Murder in the Lighthouse (Beachcomber Mystery #4)

2

L ucien found the keeper’s cottage smelling like a combination of chrysanthemums and cinnamon, leftover from someone’s baby shower. The house appeared as tidy as a church and without a dead body inside. The search in the woods took them four hours and yielded nothing connecting Sam or Bethany to it. Not even the dogs could turn up a scent or a clue.

By mid-afternoon, Lucien sensed that it was a good thing Brent Cody was out of town. News about Sam Heywood’s demise inside the lighthouse spread fast. And it didn’t put the new guy, Theo Woodsong, in the best light. He was taking heat for only looking halfway to the top.

As they packed up to head home, Lucien felt terrible for the guy. “He did find the lighthouse locked up tight. That’s gotta be significant. Why search all the way to the top when the place was locked with no other way inside? He assumed no one had gotten in there.”

“Maybe not assume,” Brogan advocated, offering a different take on the situation because she had questions. “You have to wonder if it was locked, how did Sam and the killer get inside? How did they gain entry? And did they enter at the same time? Did the killer lure Sam into the lighthouse? Did the killer have a set of keys? How many keys are there floating around town anyway? The lock looked like it worked fine to me, so that rules out anyone tampering with the door.”

“That’s the mystery,” Lucien admitted as he watched Beckett and Birk load up the dogs. “I couldn’t even tell from the body if Sam had been stabbed or shot.”

Brogan made a face. “That could take a couple of days. May I make a suggestion?” she prompted as she spotted Theo walking out of the lighthouse.

“Sure.”

“I think Theo could use a friend right now. Why don’t you be that person?” She glanced down at her phone to check the time. “Why don’t you invite him over to the house tonight for dinner? I’ll make tamales with rice and beans. But I need to leave now to make it happen.”

“Are you suggesting I should be the one to make the offer?”

“I think that would be the most appropriate approach; guy to guy is better.”

“Do you know how to make tamales?”

“No, but I can look it up on the internet, which is why I need to leave now,” she explained, rounding the hood of her Range Rover, keys in hand. “Don’t forget to give him our address. I’ll see you at the house.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. He’s parked right next door to your truck. Catch him before he gets to his vehicle. Let me know if dinner is on.”

Lucien watched her SUV back out of the lot and leaned against his pickup, pondering the best way to approach Theo. He shoved off his Ford truck and walked toward the cruiser, intercepting Theo before he could open his door. “I know you’re probably busy, but Brogan thought you needed a homecooked meal after such a horrible day. She wanted me to invite you over for supper. She’s hoping you like Mexican food. Tamales.”

No one looked more surprised than the new cop at the invitation. The expression on his face changed. His eyes lit up in sheer delight at being asked.

“Tonight? Sure. I have some paperwork to finish. Would seven o’clock be okay?”

“Perfect. It’ll give Brogan a chance to…get everything ready.” He almost said she needed time to find a tamale recipe, shop for the ingredients, and throw it all together into an edible meal within a three-hour window. Instead of full discovery with the cop, Lucien went with a partial moment of truth. “I hope you realize this new recipe means we’ll be Brogan’s guinea pigs. But don’t worry. I have Longboard Pizza on speed dial for backup.”

Theo’s face split into a grin for the first time all day. It changed his whole face. “As long as there’s backup, I’m okay with being a test subject.”

“Good. See you at seven.” Lucien waved Theo off and climbed behind the wheel of his pickup, where he texted Brogan. Theo’s on for seven. Will that give you enough time?

Let’s hope so. I found a simple recipe online, but I’m not sure if I can find all the ingredients. I’m pulling up to Murphy’s now. Will meet you at the house in thirty. Remember to let the dogs out.

Lucien shrugged and started the engine. If she didn’t seem worried about throwing dinner together, then he wouldn’t either. But it would help their cause if they could feed Theo with a decent meal and pry some information out of him.

