Silenced in the Surf

Book 3: Pacific Northwest Mystery

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Covering a windsurfing competition should have been a breeze for reporter Meg Reed, but with a killer in the curl, she's headed for rough waters…

Hood River in the Columbia River Gorge is the windsurfing capital of the world, and Meg is stoked to cover the King of the Hook event for Portland's Northwest Extreme magazine. Before the competition gets under way, Meg has a chance to try some windsurfing on her own. But when the current sweeps her downriver, she spots a body snagged on the rocks. The dead man is Justin Cruise, aka Cruise Control, a celebrity windsurfer and not exactly a nice guy. It's soon clear his death was no accident, and Cruise had no shortage of enemies. As Meg dives right in to discover who wiped out the windsurfer, she'll need to keep her balance--or she too may get blown away.

Praise For Scene Of The Climb

"A splendid overview of the greater Portland and Columbia River Gorge region, perfect for travel buffs. Her protagonist shows promise with her determined attitude and moxie." --Library Journal

"A fun, terrific adventure." --Suspense Magazine

Includes Adventure Guides!

Release date: March 29, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The swells were relentless. Crashing one after the other and overwhelming the board. I almost laughed. How ironic, Meg. The one sport I actually thought I could hold my own in, and now I was holding on for dear life.

I scanned the river for any sign of my instructor or the rest of my windsurfing group. The water and sky blended together in the dull predawn light.

“Help!” I shouted into the wind. A whitecap broke in front of me, sending spray down my lungs. I coughed and grabbed the board tighter. No one was going to hear me over the sound of the wind and raging river.

The current had carried me away from the group so fast, I couldn’t get my bearings. Somewhere in the middle of the Columbia River, Meg. And not where you want to be.

I forced my mind back to the instructor’s directions. I knew I had to maneuver the board so that the sail was downwind. The question was how?

I paddled as hard as I could against the current, trying to reposition the mast. It sunk beneath the waves. My instructor’s words rang in my head, “Remember, if you have to drop the boom—and try not to because you’ll get exhausted if you have to keep picking it up—always drop it in front of you.”

I hadn’t planned on dropping it at all. In fact, I had been quite pleased with my ability to hold the “safety position,” as he called it. Basically that meant balancing on the board while holding on to the mast with both hands and letting it swing. The problem was it swung in the high wind and quickly swept me far from the safety of the shore.

After paddling with all the force I could muster, I decided I had to give it one more shot. I climbed onto my knees. The board rocked on the waves.

You can do this, Meg. I let out a sigh and carefully made my way to my feet.

The freestyle windsurfers I’d been watching earlier made balancing on a board look easy. Trust me, it wasn’t.

My feet clenched the grainy board. I extended my hands, trying to keep my center of gravity as low as possible. The muscles in my thighs quaked in response.

Hang on, Meg.

I bent toward the sail, focusing on my instructor’s advice to keep my body and back as upright as possible. I grabbed the sail. Then, like pulling a rope, I reached hand over hand, trying to free the heavy sail from the water. It wouldn’t budge. I took in a powerful breath and tried to picture what Gam would say. “Find your inner strength, Margaret, and call on your guides for help.”

It was worth a shot, right? I took a deep breath, and yelled, “A little help, please!”

It worked. The sail slowly emerged from the water. I got it about a foot high, when another gust of wind hit, sending me and the sail back into the ice-cold water.

My heart rate lurched in response to the shock of the water. Swim, Meg. I commanded my arms forward and kicked with all my might. The water was frigid. Every muscle in my body twitched with cold and stress as I climbed onto the board. I had to find a way to paddle back to the other side or I would drift downriver.

The sun began to rise overhead, casting a sepia glow on the dusty hills. I suddenly realized that drifting down the river was the least of my worries. Land was looming on my left. The waves were carrying me straight into the shoreline of the opposite side of the river. In a matter of minutes I would be smashed into the rocks.

That’s when I spotted a body dragging along the shore.

When the opportunity of covering the King of the Hook windsurfing competition for Northwest Extreme first came up, I jumped at the chance. Portland, Oregon, had been under a sweltering heat wave all summer. We don’t do well with the heat in Portland. Well, at least I don’t. The minute thermometers read eighty degrees, there’s a mad dash for window air-conditioning units, fans and bottled water. Portland is known for perfect summers with cool morning breezes blowing down the gorge and mild daytime highs. Really the only reason we all subject ourselves to the rain-soaked winter and spring is for summer. Aw, summer. It’s like the weather gods conspired and offered up a bonus for sticking through all those soggy gray days.

