Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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was under a pile of paperwork, requisitions for stationery and equipment. “It’s so quiet here that I heard a hummingbird outside,” she said. “Guess they didn’t all head for California.”
Just as Holly was leaving with the radar equipment and ticket pad, Ann answered the phone. A few tsks erupted while the other party talked in a voice nearly loud enough for all to hear. “We’ll send someone right out,” she said and hung up. “More theft from a construction site in Shirley. Six new strata homes with ocean views. Big money. But it’s remote, so no one’s minding the store at night. Broke into a metal storage shed. This time it’s a generator, nail gun, a small table saw and a houseful of exotic hardwood flooring.” Shirley was a small community formerly known as Sheringham Point after the picture-perfect lighthouse on the bluffs. When it had got its own post office, the name was too long for a stamp.
Holly whistled. “And they’d need a truck to haul that equipment.” She turned to Chipper. “Take the Suburban and canvass the nearest neighbours. Ask the guys at the volunteer fire station. A few of them sit out front around lunch time. See if you can get any latents in the place where they broke into the shed.” Thanks to his bush postings in Saskatchewan, Chipper had SOCO training.
He rubbed his neck. “A construction site? Fifty people have had their hands on things, not to mention deliveries.”
She shook her head. “I know, but we could get lucky running them through CPIC. They should haul out an on-site trailer and hire a guard. A junkyard dog’s no use if the place isn’t fenced.” The Canadian Police Information Centre catalogued the names of anyone currently accused, cases pending, probation and criminal records.
She headed back down West Coast Road, the window open, enjoying the warm breeze and the bright sun. In the summer droughts, when they held their breath that forest fires wouldn’t start in the bone-dry duff, even logging was halted in the sere woods. Then the fall and winter brought exponential rains. Finally the precipitation slowed as March brought daffodils. Or so it had gone. Global warming was causing new weather patterns, and they weren’t pretty. Her father had told her of a rare storm last April. One hundred millimetres of rain in a day. Some blamed the clouds of pollution from coal-power generation in burgeoning China.
Still uncomfortable from stuffing at the trough and feeling dangerously like a snooze, Holly settled in about five kilometres east of Fossil Bay. She cozied the car behind a rickety fence once belonging to a farm hacked out of the wilderness and now reclaimed by brambles and salal. Big city units had the new Stalker LIDAR laser guns, better suited to dense traffic areas. She used the old Basic Handheld K Band Radar, heavy but reliable. Some alert drivers saw her in time and braked quickly, slipping under the radar. Others must have been gawking at the stunning oceanfront or listening to music. Along with several gentle warnings, two of the three tickets went to tourists, one in a rented Mustang and the other in a Buick. The most satisfying citation tagged a yee-haw roofer flying low-level at 110 kmh in a battered Ford pickup. Like a primitive telegraph, the message would be received from other drivers, who observed the ticketing, that speeding in this area was unwise today.
Finishing the paperwork in a moment of pristine quiet, she recalled an article about the life of an average American officer in an urban department. “Twenty-five recently-dead bodies, fourteen decaying corpses, ten sexually assaulted children, and serious personal injury at least once on the job.” Having refilled the government coffers and made the road safer, she closed down the unit and headed west for forty-five minutes. She was two kilometres short when she was flagged down near a shiny Toyota Sienna van. A balding man dressed in baggy shorts and a Yankees sweatshirt braced himself against the vehicle, while a woman of a similar age sat crying in the passenger seat. By the side of the road, a small deer lay still in a pool of blood. “Didn’t mean to hit it. The poor thing came out of nowhere.”
This year’s fawn, all legs and hardly as large as a dog. As she bent over to look, the only living thing was her figure reflected in its glazed eyes. A brief candle snuffed out. At least no one was hurt. Roosevelt elk exacted a higher price. She glanced at the dented hood. “Happens all the time. I can help with your insurance claim.” She gave him her card, grateful that the animal was out of its misery. Standard procedure in critical cases was to use the shotgun.
“We’re from New York City. Zoo’s the place we see deer. What should we do with it? Are you going to send for the SCPA or whatever you call...”
“Since we’re out of the town limits, it’ll remain where it is, as long as it’s off the road. Even dead seals on beaches are left for the tides.” She noticed that he looked disgusted. “Tell you what. Help me haul it deeper into the woods. Cougar or bear will probably come shopping.”
His voice skyrocketed as he looked around. “Bear? Cougar?”
The disposal didn’t take long. Holly pulled some towelettes from the console, and they cleaned up.
Billy Jenkins lived at the end of a long rutted road a few miles east of Port Renfrew. A homemade plywood sign at the turn advertised “Woodworking. Native carvings. Fishing Charters” with an arrow. Holly took care not to let the ruts damage her undercarriage but winced at the occasional thump. In a bigleaf maple tree festooned with lacy strands of witch’s hair, a barred owl greeted her, usually a night bird but at home in the luminous curly hynum moss which coated the tree like a bayou beauty. A brown hare hopped to safety.
At last she came to a small clearing. Large firs had been trimmed or topped to prevent damage in a windstorm. In the yard, a circus of carvings caught her eye with their skill and majesty. Several rampant bears pawed the air. Despite the fact that totem poles had a more northerly origin, artful sculptures of all heights surveyed the quiet kingdom. Smiling in admiration, she discovered an eagle, a raven and a turtle on the posts. Two carved chests would make ideal storage for sheets and blankets. An artist coaxing buyers down this road probably did a good business in the summer.
The cabin with add-ons was painted a bright blue, a complement to the green moss which coated its cedar-shake roof. A huge woodpile was tarped beside it. On the shady side, sword fern nestled against the clapboard. A sizable garden wired against deer, in a common Stalag 17 effect, bore salad vegetables and potato plants. In a grassy patch, two mountain bikes lay on their sides. The recently-built deck had potted begonias in red, white and salmon. Showy burgundy dahlias, which lasted into the fall, added a cheery look.
“I’m Janet Jenkins. Come in,” Billy’s mother said, opening the screen door. She wore loose jeans and a red flannel logging shirt. “The boys will be back at three. They’re helping my husband Tom with the firewood.” Mike was staying with them because his mother was in Victoria getting radiation for breast cancer. His father had gone north to earn money at a fly-in, fly-out mine in Yukon, she explained.
The house opened into a living room, kitchen at the side. A small television sat on a crowded bookshelf. The number of other doors indicated two more bedrooms and a bathroom.
“They aren’t in any trouble, are they? You said this was routine,” Janet said as she took a blue enamel pot of coffee from the stove. She added a can of condensed milk and a sugar bowl, urging them forward on the circular pine table.
Holly had a slight stomach ache from the pizza overload, but she couldn’t refuse the hospitality. Her duty belt needed a bottle of Maalox. “Apparently they were on the beach at Botanical the night when a girl drowned. I need to know what they saw, if anything.”
The woman’s pleasant tan face shrank as she smoothed a crease on the freshly-ironed tablecloth. Rich black hair was pulled into a bun with an attractive shell holder, and her glowing, unwrinkled skin belied her forty-plus years. “My brother drowned. It’s a bad way to go. His fishing boat filled up with a rogue wave, and he never made it to shore.” She made a small fist, her hand worn from work, then reached for a tin of hand cream on the table. “Damn marine reports were wrong.”
Holly nodded, managing a smile to ease the woman along. “That’s so true. Weather changes by the hour around the lower island.”
“And we’re cut off out here. No cell coverage. Damn phone lines go down once a winter. Can’t even call an ambulance.”