But he was responsible for this sleepy little beach town and all its eccentric citizens. For two more weeks. Then he was out of here, and Mabel Rutherford and all the rest were on their own. They'd be better off that way—and so would he.

He stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk leading to the row of storefronts.

In the waning afternoon sun, the light glistened on the crystal and carnival glass in the junk store's windows. He remembered Angie explaining about carnival glass, her eyes lighting up as she went on about maker's marks and the hunt for particular pieces, and the giggle in her voice when she came home after finding that one weird-looking gravy boat she'd been so crazy about. He almost smiled at the memory from a year—a lifetime—ago. He wondered if she'd ever laugh like that again. He knew he wouldn't.

He took a deep breath and let it out. He thought he'd be able to stay here after she left. But the past lurked all around him, haunting him with every step. He needed to let go. Let go of thinking about a past he couldn't change. Let go of caring. Stop thinking he could make a difference and move on.

He pushed open the purple shop door and walked in, prepared for the worst Mabel Rutherford could conjure.

He automatically surveyed the premises: Mrs. Rutherford behind the counter, a little boy reading in the far corner, then he stopped. A curvy woman in a flowered shirt and jeans stood silently watching him. He scanned her figure automatically. She was not carrying a gun—no room to hide it under those clothes. But just the same, every nerve in his body came alive at the sight of her.

The window with the carnival glass was behind her. The sun slanted through the glass and turned her curly red hair into a halo around her round face. Her eyes were green, like fresh-mown grass in the springtime, and her skin was pale, with a blush of pink like the mother-of-pearl inside a shell. She had freckles on her nose. The freckles and wide eyes in the round face gave her an almost childlike look—lost and alone, even frightened. He felt the urge to take her in his arms and tell her it was going to be all right. He brushed that thought aside quickly, surprised at himself for the jolt of emotion the woman brought out in him.

He turned to Mrs. Rutherford, who sat behind the counter looking proud of herself. She motioned for him to come closer. He went around behind the counter and leaned down to her. She whispered: "She wanted to sell this ring." The sign in the front window said Jewelry Bought And Sold so he just waited.

She pushed the ring into his hand with a smirk.

He took it from her. It was obviously an engagement ring. Platinum band, with a fat round diamond much bigger than the one he'd been able to give Angie two years ago. He remembered pricing rings, and the shock of finding out how much those little chips of stone and metal had cost. This one didn't look cheap. "You think it's counterfeit, Ma'am?" He always called Mabel Rutherford, "Ma'am." It was better than using the term that sprang to mind in her presence.

The shopkeeper shook her head. "Oh, no. The ring's real all right."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Did you see her car?"

"The junker by the curb? Yeah."

"Where'd she get the ring?"

"I have the certificate," the woman said. Her voice was not a child's voice. It was all woman, soft, throaty, but with an edge of nervousness that made sense under the circumstances.

He turned to her. "The certificate?"

Mrs. Rutherford picked up the paper from the counter and handed it to him. He examined it. The certification showed not only that the ring had been purchased by Dennis Hutchins and Camilla Stewart three weeks ago, but stated that the ring was worth—he choked. Yeah, he'd been right. It wasn't cheap.

"You're Camilla Stewart?" he asked. The woman nodded. Classy name. Classy woman.

He tried to focus. "You don't think you can sell it?" he asked Mrs. Rutherford.

She nodded. "Sure, I can sell it. I have a jeweler I pass on the more valuable pieces to."

"And this is valuable?"

"It's a five-figure ring."

"What?"

"Worth five figures, retail. That's what made me wonder. She was so anxious to get rid of it immediately. I knew you could handle it, Captain Ryan." She emphasized his title, glaring openly at the woman, who took the implied accusation silently, but with a hint on her face of the anger that must be bubbling under the surface. That restrained anger, even more than the certificate, reinforced his instinct that the redhead was telling the truth.

He'd seen so many liars in his life. Innocent people tended to seem confused, overwhelmed when confronted. Dishonest people had glib stories ready, and pat alibis that were always a little bit too perfect. They loudly proclaimed their innocence the moment they were accused. If he had a dollar for every time some scumbag had sworn an oath on his grandmother's sainted memory, with loud cries of moral outrage—and the murder weapon burning a hole in his pocket....

Honest people stood out amid the sea of lowlifes he'd encountered all his life. And the set of Camilla Stewart's jaw and the flush in her pale face as she stood there silently taking Mabel Rutherford's rudeness screamed the truth more loudly than any words.

"When I told her there were ways to get a higher sale price, she still wanted to sell it to me. I offered her rock-bottom wholesale and she said she'd take it."

"I need the money now," the redhead said with finality, as if she'd explained all. And perhaps she had. She walked over to the far corner of the shop. Her spine was very straight and she held her head up proudly, but it was obvious she was angry now. She stood by the little boy sitting on the floor. The boy seemed to be ignoring the whole conversation, absorbed in reading a book.

He turned back to the shopkeeper. "Let me see if I've got this straight, Ma'am: you tried to take advantage of her desperation and she said okay, so you called me?"

She smiled, oblivious to his sarcasm. "That's right, Sonny. I knew you could handle the problem."

He took a deep breath and counted to ten. "Do you want to buy the ring from her, Ma'am?"

She nodded. "I already made out the check."

"Then why exactly did you call me?"

She shrugged. "I just thought she was suspicious and you should check her out."

"Yeah, she looks really suspicious. Don't worry, I'll check her out." He was checking her out. He was checking out every inch of her as she bent over the little boy. He turned away to keep from staring any more. He was surprised at himself. It had been a long time since he'd noticed—really noticed—a woman like that. The last thing he needed in his life was some woman with a bunch of problems. This was work, he reminded himself. Just do the job and go home.

He watched as Camilla Stewart held out her hand and the boy reluctantly handed her the book. With a sigh, she returned it to the stack.

"Throw in the book," he said to Mrs. Rutherford.

"Huh?"

"The book the boy was reading. It's not worth much, is it? Add that to the sale."

She nodded. "Are you going to cuff her?" she whispered confidentially.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he whispered back.