The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (8 page)

Ryan went to his own desk and looked over the stack of messages. Nothing important.

He listened to Joe on the phone trying to get a word in edgewise with whoever he had on the line. His deputy was going to be a good cop. He was young, and this was his first assignment, but he had good instincts. Ryan felt a deep responsibility to him. He had been brought up in the ranks by older officers who'd trained him well, going out of their way to make sure he kept safe and learned what he needed. He had wanted to pass that on to Joe. But he couldn't teach Joe everything he needed to know in the next two weeks.

He continued to watch Joe, noting that he wasn't being assertive enough with the caller. He would have to work with him about that. Being too polite could get him killed. He had to be able to take charge of a situation, especially with a belligerent suspect. Otherwise things could get out of hand quickly.

Joe hung up the phone after promising the person on the other end of the line that he'd get there ASAP.

"Farmer up on Pajaro Ridge," Joe quickly explained.

"What's his problem?"

"Some of his chickens have disappeared. He thinks it's a conspiracy. Wants me to come see the evidence."

Ryan nodded.

"I told him someone would be right out."

A drive to the top of Pajaro Ridge and back would take an hour over heavily rutted mountain roads.

"If you'd like to take it, Sir, I wouldn't want to overstep my authority." Joe's expression was angelic.

Ryan laughed out loud. Joe looked really surprised at that, and Ryan felt the surprise, too. Suddenly his emotions seemed to be closer to the surface than they'd been in a long time. He seemed to be smiling, laughing—and getting angry—in ways he hadn't for a very long time.

"I think I can trust you to handle it, Serrano. That's how you get the experience to make detective—working the tough cases."

Joe grabbed his hat and headed for the door.

"Deputy?"

Joe stopped and looked back. Ryan was tempted to go with him to make sure he handled things properly.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing, Joe. Radio me if you have any problems."

Joe nodded. He paused in the open doorway. "Um." Another pause. Ryan raised an eyebrow and Joe said, "I heard about your resignation."

He nodded. "You'll be working with a new guy after I'm gone. I'm sure it'll be fine."

Joe nodded. Paused again. "Hey," he said.

"Yeah?"

"You coming tonight?"

"To the school fundraiser?" Ryan shook his head.

"I'm cooking enchiladas for 200 people. Don't you want to see me sweat?"

"You never sweat, Joe."

"You haven't seen me playing Monopoly with Marisol. You haven't sweated till you've been outwitted by a eight-year-old. Now, how about dinner, Captain? The family would love to see you."

"Some other time," Ryan said. There would be no other time, and they both knew it. He knew Joe meant well, but there was no way he was going to one of the town gabfests once word got out that he was resigning. Mabel Rutherford alone would be more than he could take.

Joe shrugged and left.

Ryan watched him go, then his mind shifted back to what was really bothering him. Camilla, Oliver, and the mysterious Dennis Hutchins.

As soon as Joe was gone Ryan fired up his computer. While it was booting up, he opened up his notebook to a new page. He wrote down a list of names: Dennis Hutchins, Oliver Hutchins, Joyce Hutchins, Camilla Stewart. None of what he'd learned about them in the last day made any sense. He hated unsolved mysteries.

He tore out the page. This wasn't his case—in fact, there was no case related to Pajaro Bay at all. The only crime was embezzlement, and he didn't have jurisdiction over that.

He crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash. Read through his phone messages, read a brochure on some optional training available and made some notes for Joe on courses he should take. He was leaving, he reminded himself. Coasting through his final work days until he could hit the open road.

He dug the crumpled page out of the trash. Dennis Hutchins was a fugitive with a felony warrant. He might be in this area. It was entirely appropriate for him to do a bit of background checking on the situation. He ignored the voice asking him why he needed to stick his nose into this, and got to work.

He tried the official databases, looking for the missing Dennis Hutchins. Nothing. No criminal record under that name. A want out of San Jose on suspicion of grand theft. No details in that other than what he'd already learned from Camilla. Dead end.

He didn't have enough of a detailed description to do a more general search, and he saw the warrant was not detailed either. San Jose P.D. didn't have anything more than he did, at least in this database. He should call San Jose and get the details before he went much further with this.

