The Sunset Witness
By
Gayle Hayes
Smashwords Edition
The Sunset Witness
Published by Gayle Hayes at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 by Gayle Hayes
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, media, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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COVER ART
Both the photograph and graphic design of the cover are the creations of the author.
DEDICATION
This novel is dedicated to my mother, Edna, from whom I inherited my imagination and the need to entertain others with storytelling. At 92 she still enjoys “pulling your leg” with a tale that is both spontaneous and inventive.
FINAL REPORT OF INVESTIGATION
TO: Agate County District Attorney
FROM: Det. Josie Gannon
DATE: 30 June 2011
SUBJECT: Disappearance of Rachel Douglas
On 18 June 2011, the Agate County Sheriff's Department was notified by Twyla Taylor that Rachel Douglas had been missing for two days. The department also received a flash drive on 18 June 2011. The postmark was for Hoquarten, Oregon on 16 June 2011, the day Rachel Douglas went missing. The flash drive contains only one document, and it was written by Rachel Douglas. For the most part, it is her eyewitness account of events. The document is somewhat detailed, but it is included verbatim here because of the insight it provides into the murders at Sunset, Oregon. Unless she contacts us again, her written statement is as close as we are likely to get to Rachel's deposition of the events she witnessed. The department has investigated all but the most intimate moments, is satisfied Rachel's account is true to the facts, and is submitting her account as its report instead of merely paraphrasing. This department's investigation of the events not included in Rachel's account is summarized at the end.
Subject Rachel Douglas was an aspiring author and working on a novel at the time she disappeared. The style of her writing suggests she might have written this document as practice for, or even as the foundation of, her proposed novel.
The department has summarized an old criminal case out of Philadelphia. The case appears to be the foundation for the events at Sunset:
An article in the Philadelphia Inquirer in 1996 concerns the murder of a city councilman named Jacob Gregory. During the trial of Salvatore De Luca, evidence was presented that Gregory had ties to the mob. The prosecutor's chief witness against De Luca was Dennis Wojohowitz. He told the jury he saw De Luca shoot Gregory and helped him dump Gregory in the Schuylkill River. The defense attorney, Robert Douglas, discredited the character and testimony of Wojohowitz. De Luca was acquitted. It was widely speculated that the jury thought De Luca had done the city a favor by disposing of a corrupt councilman. Wojohowitz disappeared after his testimony.
* * *
Thursday, June 16, 2011
My name is Rachel Douglas. If you didn't get this from me, my life may be in danger. Please show this to Detective Josie Gannon of the Agate County Oregon Sheriff's Department.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Frank sat at a table a few feet away with his back turned to me. He couldn't or didn't want to sit up straight. He wore a beige cardigan that was covered with pills—those annoying fuzzy snags that are bred by polyester. I could see only the top and right side of Frank's head. His hair was gone except for a fine, even layer like fuzz on a peach. His cheekbone was high and his eye deep set. A cane was hooked on the thigh of his right leg. Frank was having soup for lunch. Hunched over as he was, the spoon had only a short distance to travel between the bowl and his mouth. It was obvious that Frank was a regular customer. The waitress knew his name and asked about his meal in a way his wife might have done. I took an interest in Frank because he looked so much like my father.
After Frank had finished the soup, a waitress asked if he would like something else. He thought he would. The waitress gave Frank a little time to look at a menu. Frank had no idea what he was looking for, but he knew his daughter had ordered it sometimes. I imagined he would have liked his daughter there to help him order. The waitress tried to help, but Frank could sense her impatience and groped for words.
"I think it has eggs all scrabbled up," he tried.
"Scrambled eggs and ham?" the waitress wondered while tapping her pencil on the pad of meal tickets.
No, that wasn't it. The waitress tried again. "How about an egg salad sandwich?"
Frank nodded his head and mumbled something that sounded encouraging.
"What kind of bread, Frank?" she asked, turning up the volume. Perhaps if she had to strain to hear him, he wasn't hearing her.
"I don't know if it comes with bread." Frank's tone indicated he did not want to take something to which he wasn't entitled.
"It comes with bread, Frank. It's a sandwich," the waitress assured him.
"Okay, then," Frank said with relief. He sighed as the waitress walked away, his eyes fixed on some distant point as if trying to remember a time when ordering a sandwich did not require the same deliberation as doing his taxes.
Frank and I were the only ones having a late lunch that day. His presence was comforting to me, as if my father were more than a memory again. I realized I hadn't allowed myself to think of him in a long time. For several months after he passed away, the slightest mental image of him or of us together was too painful. I didn't weep for him. I knew he had a full life, and I had been at his side when he left us peacefully. I wept for me, because it seemed so unfair that I had just become close to him, and he was gone.
My father was already fifty-two years old when I was born. He met my mother when she hired him to defend her younger brother. My father convinced the jury the drugs were planted by the police officers, and he became mother's knight in shining armor. She was attractive, twelve years younger than my father, and on the rebound. I suppose you could say I was a love child. Mother once told me really beautiful children are the product of intense passion. You might think I am lucky, but I envy girls who are not beautiful.
