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  Rum Cake Cottage

  A Pajaro Bay Mystery

  Barbara Cool Lee

  Pajaro Bay Publishing

  Contents

  Introduction

  Newsletter

  Copyright & Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Booklist

  Newsletter

  Charities

  Stay in Touch

  Introduction

  Pajaro Bay's hunky surfing Santa is perfectly dressed for a coastal Christmas in his mirrored shades and cut-off jeans, but when he spots the woman who broke his heart in the crowd, his holiday spirit takes a nosedive.

  Roxy isn't in a Christmas mood either. She spent ten years in prison for a crime she didn't commit, and now she's got seventy-two hours to find the real killer, or she'll lose her daughter forever. But how can she convince her child's father to help, when he thinks she's nothing but trouble?

  * * *

  Previously published as Dashing Through the Surf.

  Welcome to Pajaro Bay, the little California beach town where the cottages are cute, the neighbors are nosy, and it's always possible to find your personal Happily Ever After.

  * * *

  1. Honeymoon Cottage

  2. Boardwalk Cottage

  3. Lighthouse Cottage

  4. Little Fox Cottage

  5. Rum Cake Cottage

  6. Songbird Cottage

  7. Sunshine Cottage

  8. Riverstone Cottage

  Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Cool Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Neither the author nor the publisher claim responsibility for adverse effects resulting from the use of any recipes, projects, and/or information found within this book.

  Originally published: June 29, 2017

  This edition published: March 1, 2018

  2021-01-16-K

  Prologue

  TEN YEARS AGO

  * * *

  "Where's Mr. Freitas?" Roxy asked.

  Jake pretended he didn't hear her, in that way he always did, furrowing his brow and looking distracted so he could turn to her when she repeated the question and say, "Sorry, darlin', I didn't hear you," and then never answer.

  "We've gotta hurry," he said. His armored-truck driver uniform was dirty, and he kept looking around like he was waiting for something, and again she wanted to ask, where's Mr. Freitas, but something stopped her.

  Where is he? Where's old Mr. Freitas who always smiles and makes small talk with me when you're busy with whatever you're always busy with, Jake? What had Mr. Freitas said when you asked him to pull the armored truck off the road in this clearing in the redwoods miles from the highway? And why was I supposed to drive my grandma's car here at 7:30 on a Friday night to meet you? A Friday night when I was supposed to be at the homecoming dance with nerdy boy-next-door Xander O'Keeffe, but you called and so I came running for you in my swirly fuchsia homecoming dress that was perfect for dancing. The dress you didn't even notice.

  Even now the memory of Jake whispering on the phone in his gruff voice, "I want to see you, darlin'," made her neck tingle at the rush she got from this dangerous man, a rush like staring into an abyss and teetering right on the edge, ready to dive into oblivion.

  The thought of the single time they'd been together made her shiver, but at the same time her stomach ached and she was sure she was going to be sick.

  She was. She went over by one of the towering redwoods that circled the clearing and retched until she was done with it. She could feel the rough bark of the tree trunk under her hand as she steadied herself. When she looked back in the following years, that would be the one thing that seemed real, concrete about this night: the feel of that tree trunk under her hand. She wouldn't notice the splinters until later, much later, after this night had spun out of control and she found herself sitting in the back of the police car trying to make sense of what had happened.

  And all the while she was sick, Jake never asked if she was all right. His phone rang twice, and she heard his murmured voice as he answered, but she was too busy being sick to hear anything else.

  Ditching trusty neighbor boy Xander at the dance to run off into the woods to meet Jake no longer sounded like the ultimate rebellion that would make her feel brave and free and wild. It was no longer a game she played, throwing herself headlong into trouble in some vain attempt to protest her grandmother's oppressive rules, rules that were supposed to tame her into a good girl so unlike her own wild mother.

  None of that mattered now while standing in the dusk in the redwoods with the silence all around and one question on her lips that she didn't dare say out loud.

  Where was Mr. Freitas?

  She didn't ask. She knew the answer was right there, just below the surface of her consciousness, but she didn't want to look below the surface, not with Jake just five feet away, with his dirty uniform and a gun in his holster and his suddenly mean eyes looking right through her like she wasn't his darlin' at all. Like she was a useful idiot who served some purpose she hadn't yet figured out, and he had more important things on his mind than making her feel better about the decision she had made to throw her life away at the age of seventeen.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the prickle of Xander's orchid corsage rub against her inner arm. She jiggled on her feet, nervous as always, trying to keep from shivering. The shivering wasn't from cold.