He called, got shuffled around a bit and ended up leaving a message for the detective on the case. He looked up at the clock. Still before 10 a.m. He had a little more time before he headed out on his mid-day tour of the village. A visible police presence helped keep things running smoothly, and with Joe gone it would be his turn to make the daily stops—coffee shop, fishermen at the wharf, a swing past the school and a stop at the fish shack for a cup of coffee and an update on the town news from Mel, the crotchety old guy who ran the place.

He had a little more time. He looked at his crumpled page again.

All right. He'd go at this another way. He'd learned over the years that the info was usually out there. He just had to be creative to get it.

He googled the name Dennis Hutchins. Hutchins was too common a name. He got hundreds of hits.

He tried again, looking for the names Dennis, Oliver and Joyce Hutchins all together.

Still nothing.

So probably Hutchins wasn't his real name. What had Oliver said? First in Sacramento with Mommy.

He tried the names Dennis, Oliver, and Joyce, with Sacramento.

He got an immediate hit.

The Sacramento Bee had a funeral notice for a Joyce Ashford Henning.

He clicked on the article.

A car accident. Two years ago, March the 9th. So Oliver had lived with his mother until two years ago?

The woman in the picture was darkly beautiful, with a warm smile. She had left behind Dennis, her "loving husband," and her beloved six-year-old son, Oliver.

Poor kid. And now his father was gone, too. At least Oliver was in good hands with Camilla.

He read the article over again, more slowly. Something was off, but he couldn't pin it down.

He picked up the phone.

"Sacramento Investigations," the voice on the phone said.

"Paul?"

Detective Paul Graham dropped the official neutrality from his voice. "Hey! Ryan. You really going through with your plan?"

"Yup."

The answer was clipped, but Paul kept pushing. "If you're sick of living at the beach, you could come back to work with us. You know how much it would mean to the squad. I owe you my own life twice over, Ryan—"

"—Listen, partner," Ryan cut in before Paul started making a big deal about their old times together. "I'm actually calling you for a favor."

"Anything, man. Say the word."

"I'm working a case here." That sounded more professional than saying he was playing a hunch, so he went with it. "I've got a fugitive I'm trying to trace, wanted for larceny."

"Ooh, a big case out there at the beach," Paul said. "What did he steal? A pair of flip-flops?"

"Fairly big," Ryan said calmly. "Payroll worth more than a mil."

Paul whistled. "Oh. That big."

"Yeah. He has family in my jurisdiction. I'm doing some background on him, see if I can get a lead."

"Anything I can help with, just ask."

"A car accident, two years ago. March the 9th. Joyce Ashford Henning."

Ryan heard the computer keys clicking. "How's this related to your perp?"

"He was husband of the dead woman."

"Think it's a homicide?"

As soon as Paul said it, Ryan knew that was exactly what he was thinking. But he had no logical reason for believing that. Just something that didn't add up about Camilla, and little Oliver, and the missing Dennis. "Not necessarily. Just checking."

"No murder here. Single car accident. Late at night on a wet road. She hit a guardrail and gas tank punctured. Explosion rocked two city blocks."

"Autopsy?"

"Let me check." A pause, then he was back on the line. "What was left of her. Identified through dental records. No sign of drugs or alcohol. No suspicion of foul play in the report. Just one of those things."

"Thanks. Gotta go."

"Ryan—wait." Ryan waited for it, knowing what was coming. "You know you're welcome to come for a visit anytime—or, hey. I can take a couple of days off and drive over to the coast. We can go fishing or something."

Right. And he could spend a couple of days being told what a "hero" he was and how he was such a "good cop," and how he shouldn't give up his "life's work." No, thanks. "That's a great idea, Paul. But not right now. I've got some stuff to take care of. I'll call you soon. Bye."

He hung up before Paul could start in again. He didn't need anyone trying to get him to talk about it. He was so sick of that phrase. There was nothing to talk about.

Joyce Henning's funeral notice was still up on his computer screen. Ryan almost hit the button to close the screen, but hesitated. The smiling woman with short dark hair and Oliver's eyes stared back at him from the computer. His gut was telling him something and he couldn't let it go, not quite yet.

He picked up the phone again. "Hector?" There were sounds of a car revving in the background.