My half-brother, Paul, was already in college by the time I came along, so mother lavished me with her time and attention. My father was rarely home before she tucked me in for the night, but he tried to make up for it in his own way. One morning I remember finding a bejeweled fingerboard on a 14 karat gold chain wrapped in heavy silver paper like a satin frock with a hot pink ribbon around it. On occasion, mother and I would meet him at the firm's private club for an elegant lunch, but he usually entertained well-to-do clients or people who could enhance his law practice.
When I turned thirteen, my father hired a local theatrical troupe to present me with my gift. It was a trip to New York City to see the revival of Guys and Dolls. He had seen the original production in 1950 when he was attending Harvard. An actor in the troupe knelt at my feet and serenaded me with I've Never Been in Love Before from the musical. Each actor performed a little drama apropos of the gift he or she presented me on behalf of my father, including a reservation at the Plaza Hotel, dinner for two at 21, a gift certificate for a theater outfit at Bloomingdales, and a bouquet of thirteen red rose buds and white lilies to signify my coming of age.
I first noticed the tension between my parents after that trip to New York City. Mother was radiant in the city, but I noticed the smell of alcohol about her shortly after we returned. One night I awoke to shattering glass, my father's fury, and my mother's plaintive tears. Then the house was as quiet as a tomb. The next morning, the maid hauled the broken bottles downstairs. Years later when we were lying in the sun in Florida talking about the contention between father and me because he was determined to send me to Harvard, mother told me that she had swept the collection of expensive perfumes off her dressing table to show my father that his gifts could not mask the stench created by his practice. That morning, the Philadelphia Inquirer had printed a photo of my father with Salvatore De Luca. He was acquitted the day before in the murder of a local politician, Jacob Gregory.
While I was always tense when my parents were sparring and sometimes fearful when they were fighting (my father's nose was broken once), I later realized they were attempting to work out their problems then. By the time I was in high school, they went weeks without speaking to each other. My mother was able to tolerate large amounts of alcohol, and she rarely went out, saying she had nothing to wear. Her closet was the size of most bedrooms. My father bought a condo closer to his office and only came home on weekends. He might as well have stayed away altogether. He holed up in his study and took his meals there. He pilfered one of the signs that were posted outside the courtroom and positioned it like a sentry outside his study: QUIET PLEASE! Once, my friends who had come to our house to play doubles tennis thought the sign was a joke until their hysterical laughter pried father from his chair. The door to his office flew open. He glowered at us with hands on his hips, a pipe clenched between his teeth, before slamming the door so hard the courtroom poster fell from its easel and crashed to the oak flooring in the hall.
My father retired from the law firm when he turned seventy. I was starting my first year of college in Montana. Mother had joined Alcoholics Anonymous, and they both seemed to mellow. I saw them only on holidays and during the summer.
Mother developed cirrhosis and passed away in 2006 during the week I was cramming for the bar exam. It was probably a good thing that I had to keep it together for the exam, or I would have fallen apart.
As she lay dying, I was surprised that my father, who had built a reputation with his command of the language before a jury, could not find some words of comfort and love for my mother. After she died, he grabbed her left hand and worked her wedding set over her swollen knuckle, tossing it on the night table before leaving the room. The ring was worth thousands of dollars and precious to me because it was my mother's. My father didn't care about what it had cost or its sentimental value. He removed the ring as if it was the key that would unlock his cell. Once he had it, he fled the bedroom and his prison. He was free of her forever. I looked at them and realized their lives would have had no purpose unless I could do something positive with mine.
My father was the happiest I ever saw him on the day I received notice I had passed the bar. He knew I would pass and presented me with tickets for a Mediterranean cruise. He thought I might take Sarah Duncan, who had been my best friend in Villanova. Instead, I insisted that he go with me. Until Nate's funeral the previous fall, Sarah and I hadn't spoken in years. My father was tall, suntanned, and very fit. Now and then, I noticed a glance in our direction as if we were a May-December romance. We swam, played shuffleboard, and danced to big band music in the evenings. He was a tireless explorer and always had a reserve of energy when I was ready to return to the ship. One night after an especially satisfying day, he spontaneously began to cry, first with an almost imperceptible whimper, and then a flood of tears. I held him until he was spent of tears and then tucked him into his bed. The next day he seemed to have been delivered of a great burden. We never mentioned the episode.
Once I had gone to work in the law firm, my father seemed to think of me as an equal. We enjoyed debating the law, and I knew I provided the companionship he had missed in my mother. Through sheer determination I stayed at the law firm for three years and then braced myself to tell my father I was leaving. My dream was to be a writer. My biological clock was ticking, and there were a few things I wanted to do before I started a family. He took my decision to leave the firm better than I expected. Perhaps he was just too tired to argue or did not really understand.
My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease at 78. It was difficult to see this man who had argued before the state supreme court now sitting clueless in front of television sitcoms. The last time I saw him alive, he deftly led me around the living room to a Strauss waltz. Although I was often embarrassed by the cases he took and the negative notoriety he attracted as a result, I realized that he had generously provided for me even if his way of doing so only made sense to him. I could question his legal ethics, but I could not question his love for me.
Frank pushed his chair away from the table and steadied himself with his cane. As he walked past me, I could see that he didn't really resemble my father after all. I wanted to thank him for bringing back my father for a little while. Although Frank seemed helpless, his life still made a difference to someone else.
