Foggy Rocks Murder, page 2
“Goodness! How many potholes can one road have?” She spotted the Pacific peeking through a set of trees on her right while noticing that the road would soon give way to wet sand. The sandy road ran parallel to the cliff wall alongside the wide-open ocean that now appeared dark and stormy.
Patricia stopped the front tires of the Winnebago inches away from the sandy road. All she saw was rain, the cliff wall, and the stormy Pacific. “I can’t risk getting stuck. Where is this silly bed and breakfast?”
Torn between the risk of turning around and driving uphill back to town or traveling down the sandy road, she tried to make a logical, practical decision as the rain began to fall heavier and heavier.
“Guess this is all part of the job,” she finally sighed and got moving again. The Winnebago whined as it crawled onto the wet sand but didn’t get stuck. She nodded in approval and kept moving at a steady pace, praying every inch of the way, until the sandy road ended at a… floating house?
“What in the world?” Patricia hit the brakes and squinted. Off in the distance, she spotted a large three-story manor—a manor that had once served as a hotel for hearty sailors who had lived in forgotten times. The structure sat on a beach surrounded by water… or so it appeared. “It’s a… moat!”
The manor was indeed surrounded by a deep moat that had been created in 1815, not long after the incident concerning the Invisible Pirate. The moat had been dug deep and wide, then filled with sea rocks to secure the walls and floor. Once that task was complete, the dark waters of the Pacific were allowed to enter the moat like a savage guard coming on duty.
“Well, this picture wasn’t on the internet, either. Looks like Ms. Garfield is using false images on her website.”
Patricia sighed, spotted a gravel parking lot holding three vehicles—a green truck, a white SUV, and a blue Jeep—and decided to find a parking place. She cautiously drove the Winnebago over a creaky wooden bridge and entered the parking lot. Fortunately, the parking lot gave Patricia enough room to park on the north side without blocking the other guests, whoever they were.
“Okay. Let’s get inside and get checked in.”
Patricia grabbed her purse and reached into the heart of her Winnebago, where she located her suitcase and umbrella, made sure her sea-blue dress was suitable in appearance—even though she knew the dress was very suitable—and stepped out into the rain.
“Oh, my laptop! Well, I’ll come back. Need to get checked in first.”
Patricia closed and locked the side door and hurried across the gravel parking lot, glancing up at the manor as she did. It loomed overhead like a menacing giant in the falling rain, glaring down at Patricia. The cliff wall that stood to her right slanted back toward the beach on the north side, seeming to hold the manor in place between its rocks and a miserable-looking beach.
“What’s worse…? This awful place or the ocean just beyond…?” Patricia murmured as she heard the punishing waves crashing down on the beach. Tall, sharp rocks jutted out of the dark waters sitting off the beach like knives hungry for the hand of a cruel killer. “Okay, imagination, cool it, okay? This is just a simple assignment, nothing else. This isn’t Ohio, and this isn’t a distant island housing a deranged killer.”
Forcing her imagination to calm down wasn’t easy, but Patricia managed to get control of her thoughts as she reached a wooden, weather-torn door with the face of a scary-looking old sailor carved into it. She sighed, opened the door, and stepped into a damp foyer smelling of salt, rain, and pipe tobacco smoke. The foyer was designed to resemble a cabin room that belonged to an old warship.
“Not bad. Authentic, at least,” Patricia whispered as she scanned the place. She walked toward a spacious lobby whose décor matched the foyer’s.
A woman with long black hair was resting on a creaky rocking chair perched in front of a marble fireplace. The woman turned, and Patricia saw that she appeared to be around her own age. When she spotted Patricia, the woman rolled her eyes and focused back on the fire.
“Well, hello to you too,” Patricia grumbled.
“Can I help you?” a voice called out.
Patricia turned to see a pretty red-headed woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. She was standing behind a long wooden counter carved to look like the front of a lifeboat.
“Yes, I’m Patricia McKay. I believe you are expecting me,” Patricia stated as she walked up to the front counter.