"Hey, Dude," came Hector's voice over the phone. "Your car's almost ready. The new muffler came in yesterday, and I got the pony seats installed and—"

"I'm calling about the car from this morning."

"Oh, yeah. I was just going to call the lady. Manuel, knock off the noise—I'm on the phone with the fuzz." The engine sound died off in the background.

"Hector?"

"Yeah, I'm here, sheriff dude."

"You found out what's wrong with Ms. Stewart's car?"

"The pretty lady's car? Did I ever."

"Yeah?" Ryan prompted patiently. Hector was a good mechanic, but not the best conversationalist. Too many wipeouts while surfing had made him a little fuzzy, and his heavy marijuana use fell more into the recreational than the medicinal category....

When Ryan heard only silence on the line, he prompted again: "Hector? What did you find out?"

"Huh?"

"The car. Camilla's—Ms. Stewart's—car. What's wrong with it?"

Somehow, Ryan knew what was coming, but it still hit him in the stomach like a meatball hero and two beers on a hot day.

"Punctured gas tank."

He hated being right. Ryan reached in his desk for some antacid.

"Sheriff dude? You there?"

"Yeah. I'm still here, Hector."

"She probably didn't smell the gas 'cause it's a convertible. Glad we caught it. I'll call the lady and tell her."

"I'll do it, Hector. Thanks. Can you tell how they punctured the tank?"

"They? You think it's a 'they'?"

Ryan swallowed the antacid. "I'm just asking. You're the expert."

"Doesn't have to be a they. Could be an it. A nail on the road. She goes through a construction zone and something pops up and hits the tank. She runs over a curb with that low-slung convertible chassis. Could be a lot of things. Doesn't have to be a 'they.'"

"Got it. What do you think it was?"

"It?"

"The thing that punctured the gas tank, Hector. Stay with me."

"Oh, yeah. Well, it's a round hole, not too big. Made a real slow leak. Probably a nail."

"Okay. Can you fix it?"

"Sure. Easy fix. Not too expensive. Have it done by tomorrow. Not tonight. Going to the fundraiser tonight. Craving for enchiladas. Chips and salsa. Chiles rellenos. You know how it is."

Ryan was only half-listening now. "Yeah, I'm sure those munchies are something."

"Yeah, dude. You know it. So, you gonna be there?"

"I don't usually get the munchies, Hector."

"But the food, sheriff dude. You gotta eat.” He was the third person to ask him about this stupid fundraiser. Did people think he couldn't feed himself? On the other hand, Camilla needed to eat. And he'd like to find out more about Oliver's life in Sacramento—what was going on between his parents before his mother died. The fundraiser would be a good chance to grill her and Oliver about this whole weird case. A good chance to find out if what he was thinking could actually be true: that Dennis Hutchins/Henning/whatever was not just a thief, but a killer. And that she and Oliver were next on his list.

"Sheriff Dude?"

He started at the sound in his ear. "Thanks, Hector. I'll tell Ms. Stewart her car will be ready tomorrow."

"You tell the lady she's got some good karma."

"What do you mean?"

"Puncture like that. Gas leaking all over the undercarriage. One spark, thing blows up like a bottle rocket. No more pretty lady."

"Yeah.” Ryan looked at the picture of Oliver's mother on the screen in front of him. "No more pretty lady."

~*~

"Where am I going to find a window like that?"

Camilla stood in front of the cottage, gazing up (and up) to the tip of the pointy roof, where, just under the eaves, a crooked window with a broken pane stared mournfully back at her. The poor thing looked sad up there with its glass missing and one foot-long section of wooden muntin dangling dangerously, just waiting for the next breeze to knock it down.

She had ventured up to the third floor inside and counted all the missing panes of glass. The whole third floor, all eight by ten feet of it, was full of pine needles from the trees leaning over the cottage, and the signs of visiting animals were even stronger than in the living room. Fixing that window was a good place to start the reclaiming of the cottage.

She stared for a bit, trying to think. There was no way she could buy a piece of glass to match. She didn't have the money, for one thing. The cash she'd gotten for the engagement ring had to last them for a while. And the kind of old-fashioned wavy glass she'd need to match the rest of the windows wouldn't be cheap.