I finished my lunch and walked toward the cashier. She was telling Frank not to worry about his bill. He came in often enough that she knew he would pay her the next time. He thanked her but was obviously worried and agitated because his wallet was missing. I asked Frank if it would be all right for me to pay the bill. I offered to walk home with him and suggested he would probably find his wallet there and could repay me without having to go right back to the diner. He preferred to go home and bring the amount of the bill back with him. He left the diner, and I gave the cashier my bill and credit card.
"It was nice of you to try to help Frank," she said. "He doesn't have a living soul that cares about him."
"He reminded me of my father. I'd like to think someone would've helped him if he were in Frank's place," I said.
I left the diner and was fishing in my purse for my cell phone when I saw Frank fall. I let the call go to message and reached Frank as he was trying to get his legs under him. I helped him to his feet, brushed off his pants, and insisted that he let me hold onto his left arm while he maneuvered the cane with his right hand. It was a short distance from the diner to Frank's home, which was the last house on Main Street.
Once we were inside, Frank walked into his bedroom and found the wallet on his bed. He had changed into the beige cardigan before leaving home and had absent mindedly dropped his blue cardigan, which needed a button, on top of the wallet. He sank into his chair in the living room, almost breathless from the exertion and anxiety. He took a ten dollar bill from the wallet and agreed to let me return to the diner with it. Before I left, I found a glass in the dish rack next to the sink and filled it with water for him. I told him I would be right back to make sure he was all right.
After I paid Frank's tab at the diner, I checked my phone and discovered Sarah Duncan's message that she needed to work late and had left a key to her beach house under the loose brick in the doorway. Sarah had contacted me recently, and I was anxious to close the rift in our friendship. She was my oldest friend. Once I left school, and especially after working at the law firm, I had found it more difficult to let my guard down and make new friends. We both had an artistic streak, but hers was toward painting, while I preferred to write. Our similarities ended there. She had thick, naturally curly, blonde hair, while mine was thin, straight as a stick, and dark. I didn't really mind my hair, but I was envious of her blue eyes. When I watched awkwardly as she entertained our friends with her hilarious adventures, I took pleasure in the fact that she was short and plump instead of tall and willowy like me. Before she left Villanova, she dabbled in performance art, once pretending to be a bronze statue of Betsy Ross at Independence Mall.
When I opened his front door, Frank was finishing a conversation on the telephone with a friend whom he called Dennis.
"Are you feeling better, Frank?" I asked.
He was opening his wallet, reached for a bill, and handed me five dollars. "This is for your trouble," he said.
"It was no trouble, Frank. Please keep the money. I'm trying to get my angel wings, and I have a long way to go." I laughed. "Is there anything else you need before I leave?"
"Not unless you let me pay you," he said.
"I only have one friend here, and she's leaving. I'd like to consider you my friend, but it won't work if you insist on paying me."
I pretended I didn't notice the tears in his eyes and went to the kitchen to refill his water.
"I should go now, but I'd like to visit again," I said.
"You're welcome any time. The door is always open," he said.
"Do you think that's safe?" I asked. After living in a big city, I was naturally suspicious.
"How long have you been in Sunset?" he asked.
"Just a few hours. I'm from Philadelphia," I said.
"Well, you'll like it here, then," he said with a smile.
When I first arrived in Sunset, I found that I had come to a dead end on Main Street before I had driven what would have been half a city block in most places. It is as if the town was shoved to the edge of the mainland as far as possible before the hillside turns a corner with sheer drops to the ocean. The town is an eclectic mix of houses and apartments that perch precariously on the terraced hills above the Pacific Ocean. Many homes have an A-frame design and most of those have generous windows with expansive ocean views. Although the homes are generally in good repair, at first glance they appear to have been hastily thrown together. There are no rows of neat neighborhoods. Homes seem to have been haphazardly stuck here and there and are tucked into the hillside wherever space allows. From Main Street, there appears to be no street access or even a walled path like one might find in Europe. The only uniformity is in the homes' exterior gray color that is dreary on a sunny day and oppressive in the fog and rain. Perhaps the owners intended for their homes to blend into the scenery instead of distracting from it. Sarah had led me to believe the only access to this wide spot at the bottom of a cliff was a steep, winding road.
As I walked from Frank's home back toward the diner, I noticed that his home as well as those few on Main Street and on the first terrace above it were older than the homes on the hill and that a few owners, like Frank, had painted the exteriors white, blue, or green. They were so close together that from a distance, it appeared they shared a common wall. Frank was the only one who had at least two vacant, treed lots next to his home on the south side. I could see no motels or hotels. A sign advertised CABINS, but I did not see anything to rent. I wondered if the three structures that looked like miniature motel rooms on the other side of the treed lot next to Frank could have been the cabins. The diner was next to the sign advertising cabins. On the same side of Main Street a small deli advertised espresso and shared a shallow lot with parking for only two vehicles. The retaining wall at the rear of the lot was covered with morning glories. The building on the corner next to the road leading in and out of town was vacant.