During the glorious summer months the sun doesn’t set until nearly ten. Portlanders congregate at parks and spend leisurely evenings strolling through neighborhood shops and stopping for hand-cranked ice cream and late-night pints. There’s a youthful vibe in the city as people emerge from their winter hibernation, set aside their rain boots, and revel in the warmth of the sun’s return. From farm-to-plate dinners to outdoor concerts under the stars, Portland comes to life.

However, since the Fourth of July, Portland had seen thirty consecutive days over ninety degrees with matching high humidity—something almost unheard of in the city. The weather and complaints about the heat were the hot topic wherever I went. Everyone was talking about the heat wave from the cashier at the grocery store to the brewer at my favorite pub. And no one was happy about it.

So when Greg, my boss and the editor in chief of Northwest Extreme, asked who wanted to cover King of the Hook in Hood River, I shot my hand in the air. “I’ll do it.” A chance to get out of town and watch windsurfers take flight sounded perfect.

Plus, swimming is my sport. This was my chance to prove myself not only to Greg, but to the rest of my colleagues. I’d been focused on continuing my outdoor training during the spring. I was slowly improving, but I still had a ways to go on my practically nonexistent athleticism. But I had to admit I was really starting to enjoy this whole outdoor gig. What started as a job to pay the bills was turning into a bona-fide career. I loved working at Northwest Extreme.

Given how my first assignment started out, I couldn’t believe I was actually enjoying my job. I’d made some major progress since that crazy hike up Angel’s Rest. The idea of covering King of the Hook in quaint Hood River, and escaping Portland’s heat, had me ready to pack my bags.

“You sure, Meg?” Greg raised his brow. When I first met him, I thought I would never get used to his ruggedly handsome face and chiseled body, but things had changed between us over the winter. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him, and he knew it.

Even though he was my boss, he’d been treading carefully with me. I could have used his caution to my advantage and gotten off without taking a single assignment. Instead the subtle tension between us had spurred me on to make sure my work was top-notch.

Greg looked like he wanted to say more, but shrugged and wrote my name in blue pen next to King of the Hook on the whiteboard.

I spent the next two weeks researching the annual windsurfing event and finding a place to stay in Hood River. The latter proved more challenging than I expected. Not only were surfers descending on the small town from all over the world for the competition, but everyone in Portland was trying to escape the heat wave.

Hood River in the Columbia River Gorge is about an hour’s drive east of Portland and is known as the windsurfing capital of the world. The deep canyon stretches for miles, creating a boundary between Oregon and Washington. Winds funnel through the gorge, making it an ideal location for big air.

Temperatures wouldn’t be any lower in Hood River. In fact, if anything, it would probably be hotter in the gorge, but there was always the promise of wind. Plus, the rocky banks of the Columbia River were a short walk from downtown. When the heat got to be too much, I could simply jump in the river. It was perfect.

Thanks to a new vacation rental app that I discovered, I scored a bungalow just a few blocks from downtown that was available the week of the event. Greg didn’t blink when I showed him my expense report for the three-bedroom house, so I decided I might as well take advantage of the extra space and invite my bestie, Jill, and sort-of-boyfriend/friend Matt to join me for the long weekend.

Jill agreed immediately. She was “on a break” with her boyfriend, Will Barrington. Thank God. Will and I don’t exactly get along. I tried to play nice for Jill’s sake, but when I caught him with another woman last winter up on Mount Hood, I was done pretending. Jill hadn’t said much about their break, but she was painting again, which I took as a promising sign that her heart was on the mend.

Matt took a bit more convincing. Not because he didn’t want to join us, but because he’d been slammed at work. Matt covers the technology beat for The O, Oregon’s largest newspaper. It was the paper I had always assumed that I’d write for after graduation. I was a legacy after all. My dad, Pops, as I called him, had been The O’s lead investigative reporter until he was killed two years ago. In hindsight it was probably a good thing that I hadn’t landed a job there. Newspapers had been struggling with changing technology. None of my friends read their news on printed paper anymore. They kept abreast of current events and pop culture on their phones. I was the only holdout in our crowd. I still loved the feel of newsprint and how the ink smudged my fingers. Even Matt, who worked for an actual paper, read all his news on his tablet or phone.

