Read Online The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine - Free Book Online

could hang a “closed” sign on his shop for the second day in a row. Wednesday morning is a slow time for business anyway, we rationalized. That done, we continued east for another few miles on 116.
    The road that branches off 116 leading up into the hills to Cazadero is called the Cazadero Highway, but it’s a narrow country road, with a speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour. It weaves alongside Austin Creek through dense forest impermeable to the sun. And now it had begun to rain. They say it always rains in Cazadero—it’s officially the wettest place in the state. As we drove, mist rose from the pavement, the leaves dripped gloom, and the scent of sodden pine needles thickened the air. If you want to get away from it all and your favorite outfit is a poncho, then Cazadero fills the bill. Otherwise, I wondered, why would anyone choose to live in this sequestered hamlet? It’s got a fire department, a post office, two churches, a general store, an auto repair shop, a bakery, and a bar.
    â€œHow did she sound on the phone yesterday?” asked Toby as we approached the outskirts of town.
    â€œUpset to think that her icon might have had anything to do with Charlie’s death. She never thought it was particularly valuable. She seemed willing enough to talk when I told her we were helping the sheriff.”
    â€œDid you mention I was Charlie’s partner?”
    â€œYes, and she said anything she could do to help, she would.”
    â€œLet’s hope she can. What are we looking for?”
    â€œA small wood-frame house painted red, on the right side of the road just past the Cazadero sign. Slow down. I think that may be it.”
    Toby eased up and pulled over. The house—a cabin really—was set well back from the street under a stand of pines. A shingle hanging from the roadside mailbox said “Cassini.” It had been a long time since the house had been painted. The siding was still recognizably red but faded. Moss clung to the roof. A rusty Dodge from another era sat on a dirt driveway in front of a small garage with a sagging door. The yard grew wild, but a big pot bursting with daffodils brightened the front porch.
    Rain lashed the yard as we hurried to the door, which opened just as we gained the stoop. “Come in out of it,” Rose said as she waved us inside. “You can hang your things up here.” She pointed to a row of pegs next to the entrance. In contrast to the dilapidated exterior, the inside of the house was warm and welcoming. There were hand-loomed mats scattered on the pine floor and brilliant throws and blankets draped over the simple furniture, which consisted of wicker chairs, side tables, and a sofa. An old pine dining table was covered with an inviting tablecloth glimmering with gold threads and many shades of green. As I took things in, a smile rose to my lips, in response to which Rose said simply, “I’m a weaver. Do you like them?”
    â€œOh yes, they’re beautiful! Did you make all these?”
    She smiled and nodded. She was used to compliments about her work. “A number of shops around here carry them. It keeps me busy.”
    We hung our wet things on the pegs and she led us to the table, where a pot of coffee and a platter of brownies awaited.
    Rose Cassini was still an attractive woman, though she looked to be in her late sixties, perhaps even a few years older. Like so many other local women of her generation, she retained the style of a flamboyant youth: long hair gone white, which she wore in a thick bun held by a silver clasp; dangling earrings, also silver, matched by a wide silver bracelet; jeans and a shaggy pullover; no makeup. Tall enough to look commanding, she had kept her figure mostly, had full lips, creased cheeks, and dark, inquisitive eyes that searched our faces as we pulled chairs up to the table.
    â€œHelp yourself,” she said, extending the platter to Toby, then me. “Made