Spit In The Ocean: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 4) by Shelley Singer
Authors: Shelley Singer
Tags: Mystery, California, San Francisco, cozy mystery, private investigator, murder mystery, mystery series, Jake Samson, P.I. fiction, sperm bank, Shelley Singer, Bay Area mystery
Ads: Link
we could stop by in an hour or so.
She hesitated.
“My partner and I are trying to put together a piece on this town. The problems, the beauties, the tragedies. You know the kind of thing.” I didn’t know what kind of thing I was talking about, but I hoped she did. “We want to know about some of the people who live here, and of course about your cousin, who has died so tragically.…”
Tragedy
is a word so overused by the media that I figured my overuse of it would be like credentials. Maybe I would remind her of her favorite TV anchorman.
“Oh. Well, I suppose so. But we are bereaved, after all. I hope it won’t take too long.”
“I’m sure it won’t.”
Sometime during the night the storm had blown itself inland, where it could batter the Sierras with snow. The morning was fresh and cool, with blue sky and yellow sunlight breaking through little white clouds and bigger gray ones on their way east. I wished them a pleasant journey, brushed the leaves and twigs off the roof and hood of the Chevy, found one tiny scratch, took a deep breath, and thought about food.
Rosie pulled a five-foot-long two-inch-thick eucalyptus branch out of the bed of her truck and volunteered the truck’s services for the day.
On the way to Georgia’s Cafe, the place where I’d had my late lunch the day before, we found a shoe store that would probably have boot oil or at least saddle soap for the shoes that had taken such a beating the night before, the ones that were still wet. The shoe store wasn’t open yet. We were both wearing sneakers. It was a relief to be carrying something dry and lightweight around on my feet, and I’d been particularly happy to trade in the clumsy drapery of the slicker on a lightweight jacket.
Breakfast was terrific. This time there were more customers, and everyone seemed to be eating the kind of food doctors don’t approve of. We both had big fat omelets full of fat calories— mine had cheese and bacon and spinach— and orange juice and strong coffee.
By the time we’d finished, the shoe store had opened, and we bought some leather-saving supplies.
Fredda Carey’s house, on a street named Mendocino, was a one-story frame with hardly any paint left on it, an open front porch with a healthy spider plant in a box hooked to the railing, and a weedy front yard supporting a couple of ratty-looking oleanders. Instead of front steps there was a ramp.
The block was midway between downtown and the edge of town, running parallel to and several blocks from the ocean. It was, as a matter of fact, nowhere in particular. Although there were some large trees in some of the yards, none sheltered Fredda Carey’s house from the sea wind that had worn it down to bare wood.
Some of the neighboring houses looked better maintained than hers, some showed some landscaping and painting creativity, but there were too many small dirt yards with wire fencing, too many weary old hedges and broken-down cars. Fredda’s own ancient station wagon was parked in the drive. Like the house, it didn’t have much paint on it.
We walked up the ramp and knocked. The door was opened by a young girl in a wheelchair, which explained the ramp. About twelve, I guessed, but her face was pinched like a worn-out runner’s. She wore a big silver cross on a chain around her neck.
“Hello,” I said. “We’re here to see your mother.”
“Yes, I know.” I couldn’t tell from her voice what she thought of that. “She said to ask you to go on through into the kitchen.” She waved a thin hand down the hall toward the back of the house, swung her chair around, and disappeared out the front door. We walked down the hall.
The kitchen was big, like kitchens in old houses are, unless someone’s ruined the old house. The painted cabinets looked like the originals, but the stove and the refrigerator and the big freezer in the corner looked new.
Fredda Carey was rolling out a ball of dough on a big floured wooden board on the
She hesitated.
“My partner and I are trying to put together a piece on this town. The problems, the beauties, the tragedies. You know the kind of thing.” I didn’t know what kind of thing I was talking about, but I hoped she did. “We want to know about some of the people who live here, and of course about your cousin, who has died so tragically.…”
Tragedy
is a word so overused by the media that I figured my overuse of it would be like credentials. Maybe I would remind her of her favorite TV anchorman.
“Oh. Well, I suppose so. But we are bereaved, after all. I hope it won’t take too long.”
“I’m sure it won’t.”
Sometime during the night the storm had blown itself inland, where it could batter the Sierras with snow. The morning was fresh and cool, with blue sky and yellow sunlight breaking through little white clouds and bigger gray ones on their way east. I wished them a pleasant journey, brushed the leaves and twigs off the roof and hood of the Chevy, found one tiny scratch, took a deep breath, and thought about food.
Rosie pulled a five-foot-long two-inch-thick eucalyptus branch out of the bed of her truck and volunteered the truck’s services for the day.
On the way to Georgia’s Cafe, the place where I’d had my late lunch the day before, we found a shoe store that would probably have boot oil or at least saddle soap for the shoes that had taken such a beating the night before, the ones that were still wet. The shoe store wasn’t open yet. We were both wearing sneakers. It was a relief to be carrying something dry and lightweight around on my feet, and I’d been particularly happy to trade in the clumsy drapery of the slicker on a lightweight jacket.
Breakfast was terrific. This time there were more customers, and everyone seemed to be eating the kind of food doctors don’t approve of. We both had big fat omelets full of fat calories— mine had cheese and bacon and spinach— and orange juice and strong coffee.
By the time we’d finished, the shoe store had opened, and we bought some leather-saving supplies.
Fredda Carey’s house, on a street named Mendocino, was a one-story frame with hardly any paint left on it, an open front porch with a healthy spider plant in a box hooked to the railing, and a weedy front yard supporting a couple of ratty-looking oleanders. Instead of front steps there was a ramp.
The block was midway between downtown and the edge of town, running parallel to and several blocks from the ocean. It was, as a matter of fact, nowhere in particular. Although there were some large trees in some of the yards, none sheltered Fredda Carey’s house from the sea wind that had worn it down to bare wood.
Some of the neighboring houses looked better maintained than hers, some showed some landscaping and painting creativity, but there were too many small dirt yards with wire fencing, too many weary old hedges and broken-down cars. Fredda’s own ancient station wagon was parked in the drive. Like the house, it didn’t have much paint on it.
We walked up the ramp and knocked. The door was opened by a young girl in a wheelchair, which explained the ramp. About twelve, I guessed, but her face was pinched like a worn-out runner’s. She wore a big silver cross on a chain around her neck.
“Hello,” I said. “We’re here to see your mother.”
“Yes, I know.” I couldn’t tell from her voice what she thought of that. “She said to ask you to go on through into the kitchen.” She waved a thin hand down the hall toward the back of the house, swung her chair around, and disappeared out the front door. We walked down the hall.
The kitchen was big, like kitchens in old houses are, unless someone’s ruined the old house. The painted cabinets looked like the originals, but the stove and the refrigerator and the big freezer in the corner looked new.
Fredda Carey was rolling out a ball of dough on a big floured wooden board on the
Similar Books
