What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (11 page)

Clack Clack Clack
. “No?”

“As I’m sure you know,” Jack began, using his most diplomatic tone, “the construction of a home—particularly one on California’s coastal bluffs—is a multi-step process. Of course, we
do
have approval of the first several stages of the home. And because we work so closely with local and state officials, we know we won’t run into any snags.”

“Work closely with? What does that mean exactly?” the reporter prodded.

Damn! That didn’t sound right
. “Only that we have an excellent track record of total compliance with all codes and regulations. We put safety above all things, Ms. Wilkins.”

“Safety … above … all…. I see. Interesting. I’ll have to check with Samantha Hugo to confirm that the EPC has granted
its approval.”

“Ms. Wilkins.” Jack cleared his throat. “May I tell you something off the record?”

The clacking stopped. “Certainly, Mr. Sawyer.”

“Naturally, I have no way of knowing what Ms. Hugo will say to you. But should there be any mention of non-compliance, you might take it with a grain of salt.” Jack held his breath.

“Really? And why is that?” Emily asked.

“Oh, just a matter of a personal grudge—an old one.”

“I didn’t realize you and Ms. Hugo—”

“We used to be married, you see. I’ve never mentioned it publicly, out of courtesy to her. But we all know what human nature is.” Jack cleared his throat again. “You know what they say about a woman scorned….”

“I see.”

Did her tone suddenly become a little frosty?
“Do you have other questions, Ms. Wilkins?”

“Uh … I imagine I will after I review my notes and make some other calls. Will I be able to reach you at this same office number?”

“Oh, yes,” Jack affirmed. “Almost any time.”

Zack Calvin had left Finder’s Gallery with the intention of finding the Miranda Jones studio, but then realized he was hungry.
I shouldn’t meet the artist with my stomach growling and my mind distracted
.

So he’d wandered up Main Street until he found one with a sunny, outdoor patio where he’d enjoyed a delicious lunch of homemade soup.

While waiting for his check, he’d pulled from his pocket the note with two pieces of information jotted hastily for him by Nicole at Finder’s Gallery: that beautiful artist’s studio address, and the name of a motel—the Belhaven Inn. Pointing to a local map, she’d explained, “You will find it on Touchstone Beach, but zat is not actually a beach. It is a… you call it a bluff, where can walk above the sea.“

It sounded delightful.
But I have to get that painting
. He glanced at his Rolex.
I should get going
. And then he asked himself,
why?
This was the weekend
off he’d
promised himself: no agendas, no “have to” items.
I’m doing it again… scheduling myself. No wonder I’m stressed. I can’t shut down even when I want to
.

He stood, paid the bill, and walked back to his car. Now he felt undecided about the visit to the artist.
What if I went there tomorrow
? One thing he did know for sure was that he needed a place to stay for the night, since he’d asked Mary to cancel his original reservation in Morro Bay.

Starting the car, he drove toward the little strip of beach where the motels were lined up, watching until he saw the inviting hand-carved sign, then pulling into the parking area. Pumpkins and gourds decorated its small porch. But with its seasoned wood, blue and white paint, and cobblestone walkway, the Belhaven could have been in Nantucket or Monterey, Nova Scotia or Wales.

Opening the front door, Zack was greeted by a whiff of aromatic pipe smoke, a gas fireplace, and the lilting tones of the proprietor. “Afternoon,” said a gray-haired gentleman. “Looking for a room, are you?”

“Yes.” Zack wasn’t sure of the man’s accent, but it sounded
Irish. “Have one available?”

Looking over the top of his glasses, the gentleman said, “Oh, indeed we have,” then busied himself with providing a sign-in card for his new guest. “This will be your key, then, and we do hope you’ll be enjoying your stay.”

“Thanks!”
Already this place makes me feel good
. A moment later he was turning the lock of room number 5. He opened the door, allowing orange light from the late afternoon sun to flood the room. Feeling curiously at home, Zack tossed his duffle on a chair and looked around. A carved armoire housed a TV, but he closed the doors to hide the intruding device. The rest of the furniture, carved to match, was gleaming pine, worn and well-used.

Later, the prospect of another simple, honest meal was a pleasant one. With no agenda to meet, he opted for a brief nap before dinner, and as he stretched out on the wide bed with its thick comforter, Zack looked forward to a peaceful evening.

Looking forward—that’s something I almost never do. Everything is always
now
in my life
. Mary—that loyal, throat-clearing secretary at Calvin Oil who’d been there longer than he had—handled the office calendar. Though she did an excellent job, Zack was always so over-scheduled professionally, that in personal matters he tended to act on impulse, rarely allowing himself the luxury of anticipation.

Yet here he was, with delicious deliberation, choosing delay over immediacy.
Tomorrow, I’ll look for the beautiful artist and her studio
. For today, he’d allow himself to feel the pull of the painting, and have something to look forward to. And with that thought, the pounding waves and the fresh sea air wafting in through the open window lulled him into a light, peaceful sleep.

