1 A Fairway to Arms
“There isn’t always an explanation for everything.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
“We need to meet!” Marty exclaimed.
“Now?” I asked.
“Yes, now. Midge has gone to wake up Neely. I‘ve called Neely half a
dozen times without getting an answer.”
Domino began to bark as a blast of noise rushed by us on the road
below the bluff. That included a fire truck horn, sirens, and the clanging of
a bell. I wasn’t sure if the sirens came from police or ambulances, but the
bell had to be the one on the volunteer firefighters’ rig. Marty had to be
calling about trouble, and it couldn’t be far away.
“Where do you us want to meet?”
“Are you decent?” Marty asked.
“I’m dressed if that’s what you mean. I haven’t finished my coffee, so
my mood isn’t as ‘decent’ as it will be after another cup. Domino hasn’t
gone for her walk either, as you know,” I replied.
“We want to meet in front of your house as soon as we can all get
there. Then we’ll go for our usual morning walk earlier than normal and use
a different route. You have ten minutes or less to coffee-up. Oops! I’ve got
to go. Charly’s here.”
With that, Marty hung up. I downed the coffee in my cup and
hurriedly poured another. Domino came into the room with her leash in her
mouth. The clips on Domino’s leash jangled as she pranced around the
kitchen, which made me realize the noisy caravan had passed.
“You don’t mind leaving early, do you?” I asked my sweet Dalmatian.
Domino replied by wiggling from the top of her head to the tip of her tail.
My friends and I have formed a small walking group in the Seaview
Cottages Active Adult Community. Charly and I have dogs to walk, so we’re
dedicated to the ritual. Midge, a retired Army nurse, doesn’t have a dog, but
she’s a creature of discipline and routine and rarely misses a day. Marty, a
cat owner, is a former buyer for high-end department stores. She wasn’t
always as motivated as she was today unless the items in her extensive
wardrobe became a little snug.
Then there’s our beloved “nonparticipant.” Convinced that “nothing-
good-ever-happens-before-ten-o’clock,” Neely sleeps in most mornings.
She sometimes accompanies me when I take Domino on a shorter walk
after dinner, although her dislike of exercise is almost as great as her
antipathy toward mornings. Like the rest of us, Neely does love a good
mystery. She’s an active member of the other group we’ve formed—the
grand old lady detectives—G.O.L.D.
“Neely will awake from her stupor if Midge hollers, ‘Let’s go for the
G.O.L.D!’ won’t she, Domino?”
Normally, Domino would have woofed. In this instance, however, she
would have had to drop the leash, so she remained quiet. I always feel
better about talking to my dog when it’s more of a conversation, but her
silly spin and a playful bow would have to do for now. I slipped a jacket and
a knitted wool cap on. This time of year, it’s chilly walking along the dunes
or on the beach here on California’s Central Coast.
“Let’s wait outside,” I said. That got a woof out of Domino as I took
the leash from her mouth and hooked one end to her collar. The view from
our porch revealed no hint of trouble. The blue Pacific Ocean sparkled as
waves rolled onto the beach beyond the dunes. The motion left the waves
frosted with foam. That the honking and sirens had stopped so soon after
they passed us meant they hadn’t gone far.
I turned my gaze south in the direction those vehicles had headed.
Domino and I wandered to the far end of my front porch, where I hoped I
could get a better look at what was going on. Smoke billowed into the air.
Fortunately, the wind was blowing southwest, away from us, or the odor
would have been more pungent.
“It’s too far away to be one of the beach cottages. There must be a fire
at the Blue Haven Resort,” I said, speaking to Domino. “What do you think
is going up in smoke?”
“The guard shack and gatehouse at the entry to Hemingway Hills,”
Marty responded. I spun around to see Charly and Midge standing at the
gate next to Marty. Domino dragged me with her as she ran to greet
Charly’s adorable Jack Russel Terrier, Emily. I had to do a quick “two-step,”
quite literally bounding down the steps two at a time to keep up with
Domino.