Samantha Garfield brushed at her dark gray blouse and clasped her pale hands together. “Oh, yes, Ms. McKay. I’m very glad you made it,” she said, trying to sound warm and welcoming—trying being the operative word. Instead, a cold, even hostile welcome entered Patricia’s ears. “I was worried when the rain began to fall.”
“Well, I wasn’t too certain my Winnebago was ready to fight the sandy road I just drove down,” Patricia admitted, setting down her suitcase. “But here I am.” She tried to flash a friendly smile.
I’m not on a distant island trapped in a run-down stone hotel. At least this place has a little life to it, and it’s attached to the mainland of the good ol’ US of A. If there is any trouble, I can just get in my RV and drive away. But there shouldn’t be any trouble… this is just a simple assignment. I have to stop letting that old man get to me.
“I’ll get checked in and then go find something to eat, if that’s okay,” Patricia said.
“That will be fine,” Samantha said with a nod. She reached under the front counter and retrieved a very stylish laptop. “I’ll bring up your reservation and get you checked in.”
Patricia was relieved to see that Samantha wasn’t checking her in with a feather pen. From the looks of things, Samantha was educated, independent, and very capable, handling technology far better than most women her age.
While Samantha worked on Patricia’s reservation, Regina Hanton stood up from the rocking chair she’d been resting in, looked over her smart-looking gray and green dress, and slipped on a pair of glasses designed for style rather than need. She walked over to Patricia.
“Patricia McKay?” she asked sourly.
Patricia turned her head and saw Regina staring at her. “Yes, I’m Patricia McKay.”
Regina studied Patricia. Patricia was very beautiful—far more beautiful than Regina would ever be. “Oh, yes, the travel writer. I’ve read some of your work. Amateurish, at best, I’m afraid. Your work lacks a certain… intelligence and maturity. Now I see why.”
“Excuse me?” Patricia asked, feeling her cheeks heat.
Samantha raised her head. “Leave my guest alone, Regina,” she warned.
Regina ignored her. “My name is Regina Hanton. I own and operate the Double Sunset House Calls blog,” she explained snootily. “My blog is read by millions. Countless developers cringe at my reviews. Why? Because I make and I break people.”
“Never heard of your blog,” Patricia said coldly. “I’m too busy to read bathroom material,” she added.
“Bathroom material?” Regina repeated with a scowl.
Samantha eyed Regina with hard eyes. “Regina Hanton is, unfortunately, my cousin. She is staying here for a week.”
“To help you put this drab manor back on the map,” Regina reminded Samantha. She glanced back at Patricia with hateful eyes. “Why did you invite this… person here? Do you believe her pathetic words hold more power than mine?”
“The travel magazine Ms. McKay writes for is read by millions around the globe,” Samantha informed Regina in a voice that didn’t sit well with her cousin. “A guest introduced me to the travel magazine. I need all the help I can get, Regina. I’m not exactly staying in the green anymore. This manor is dying. My guests are trickling in instead of pouring in.”
“I am going to change that—”
“I didn’t ask for your help, Regina,” Samantha snapped. “You showed up a couple of days ago unannounced and offered to write a few blogs post for me, remember? I didn’t ask for your help, and I’m making that very clear right here and right now.”
Regina narrowed her eyes, looking at Patricia like she was a rotten piece of fruit. “If you need professional advice, I’m available, but to be honest, your work is very elementary. I wonder if you even attended a single writing course in college?”
“No, just courses on how to spot good toilet paper,” Patricia said tartly. “I’ll recommend your work to my bathroom tonight.”
Regina’s eyes flashed with rage. “I make over five hundred grand a year. What do you make writing your slop?”
“Oh, a few pennies here and there. But I do get to travel a lot and meet wonderful people like yourself, and that makes my job worthwhile.”
Regina looked ready to tangle in a serious catfight.
“We can continue our meeting outside if you’d like?” Patricia offered. After nearly being strangled to death in a corn maze, this woman doesn’t scare me. I’ll rip her scalp off and feed it to the fish.