As she parked the car, prying details from Theo was the farthest thing on Brogan’s mind. She focused on preparing the best meal she could. After gathering her bag and phone with her grocery list, she strolled through the double doors on a mission. She could always count on Murphy’s Market, the town hub, to carry a variety of specialty cuisine. This afternoon should be no different.

Hoping to gather the authentic ingredients required, she grabbed a cart and wasted no time heading for the International food aisle. She picked out the best brand of refried beans and two packages of rice in case she didn’t have enough on hand in the pantry at home. She found dried corn husks in eight-ounce packages and tossed two in the cart for good measure. She hunted down a bag of masa and a thirty-two-ounce carton of chicken stock. There wasn’t time to slow-cook pork overnight, so she opted to use a whole rotisserie chicken already packaged from the meat department to make the filling. That way, she could shred whatever she needed and season it with salsa verde, the spicy tomatillo green sauce that made the filling pop. She perused the salsa aisle until she found a brand she recognized. Next came the produce aisle, where she decided on pre-made guacamole to save time.

She was about to grab a few other essentials like cereal and milk when she realized the recipe also called for lard. Unsure what that was, she searched online for a picture of the product and realized it was nothing more than shortening loaded with fat. After looking for almost half an hour, she couldn’t find a can of lard anywhere on the shelves and had to settle for Crisco as a substitute.

“This should be interesting,” she muttered as she headed for checkout, wondering if she could pull this off in the allotted time. After unloading her groceries onto the conveyor belt, she tried figuring out how to work the corn husks. She glanced at the cashier, Debbie Bronski, a brunette in her late thirties with a large brood who knew something about cooking. “Have you ever made tamales from scratch?”

“Lord, no,” Debbie said. “I’m a dumplings person. I’ve made plenty of those in my time. My boys love them stuffed with meat, potatoes, and cheese, or maybe apples for dessert. Lots of people call them pierogies or empanadas, but I’m old-fashioned. To me, they’ll always be dumplings.”

Debbie slid Brogan’s grocery items through the scanner and noticed the tamale fixings. “You’re serious about making these, aren’t you?”

“I was, but I’m beginning to have second thoughts.”

“Look, I know just the person to ask. Carla Vargas. She has an entire catalog of Mexican recipes from her grandmother. She’ll answer any questions you have about tamales. Although don’t look at me to explain how those corn husks work.”

“According to the package directions, you soak them in hot water for thirty minutes to soften them, so they’ll handle better.”

“Good luck with that,” Debbie stated, bagging the rest of the items. “What about the masa?”

“Mix it with the chicken broth and lard—in this case, Crisco—and work it like dough.”

Debbie looked skeptical. “If you say so. Me? I’d stick to dumplings. They’re simpler. If you change your mind and need any pointers for dumplings, here’s my number. Let me see your phone.”

Brogan handed over her cell and watched as Debbie keyed in her contact information. “Thanks. Now all I need is Carla’s phone number. Where’s Murphy?”

Debbie waved the question away. “No need. I keep Carla on speed dial for other things,” she said, looking through her contact list. She keyed in more digits. “There you go. Good luck with supper. I have a feeling you’ll need it.”

With that sentiment fresh in her brain, Brogan carried her groceries out the door to her car.

Through the bank of windows, Debbie watched Brogan get to her Range Rover. She looked over and spotted Murphy heading toward the checkout lanes. “Don’t be surprised if Carla gets an SOS call from Brogan this evening.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Brogan has decided to make tamales from scratch.”

“Oh. Wow. First-time tamale makers need all the encouragement they can get.”

“That’s an understatement,” Debbie bemoaned. “Remember when I tried making chili rellenos, stuffing those poblano peppers before my in-laws came into town? What an absolute nightmare that was. If it hadn’t been for Carla, we would’ve been eating mac and cheese casserole that night.”

“I remember the mole you tried to make.”

“Oh, lordy, don’t even go there. I tossed at least twenty-seven ingredients into a borrowed food processor, and it still turned into a disaster. Your girlfriend should know that not everyone can access a village to help with complicated recipes.”

Murphy took out his phone. “I better call Carla. She’ll need to know why Brogan’s number pops up on her screen.”

