Yappy Hour Page 9

  Yolanda pulled to the side of the road, and we got out and stretched our legs. In the spring and winter the valley boasted green rolling hills, in the summer and fall we got treated to a view of the golden hills of California. My shoulders relaxed a notch to breathe in the fresh clean air and take in the view of the undulating landscape.

  I fidgeted and paced back and forth along the side of the road. “It’s only a few minutes’ ride down the hill now,” I said.

  Yolanda studied me a moment. “Are you nervous about something?”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’m nervous about finding Rachel and nervous about not finding her at the same time. Abigail told me she eloped.”

  “What?” Yolanda shrieked. “No way. She would have said something to me.”

  I laughed. Yolanda seemed more offended about being left out of the gossip than shocked about the fact that my sister might elope. “Abigail said Rachel was on a honeymoon cruise. I didn’t believe it myself, but I’m afraid that could be the case.”

  Yolanda nodded sagely. “Okay, back in the car. The only way to beat fear is to outrun it.”

  * * *

  Shockingly, the cabin at Stag’s Leap looked the same as I remembered it. Yes, the porch was sagging and the paint job was severely faded and chipped, but the beautiful exposed wooden logs that supported the structure were sound and the high glass windows still afforded the best view of the lake around.

  No vehicle was parked in front; however, around the perimeter of the cabin, things looked freshly disturbed, as if someone had been here recently. My heart soared. Maybe Rachel was hiding out here after all.

  We climbed out of the convertible, and Beepo scampered to the front door, his nose gyrating a million miles an hour. After sussing out the territory, he barked at the door as if announcing us.

  “Hush now, Beepo!” Yolanda scowled. She turned to me. “If I’d known there was a lake, I would have brought my bikini.”

  I smiled. “Hopefully, we’re not staying long. Just long enough to drag Rachel out of here by her hair.”

  Yolanda scoffed at me. “Jeez. Glad you’re not my sister.”

  “Don’t be mad at me. You can be mad at Rachel for putting us through finding Dan on Friday night.”

  “Well, it wasn’t her fault, was it?”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault we’d come across Dan murdered, that was true, but I still blamed her for disappearing and leaving me to deal with the mess.

  Rapping sharply on the door, I said, “Well, if she’s got a good explanation, I’m willing to listen.”

  Yolanda clicked over to the window in her high-heel sandals. She perched her sunglasses on top of her head and cupped her hands around her eyes, then peered inside.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  “No lights on,” she said.

  I tried the handle on the door and it cracked open. Beepo shot through the opening like a cannonball.

  “Wait!” I yelled at him.

  Yolanda laughed. “Oh, that’s what dogs do!”

  The interior of the cabin had a strange vibe. The old couch was still there, but it seemed like newer throw pillows had been added, and the place reeked of bacon grease and cigarette smoke.

  “Seems like someone’s been here recently, right?” I asked Yolanda.

  She nodded. She was looking at the stone fireplace. She took a few steps toward it and grabbed a fire poker from the tools next to the hearth. The poker was so heavy she had to use two hands to steady it as she jabbed at the fire pit. It was littered with cigarette butts.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It looked like something was smoldering. But I was wrong. No telling how long these ashes have been here.”

  The cabin had two bedrooms that adjoined.

  “Let’s check the bedrooms for clues,” she said.

  “Or the fridge,” I said.

  She nodded at me and pointed toward the direction of the kitchen. I headed there while she walked in the opposite direction to one of the bedrooms.

  The thought of Yolanda gripping the fire poker swirled in my head: her dainty hands with the pristine manicured fingernails. Was she really strong enough to kill a man? It seemed absurd. But if not her, then who was the murderer?

  The refrigerator was empty except for a stick of butter and a jar of olives.

  I was sure those hadn’t been left behind by Grunkly all those years ago. Rachel must have been up here sometime in the past few years. Either that, or we had squatters.