The O had announced another giant round of layoffs in early June. Fortunately for Matt, the technology department was thriving, but the cuts had decimated the news desk, so Matt had been doing double duty for the summer. When he wasn’t covering his regular beat, he was tasked with breaking news when his editor needed a warm body. I hadn’t seen much of him, and was starting to wonder if maybe his feelings had changed.

Matt’s texts about joining us in Hood River had been noncommittal, so I couldn’t believe it when my phone buzzed as I was packing a bag with flip-flops, a swimsuit, rash guard and a collection of sundresses. I answered right away when I saw Matt’s face flash on my screen. His shaggy blond hair covered one eye.

“Megs! I’m in.” He sounded excited.

“You’re in?”

“Yep, I’m coming. I owe Bob in Features a case of my home brew.”

“Why?”

“I traded him assignments. He’s going to cover breaking news for me while I’m gone and I’m going to do double duty—an event write-up on King of the Hook and a demo of the new GoPro.”

“That’s the best news! I can’t believe you’re coming. I’d pretty much written you off.”

“Story of my life.” He laughed. “I’m going to have to work, though.”

“Me too. It’ll be fun.”

I smiled as I hung up the phone. Yeah, fun. I’d be working with Matt and hanging on the sunny shore with Jill. What an assignment. It was going to be like summer vacation.

Only as I would soon learn, this trip would become the farthest thing from a vacation imaginable.

I woke the next morning drenched in sweat. Despite sleeping with every window in my small bungalow wide open, my room actually felt hotter than the night before. The timing of this trip couldn’t be better, I thought as I stuffed my clothes, a couple of beach towels and two large bags of groceries into the back of my Subaru.

Even though the clock on my dashboard read 9:00 a.m., I cranked on the air-conditioning. The cool air calmed the heat in my cheeks as I waved good-bye to my empty house.

This calls for some Bobby Darin.

I scrolled through my playlist and landed on “Mack the Knife.” With my tunes blaring and the air-conditioning blasting, I maneuvered through the narrow streets of Northeast Portland. My neighborhood is quintessential Portland, with tree-lined streets where hundred-year-old maples lean into each other, creating a lush canopy overhead.

A neighbor three houses down tended to the compost pile and chicken coop in her front yard. Most of the homes on my street were vintage bungalows with charm, character and tiny yards. No one believed in watering grass in the summer. Watering wasted water. Not that Portland was ever short on liquid sunshine. The few yards that had grass looked like brittle straw. Many of the houses had eco-friendly yards where the grass had been ripped out and replaced with rock gardens and organic vegetable beds.

At the end of the block a group of neighbors congregated at the Coffee Haunt for their morning espresso and to dish on the latest neighborhood gossip. I had a feeling I knew what the chatter was about. The neighborhood had been fuming about the new guy on the block who—gasp—had been spotted walking home from the co-op grocery store with plastic bags! Talk about a controversy.

Last week, the sweet but equally nosy elderly woman Mrs. Martins, who lived across the street, had stopped me before I left. “Meg!” She waved a pair of gardening sheers. “Come over here, dear. I have a story for you.”

Mrs. Martins seemed to think that since I was a writer, I was her go-to source for neighborhood news.

“You know that young man who moved in two doors down?” She snipped an opaque pink rose.

I nodded.

She narrowed her eyes. “He’s using plastic bags. Plastic. How did he even get them?”

“Good question, Mrs. Martins.” I tried to match her grave expression.

Portland banned the use of plastic bags in grocery stores a couple of years ago. Being seen with plastic bags was a mortal sin in our neighborhood. I appeased Mrs. Martins by agreeing to look into the story, but I had a feeling that she would stage a plastic bag intervention before I had a chance to meet the new neighbor.

Sure enough as I drove past the Coffee Haunt, there stood Mrs. Martins and a group of neighbors toting reusable bags and offering them to the plastic bag offender. I smiled as I weaved past cars parked on both sides of the narrow street, and turned onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. My neighborhood was quirky to say the least, but it was a perfect match for me.

The route to Hood River was familiar. Last spring I’d spent a chunk of time driving out to the gorge while on my first assignment for Northwest Extreme. Memories of trying to keep up with a group of adventure racers in town and witnessing a murder flooded back as I passed signs along I-84 directing travelers to the old Historic Highway and the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area.