Outside in the parking lot , Brogan sat behind the wheel of her car. She reminded herself she wasn’t a bad cook. She had skills. Maeve Calico had taught her everything she knew about cooking from an early age. Although she’d never made tamales before, she was game to try. But she realized she might need guidance from an expert if she wanted to pull it off. That’s why she picked up her phone and dialed Carla’s number.

After exchanging hellos, Brogan began her pitch. “I’m told that you are the resident expert when it comes to making tamales from scratch.”

Carla giggled a throaty laugh. “Murphy said you’d be calling. Tamales are easy when you follow a few simple tips. I should know. Over the years, I’ve helped both grandmothers make enough tamales to feed Pancho Villa’s army.”

“I’m all ears,” Brogan admitted. “I need all the help I can get.”

“First, don’t be afraid to use enough lard.”

“I could only find Crisco.”

“That’ll work. Use it liberally and mix it with the chicken broth until it becomes fluffy, like frosting. Second, make the masa dough light and airy. You want the tamales to puff up while steaming. Third, soak those corn husks at least forty-five minutes longer than the recipe calls for. Do that first while you’re doing everything else. They need to become as pliable as possible, so they fold successfully. Fourth, don’t go light on the salt in the dough. That’s the key. And don’t spread the filling all the way to the edges, or you’ll have a mess on your hands. Pro tip: put a penny at the bottom of the steamer. If it stops rattling, you need more water. Finally, when they’re all done, let the tamales rest. Don’t serve them right away. If possible, put them in a warming oven and let them cure for a bit.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of steps to remember. What was I thinking?”

“You’ll do fine. Call me again if you have any questions. I’m free all evening.”

“Thanks, Carla. I’ll do that.”

Brogan ended the call with an upbeat feeling as she drove out of the lot. She headed home via Ocean Street, pulling into her garage in less than seven minutes. It was one of the benefits about living in Pelican Pointe versus Malibu—no long commute to the grocery store and back. A fact she intended to headline tonight at dinner with their newest neighbor—Theo Woodsong.

Lucien stepped out of the house to help her with her bags. “Is this it?”

“That’s everything I need. I can’t believe Theo accepted our invitation.”

“Are you kidding? It blew him away that we asked.”

“Aww. Really? That’s sweet. I’m glad. That makes me feel better somehow. Were you able to find out anything about Graeme’s mysterious stalker? You never mentioned it when you showed up this morning at the lighthouse. How long did you spend trying to discover who it is?”

A sheepish grin crossed Lucien’s face. “Look, it didn’t take long to track down the latest IP address they used. I narrowed down the location to the general vicinity of Santa Barbara. It’s probably one of his neighbors yanking his chain.”

Two dogs trotted over to greet Brogan as she stepped into the kitchen. One fawn-colored greyhound rescue named Stella, and one tiny snow-colored Bichon called Poppy. The dogs sniffed her pants leg, wanting a cuddle. “Sorry, guys, you’re out of luck. I’m on the clock here. I need to prepare tamales for a cop, who’ll likely arrest me for serving him crappy Mexican food. Give me three hours, and I promise to give you all the belly rubs you want. Deal?”

Lucien chuckled. “I don’t think Theo’s that bad. Besides, I have Longboard’s on speed dial.”

Brogan rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Great. So much for having any sort of confidence in my culinary skills,” she lamented, emptying the bags and lining up all the ingredients one by one on the counter.

Lucien spied one in particular and picked it up to study the label. “Crisco? Since when do we use vegetable shortening?”

She let out a sigh and took the can out of his hand. “Since I couldn’t find lard.”

“Lard? There’s lard in tamales?”

“Yes. Why do you think they taste so amazingly great? They aren’t made from tofu now are they? Shoo. Get out of here or help keep the dogs out of the way. Your choice. I need room to focus. Whatever you decide, know that I need my head in the game. So either help or get out. And set the table in the dining room for me.”

