Chapter 1
Mystery of the Week
This story is set after Mystery Magnet.
“My name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I solve mysteries,” I said. “Do you want an ice cream cone?”
Deputy Bobby (he’s a real deputy; he works for the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office) gave me a look from where he stood directing traffic.
Deputy Bobby is not what most people would call expressive.
He doesn’t really make faces or anything like that.
But he’s got these seriously intense eyes that are a color I’ve never seen on anybody else—a rich, earthy bronze.
He’s also got regulation dark hair, golden-olive skin, and the muscles of a Superman who just happens to be a little shorter than average.
In other words, he’s hideous and ugly and all-around hard to look at, and spending time with him was basically my cross to bear.
As he waved another car through the intersection, he said, “Try that again.”
“I’m waiting for them to make my cone.” I pointed to the food truck across the street. Two Girls and a Scoop had the best ice cream in town. (I’m not willing to hear opinions to the contrary.)
“That’s not the part I was worried about.”
“My name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I stopped a murderer.”
His look, if anything, was even flatter this time.
“Seriously,” I asked, “do you want one?”
He didn’t bother to say no.
I had to fight a grin. It was a beautiful day.
Summer on the Oregon Coast meant pleasantly warm afternoons that rarely edged into hot, a brisk breeze off the ocean, and, of course, tourists.
In a picturesque town like Hastings Rock, with its walkable downtown of beach bungalows and cottages and the odd Victorian home, all repurposed as art galleries and gift shops and candy stores, the tourists often outnumbered the locals ten to one.
Today, though, the traffic was even worse than usual because of the Hastings Rock Community Church’s annual craft fair, which was why Deputy Bobby was currently stopping a minivan from Utah from turning down a street that was clearly marked ONE WAY.
“How about,” I said, “my name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I’m a mystery writer.”
Deputy Bobby grunted. “Better.”
“My name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I want you to give me lots of money for a story I haven’t finished writing yet.”
The thing about Deputy Bobby is that, even though he’s got the patience of a saint, he’s still only human. He gave me a longer look this time and said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m practicing my introduction for the pitch session. I get to pitch my novel idea to an editor, Bobby. That’s a big opportunity.”
I didn’t want to get into the details, but it was a big opportunity that had cost me a hundred bucks, and I wasn’t exactly swimming in cash. My recent move to Hastings Rock had brought a lot of good changes to my life, but a paying job wasn’t one of them.
“No, I meant, why are you standing in the middle of this intersection bothering me?”
“Deputy Bobby!”
“While I’m trying to work.”
“Rude! And for your information, I’m helping you. Look, that guy’s trying to sneak past you. Oh, and I’m waiting for my cone.”
I don’t have proof, but I’m pretty sure he was smiling as he turned, blew his whistle, and held up his hand to stop the overenthusiastic family of four from Missouri.
After restoring order, Deputy Bobby said, “You hate being called Dashiell.”
“Well, yeah, but it’s my full name. That’s what’s on the manuscripts. In theory, if there’s ever a book, that’s what will be on the cover.”
“Why?”
That was another thing about Deputy Bobby: he loved asking questions that sounded simple but were actually mind-melting brain pretzels.
The thing about me, though, was that I could give as good as I got. So, I just said, “Because.”
Again, I’ve got zero proof, but I swear he was about to smile.
Bliss Wilson, a local—I was still learning faces and names—tooted her horn at us in greeting as Deputy Bobby waved her into the parking lot where the craft fair was being held.
“Why would you tell an editor that you solve mysteries?”
“Because I did!”
And that was, technically, true, although I’d had some help.
Deputy Bobby had made his position clear vis-à-vis sleuthing—he was firmly of the opinion that I shouldn’t ever do it again, and that I should leave all future snooping to professional law enforcement, and that everyone’s lives would generally be safer and easier and better if I kept strictly to writing mysteries in the future, rather than investigating them.
Right then, he was giving me another of those looks, in case I’d forgotten where he stood on the matter. But all he said was “I meant, shouldn’t you tell him about your other stories? Isn’t that what an editor wants to hear about?”
“Well, yeah, eventually.”
“Eventually? How much time do you have for your pitch session?”
I ignored that. “The most important thing is to start with a hook.”
“And your hook is going to be that you solve mysteries.”
“Why did you say it like that?”
He was definitely hiding a smile at that point.
“Dash,” Chaleena—one of the aforementioned girls of Two Girls and a Scoop—called from the truck. She poked her head out the window, glanced around for me, and held up a cone.
“You’re up,” Deputy Bobby said.
“Just for that,” I said, “I’m not getting you any ice cream.”
“I don’t want any ice cream. I want to do my job and enjoy a beautiful day.”
“What is wrong with you—” I began.
But then, as I watched from the middle of the intersection, Chaleena ducked her head back inside the truck. She was still holding the cone out, waiting for me to take it. And while her attention was diverted, an old woman reached up, plucked the cone from her hand, and turned to stroll away.
For a moment, all I could do was stare.
“That lady,” Deputy Bobby said, “just stole your ice cream.”