On the ocean side of the street were an auto repair business and the restaurant Sarah had told me about. It seemed strange there were so many places to eat with, apparently, only the cabins for visitors. There was a vacant lot next to the restaurant before a steep hill led to a parking area for beach visitors. Just as I was beginning to wonder if I would ever find Sarah's beach house, I saw two small houses adjacent to the parking area, tucked behind dense shrubbery, and perched above the beach. I crossed the street to my car and then parked it in a space to the side of Sarah's house.
The porch leading to the only door was nearly obscured with foliage. Once I found the loose brick and the key Sarah had hid behind it, I opened the door and went inside. I started the tea kettle and was looking for a cup, when I realized I hadn't replaced the key. As I was hiding the key behind the loose brick, I noticed the public restrooms that had a view to Sarah's beach house. The restrooms were at the entrance to the beach parking lot. A scruffy-looking man in ragged jeans and a soiled t-shirt with the image of Mick Jagger on it walked out of the restroom and waited outside while lighting a joint. A younger woman wearing a camisole that revealed the straps of her sports bra and tight cutoff jeans that ended just above the curve of her lower buttocks joined him. He took a drag on the joint before handing it to the woman. They headed toward the beach. Sarah's romantic beach house suddenly left me feeling exposed and wary. The tea kettle shrieked, startling me so much that my body lurched, ready to flee, and I gasped and felt my heart racing.
I locked the door behind me, poured the hot water over my teabag, and let it steep while I fished for my phone at the bottom of my purse. Sarah had left another message. She had to speak in a loud whisper so I could hear above the background noise without anyone hearing her. She would not be driving to Sunset that night, after all. I was disappointed but not surprised. I had agreed to assume the lease on Sarah's beach house in Sunset after she found a job as a graphic designer in Hoquarten and grew weary of the hour's commute to and from it over the narrow, winding, two-lane highway. She had arranged for me to take her job as a waitress.
Sarah and I were still pursuing our artistic passions while our thirty-something friends were rearing small clones of themselves. The prospect of being a waitress in Sunset while I wrote my great American novel by the sea had sufficient allure so that, for once in my life, I did not agonize over every detail before I jumped at the chance. Obviously, I hadn't anticipated living next to the Sunset Beach Access that must attract suspicious characters like a wrecking yard attracts derelict vehicles. I made an effort to stay positive and filed the scruffy-looking man away as a character in a future novel.
The first thing I did after listening to Sarah's message was to remove the key from its hiding place under the loose brick. Before I did that, I scanned the parking lot to be sure no one would see me. I felt safer having the key inside with me. I would sleep better without the nagging question of whether or not Sarah's hiding place had been compromised.
The door to Sarah's beach house opened into a small kitchen. I lowered the shade on the door glass that provided a view to the lower row of parking spots angling into the dense shrubbery above the beach. The only other window in the kitchen was over a four-foot drop leaf table across from the counter. That window faced southeast toward the upper row of parking spots. I was surprised to see the roof of Frank's house after recognizing the brick-colored two-story house next to it. Depending upon where I stood, I could see the entire hillside of homes above Main Street. The countertop across from this window ran the length of the wall common with the living room and was interrupted only by a large, stainless steel sink and built-in range and refrigerator in white. The cupboards were white and had been painted several times. Each layer of paint on the undamaged surface added thickness that accentuated the shallow, scraped areas that had received only one coat.
When I had first entered the kitchen and filled the tea kettle, I was startled to see a mural directly in front of me on the windowless wall common with the next beach house. It was so realistic that I had tried not to look at it. The mural was framed by the same hemlock that was around the real windows. The window created by the mural started a foot from the front of the refrigerator and ended a foot from the front of pine shelving that was next to the drop leaf table. The overall size was about three feet square. The view from this imaginary window was to the window of an imaginary apartment and the near naked couple who was caught in a passionate and private moment.
The woman's face was obscured by long, dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She wore hip hugger cutoff jeans, much like the ones I had seen on the girl in the parking lot that day. The woman was sitting astride a man who was reclining on a bed with his head resting on a pillow propped against the headboard. His mid-length hair was sandy colored, and fell around his face. His shirt was open and his jeans were ragged at the cuff. A strap on the woman's halter top dangled over her bare arm. Her full breasts nearly tumbled from the halter as she leaned toward the man's open mouth.
The mural was tastefully done with just enough sexual content to arouse sensations so far in the past that I had almost forgotten them. I made a mental note to find something with which to conceal the mural as soon as I assumed the lease. Then I took a picture of it with my phone, so I would have a better idea of its size when I shopped for something to place in front of it.
A narrow, arched opening led to the living room that shared the kitchen wall on one side, and had windows on two others. The wall that was common with the next beach house was about ten feet long with a five-foot closet behind louvered doors and two more built-in pine bookcases on either side. The opposite wall had a small window that was mostly obscured by the same vegetation that crowded the porch. A folding screen concealed the bed and a dresser from the living room. A small bathroom was offset on the west end of this area with only a three-foot shower built in next to a linen cabinet, a pedestal sink, and a toilet all in white. A small window at eye level in the shower delivered a breeze from the ocean. The west wall of the living room had a large picture window with an unobstructed view to the ocean and the arched rocks that looked like remnants of some ancient, decaying civilization.