“I’ve never seen you so worked up over a simple—” Her deadly stare stopped him from continuing his thought. “Okay, I get it. I’ll take the dogs into my office and return to hunting down Graeme’s email stalker.”

She took her favorite chef’s apron from the kitchen drawer and put it on over her head, tying it around her waist. “That might be a good idea because stalkers are potentially dangerous. You should take it more seriously.”

“I will. I promise. Call me if you need me.”

“Set the table,” she called out behind him. “Use the good dishes in the hutch. And get out the cloth napkins.”

Lucien appeared in the doorway again. “He’s a new neighbor, not the King of England.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want the table to look nice.”

He puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Okay, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

She ignored the last part and got busy, running hot water and filling a large bowl to soak the corn husks. She set the timer. Next, she got out her phone with the recipe and wrote down all the instructions on a notepad for easier reference and to keep the directions fresh in her head.

She unwrapped the rotisserie chicken, picked up a sharp knife, and shredded what she needed for the filling. After dumping in a generous portion of the salsa, she blended the mixture together, hoping it stayed moist throughout the cooking process. After setting it aside to tackle the masa dough, she got her stand mixer and went to work. After peeling open the can of Crisco, she measured out one and one-third cups of shortening into the bowl before adding a little more and added two tablespoons of chicken broth. She turned the mixer on and let the dough work around the bowl until fluffy, making sure it was the consistency of frosting. But it looked as creamy as peanut butter before adding the dry ingredients. She doubled the salt, dumping in baking powder and cumin. Eventually, it all went into the bowl—even more chicken broth—producing a doughy, sticky mess. She added more masa to even out the texture.

Setting the dough aside, it was time to check on the corn husks. After pronouncing them ready, she put the glossy side up and began to scoop out the dough using plastic wrap to flatten it into place. The chicken filling came next as she spread it down the middle of the dough before folding and tucking the husk. It was like wrapping a Christmas gift but without the Scotch tape. She repeated that step over and over again until she had a dozen tamales tucked and wrapped.

She removed her Instant Pot from the cupboard, added water to the bottom, and began placing the tamales inside, standing them up on end, hoping they wouldn’t fall apart during the steaming process. She set the timer for twenty-five minutes and felt relieved.

While the tamales steamed, she put on a batch of white rice to cook on the stovetop and opened the two cans of refried beans, dumping them into a pan. She lowered the heat to simmer as the gloppy beans sizzled and bubbled in the hot skillet.

At seven on the dot, she heard the doorbell ring. She heard Lucien call out that he would answer the door. One glance around the stove told her everything had gone as planned. The timer dinged on the Instant Pot. Feeling a knot gather in her stomach, she leaned over to check the tamales and was horrified to see that some had fallen apart. Four had crumbled into a messy heap. Undeterred, she got down a serving dish and fished them out, one by one, until they were all lined up. She decided she wouldn’t waste food no matter what it looked like. She’d eat the messy heap and mix it with the rice and beans.

Taking a deep breath, she checked on the rice, pronouncing it tender and done. She dumped the contents of the pan into a serving dish and did the same with the refried beans.

After putting everything in the warming tray, she took off her apron and headed out to greet their guest.

The first thing Brogan noticed when she walked into the living room was that Theo Woodsong had changed out of his police duds into jeans and a sweater. His dark hair hung down almost shoulder-length. His coffee-colored eyes were less guarded and more relaxed. His entire body language seemed more at ease. Sitting in one of the upholstered chairs with his feet propped up on the ottoman and a beer in his hand, he looked less like an out-of-place big-city cop and more like the newcomer who had dropped by for a casual chat.

“Hey, Brogan,” Theo said, greeting her with a sly smile.

Theo was about to get to his feet as she entered the room, but she waved him off. “Please, don’t bother getting up. You’ve had a stressful day.”

“Which makes me that much more appreciative I’m not going home to a cold sandwich for dinner. Lucien tells me you’ve been making tamales. I can’t wait to try them. They smell amazing. They’re one of my favorite foods.”