Burt Ostwald trudged the last few steps along Santa Rosa Creek Road and turned right onto Main Street in Cambria, entering the town at its relatively undeveloped southern-most end. The deserted gas station—with its still-functional phone booth—suited his needs so he used it again, as he had the previous night.

Weeks earlier he’d gotten the word from his primary employer: in the unlikely event the pesky TV reporter snooped too close at the house, Burt was to get rid of her. Accordingly, during his days off, he’d familiarized himself with the surrounding area. The neighboring mountain range seemed ideal for hiding whatever evidence he might have to conceal, so he’d researched highways and back roads. He’d picked up tourist materials at the local Chamber of Commerce: an area map; information about hunting season in the wilderness; locations of wineries and campsites in the region which were likely to be populated.

Thanks to his planning, the mission during this morning’s wee hours had been relatively easy: driving the dead woman’s black SUV to the remote location he’d chosen on an earlier reconnaissance trip. From Milford-Haven, he’d driven south just past Cambria, turned east on Highway 46, which climbed a thousand feet into the Santa Lucia Range.

Using the country roads that wound toward Nacimiento Lake, he’d located Lost Creek Canyon—still amused by the name—a remote, secluded spot. He’d been able to aim the car toward its final resting place where it was now completely concealed not only by the steep canyon walls and a boulder
outcropping, but by being crowded into clusters of scrub oak and pine.

If the car were ever discovered, there’d be no body, and it would seem the woman had survived and then abandoned the vehicle before vanishing in the wild. If the body were ever found back at the house, it’d appear the woman had fallen—all the more convincing because she had her purse, and it’d been buried with her in the dirt under the house, where all would shortly be sealed under the heavy hearthstone. In either scenario, it would seem her death had indeed been accidental.

Completing his task at about two a.m., and stowing the work gloves he’d worn all night, he’d begun the trek home. He’d stuck to the country road in the dark—to avoid falling or losing his way—then tramping through the woods once the sun was fully up. From his backpack he’d pulled the red knitted cap he always carried. It’d come in handy when hunters had spotted him. He’d waved from a distance, and continued his descent. Day-hikers glimpsed him another time, but another friendly greeting from afar had ensured he’d never be recognized. Checking his compass against the map, he’d managed to find entry to the next winding road that would take him back to civilization, ultimately hiking the forty-two miles from Lost Creek Canyon in fourteen hours.

Under normal circumstances, Cambria would be less than half an hour’s walk to his rental in Milford-Haven. But by now he was favoring his left ankle, raw where the boot had been rubbing, and swollen from a slight misstep far up the trail.

Fishing a stack of quarters from his backpack, he dialed the long-distance number of his employer. When the answering machine picked up, he said, “Hey there, just checking in.” He
used a casual tone, as instructed. “Say, the package you wanted has been dispatched. Had to move the container it arrived in, but no problem. Oh, I took that drive in the coastal mountains, and then a nice, long hike. Beautiful country. Taking a day off tomorrow. Look forward to hearing from you.”

Hanging up, he took a moment to plan his next communication. He’d have to place one more call to Sawyer Construction, requesting another day off. He’d make the call from home tonight—after hours, so he could leave a message rather than talking to anyone live. Exhausted, he realized he’d have to set his alarm, lest he sleep through. The extra day would give his ankle time to heal.

Burt looked around to see a woman walking a collie along the far side of the road. No one would consider it odd to see a friendly guy wandering through town. Giving her a nod, he headed north on Main Street.

Susan Winslow looked out her window where the sun had just set, leaving its final traces of mulberry, marine and indigo across a blackening horizon.

The colors match my bruise perfectly
. She touched her upper arm, fingering the yellowing center of the uneven, concentric rings.
I wonder how much longer it’ll hurt
.

She didn’t really mind the bruise. It was earned in a good cause—dancing too close to that guitarist, who’d swung the neck of the instrument vehemently and connected with her just below the shoulder.

Tired from another day of battling both Samantha Hugo
and the
polluters of the planet, she threw off her clothes and
pulled on her favorite Halloween nightshirt, its fading white skeleton standing out against the black cotton.

Bunching the pillows on her unmade bed, Susan prepared for one final task before turning in early for the night—one she’d enjoy. Under the light of a bare bulb, she opened her book of clippings, enjoying the crackle of the plastic cover sheets.

Though she’s scissored out the articles and placed them carefully on the sticky sheets, what she missed was the vibrant color that would’ve been such a key part of the real events.
I gotta get my own camera, take my own shots. Only I want one of those new digitals … be cheaper than buying film and developing it. There’s that Canon PowerShot 600 … only been out since July. Maybe I can save up for it—if I don’t die of old age first
.

Turning the pages carefully, she tracked the progress of the bands who toured the Central Coast. In the photos, the rock stars—leather-clad and pierced, tattooed and spiked—stuck out their tongues at fans and screamed their passions into microphones. She cherished every defiant gesture. But this evening, she had a mission to complete.
I know I’ve seen that same face lurking in the background at more than one local concert. I gotta find out who he is
.