“I won’t lower myself to the levels of peasants who resort to violence,” Regina said coldly. “Violence is for minds who do not understand that we live in a civilized world.” With those words, she marched over to a wooden L-shaped staircase and vanished.
“What a dingbat,” Patricia muttered.
Samantha watched her cousin disappear. “She showed up unexpectedly. I would have sent her away, but the truth is, the traffic on her blog is impressive. Regina gets millions of views a day. She’s a recognized blogger who gets invited to speak at major blogging events. And as Regina said, her blog does make or break people. She showed me an article as proof.” She shook her head as she went back to checking Patricia in. “A brand-new beach development went belly-up because Regina wrote a scathing review. If she can use her blog for me, then so be it.”
Patricia glanced at the staircase. “I’ve never heard of Regina Hanton. And after today, I never want to see that woman again.”
“Look,” Samantha said, studying Patricia, “do me a favor and stay clear of her, okay? You’re here as a guest to write a supportive article aimed at helping me bring more publicity to my establishment. The last thing in the world I need is for you and Regina to tear each other’s eyes out.”
Patricia began to speak but stopped when the front door opened. A handsome man who was maybe a couple of years older than her stepped inside. She studied him, saw that he was wearing a green and brown sheriff’s uniform, and sighed. What now? Am I going to be arrested for parking in the wrong spot?
Patricia glanced back at Samantha. To her dismay, she saw the woman staring at the man in uniform with cold, if not vicious eyes.
This assignment may not be so simple after all. Looks like the old man I met was right. Foggy Rocks is a cursed place… and so, it appears, are the people who live here.
Chapter Three
“What do you want, Sheriff Pinski?” Samantha asked irritably.
Robbie Pinski removed a brown hat, revealing a full head of disheveled brown hair. He slapped the hat against his leg to knock off some rainwater and looked at Patricia with inquisitive green eyes.
“Is that your motor home parked out front, ma’am?” he asked in a voice that wasn’t rude or harsh, just curious. He didn’t come off as a sarcastic cop who wanted to gun down everyone in his path. In reality, the man cared about his job and cared about people.
“Yes. Is there a problem?” Patricia asked, showing the proper amount of respect without sounding weak.
“Why are you here?” Samantha asked the sheriff again, impatient.
Robbie carefully approached the front counter and eyed Samantha. “Your cousin has death threats against her. As long as she is in my county, I’m going to stop by and check on her once a day,” he explained, annoying Samantha by speaking in a calm demeanor that Patricia respected. “Where is Ms. Hanton?”
“She went to her room… I guess,” Samantha answered huffily, nodding toward the staircase. “Regina gave Ms. McKay a rude welcome and went upstairs after Ms. McKay stood up to her.”
Robbie turned his eyes to Patricia, noticing she was an extremely beautiful woman—more beautiful than any plastic face he saw on television. “What happened, ma’am?”
Patricia sighed. “Oh, just another dissatisfied customer who doesn’t like the articles I write.”
“Ms. McKay is a travel writer,” Samantha explained. “She writes for a very posh travel magazine based in Atlanta.”
“You’re from Georgia?” Robbie asked Patricia.
“Born and raised,” Patricia answered, offering a polite smile. “I’ve traveled to Portland a few times in the past. Oregon is a beautiful state. I especially enjoy the coastline, though this is my first time visiting Foggy Rocks. Uh… any comments about the town? I don’t mean to sound rude, but the town I saw doesn’t look like the one advertised on the internet.”
Maybe the sheriff can give me a few honest words. I honestly don’t believe Samantha or Regina will offer any hidden truths about Foggy Rocks or this old manor.
Robbie placed his hands behind his back, his stance revealing to Patricia that he was ex-military. “Foggy Rocks is falling apart at the seams,” he said. Samantha rolled her eyes. “It sits in a large county, but the county itself is very rural. The town of Foggy Rocks, as you saw, is just a one-road filled with old driftwood structures. The photos online are pretty much photo-shopped, but what can I do about that? People don’t travel to Foggy Rocks to shop.”
He eyed Patricia. It was clear to him that Patricia McKay was a very intelligent woman who probably knew every ounce of history about Foggy Rocks. “You’re aware of the pirate and the gold and all that?” he asked.