Brogan felt a rush of relief at his friendly demeanor. She had been worried about him clamming up and not participating in the conversation. “I hope they meet your expectations,” she replied with a grin, sitting across from him.

Lucien sipped his Modelo Especial, looking pleased with how things were going. “She isn’t afraid of trying new recipes she’s never cooked. She’s fearless like that.”

Theo chuckled and raised an eyebrow at Brogan. “My mother was much the same way. But she cooked for my dad and four kids. She loved coming up with new ways to make our budget stretch.”

“Really? Like what?” Brogan asked.

“She had this meatloaf she made with a little bit of hamburger meat and a whole lot of cheese in the middle. I swear it served six people.”

“You have siblings?”

“I do. A brother and two sisters.”

The conversation flowed easily as they chatted about everything from small-town living to Theo’s decision to relocate.

“It was easy for me. I put in my twenty years on the force and went through a messy divorce.”

“You don’t look that old.”

“I joined the Seattle PD at eighteen, married at twenty. I’m ready to begin a new chapter of my life somewhere else. For me, Pelican Pointe checked all the boxes.”

Brogan smiled over at Lucien, relieved that their guest seemed to be in a talkative mood. “I think you’ll love it here. It’s a shame Brent Cody went on vacation just as you arrived.”

“I think he went because I arrived,” Theo corrected. “His wife, River, was more than ready for him to take some time off. He needed a well-deserved vacation away from work. With me here, he was able to grab some downtime.”

“Well, I for one, am ready for dinner,” Lucien announced, rubbing his hands together. “It’s beginning to smell like that Mexican food restaurant we used to go to in Los Angeles.”

“I can take a hint,” Brogan said as she got to her feet. “Theo, we’re eating in the dining room tonight in your honor. Go on in and get settled. I’ll bring out the food. Lucien, have you picked out a wine yet?”

“Good thinking. Theo, red or white? I’m thinking I could throw together a quick sangria.”

Theo stood up and followed them into the dining room. “That’s fine. Or I could stick with my Modelo. Beer’s fine by me.”

“You guys decide,” Brogan urged as she veered into the kitchen.

“No sangria,” Lucien decided. “I’ll get you a second beer.”

“I’m off duty, but with Brent out of town, I remain on call twenty-four-seven. We all are. So, maybe I should go with a soft drink.”

“Sure. Coke or something else?”

“Got a Dr. Pepper?”

Lucien grinned. “I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

A few minutes later, he and Brogan brought out the tamales, the rice and beans, and the guacamole on a tray with a glass of ice and a can of Dr. Pepper. Stella and Poppy followed closely behind, hoping for any stray bits of food that might come their way.

They joined Theo at the table. Brogan felt a sense of contentment seeing her hard work laid out before their guest.

“Dig in,” Lucien offered.

“I want to thank you both for inviting me tonight,” Theo said as he unwrapped his napkin. “It’s not often I get to enjoy a home-cooked meal like this.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Brogan replied, any lingering doubts about inviting him melted away. “We’re happy to have you. But you should reserve judgment until you do the taste test.”

“We’re glad you could join us,” Lucien chimed in, passing the platter of tamales to Theo. “Brogan whipped this up like a pro.”

Brogan blushed at the compliment as she scooped up the glob of broken tamales and spread them out like a casserole on her plate. “We’ll see about that. You won’t hurt my feelings if it’s awful.”

Theo nodded appreciatively as he took his first bite and savored the flavors. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. These are delicious. It’s difficult to believe this was your first attempt.”

“I downloaded the simplest recipe I could find,” she confessed, pleased that her efforts had paid off. As they ate and talked, the atmosphere in the dining room became more relaxed and jovial. Stories were shared, laughter filled the air, and it felt like a simple visit with an old friend around a meal, playing catch up.

Neither Brogan nor Lucien mentioned the Heywood case. For one thing, they made eye contact from across the table and didn’t have the heart to break the rhythm of the evening.

After dinner, the trio sat around the table, Brogan sipping a glass of red wine, Lucien enjoying his beer, and Theo draining his Dr. Pepper.