Neely was a few yards behind the other three, chugging a dark liquid.
Having spent her working life in Hollywood, she was the most willing
among us to try the newest food fad. She was also quick to give up on the
ones that didn’t suit her tastes.
“Well, that’s nasty,” Neely said. “Let’s see if it lives up to its claim that
it can make me alert and focused at any hour of the day or night.”
“What is it?” I asked,
“Mushroom powder, Ginkgo Biloba, and chai spices in a base of yerba
mate. It has the texture of a room temperature smoothie and tastes like
chai-spiced mud,” Neely added as she took another big gulp and shuddered.
“At least a couple of those ingredients ought to rev you up,” Midge
offered.
“Only if I can keep it down,” Neely responded. “My tastebuds sure are
awake. Or maybe they’re asleep and having a nightmare.”
“Here, Neely, chew a stick of gum,” Marty interrupted. Neely took the
pack of gum, unwrapped several sticks, and shoved them into her mouth as
fast as she could. “Let’s get moving. I told my friend who called me from the
resort that we were on our way.”
Marty took off across the street in front of my house. She wore her
spiffy new three-hundred-dollar walking shoes that perfectly matched her
deep purple velvet warmup suit. Even in retirement, fashion manufacturers
sent Marty samples. She was going to give those new shoes a good workout
today.
“Who’s going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked, trying to close the
distance Marty had already created. As we stepped onto the pedestrian
bridge that allows Seaview Cottages residents to cross the roadway from
above, sirens started again. This time, the sound came from the south. A car
was traveling toward us at breakneck speed.
We all dashed forward, closer to the middle of the bridge, to get a
better view. The car had nearly reached the bridge when I noticed that
Hank’s four-by-four was racing behind it. I hoped he would keep his eyes
on the road. I’ve become a bit of a distraction for Detective Henry “Hank”
Miller.
“Oh, no. Too much light, too early, too fast,” Neely said, shielding her
eyes. Hidden behind thick, fishbowl glasses, she also wore clip-on
sunglasses over them this morning. Then Neely grabbed the rail on the
bridge to steady herself. Somehow, what she had left in the bottle of sludge
spilled onto the road below, or so I thought.
Below us, brakes squealed and horns honked, as another four-by-four
I recognized swerved and almost hit the patrol car racing behind it. The
driver of the patrol car hit the brakes to evade a collision and then changed
lanes. As soon as it had passed the four-by-four, it sped off again. The
driver of the four-by-four slowed as it passed under the bridge. The
windshield wipers were on when it came into view on the other side.
“Run!” I yelled as I tugged at Domino’s leash. Domino was elated. She
rarely gets to move this fast during one of our outings. I didn’t stop until we
disappeared down the slope on the opposite side of the bridge. Emily
dashed after Domino, pulling Charly, who was the oldest in our group and
thin as a reed, behind her. Woe to anyone who mistook her leanness for
frailty. If anything, age had toughened her, and she wasn’t more than a step
or two behind me.
Whatever was in Neely’s drink must have kicked in when I hollered
run. I’d glanced behind me to see Neely, the most well-padded among us,
spring into action. It was as if a lightning bolt had struck her.
“Was that who I think it was?” Neely asked, trying to catch her breath.
“Yes!” Midge responded. “Now we’ll have to deal with Deputy Do-
little when we get to the beach. I’ll bet he’s already pulling into one of the
beach lots.”
“I don’t think so,” Neely said. “I saw him slow down, with windshield
cleaner spraying everywhere, and then he hit the gas pedal.”
“Thank goodness. That means Devers won’t be waiting at the
entrance to the Blue Haven Resort with his hands on his hips and a smirk
on his face when we get there,” Charly said.
“He’d never let us in no matter what we told him,” Midge added.