Sarah had told me the house came completely furnished, and it certainly appeared to have everything I would need as far as furniture, linens, kitchen utensils, and appliances, including an older small television on the pine shelves in the kitchen, and a single CD player/radio next to the bed. I had brought only my clothes, toiletries, laptop, printer, miscellaneous computer accessories, ebook reader, MP3 player, compact disks, a few decorations, and my pillow. Anything that didn't fit in my car, I left behind. I was disappointed that there was no washer/dryer combo in the beach house. I disliked using public laundries, especially in a beach town like Sunset. It occurred to me that I had not seen a laundry or even a grocery or gas station in Sunset, and I made another mental note to ask Sarah where they were located.
I made up the futon in the living room with the sheets and comforter Sarah had set out and then went to the car for my pillow, the small case with my toiletries, and the suitcase I had packed to avoid unloading the entire trunk whenever I stopped for the night along the way to Sunset. It was getting dark by the time I changed into my pajamas. When I opened the jalousie windows on either side of the picture window in the living room, I realized I had missed seeing the sun go down.
I had looked forward to hearing the soothing rhythm of the surf while I drifted off to sleep or awoke in the morning. I was not expecting the fear that enveloped me as the ocean roared into shore toward high tide. Just as I was slipping out of consciousness, I remembered the signs warning TSUNAMI HAZARD ZONE and TSUNAMI EVACUATION ROUTE. That night I dreamed an earthquake caused the kitchen mural to crumble at my feet. I was scrambling up the hillside above Sunset with a monster wave menacing toward me when I woke up screaming.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The next morning I allowed myself the luxury of waking up slowly while enjoying the same surf that had given me nightmares the night before. My mind wandered. Darkness makes everything seem more sinister than it is. Perhaps it is because darkness conceals everything, good and bad, and makes it is easier for something evil to overtake us. Children aren't afraid to nap in the daytime. It is only at night that monsters lurk beneath their beds. Even cemeteries evoke fond memories of loved ones during the day. It is only at night that the dead rise from their graves to menace us. If I was going to assume Sarah's lease, I would have to conquer the fear I felt when the ocean I loved in the daylight became a black, roaring, lethal mass at night.
I was eating a bowl of cereal at the drop leaf table in the kitchen when I saw a booklet with tide tables on the pine shelving. The cover had an anthropomorphic beaver wearing a hat and life jacket on the front and the caution to be aware of the tides. The tide for the night before was the highest it would be when I was falling asleep for another week. Once I was asleep, I wouldn't notice the rising tide. With another high tide at 1:40 p.m., I had ample time to find a line of debris on the beach from the previous night. That would tell me how close I came to being swallowed up by the ocean.
After dressing in tan capris and a hot pink blouse, I slipped into my flip-flops and locked the door. The parking lot was empty, so I placed Sarah's key under the loose brick and walked through the lot until I came to the steps leading to the beach.
A man who appeared to be in his early seventies had almost reached the landing. He was out of breath by the time he stopped, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that showed the outline of stubborn stains left behind after washing. His face was pale and clean shaven except for a bushy, brown mustache. He was taller than I, and his belly was just barely contained above his belt. He wore shorts that ended at the knee, revealing legs that were hairless, smooth, and shapely for a man. He kept walking across the street as I descended the stairs.
I reached the bottom of the single flight of stairs, and looked for a line of debris from the high tide the night before. Tangled masses of kelp, broken shells, pebbles, sand crab skeletons, a water bottle, and a Frisbee formed a line about twenty feet from the short bluff on which the beach house was built. Ordinarily, a high tide would not be a threat to me as I slept. I supposed the tsunami warnings I had seen were the result of the devastation in Indonesia in 2004 and, more recently, in Japan. I made another mental note to ask someone if a tsunami had reached Sunset in the past.
While I was trying to remember the other mental notes I had made since arriving in Sunset, I saw the same couple I had noticed the day before as they exited the public restroom in the parking lot. The woman's cutoff jeans and camisole reminded me that I needed to find something to put in front of the mural. The soiled jeans worn by her companion reminded me that I needed to find a laundry, grocery, and gas station.
I returned to the beach house, brushed sand off my feet and legs, and changed into a pair of hot pink wedges. I checked my phone for a message from Sarah and then headed in the direction of Twyla's Tea Room.
The restaurant appeared to be a box about twenty feet by forty feet with a simple pitched roof that needed new shingles. Five gulls rested at the apex, lending a certain charm which would have been missing elsewhere. I was reminded of the type of buildings described in the brooding novels by Bronte and Hardy. The long, north facing side that I could see was covered in rough cut cedar that matched the distressed look of the lumber at the shorter east facing front. The entire building was a drab grayish brown with an odd assortment of windows. Those at the top of the building were of such size, shape, and placement that I supposed it was the living quarters for the owner. The lower part of the building had only three, evenly-spaced windows that were about a foot wide and about eight feet from the ground. The building looked at least a century old, and I supposed it had once been used for something else. A white sign above the door was shaped like a tea kettle and advertised Twyla's Tea Room. The menu was posted outside and enclosed in a small box. When I peered into the front window, I could see that at least four tables in the rear had a view of the ocean. The restaurant appeared to have settled about a foot lower than the adjacent sidewalk. As I came closer to the entrance, I saw two window boxes on either side of the door. They were painted the same Newport blue. The door, boxes, and assortment of red and yellow flowers in them gave life to the drab building and were enticing welcomes to go inside. I opened the blue door and knew instantly that I had entered a place I would never forget.