“There’s fresh strawberries and cinnamon ice cream for dessert,” Brogan announced. “We grew the strawberries in our garden last summer.”

“None for me,” Theo said, patting his stomach. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Those were top-rate tamales, restaurant quality.”

“I doubt that, but it’s good of you to say so,” Brogan said with a smile.

“They were excellent,” Lucien told his wife, raising his beer in a toast. “Theo’s right. They tasted like you’d been making them all your life.”

“The secret is getting last-minute advice from Carla Vargas.”

Just then, Theo’s phone beeped with a text message. He glanced at it and sighed. “It’s Eastlyn. I hate to eat and run, but Eastlyn needs me back at the station.”

Theo pushed back his chair and stood up, a look of apology in his eyes. “I’m really sorry to cut our evening short. But duty calls.”

Brogan nodded understandingly. “Of course, don’t worry about it. Work is work.”

Lucien stood as well, offering his hand to Theo. “Thank you for joining us tonight. It was a pleasure getting to know you better.”

Theo shook Lucien’s hand firmly. “Likewise. Thank you for the hospitality and the delicious meal. I’ll have to repay the favor sometime.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Brogan said with a smile.

With a nod of thanks, Theo excused himself and made his way to the entryway. Brogan and Lucien trailed after him and watched him head out into the night, leaving them standing on the porch. “He seems like a good guy,” Lucien remarked.

She nodded with a wave goodbye toward Theo’s patrol car. “Any specific reason you didn’t ask him about the case?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets against the chilly night air. “I don’t know. It seemed rude to invite him for a meal, watch how he enjoyed himself, and start interrogating him in the middle of dinner.”

“That’s why I love you. Those were my thoughts exactly. I should clean up,” Brogan said, rubbing her arms against the cold. She went back inside.

After locking the front door, Lucien followed Brogan into the kitchen. After rolling up his sleeves, he helped clean up the mess. “If it’s any consolation, the meal was a success.”

“Oh, I know. I don’t feel like the evening was a complete failure because I don’t think we would’ve gotten much information from him even if we’d brought it up. This way, we can get to know him first before making a pest out of ourselves.”

“Take it slow is the plan. He didn’t seem to know any more than we did about Heywood, did he? And I didn’t want to dive into details about how Sam died at the dinner table. Did you?”

“No.”

They worked in comfortable silence, carrying dishes from the dining room into the kitchen and washing pots and pans, each lost in their own thoughts.

It wasn’t until Brogan started the dishwasher that she turned to Lucien with a serious look on her face. “I’ve decided to do some sleuthing on my own regarding the situation with my DNA test. I need to ask myself the tough questions before approaching my grandmother.”

“Meaning?”

“Am I ready to learn the truth, the whole truth, and face the consequences? I do intend to grill Delia when I get the chance. I figure she’s probably known what happened from the beginning. She and my mother were too close not to. But my questions need substance and context. Two things I don’t have yet. But other people might.”

“As in?”

“Like talking to the people who knew Dad best—band members. That means talking to Graeme, Nigel Brighton, and Gordon Mayer. They were all there during the multiple tours. Original bandmates. They were all there leading up to my conception.”

“Don’t forget Jack Milliken, head of security, who was never that far away from your father.”

“Ah, yes, him too. I’ve decided to zero in on the Scandinavian tour, specifically Indigo’s time spent in Sweden. That narrows down the timeframe a bit. Could that be where I began, and something awful happened to my birth mother? Enter Rachel Brinell, the wealthy American heiress with all the money available to pay off anyone for their silence.”

“And let’s not forget the Delia Gregson, who loved to pull the strings from high on her throne back in the States. She’d do anything to protect the family name.”

“Exactly. There’s a mystery about my origins, Lucien, and I need to know who I am. If we ever want to have kids, I need to know.”

“Of course you do. I’ll help in any way I can. But you already figured that out,” Lucien said, reaching to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out together.”

“Like always.”

“Yep. Like always. Let’s go to bed and map out our strategy.”