CHAPTER 16
NO MATTER HOW MUCH I HAD TOLD MYSELF THAT I deserved a break, that the retreaters were all adults, and that the activities for the day were all basically over, I still felt guilty about leaving. I was glad it was dark and the walkway was empty as I headed for the parking lot near the Asilomar entrance. Still, I walked off the edge of the path, staying in the shadow. Mason was leaning against his rental Explorer as I approached. I was sure I heard him chuckle.
“C’mon, the coast is clear,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper as he slipped around to the passenger side and opened the door.
“So you saw me,” I said in a disappointed tone. Here I thought I’d done such a good job of hiding. He was quick to reassure me that even though I was visible on the way to the car, probably nobody was paying any attention, and even if they were, would they really care?
“What if something happens while I’m gone?” I opened the car door and started to get out. “I better not leave. Already there’s been a fog emergency and a death. Haven’t you ever heard that things travel in threes?”
Mason put his hand on my arm. “It’s only for an hour or so. Besides, you missed dinner. Have you eaten anything since the first night?”
My stomach rumbled in answer and I pulled the SUV’s door shut.
I must admit that as we drove out of the Asilomar gates, I felt my shoulders unhunch. Sheila was right about me having tension in spades. As we got a block or so away, I started to feel a giddy sense of naughtiness. Dinah had promised to keep an eye on things and I had my cell phone.
Mason knew his way around the area and pulled up to an entrance gate. Once we’d paid the fee, we entered the Seventeen Mile Drive, which was in the privately owned town of Pebble Beach; hence the gate and entrance fee. At night there wasn’t much to see besides spots with clear views of the dark ocean and lights in the mansions set back from the road.
I knew more than saw that we were passing through the Del Monte Forest, and somewhere out in the darkness the Lone Cypress sat on the edge of a rock, catching the constant breeze.
“Well, here we are,” Mason said, steering the car in a driveway. Before he’d completely stopped the car, a man in a white uniform stepped out to open the door and take care of the car.
We walked under a large overhang and into a low building.
“Nothing against Asilomar,” Mason said. “I like the rustic quality and camplike atmosphere, but a little luxury is nice, too.”
No pool or Ping-Pong tables here. The lobby we walked through was all thick carpet and lots and lots of comfortable chairs and sofas. The clothes were all high-end casual. No sweatshirts or baseball caps. Mason had explained that the resort had a world-famous golf course attached to it and any kind of spa facility you could imagine. “And the rooms all have telephones and televisions,” he said with his trademark chuckle.
Mason took my arm and led me to the back of the lobby. A wide doorway opened onto a restaurant. The lights were low and the walls all glass. Floodlights on the roof illuminated the area outside, and I saw the edge of the golf course. I knew the beach was on the other side.
I was enjoying the surroundings, but the sense of guilt about leaving was still hanging on my shoulders like a shawl. At least if I talked about Izabelle’s death, it would make the occasion seem work-related rather than fun.
As soon as the host seated us, I started talking about Izabelle. Mason looked up from his menu and rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to justify being here. I’m sure Mrs. Shedd wouldn’t mind. She took off on a cruise. It’s okay to be off duty,” he said. “See, me too.” He pointed to the line on the menu that said no cell phone conversations were allowed in the dining room, and took out his phone and shut it off.
“I’m not supposed to be having any fun,” I said in a serious tone. “I’m not sure I like being the boss. I miss fun.”
Mason picked up his menu. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone if you enjoy yourself.”
“But I’ve only got the weekend to figure out who killed Izabelle,” I said.
“I thought you didn’t want it to be murder. Remember how I said it would be impossible to get somebody to eat a s’more against their will and it was just what you wanted to hear.”
I sighed. “Okay, I didn’t want it to be murder, but I can’t ignore the facts just because a murder makes me look bad.”
“Even the local cop is only interested in finding out if someone was on the beach with her. He’s investigating it as an accident,” Mason said.
I leaned forward. “Did he question you?”
Mason nodded. “He hung around all day, grabbing people. I’m surprised you didn’t see him. But then I guess he was done with you.”
“So, what did he ask you?”
“Probably the same as everyone else. What did I know about Izabelle Landers and did I meet her on the beach. He seemed to be going the direct question route. I suppose he was looking for reactions. You know, not being able to look somebody in the eye if you’re lying. I had nothing to tell him, but I did get a little info out of him.” Mason seemed pleased with himself. “Want to know what he said?” It was just a tease. Mason knew I wanted to know.
“French is only looking for someone who was on the beach with her, and if the retreat ends and everybody keeps denying they were the one, he’ll probably close the investigation since he’s convinced it wasn’t foul play.”
The waiter came by, and I waited while Mason ordered a stuffed mushroom appetizer and a bottle of wine.
“French thinks either she was so crazed for chocolate, she ate the s’more without realizing it had peanut butter on it, or she had a mad craving for peanut butter and gave in to it. Apparently her ex-husband said she had a thing for chocolate. French seems to think she met somebody on the beach about something else. And that person left the beach before Izabelle got sick. He thinks the pouch bag just fell off her arm on the way to the beach and she didn’t realize until too late that she didn’t have it.”
Mason leaned back in his chair. “Sunshine, I hate to say it, but it sounds reasonable. She seemed so controlled about everything, not even reacting when Adele accused her of stealing her work. Sometimes those supercontrolled types come unhinged.” The waiter brought the wine and had Mason taste it. Once he’d given his okay, the waiter poured us each a glass and left.
“Molly, why not just accept it was an accident? It lets you off the hook. An accident doesn’t have near the stigma a murder does.”
“I can’t help it.” I paused and sighed. “It happened on my watch, and I feel responsible.”
Mason’s eyes lit with a warm smile. “That’s what I love about you. Someone with scruples even when they’re not in your best interest.”
The waiter took our dinner order, and when he left, Mason looked at me intently. “So, Sherlock, who are your suspects? Maybe your compadre Adele?”
“My compadre?” I said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly call her that.” I agreed that Adele had the most obvious motive, but while she was lots of things, I was sure she wasn’t a murderer.