Thank goodness that’s all behind you now, Meg. I let out a sigh.

A layer of brown haze had settled over the foothills and obscured my view of Mount Hood. I wasn’t sure if it was due to pollution or because what felt like the entire state of Oregon was burning. The hot, dry summer had sparked forest fires all over the Pacific Northwest.

Hood River was another thirty miles or so east of Oregon’s famous Multnomah Falls. I caught a quick glimpse of the falls from the highway. The normally towering cascade looked like a trickle. The effects of the heat were evident everywhere.

Interstate 84 parallels the Columbia River on the Oregon side of the river. The state of Washington sits across the river with stunning striated cliffs, the remnants of geological events a millennium ago. Geology was never my favorite subject in college. I stopped after Geology 101, which was referred to as “Rocks for Jocks” on campus. If my instructor had taken us on field research trips to places like the gorge, I probably would have paid more attention.

I could actually imagine how the towering ridges had been carved from years and years of water cascading down and the giant Missoula floods. Sturdy evergreen trees shored up the hillsides. Closer to ground level deciduous trees lined the freeway, their brittle leaves catching in the air as a semi rumbled past.

After I passed the falls, the evergreen trees became thicker. Some of their branches looked brown and desperate with thirst. I held my breath for good luck as I drove through an ivy- and moss-covered tunnel.

The landscape shifted as I continued east. The forested green slopes began to give way to Oregon’s eastern desert land. The hillsides became dry and more barren. Sunlight cast on Washington’s cliffs, giving them a golden tone.

My initial research for my feature had involved reading up on Hood River’s farming roots. Its organic orchards are nestled in the shadow of Mount Hood, Oregon’s tallest peak, with acres and acres of apples, pears and cherries. The farming community remains strong in the region, boasting annual picking parties, farm-to-plate dinners and the famed Fruit Loop tour where visitors can spend the day traveling to u-pick orchards, vineyards, lavender fields and alpaca farms.

Hood River has become known across the globe as a premier destination for outdoor lovers of all kinds. In the summer months, the town becomes the windsurfing capital of the world, but also draws in water enthusiasts of all kinds with paddle boarding, paragliding, kiteboarding, fishing and the annual swim across the Columbia. Hiking trails abound, attracting families and day hikers, as well as more serious climbers who can spend weeks happily lost in the backwoods. In the winter months, Hood River serves as base camp for snow junkies with quick access to the ski runs on Mount Hood, cross-country skiing at Mount Adams across the river, and a maze of snowshoeing and snowmobiling trails nearby.

As I turned off I-84 into town, I caught my first glimpse of the beach. It looked as if the entire state of Oregon had come out to watch the King of the Hook. The shoreline was mobbed with surfers and spectators.

This is going to be a real party, Meg!

I felt giddy with anticipation as I made my way through downtown. There are no stoplights in the charming town of Hood River. Motorists gladly stopped for pedestrians waiting to cross the street. The main stretch of downtown features outdoor shops, pubs, high-end restaurants, tasting rooms and plenty of four-legged friends. Is owning a dog a prerequisite to living in Hood River, I thought as I passed pooches lapping up water from dishes placed on the sidewalks by shopkeepers. Even one of the most popular coffee shops was named Dog River Coffee.

The house I had rented was just a few blocks from downtown. I turned off Oak Street and found myself in a neighborhood that looked very similar to mine back home in NoPo (hipster slang for North Portland). The only difference was my place didn’t have a panoramic view of Washington’s stunning hillsides across a sparkling river.

I parked on the street, grabbed my bags, and walked to the house. I was the first one to arrive. Jill was planning to come after work, and Matt hadn’t said when he was leaving. I unpacked the car, arranged the groceries in the kitchen, and snagged the front bedroom with a large bay window looking out onto the street. It would be a great spot to work on my feature. Speaking of my feature, I was due to check in at King of the Hook in thirty minutes. I hurried to the bathroom to make sure my cheeks weren’t too pink.

My face has an annoying habit of flaming up whenever I’m nervous or in any kind of heat. Surveying my appearance in the bathroom confirmed that the blazing temperature was evident on my cheeks. They were at least two shades brighter than my normal color. I tried dusting them with a little powder. That didn’t seem to help much.

I scrunched my hair to try to help it curl. I’d been growing it out for six months, a record for me. It reached the base of my chin. I’d had it cut in an angular bob, and with a little product I could . . .