Mermaids of Bodega Bay Read online

  THE MERMAIDS OF BODEGA BAY

  MARY BIRK

  Dedication

  To Edith Irene, for believing

  *****

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The Bodega Bay in this book is an entirely fictional place, as is the local police department and the Marine Lab, although the location of the town and some of the landmarks have been used (with creative license) as background landscape.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Birk

  eISBN: 978-0-9903277-1-4

  Cover Design by JT Lindroos

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  DAY ONE -SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 2009

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  DAY TWO - SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  DAY THREE - MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  DAY FOUR – TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 17

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  DAY FIVE – WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 18

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  DAY SIX - THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 19

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  DAY SEVEN – FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  DAY EIGHT – SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  DAY NINE - SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 22

  Chapter 83

  EPILOGUE

  SATURDAY, MARCH 14

  SUNDAY, MARCH 15

  Author’s Note

  DAY ONE - SATURDAY

  FEBRUARY 14, 2009

  Chapter 1

  SUPERINTENDENT TERRENCE REID de-planed at the San Francisco airport and glanced at his watch. Just after six. His wife should be finished with work for the day—assuming she was even in town. He should have called before booking his flight, but when he’d seen the article, realized it was her in the photograph, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but getting to where she was.

  He put his worn leather messenger bag down on a seat in a relatively empty area of the concourse, pulled out his mobile phone, and sat down. Taking a deep breath, he dialed her number, feeling his jaw set as it always seemed to these days when he dealt with her. He let it ring until it went through to voice mail. He left her a message to call him, then looked around for a place to wait for her call. No point in leaving the airport if it turned out she wasn’t here.

  He’d planned to go straight from Virginia back to Scotland after he finished his meetings with the FBI at Quantico. Then he’d seen the magazine article and knew he had to see Anne. He’d wanted to go to her before that, of course, but with things the way they were between them, he hadn’t been able to think of an excuse—until he’d seen the article.

  He found a quiet bar on the concourse and ordered a drink. Shaking his head when the waitress asked if he wanted to order any food, he set his mobile down in front of him so he’d be sure to hear it ring. He closed his eyes, briefly remembering the last time he’d been there and the fight they’d had. July, it had been. The worst fight they’d ever had.

  He glanced at his silent phone. Where was she? That was the hell of mobile phones. She could be anywhere. And wherever she was, she was likely with him. No, he was jumping to conclusions.

  Looking around, he noted he wasn’t the only one sitting by himself. A woman glanced back at him, looked like she’d smile if he did so first. He quickly averted his eyes and steepled his fingers, making sure his wedding band showed.

  He checked again that the ringer was on, then put his mobile down when the waitress came with his whiskey. Not his family’s label, but one of the newer competitors his father had mentioned last time they’d talked. The warm burn should have thawed his insides, but he was too filled with the sharp ice of dread for anything as mundane as alcohol to help.

  Nonetheless, he’d made his way through half of a second glass of liquid heat by the time his mobile finally rang. He couldn’t breathe when he saw the caller i.d. appear on the screen. Even though he’d been expecting her call, he felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

  Anne.

  He wanted to hear her voice so badly. It had been so long. Playing back her old phone messages didn’t count. He gripped the phone tightly. His heart lurched and he answered, trying to make his voice as impersonal as he could. He closed his eyes while he tried to get his senses about him.

  He took a deep breath. “Reid here.”

  “Terrence.” She paused, her voice uncertain. “It’s Anne. You left me a message?” He could imagine her biting her bottom lip; she always did that when she was nervous, and he knew he made her nervous. When had that started?

  In the background he could hear the noise of other people laughing, talking. She was out, then. At a restaurant, or maybe out for drinks. Saturday night, that was normal, wasn’t it? That didn’t mean she was with another man. She had work colleagues, family, she could be with anyone. He imagined her smiling, having fun with her friends. When had he last had fun?

  “Aye.” He swallowed, debating whether to tell her he was in town or wait to see what she said first.

  “Is something wrong? Are you okay?” Her voice was filled with concern and warmth. “It’s what—three in the morning there?”

  Her voice was like that, interested and breathless all at once, as if she couldn’t wait to hear what you were going to say. Her casual American accent had always delighted him, but now he cursed it. Cursed it because he had no idea if she was being friendly to him in particular, or if it was just her way of speaking. Safer to assume it wasn’t meant personally than to let himself think that she was happy
to hear from him, and then find out later that he’d misinterpreted things. He took care that no unwelcome warmth tainted his own voice when he responded.