It was mid-morning, and the restaurant was quiet. The blended aromas of items baked that morning made it impossible to tell what it was that I craved. A teenager behind the counter cheerfully asked what I would like.
"I would like one of everything," I said. "But I really need to see Twyla. I'm a friend of Sarah Duncan."
The girl's expression changed from welcoming to disapproving.
"She's upstairs," the girl said.
"Can I wait?" I asked.
"Sure. I'll tell her you're here. What's your name?"
"Rachel Douglas. I think Sarah mentioned me to Twyla." I tried to stay upbeat as if I had not noticed the chilly reception. I noticed the girl's nametag spelled Tiffany, and I filed it away to ask Sarah about her later.
When she came to the bottom of the stairs, Twyla was not at all what I expected. Instead of being heavyset with a bib apron and hairnet, she was about ten years older than I, shapely, and allowed her blonde hair to fall over her right shoulder. Her eyeglasses were framed in red rectangles that brought out her blue eyes and lent warmth to her pale face. Unlike Tiffany, Twyla gave me a warm smile and extended her hand.
"I'm so glad you're here!" she said.
"It's great to be here. But I think I've gained ten pounds just inhaling the air in here." I laughed.
"You'll get used to it. Are you ready to start?" she asked.
"I assumed you'd want to do an interview and have me fill out some forms," I said.
"No hurry for that. Sarah gave you a great recommendation, so that's good enough for me."
"I haven't been very clear on just when Sarah left her job here and took the one in Hoquarten. Have you been without her very long?" I asked.
"She took a job in Hoquarten?" Twyla looked like somebody who just received bad news.
"I probably shouldn't have said anything. I assumed you knew," I said.
"Sarah told us she was going back to Pennsylvania. She said you'd be arriving last week so we wouldn't have to look for someone else," Twyla said.
"I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. I'm sure Sarah knew I couldn't be here before yesterday. I would have come in then, but I didn't realize you expected me last week. I can't explain the miscommunication about her returning to Pennsylvania. She left a message just yesterday that she would be working late and didn't want to drive to Sunset and then back to Hoquarten in the dark," I said.
"I suppose I could have misunderstood about Pennsylvania. The important thing is you're here now. This is a good time to show you around while it's relatively quiet," Twyla said.
"Sarah did tell you my experience is limited to working as a dining room attendant while in college, I hope."
"She did. But you sounded like the type of person I would like for an employee. It's harder to get someone dependable these days than it is to train someone. I prefer a clean slate, anyway. I'd rather teach you to do things my way than to break you of bad habits." Twyla laughed.
She showed me the tables in the formal dining area with a view to the ocean and then took me into the kitchen. She introduced me to the baker and luncheon chef, Henri, who worked from early morning until after the lunch crowd left. Simone would take over until closing at 9 o'clock p.m. The menu had a lunch and dinner special every day. The dinner menu was limited to one entrée each of beef, chicken, or fish along with a side and either salad or soup. The chefs did not prepare sandwiches. A luncheon quiche, torte, or soufflé along with a vegetable of the day was standard fare. The wine list was limited, and cocktails were not served. Desserts were very popular and brought customers in all through the day, although they were required to sit near the bakery counter at the front in an area of smaller tables that allowed for self-serve beverages with desserts.
After giving me a quick tour of the kitchen, Twyla and I went upstairs to her office. She told me she lived above the restaurant and was there for me whenever I needed her. She stressed that customer service was paramount and reminded me that the customer is always right. However, she was adamant about not varying from the menu and said I should refer customers who wanted sandwiches, burgers, and a truck driver breakfast to the deli and diner across the street. She explained that she could not stay in business by duplicating those establishments. Instead, she catered to those with more discerning palates who were looking for atmosphere and a view of the ocean while they dined. She promised I would get generous tips if I gave good service and said I would start at $8.50 per hour, the current minimum wage. I completed the required employee forms, and she showed me where the time cards were located. She said Joel and the dinner chef, Simone, would train me in the kitchen routine. I promised to be back at 4 p.m. dressed in black slacks and a white shirt and eager to prove myself. Before I left, Twyla said she would like to treat me to something from the bakery. I settled on an orange-cranberry scone and coffee and watched customers come and go for a while.
After I left the tea room and while I was puzzling over the miscommunication between Sarah and Twyla, I realized I still had not heard from Sarah. I decided to wait until noon when she would be at lunch to call her.
Then I saw the man who was catching his breath when I was about to walk down the stairs to the beach. He came out of one of the cabins, got into an older Buick that was parked at the curb, did a U-turn, and drove past me. That was the first time I noticed the road leading south from the junction and following the coast.
Before I returned to the beach house, I crossed the street and walked to Frank's house. He was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch.
"Good morning, Frank," I said.
"Hello there, young lady. I guess I don't know your name," he said.