“Hank’s been working hard to get him to behave more professionally,
and Darnell has shown some improvement,” Marty argued. “Besides, it
doesn’t matter where he is because we’re not going to the front entrance.
The walk is too long that way, and I haven’t even broken in these shoes yet.”
“What difference will that make? We must be two miles away from
the resort regardless of which entrance we use. I haven’t broken my legs in
yet either,” Neely whined. Then she began to chuckle. “I didn’t dump that
sludge on his windshield, did I?”
“I’d be willing to bet a buck or two that you did,” Midge said.
“What are the odds? I couldn’t have done that on purpose if I tried,”
Neely added.
“If he didn’t see us, let’s hope he figures a big bird got him,” Charly
asserted as we reached the point where the trail headed in several
directions.
“Where are you, Marty?” Charly hollered.
“Heading toward the old cottage neighborhood. My friend is meeting
us at the back gate to the Hemingway Hills golf course. I promise it’ll cut at
least half a mile off our walk. Catch me if you can.”
Typically, we’d take a path that wound along to the right. Today, we
turned left. Domino and Emily both wore happy smiles. I’m always
surprised by how much our fur babies seem to enjoy novelty. That doesn’t
mean I’m allowed to deviate too much from our schedule. Heaven forbid I
delay a meal or skip a morning walk.
“I still haven’t heard why we’re going to visit your friend, Marty,” I
said when I caught up with her. “Why would she want us to be involved if
there’s a fire at the resort?”
The first of the beach cottages had come into view. Recently built, it
was much larger than the homes in our community. This beachside chalet
would tower over the vintage beach homes in the village still some distance
from us.
The beach house was breathtaking to behold and appeared empty,
which wasn’t unusual during the winter season. Owners or guests
sometimes visited during the Christmas holidays, but beach cottage life was
mainly centered on summer. Many of the newer cottages were business
ventures, not residences. Even in the village, owners found it hard to pass
up the income from summer rentals.
“My friend, Jody, is concerned because the fire occurred in the guard
gate and the gatehouse leading into Hemingway Hills. That’s where the
security firm houses the administrative staff. There’s also a locker room
where the guards change in and out of their uniforms. Sometimes, after a
late night, the guards will crash on a cot in there if they’re doing a double
shift or their next shift starts early. Anyway, there was a break-in before the
fire. Jody’s afraid her husband and his coworkers are going to get blamed
for the situation.”
“Why don’t they deserve blame if they can’t even guard their
quarters?” Midge harrumphed. She straightened her shoulders as if her
military bearing wasn’t already apparent in her posture.
“Maybe there are extenuating circumstances,” Charly offered. I could
see the wheels turning in her head.
“I must have it wrong. I remember celebrating when Jody’s husband
received a promotion. He’s not a security guard anymore. Jody was so
upset, she told me to get there as soon as we could, and she’d fill us in.
Whoever broke in injured a guard, stole a set of keys, and cleaned out the
gun locker. Then it went up in flames. The police were arriving in droves,
coming from all directions. That’s why she told me to walk rather than drive
and to meet her at the back entrance.”
“I know the resort relies on armed guards, but how many weapons
could the thieves have stolen?” I asked.
“With a team as large as the one they use to patrol the resort hotels,
shops, timeshares, and private homes, there must be dozens of sidearms. I
doubt the guards take them home with them as police officers do,” Midge
suggested. “There’s no telling what else they had in storage in the event of
an organized assault on the resort.”
“They do have lots of celebrities, businessmen and women, and
government officials as guests at the resort,” Marty added. “It never
occurred to me that meant they had a cache of arms stored anyway near the
Hemingway Hills golf course. The greens are perfect, and it’s always so
quiet and peaceful.”
“How do you like that? There’s a fairway to arms in Hemingway
Hills,” Neely quipped. “Hemingway must be rolling over in his grave.”
“After what you just did to the title of one of his books, he is now,”
Charly said. ...
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