  “I’m fine. I’m not in Glasgow. I’m in San Francisco.” His eyes flickered to the windows of the bar. Outside on the runway, airplanes waited with their landing gear swirled in misty wisps of fog.

  “Excuse me? Sorry, Terrence, it’s hard to hear.” Celebratory sounds swirled around her. Music, glasses clinking. “Did you say you’re in San Francisco?”

  “Aye. I thought maybe we could get together.” He swallowed. “Have dinner.” He could be with her in less than an hour. Her flat in downtown San Francisco was easy to get to on BART.

  Silence sat between them, then finally she said, “I’m so sorry, but I’m not there. I’m in Bodega Bay. I’m working on a project here.”

  Bodega Bay. Where she grew up. Where her sisters lived. Where he lived.

  This would be the off-season in the sleepy northern California seaside town. The restaurants shouldn’t be so busy, so noisy. So she was at a party. A large party from the sound of it.

  Then he remembered. It was Valentine’s Day. He wasn’t a detective for nothing.

  He held his half-empty glass against his forehead. He hadn’t sent her a card, flowers, anything—but then, she wouldn’t have expected him to do so. Now he fervently wished he had. He could have included a note, said something conciliatory that would reopen communications between them.

  “I see.”

  Silence, then he heard her expel a soft breath. “Did something happen? Is your family all right?”

  “They’re fine.” He forced his pride down into a hole he’d never sent it to before. “I need to see you, Anne.”

  “Oh.” Her voice turned wary and he felt her drifting away.

  He made himself go on, try to hold on to that disappearing tendril of her attention, bring her back to their conversation. “We need to talk.”

  “You haven’t sent me the papers. I was wondering what was taking so long. Was I supposed to do something?” Her tone was cool, no hint that she still wanted him to change his mind about the annulment.

  “I haven’t sent you anything because I haven’t done anything.”

  “Oh?” This time the word was soft, confused.

  “I miss you.” He closed his eyes, his longing overtaking him.

  “What did you say? I’m sorry, Terrence, it’s hard to hear you.”

  Christ, had he said that out loud? He cleared his throat. “I said I need to talk to you.”

  “I can’t. Not tonight.” The noise in the background got louder and someone spoke to her and she responded, “Just a minute, I’ll be right there. Just finishing up a call.”

  Stung by the casual tone of her words, he realized how little his call meant to her. She was anxious to get back to her friends. Or to him?

  “Never mind, Anne. This is obviously a bad time. I’ve got to get back to Scotland anyway. I was over here on some business and thought I’d call to see how you’re doing. I’ll be flying out later tonight.” He didn’t bother to tell her his business had been on the other side of the country, that coming to San Francisco had meant a three-thousand-mile detour. Maybe he could still get a flight back home tonight.

  He heard her draw in her breath, then her words rushed out. “Can we talk tomorrow? Meet someplace? I can come down to the city.”

  Relief washed through his veins; she hadn’t told him to go away. But his jealousy didn’t let him leave well enough alone. “Where’s the party?”

  She didn’t speak at first, then said, “The Grainger Art Colony. That’s where the job I’m working on is.”

  Damn, damn, and damn it all to bloody hell.

  He’d seen her photograph with Andrew Grainger in a magazine he’d flipped through in the lobby of his hotel in Virginia. Andrew Grainger. An artist, and probably not coincidentally, her sister Meg’s husband’s brother.

  Reid had felt physically ill when he’d realized that the woman in the photograph was Anne. Grainger was holding her hand and looking at her as if she were his. They looked elegant and happy. A couple. He’d thought desperately that maybe she had just been doing her sister’s husband a favor by attending the gallery opening with his brother. But when Reid examined the picture, he’d recognized the expression on the other man’s face. He’d seen it on his own face.

  Andrew Grainger was in love with her.

  Reid had made himself read the article, hoping for some logical explanation, but it was about Grainger and a big art auction that was being held for some of his paintings, not about Anne. A widower, the article said, and the paintings he’d sold were of his late wife, a ballerina. The only mention of Anne was in the caption of the photograph, and as she had never taken Reid’s name, they had used her maiden name.

  But if she was working on a job there, maybe there was an innocent explanation for the photo. No, a job didn’t explain the hand-holding, or the way the other man had been looking at her.

  Reid struggled for normalcy. “Are you staying at the Mermaids?”

  “Yes, Jeanne is almost ready to open for business.” Anne’s youngest sister, recently widowed herself, was turning their family’s seaside home, whimsically named the Mermaids of Bodega Bay, into a Bed and Breakfast.