"It's Rachel Douglas. I was just hired as a waitress at Twyla's and don't have anyone to share my good news with," I said.
"Well, congratulations. I'll make it a point to eat there," he said.
"I'll be working the dinner shift until 9 p.m. I'm taking over Sarah Duncan's place," I said.
"Don't believe I know her. Say, could I ask you a favor now that you're here?"
"I'd love to do you a favor. What do you need?" I asked.
"I lost a button off my blue sweater yesterday. I had it in my hand one minute, and the next it was gone. I think it rolled under the bed. Could you find that for me and thread a needle so I can sew it back on?" he asked.
Frank's request was unexpected and reinforced my feeling that I belonged in Sunset. I had a job and my first new friend, too. I went into the bedroom, found the button easily, and located the blue thread and needle on top of his dresser. I brought the items to the porch and sat in the rocking chair next to Frank. I insisted on sewing on the button. I was happy he did not insist on paying me.
"How long have you lived in Sunset?" I asked.
"Not long. I'm from Seattle originally, but I've lived in Billings, Montana for the last twenty-four years. I never did get used to it, so I came back to the ocean to die."
"You look pretty healthy to me, Frank. What were you doing in Billings?" I asked.
"Trucking. I was a paper pusher, though, not the long-haul stuff," he said.
"I went to the university in Missoula. Are you familiar with that part of the state?" I asked.
"My son drove me through there on the way out here. That's about it."
"I'm glad to hear you have a family. The waitress at the diner said you didn't," I said.
"Gloria's right. My son was killed in an accident on his way back home. He wouldn't have been on the road except for me. It's the damnedest thing. How does an old coot like me keep drawing breath when someone as good as him is taken in his prime?" Frank's eyes were moist like the day before, and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
"I'm sorry, Frank. He wouldn't want you to blame yourself, though. Was he the reason you left Seattle and moved to Billings?" I asked.
"No. That was my own damn stupidity," he said, while blowing his nose. "What did you study at the university?" he asked.
"I went to law school there. My father wanted me to go to Harvard, but my boyfriend was going to UM. He partied a lot and flunked out. I stayed and got my degree."
"Well, I like you anyway," he laughed.
"You don't like people from Missoula?" I asked.
"Don't like lawyers. But I'll make an exception this once." He smiled.
I remembered Frank mentioned his daughter used to order an egg salad sandwich when Gloria was helping him with the menu the day before. I wanted to ask him about her, but he said he didn't have a family, so I was afraid I might open an old wound and cause him to cry again.
"So how did you find Sunset? It's pretty far off the beaten path." I decided to redirect the conversation.
"My son's the one who found this place on that web gadget," he said.
"Oh. You mean online--on the internet?"
"That's it. I guess it's this generation's answer to the party line," he laughed.
"Oh, you mean the shared telephone system people used in the early days? It's not quite the same. You don't have to ask someone to hang up so you can use the internet. I think the day's coming when people won't have a landline anymore. Do you have one?"
"Yes I do. It's all I need," he said.
I suggested that Frank and I trade phone numbers so he could call me if he needed anything. I wrote my cell number on a piece of notepaper for him and added him to my contacts. I tacked the paper with my number on it to a small corkboard that hung near his phone in the kitchen.
"I'd be lost without my cell phone," I said, as I returned to the porch. "I feel safer traveling alone with it, it takes photographs, and I can surf the web to find where things are in a new place like Sunset. In fact, I've been wondering if there's a grocery, gas station, and laundry here." I was digging for my phone so I could Google those services.
"The laundry is up the street where you see the sign renting cabins. You can get gas at the repair shop next to Twyla's if you don't mind paying a pretty penny, and you can get groceries down the road about a mile past the junction. If you want cheaper gas and groceries, you can get them in Hoquarten."
"Sarah gave me the impression there is just the one road in and out of here. It's pretty narrow and curvy. Where does the road to the right of the junction go?" I asked.
"It goes to Hoquarten. There's no need to take the upper road unless you want to see the lighthouse or kill time. But I read in the paper they'll be closing the coast road for repairs soon. In that case, the upper road is all we've got. There's no shopping in Sunset, really. You'll need to go to Hoquarten for most things. It's not more than an hour round trip on the coast road. I drove it myself until just lately. Dennis has been good about asking if I need something when he's going there. He just left. I told him there's a nice looking young lady from Philly in town. Dennis lived there most of his life. He's anxious to meet you."
"I didn't ask your last name, Frank."
"It's Case. Easy for a lawyer to remember," he said, laughing.
Frank invited me to have lunch with him, but I explained that I had just eaten a scone at Twyla's and wasn't hungry. I promised to come by the next day and tell him about my first night as a waitress.
I crossed the street and sat on a bench near the stairs to the beach. My call to Sarah went right to her voicemail, so I assumed she turned off her phone while she was having lunch. I was anxious to ask her about Twyla's mistaken idea that she had returned to Pennsylvania, but I didn't want to get into that in a message. I mentioned I would start my waitress job that night and was looking forward to it. I ended by asking her to stop by Twyla's or to leave a message so I could retrieve it on my break.