  Opening one of the overhead cabinets, I found a bottle of vodka, Stoli. It had to be Rachel’s. She probably came up here every once in a while with friends or maybe a boyfriend … maybe even Dan.…

  The smell of cigarettes and the butts in the fire reminded me of Grunkly, but the smell wouldn’t have lingered all that time, and Rachel didn’t smoke.

  Had Dan?

  A piercing scream echoed throughout the cabin. I dropped the bottle onto the tile floor and it shattered at my feet. Vodka and glass covered the floor.

  “Shoot!” I yelled as I stepped over the mess and raced toward the bedroom. “Yolanda! Are you all right? What it is?”

  She was standing in the doorway of the second bedroom, her hand clamped over her mouth. She whipped around toward me. “Don’t come in here!”

  “What?” I froze.

  Oh God, not another dead body.…

  My throat went dry, and suddenly it felt like the temperature in the cabin was over a hundred degrees. “Why not?” I pressed. “What’s in there?”

  Yolanda chewed on her lower lip. “I think if you don’t see it, then you can’t say anything to the police. Especially, you know, you won’t slip on your date with Officer Brooks.” She thrust her arms out and blocked the entrance to the bedroom.

  My blood pressure skyrocketed and sweat formed on my temple. “Yolanda, is there a … is there someone else in the house with us? Alive or…”

  “No, no.” She shook her head back and forth. “Nothing like that, it’s just something…”

  Beepo skidded out of the room and ran circles between my feet.

  “What? What’s in the room?”

  She studied me a moment. “It’s something that I think Rachel might have done when she was mad at Dan. It’s something silly. Childish … but if the police saw it … well, maybe they wouldn’t think it was a joke.”

  “A joke? You screamed your head off when you saw it.”

  “Did I?” A guilty expression crossed her face, then she quickly composed her features back to neutral. “No, Beepo got underfoot. I think I stepped on his tail.”

  Beepo looked up at us, his brown eyes full of mischief, his tail wagging back and forth.

  “He doesn’t particularly look hurt,” I said.

  Yolanda shrugged. “He doesn’t hold a grudge—”

  “Yolanda—”

  “Okay, okay. I screamed when I saw it. It just surprised me.”

  “What is it? Let me I see it,” I said firmly.

  She waved me off. “Let’s forget it.”

  “If it’s something that could incriminate Rachel, I think I need to see it.”

  “Honestly, she’s not here,” Yolanda said. “And that’s what we came for, right? Let’s just turn around and go home.”

  “She’s been here recently, though. There’s some vodka in the kitchen and olives … the place isn’t a mess, either, like I expected. It’s not all dusty and moldy. Someone came here and cleaned.…”

  Although Rachel cleaning sounded far-fetched. She wasn’t the tidiest person in the world. Perhaps her guest had cleaned.

  Yolanda’s eyes lowered. “Okay, so what? We know Rachel’s been here within the past month or so, but what does it prove? She’s not here now. She’s probably on that honeymoon cruise after all, just like Abigail said.”

  I felt like I was staging a battle with Yolanda that I wasn’t likely to win. I wanted to get into that bedroom to see whatever she’d seen, but she was blocking the entry
way like a linebacker.

  “Okay, maybe you’re right,” I said, softly. “I need to clean up the broken glass in the kitchen and then we’ll go.”

  Yolanda’s eyes grew wide and a grin lit up her face. She couldn’t believe I was going to drop the subject. She linked her arm through mine. “Now you’re talking, honey, let’s clean up the mess.”

  I walked with her three feet toward the kitchen, then dropped my arm and slipped behind her toward the bedroom. I raced into the room before she could stop me and flicked on the light switch.

  I gasped in horror as I saw what Yolanda had been trying to hide.

  Above the dresser was an oversized photo of Dan that someone had mounted onto a corkboard and had used for target practice. Worse, along the bottom someone had scrawled in red letters resembling blood, “Dead Meat!”

  A hush descended upon us and I regretted not taking Yolanda’s advice. I knew Rachel owned a gun. Grunkly had taught us both how to shoot when we were kids. We’d go into the woods, right around this very cabin, and set up cans to aim at. Rachel was a natural-born Annie Oakley. Filling my lungs with air, I turned to Yolanda. “You think this incriminates Rachel?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t look good.”