  Surely that was a good sign. If Anne and Andrew Grainger were lovers, wouldn’t she be staying with him? His heart aching with hope, he decided to push it. “Can’t we meet later tonight? I’ll drive up there.” He looked at his watch. He’d need to pick up a rental car, then an hour and a half to get there, surely he could make it by ten?

  “I really can’t tonight. Tomorrow?” Her voice was affectionate, another good sign.

  He frowned. “When’s the party over?”

  “Late.”

  “How late? I can’t get there until about ten anyway.”

  “How about lunch tomorrow?” Now her tone was evasive, and a black liquid dread rushed through him. Was she going to spend the night with Andrew Grainger? He tried to tell himself she wouldn’t sleep with another man, even with as bad as things were between them. But he knew better. Knew her better. Knew he shouldn’t have come, knew he needed to leave.

  Careful not to show his devastation, he made his voice icy. “I’d rather a quick breakfast. Then I can get an earlier flight out from San Francisco after we’ve talked. Settled things.” He drew himself up, made his face impassive, hoping his pretense of indifference would carry through the phone. He’d saved his pride, ensured that she didn’t think he was begging her to come back to him, but if they met for breakfast, at least he’d get to see her. He couldn’t leave without seeing her. Not after being so close.

  It had been so long.

  “You’re leaving tomorrow?” Was that regret in her voice? Then in the background, he heard a masculine voice and strained to hear the words.

  The man’s voice was indulgent but proprietary. “Babe, come on, I need you. Can you call whoever it is back later?”

  Babe? Had the man been talking to Anne? Surely not.

  But her voice, muffled, said something in answer to the man and despair flattened Reid like a piano falling from the window of a high rise on an unsuspecting passerby.

  Then he heard his own voice, completely unemotional, say, “Go on, Anne. Sounds like you’re needed.” He congratulated himself that no hint of the mortal wound he’d just suffered came through in either his words or tone.

  “Terrence. I’m so sorry, this is just a bad time. Breakfast works. Nine at the café downtown?”

  Not at the Mermaids, then. Was she taking Grainger back there after the party? Maybe she was worried she couldn’t get him out of the house before her husband showed up.

  It didn’t matter. Reid couldn’t meet with her now, anyway. What would he say? He couldn’t go through with his original half-arsed plan to spend some time getting back on friendly terms with her, then show her the magazine article. He had been going to warn her about putting herself in a
position where she would be photographed in such a way that would allow misinterpretation, especially in a magazine so widely circulated. A magazine his family and colleagues would surely see. Had surely seen already. But he’d sound like a fool. There was no misinterpretation. It was exactly what it looked like.

  And he couldn’t tell her the rest of the things he’d planned to say. That he desperately wanted her back. That he was finally ready to compromise. That he was sorry.

  “Go on back to your party, lassie.” His stomach hurt so badly he had to stop himself from bending over with the pain. “We don’t need to meet. There’s really nothing to talk about.” He looked down at his glass. Had he drunk the rest of his whiskey without even noticing? Ignoring the burning in his gut, he signaled to the waitress to bring him another.

  The voice in the background where Anne was became more insistent. To whoever was talking to her, she said, her voice impatient, “I’m coming. I’ll be there in a minute.” She spoke into the phone, “Terrence, nine? Okay?”

  He said nothing, knowing he couldn’t speak without betraying his feelings. He pulled his mobile away from his ear and hung up, flipping the ringer off, then switched over to the e-mail screen and drafted a message to his father with his analysis of the competing whiskey.

  He’d get a flight out, if not tonight, then first thing in the morning. He’d go home to Dunbaryn for a visit, maybe stay a while, work on training some of the younger falcons and owls that would be ready about now. He’d been neglecting his family, trying to avoid awkward questions about the state of his marriage. But by now they would have seen the magazine, seen Anne’s photograph with another man, and he’d tell them the marriage had been over for a long time. They would be able to tell from his manner that he was fine, that he didn’t care.

  And he had his work. Work would keep him busy.

  He drained his glass and looked down, his attention caught by a text message that popped up on his mobile.

  I’ll be at the café at 9. Or text me and I’ll meet you for lunch in the city. Don’t leave without seeing me. Please. Anne

  He closed his eyes and, like a fool, let himself hope.

  Chapter 2

  LUCY SHEARLING stubbed out her cigarette, blew out the last of the smoke, and hopped on to the paper-covered cushion of the metal examining table. The small tattoo parlor had been upgraded since she’d first come here years ago, but it still had that same funky smell of ink and skin and sweat and mischief. Ominous posters of elaborately tattooed bodies still covered every inch of wall space not taken up with the ubiquitous State of California warnings and regulations. On a table to the side, a red and black laser machine squatted, waiting.