As I was approaching the beach house, a middle-aged redhead wearing a multi-color moo moo and flip flops struggled to get out of her car while ordering me to “wait just a minute.” I assumed she was a tourist who wanted directions. I stopped at the bottom of the porch and turned to face her.
"I'm new here myself, so I probably can't help you," I said.
"Are you Rachel Douglas?" she asked.
"Yes. Do I know you?" I asked. She was carrying a clipboard, so this time I assumed she was either circulating a petition or working for some government agency.
"I'm Dinah Devore. Have you seen Sarah? She still owes me for last month," she said, almost breathless from the exertion required to haul her extra weight out of the car and up the slight incline to the beach house.
"Pleased to meet you. I haven't seen Sarah yet. So far, she's left me two messages that she had to work late and didn't want to drive home in the dark. I've just been hired as a waitress at Twyla's. I can assume Sarah's lease any time and start paying rent. Do you mind taking a check on an Arizona bank? I lived there last year while I finished a creative writing program," I said.
"I have the lease right here. I'll have to ask you for two months in advance. I let Sarah pay a month at a time, but she's overdue. She didn't give me any idea when she planned on paying before she dropped out of sight. I need to check the inside for damages, too," Dinah said.
"Please come in," I said, while fishing for the key under the brick.
"I wouldn't hide a key outside, now that we know the type of riff-raff this parking lot attracts," Dinah said.
"I only left the key under the brick because that's where Sarah told me to look for it. I don't know if she has another key to let herself in if I'm not here," I said. I replaced the key and closed the door. I was about to ask Dinah about her comment when she interrupted me and pointed to the mural on the kitchen wall.
"Did you do that?" Dinah asked. She was livid.
"No. It was here when I arrived. I thought the owner must have approved of it, so I planned to buy something to put in front of it. It makes me uncomfortable," I said.
"It wasn't here when Sarah rented the house. I'm going to assume she is responsible and take the money out of her security deposit to have it painted over," she fumed.
"It doesn't look like Sarah's style of painting to me," I said. I had not seen what Sarah was doing currently, but it had not occurred to me that she might have painted the mural. I thought my opinion about the style was worth mentioning in defense of a friend.
"I wonder what else has gone wrong!" Dinah stormed into the living room and then checked the bathroom before coming back to the kitchen to look for damage there. "Well, it looks like that graffiti is the only damage. Do you mind living with it for a while? I may need to use her security deposit to cover the back rent. I don't have time to paint over that myself at the moment," Dinah said.
"Why don't you call Sarah and ask her to paint over it?" I suggested. I hoped Sarah might be in less trouble if Dinah could use the security deposit as rent instead of a repair.
"The number I have isn't good anymore. Do you have a new one?" she asked.
I pulled up my contacts and showed Dinah the number so she could copy it to her list. "Sarah didn't mention a security deposit. How much do you want?" I asked.
"It's always been equal to a month's rent. So you can write your check for three months of rent and thank Sarah for the inconvenience. This is the lease. Do you need to show it to someone?" Dinah asked.
"No. It looks fine. Here's my check. I'd like to add you to my contacts so I can call you when I have a question," I said. We traded numbers, and I signed the lease. Dinah was less angry now that she had a new renter, three months of rent, and was satisfied that Sarah's security deposit would be hers free and clear. She was carefully walking down the steps when I remembered what it was I wanted to ask her.
"Dinah, what did you mean about our knowing what kind of riff-raff is attracted to the parking lot?" I asked.
"The murder, of course. I suppose Sarah didn't bother to tell you about that, either. I don't have time now. Keep the door and windows locked. Be careful who you make friends with here. Other than that, it's a nice little community. You'll be glad you came," Dinah said, giving me a little wave of her hand as she opened her door and got into the car.
The small whirlwind created by Dinah's presence, her casual mention of a murder, the warning about making friends, and a nagging feeling that I didn't know Sarah anymore combined to leave me as stunned as if Dinah had delivered a sucker punch and left me sprawled on the porch.
Dinah had my signature on the lease and three months of rent, so I unpacked my car. I needed to focus on something positive. I reminded myself it would be easier to put my belongings away now that Sarah had removed anything of consequence to her new apartment in Hoquarten. Aside from a few nearly empty groceries in the kitchen, a roll of toilet paper and a clump of blonde hair on the floor in the bathroom, and some crumpled paper in the wastebasket in the bedroom, there was no sign of her. I set my laptop, printer, and accessories on the small desk centered on the west window. I would have a view to the ocean while I wrote my novel. I set my few decorations on the floor next to the futon until I had time to decide where each of them would fit the best.
I hung up my clothes in the closet, and then I removed the ironing board and iron and touched up my black slacks and white shirt to wear to Twyla's. I tried to be grateful Sarah had not neglected to tell me about the required server uniform. Otherwise, I would have had to drive to Hoquarten first thing to shop.
After eating a few crackers with cheese from a jar over the sink, I washed them down with a bottle of water and then added water to the list of groceries I had started on the drop leaf table. I found towels in the linen closet in the bathroom, dug my shampoo and conditioner out of my travel bag, and enjoyed a shower. I began to relax as I listened to the surf that I could see from the bathroom window while I applied my makeup and put my hair up in a bun.