Patricia nodded. “Gold hunters come to Foggy Rocks for yellow rocks, not sea-smelling candles.” She looked around the front lobby. “But business does seem to be… dull. Has business been this dull for a while?”
“People get tired of leaving Foggy Rocks empty-handed,” Robbie explained, eyeing Samantha carefully. “People have been leaving Foggy Rocks empty-handed for the last year or so. Used to be that someone would find a gold nugget or two in one of the seaside caves.”
“Really?” Patricia asked.
“Every so often… oh, about four or six months apart… some treasure hunter would find a little gold,” Robbie confirmed, sounding well-informed as he glanced again at Samantha, who was frowning but not saying a word. “The newspapers would set the find on fire, and people would rush to Foggy Rocks from all parts of the world. But for the last year or so, empty hands have been leaving town.”
“And that hurts business,” Patricia finished for Robbie.
Robbie eyed Samantha again and focused on Patricia’s lovely face. “Afraid so.”
Samantha reached under the front desk, grabbed a wooden box holding old keys, and hurried to find Patricia’s room key. “You’ll be in room #7. Go up the stairs and turn left. It’s the last door on the left facing the ocean.”
Hope my room is better than the rat-infested room in Paris I was forced to stay in. “Room # 7. Got it,” Patricia said, taking the old rusty key attached to a green plastic slip with “7” written on it. “I’ll… be on my way, then.”
She picked up her suitcase, retrieved her purse from the front counter, and looked at Robbie. I have more questions, but now isn’t the time. The sheriff will be back. Right now, I want to rest. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” Robbie assured Patricia. Instead of leaving, he walked to the fireplace and began warming his hands. “I want to speak to Regina Hanton. Will you call her room?” he asked Samantha.
Patricia didn’t wait around for Samantha to answer. She walked to the staircase, eyeing the old wooden stairs, and climbed to the second floor.
“Death threats… well, that shouldn’t be so surprising,” she whispered to herself, thinking about Regina as she hung a left and walked down a shadowy hallway that reminded her of a 1776 naval ship. The air roaming the hallway felt damp and smelled of tobacco pipe, sea salt, and dust. “Regina Hanton isn’t the nicest woman, and I’m sure she has made a few enemies.”
She walked past a few closed doors before finding her room. She quickly unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped into a room that, to her relief, looked or smelled nothing like a rat-infested Paris motel room. The room was large and held a king-sized bed covered with a clean blue and brown blanket that matched the walls and other furnishings.
“Methinks someone likes the blue and brown,” Patricia said, spotting a couch perched next to a cobblestone fireplace. “Still, I must admit that whoever built this manor did an excellent job.”
Feeling hungry and tired from her drive, Patricia set down her suitcase and walked to the large oval window along the west wall. She gazed out at the stormy Pacific to assure her nerves that there was nothing to be afraid of.
“That silly old man really spooked me,” she said, pulling back the thick curtain. “Wow.”
A long, deserted beach appeared before Patricia’s eyes. Beyond the beach stood the ocean, outlined with cursed rocks and jutting out of the water like howling cries that would never be heard by a healing heart. “That is some sight. Very creepy and melancholy.”
Furious, thunderous waves attacked the deserted beach like cannons on a battlefield. Once the waves crashed against the beach, the water would slither behind the rocks, reform, and then attack again… and again… growing angrier by the second. The only safe spot, it seemed to Patricia, was where the beach ended and what appeared to be a precipitous rock trail began. The trail ran north, reaching the base of the cliff that hovered over the manor, and then dove into a steep incline that forced the waves into defeat. The south part of the beach turned into grassy dunes that looked brittle and unfriendly.
“Not much of a beach. About fifty yards of clear sand before reaching the cliff going north and the dunes going south. If I’m not mistaken, the beach looks manmade too.”
Patricia started to close the curtains. As she did, a figure suddenly appeared on the beach. It was impossible to tell who was down on there, but whoever it was, the person was staggering around like a drunken sailor.