  "Get in the car, darlin'," said Jake. So she went over to grandma's old AMC Pacer with its faded olive-green paint and ripped vinyl seat that caught at her dress. Jake opened the driver's side door for her. Always a gentleman, was Jake.

  She got in, scrunching down the layers of frothy pink tulle that had made the dress pouf out so nicely when she twirled in it. She grabbed onto the steering wheel, holding tight until her knuckles turned white.

  "You love me, don't you?" she asked him, feeling stupid, like she always felt when she asked him.

  "Hmmm?" he said. "Sorry, darlin', I didn't hear you." He slammed the car door shut. "Give me your phone." She handed him her hot pink Razr phone, the one she'd put rhinestones all over. He stuck it in his pocket without explaining why. "Get going. I'll be in the truck behind you." He gave directions, down off the mountain into Pajaro Bay, and then north out of town to Tin Can Cove. "You know where?" he asked.

  She nodded. It was an isolated spot a couple of miles up the highway. Even then, at that final point, it didn't occur to her to just drive back to the dance, back to the one boy who believed she was something worth saving. She'd spend the next ten years wondering why.
>
  "Don't be late."

  So she drove, the old Pacer sluggish and slow as it came down off the mountain road, while Jake in the armored truck passed her at a roar, his headlights raking across the road in front of them and then disappearing around the next turn. She didn't dare ask about that, either.

  Is Mr. Freitas okay?

  Do you love me, Jake?

  Is everything going to be all right?

  An hour later, as she knelt next to the old car, vainly trying to change a flat tire, she saw the flashing lights of the local sheriff pulling up next to her, and she knew all the answers were no.

  Chapter One

  Ten Years Later

  Saturday, November 25

  Pajaro Bay, California

  * * *

  It couldn't be. But the resemblance was uncanny.

  Alec saw the woman walk past the window of his tiny newspaper office, and he was on his feet before he realized what he had done.

  "Alec? Don't you agree?" Kyle Madrigal said from behind him, but Alec ignored him for the moment.

  It couldn't be her. Of course it wasn't. He went over to the window and peered through the plate glass, trying to get a better look.

  The etching on the outside of the window appeared backwards from inside the room, but he knew what it said: The Pajaro Bay Sentinel: All the news that fits on twelve pages. Founded 1920. And in smaller print below, Alexander Quincy O'Keeffe, Editor. There were way too many letters cluttering up the view. Kept him from getting a good look at the woman.

  She had crossed the street, and now stopped outside Santos' Market, less than a block away. A short woman, under five feet tall. Tiny and wiry, like an echo of someone he'd once known. Lithe and athletic in a little package. Deceptively narrow shoulders that could carve their way through ocean waves, slender legs that could outrun him, dart past him, sneak up behind him so she could give him a quick kiss when least expected. A dose of quicksilver that glimmered and beckoned, mesmerizing him, and then burned itself out, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.

  At least, that was what the girl he'd once known had been like.

  This one was just a shadow, a mirage. The body type matched, but not the carriage. The shoulders hunched, almost apologetic, trying not to take up space. The head was down, watching her feet as she made her way past the kitschy storefronts.

  Most tourists looked up, gaping at the cute little cottages and the riotous flowers in all colors of the rainbow. They took selfies against the scenic backgrounds of this famously picturesque California beach town, and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  And they were overwhelmed by the charming chaos of the village: the mysterious cobblestoned alleys leading off to parts unknown, the constant clatter of seashell wind chimes, and the smiling, nosy natives.

  But not this woman. She skirted between the shoppers, ignored the vivid blue sky and the crisp, sea-cooled air, and acted like the village was invisible to her.

  The girl he'd known had been endlessly curious, incorrigibly adventurous, impossibly bubbly and excited about life—and unfathomably self-destructive. This random woman wasn't her.

  Why had he thought she was? It was the size and shape of her, he thought upon further examination. The Drew family had been known for their physical type: every one of them under five feet tall, men included. Skinny as can be, but strong and wiry in a way that led to the town axiom, tough as Slick, after Slick Drew, a long-ago rum smuggler who'd founded the clan. Now there were no Drews left in the village, for the two he'd known were gone. Grandma Drew had died some years back, and the other one….

  Was not this woman. No way. The woman staring at the posters plastered in the window of Santos' market wore nondescript tan pants, a tan shirt, and heavy black shoes. She carried a brown duffle bag. Fashion plate Roxy Drew wouldn't be caught dead dressed like that. Besides, Roxy had long brown hair, bleached to a warm, coppery gold where the sun hit it. This woman had short, dark curls, cut roughly into a style far from trendy.

  Why had he thought this random stranger was Roxy Lynn Drew?

  The woman must be close to thirty, and Roxy had been seventeen.