  “No,” I agreed. “And it is childish.…”

  She nodded. Beepo followed her into the room and the three of us stared at the corkboard in silence.

  After a moment, I said, “You’re right. It doesn’t prove anything, but I certainly don’t want the police to know about it.”

  Yolanda slipped her fingers over her mouth and made the universal “my lips are sealed” motion.

  “I should have listened to you,” I said.

  “You’ll just have to learn to trust me.”

  An unsettling feeling gripped me. Was someone setting up my sister? I needed to figure out who’d been in the cabin and I needed to figure it out fast.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Yolanda and Beepo dropped me back at my apartment at noon. I had time for a hot shower and a brief lie-down before dressing for my date with the hunky Officer Brooks. I’d wanted to nap, but the image of the Dan on the corkboard haunted me. Was I obligated to tell Brooks what I’d found? Did it mean that Rachel really did have bad blood with Dan?

  The thoughts plagued me as I slipped into a lavender scoop-necked dress that sported an above-the-knee A-line skirt. I figured the dress was the perfect compromise between afternoon and evening, just in case the date ran late.

  Fingers Crossed!

  My doorbell rang and I took three deep breaths to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

  When I opened the door, my heart fluttered to see Officer Brooks out of uniform. He wore dark blue pants and a light-colored windowpane button-down shirt. He smelled of aftershave and mint, and something in my belly danced when his low voice rumbled out a hello.

  “Do you want to come inside?” I asked, suddenly feeling stupid.

  Why had I invited him inside? Was that done? What would he think I was suggesting?

  I hadn’t been on a real date since I’d broken up my ex-boyfriend, Hank, last year. And even then, after a few months of seeing each other our dates had deteriorated into hang-out sessions at one or the other’s apartment, where we ordered bad takeout and complained about our jobs.

  Brooks smiled. “If you’re ready, we can get going straight away.”

  “I’m ready. I’m ready,” I said, sounding a little overanxious.

  Geez. This isn’t high school, Maggie!

  We left my apartment and took the short walk on the cobblestone path toward the fountain in the main square.

  “Are you hungry?” Brooks asked.

  I realized with a start that I’d only had a latte that morning. No breakfast and no lunch. Certainly a far cry from the gourmet breakfast the other day that Gus had cooked me. Heat rose to my cheeks and inanely I felt guilty for thinking about Gus while on a date with Brooks.

  “I am hungry. You?”

  He laughed, his face lighting up. “I’m a guy. I’m pretty much always hungry. How about the Charcoal Corral?”

  “I don’t know it,” I said. “But it sounds good.”

  We walked around the town fountain. The smell of homemade waffle cones coming from the Dreamery Creamery would have detoured me had Brooks not taken my elbow and gently steered me down a charming narrow alley with vintage lampposts and hitching posts.

  “They have the best burgers in town,” Brooks said. “My favorite.”

  We stopped in front of a circa-1956 pink neon sign that read CHARCOAL CORRAL. He pushed open the door and we were immediately greeted by the rich smell of frying meat and grease. A cheerful hostess settled us into a wood-paneled booth with a mini jukebox hanging on the wall.

  She placed two laminated menus in front of us and disappeared. Brooks was about to pick up the menu, and then looked as if he’d suddenly been electrocuted.

  “What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

  He composed his facial features and shook his head. “No, it’s … uh … I hope … You do eat meat don’t you?”

  I laughed. “Oh, isn’t there a vegetarian offering here at the corral?”

  He relaxed to see me laughing. “’Fraid not. Well, actually, I really wouldn’t know. All I ever get is the buffalo burger with pickle disks and hoops of onion, topped with homemade hot sauce.”

  “Wow, my mouth’s watering,” I said, fanning myself with the menu.

  A waitress in a short white uniform and high-top tennis shoes appeared at our table. “Hi Brad, the regular?”

  He nodded. “You better believe it, Betty.”