  Ten years ago.

  His stomach turned over.

  She wouldn't have the nerve to come back here. She couldn't do that to them.

  "You don't agree?" Kyle repeated. "I think your first order of business is to get the youth center started."

  "Um," Alec said. He stared out the window, but the woman had walked out of sight.

  "Mr. Mayor?" Kyle said.

  Alec pulled his attention back into the room. Pajaro Bay's last mayor, Kyle Madrigal, the richest guy in town and his friend since childhood, leaned against the empty desk opposite his own and grinned at him.

  Kyle had been grinning a lot lately. He'd made it no secret that he was sick of small town politics, and was thrilled that he'd been able to talk his younger friend into taking over the job of leading the village council.

  "Not getting cold feet, are you, Alec?"

  "Of course not." He came back and sat down at his desk again. He fiddled with the pink paper-mâché pencil cup Ria had given him for his birthday. Rad Dad was written on it with Ria's favorite glitter pen. He ran a finger over the lettering, and some of the glitter came off on his fingers.

  Roxy couldn't be here.

  He picked up a pencil and started doodling dates on a notepad.

  His fingers were shaking and he dropped the pencil. How stupid he felt, getting nervous, excited, wound up into a ball just because a tourist reminded him of someone he'd once known.

  "Gimme a minute," he said absently to Kyle.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  He'd forgotten about time off for good behavior. Alec's fingers clacked on the keyboard of his desktop computer as he looked up the good behavior reduction. Then he ran the numbers again.

  He looked down at the penciled numbers, smudged with Ria's glitter. An eleven-year prison term minus time off for good behavior would be nine years, four months, and thirteen days.

  He got online again, and entered the most important date in his life into the search box. How many days have passed since July 12, 2007? The result of the calculation stared back at him from the screen.

  Nine years, four months, and thirteen days. He tried to tell himself it was a coincidence.

  "Something wrong, Mr. Mayor?"

  Alec shook his head and smiled. It was a coincidence. It meant nothing. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Just distracted. And stop calling me Mr. Mayor."

  Kyle smiled. "I'm just so relieved to be free of this job. It's bad enough to serve on the village council, but to be appointed to be in charge, ugh. I guess I shouldn't keep telling you that. You might resign and they might re-elect me."

  "Don't worry. I like being on the village council, so holding the gavel won't be too bad. I hope." Alec stood up, shaking off the feeling of dread and getting back to the business at hand. "I can't accuse you of sugar-coating the job. You warned me about the ten p.m. calls from Mabel Rutherford to discuss the petunias in front of her shop. You warned me about the never-ending stray cat issue. You even warned me about this." He waved a hand over his outfit: cut-off faded jeans and a red-and-green Hawaiian shirt with psychotic-looking reindeer on it.

  Kyle picked up a mass of white curls from the desk. "Don't forget your beard, Santa."

  "Right." He put the beard on, hooking the elastic around his ears to hold it in place, then stood up.

  "Ready for your first official duty as mayor of Pajaro Bay?" Kyle asked.

  Alec put on his sunglasses. "Ready as I'll ever be."

  Roxy took the flyer the teenager handed her and looked for somewhere to sit in the crowd on the beach. The long walk from the bus station down to the oceanfront had tired her more than she expected. She hadn't gotten much exercise in a 6x8 cell.

  The beach held a big crowd for such a tiny coastal town. Everyone in the village used to show up for this, and from the looks of it, that hadn't changed.


  The event was always held in late November, almost as a dare to Mother Nature. And the weather nearly always obliged with a clear, cool day. Today was no exception. The ocean in front of her glittered. There had been no recent storm, so the waves were small, perfect for the games ahead.

  The beach was crowded, and up above, on the cliff behind her, there were people lined up in the backyards of the cliff-front cottages to watch. She could have gone up there to watch, since she now owned one of those coveted cottages, but she wanted to be closer, to get a better view of the reason she was here.

  There weren't many empty spots on the beach, though. She tried to find a place where she could get a good view of the event.

  A woman with curly red hair holding a ginger-haired baby in a front carrier waved to her.

  Roxy looked around, but didn't see anyone else the woman could be waving to.

  "Yeah, you," the redhead said. "Have a seat."

  Roxy went over to her. The woman had a couple of folding chairs set up, right in the front row. She sat in one and the one next to her was empty.

  "My husband had to go to work," the woman said. "So there's an extra spot. Please, take it. I'm getting tired of talking to myself."

  Roxy sat down on the folding chair next to her, and dropped the duffle bag she'd been carrying on the sand by her side.

  "I've been new in town, too," the woman said.