  Betty glanced in my direction. “What’s it gonna be, hon?”

  “Uh…” I flipped open my menu, and my eyes glazed over at the ten thousand options. “Uh…”

  “Need a minute?” She glanced at Brooks. “How about I come back with a couple drafts?”

  “Do you drink beer, Maggie?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Meat eating, beer drinking. I’m not making a very good impression, am I?”

  He smiled, then said to Betty, “Two drafts, please.”

  The waitress nodded and spun off toward the back.

  “What do you mean, you’re not making a good impression?” he asked.

  “Girls are supposed to eat salad and drink, I don’t know, something froufrou or light anyway.”

  He chuckled. “Like a greyhound or mutt-tini?”

  I smiled in response, but said nothing.

  “Salad and froufrou are overrated,” he said. “I like meat-eating, beer-drinking girls.”

  He snaked a hand closer to the menu and picked at it. “I want you to feel comfortable to be yourself,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not judging you.”

  Heat surged through me as he leaned in closer.

  “Do you like country music?”

  “Of course; it goes with meat and beer.”

  He smiled, then turned to the mini-jukebox and selected some Johnny Cash while I perused the menu. I decided on the Knuckle Burger, which came topped with bacon and cheddar and a side of crispy fries. Betty returned and took my order, leaving two icy drafts in front of us.

  Brooks took a sip of his beer. “So, Maggie, where you from?”

  “Originally, from Santa Maria. It’s about an hour southeast from here.”

  Brooks nodded, as if he was familiar with the area.

  “My great-uncle Ernest always lived here,” I continued. “So I spent a lot of time in Pacific Cove as a kid, but I hadn’t been back in … ages. You?”

  “I grew up here,” he said. “Went to Pacific Cove High. I left after high school. Went to Los Angeles for college and then trained with L.A.P.D. But Los Angeles is so … so…”

  “It’s so L.A.,” I said, with a smile. “The girls eat salads and drink froufrou drinks.” I took a healthy sip of my beer.

  He laughed. “Right, it’s so fake. After a while, I wanted to come home. And my mother … well…” A sad look flash
ed through his eyes, but he averted my gaze.

  So he didn’t want to talk about his mother. Why was that? I wondered.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I heard about an opening at the P.C.P.D., and I went for it.”

  “How long have you been back?” I asked.

  “Just over a year. It’s funny, though, at this point it feels like I never left.”

  The waitress stopped at our table and placed two steaming burgers in front of us. Brooks got a tower of onion rings that smelled heavenly, but he still eyed my crispy fries.

  “Trade you one?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I said, picking a warm ring off the tower. I bit into it and rolled my eyes. “Delish.”

  He laughed. “This is pretty much the point where I stop talking,” he said, taking a huge bite out of his burger.

  I winked at him. “I won’t judge you.” Biting into my Knuckle Burger, I savored the red meaty deliciousness of the prime aged corn-fed beef. “Oh my God,” I murmured.

  He smiled. “Right? If I wasn’t a cop, I’d open a place just like this.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Sure! I could eat onion ring hoops all day.”

  “’Til the cows come home,” I joked, sipping on my draft.

  “I’d call it Fat Patties.”

  I nearly spit out my beer. He laughed and we both chuckled for a moment.

  “Fat Patties!” I repeated. “You’d alienate all the women.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “All?”

  “Most,” I clarified.

  He shrugged. “I could live with that. I only need one.” His eyes stayed on mine and my breath caught.

  Oh, this guy was smooth.

  Was he for real?

  I reminded myself that he’d said one woman, not this woman, and took another bite of my burger, then washed it down with some fries.

  “Where did you come from most recently?” he asked.

  “New York.”

  He let out a breath. “New York, wow. Pacific Cove is a change from that. You’ll find we’re a pretty sleepy little town. Not a lot goes on here. Are you … uh … do you miss it?”

  I almost choked.

  Not a lot goes on here?

  “Well, let me just say, I’ve never tripped over a dead body in New York—a few homeless street people sleeping in the subway station maybe, but a dead guy, never!”