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  TWO SLEUTHS ARE BETTER THAN ONE

  A DANGER COVE

  CROSSOVER MYSTERY

  by

  GIN JONES

  &

  ELIZABETH ASHBY

  *

  Copyright © 2019 by Gin Jones

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  RECIPES

  FREE EBOOK OFFER

  DANGER COVE BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  BOOKS BY GIN JONES

  SNEAK PEEK

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maria Dolores

  The judge for the Lighthouse Market's salsa contest was missing.

  I'd been in the midst of my pre-opening checkin with the market vendors when Sargent Adams, the president of the Danger Cove Garden Club, texted me to say there was a sizeable and restless audience but no one in charge. The judge was supposed to be there, overseeing the setup in the area in front of the historical garden, which was located halfway between the market stalls and the beach.

  I'd booked several local chefs—both professional and amateur—and other experts to demonstrate the basics of salsa-making this week, and then next week the contest itself would be held, using the local tomatoes and peppers that were at their peak in late summer. I'd also convinced the popular local high school football coach, Andy Zielinski, to emcee the demonstrations this weekend and then serve as the final judge of the contest next Saturday. He was a bit of a local celebrity, having been a professional football player before retiring on his fortieth birthday five years ago and returning to Danger Cove to give back to the community by teaching and coaching.

  I knew Andy had arrived in plenty of time to oversee the setup for the demonstrations. I'd seen him about half an hour earlier in front of the first aid tent. I went there first to look for him, but he wasn't anywhere in sight. When I'd seen him earlier, he'd been talking to my boyfriend, Merle Curtis, and the Baxter twins, the EMTs who worked the market events. But according to the garden club's president, Andy had never made it over to the contest area to host the first demonstration that was due to start in just a few minutes, at ten o'clock. He still needed to get used to the sound system and make sure the first chef had everything she'd requested for her demonstration.

  Andy had a reputation for being reliable, but I was still responsible for making sure he followed through on his assignments. If he'd been detained somewhere, it was my job to find him, and it wasn't like I could pull him out of my sling bag where I could usually find backup supplies for every emergency I could think of.

  I was finally getting the hang of my new market-manager gig after shutting down my financial planning practice in Seattle and moving to Danger Cove. Sure, it had taken longer than I'd expected—most of two full summer seasons already—and there'd been some pretty serious challenges along the way, but everything was finally coming together, and I no longer doubted that I was the right person for the job. I'd collected a diverse group of vendors who sold everything from asparagus to zucchini, along with a sprinkling of locally crafted products, like wooden bowls and hand-spun Angora yarn. Attendance was growing steadily, and I was hoping the salsa contest would increase the market's numbers even more. But that meant the contest had to go off without a hitch, and my celebrity judge/emcee was missing.

  Andy should have been easy to spot—he was big and muscular, as would be expected of a linebacker for a professional football team. Plus, he'd been wearing his purple coach's shirt, which would make even a smaller man stand out in a crowd. I stood with my back to the first aid tent that marked the beginning of the market and did a hundred-eighty-degree turn, checking first the vendors' spaces to my right and then the smattering of unofficial setups to my left, closer to the parking lot, where nonprofit groups built a sort of suburb outside the official boundaries of the market. The Danger Cove Quilt Guild was working on a raffle quilt, and the Second Chance Animal Rescue group had a few pets on display for adoption.

  Despite the heat of the mid-August sun, a nice breeze ruffled the canopies over the vendors' stalls set up on either side of the Memorial Walkway—a path laid with stones about twice the size of a brick's face, many of them inscribed with the name of a deceased local resident—which ran from the parking lot to the Danger Cove Lighthouse. The walkway had received some much-needed attention in recent months, thanks to a recent, generous donation to the Save the Lighthouse Committee. More of the engraved stones had been added, filling in the gaps and extending the path, especially at the end closer to the parking lot. Thanks to those improvements and the vendors' colorful displays, the market looked quaintly inviting, just as I'd envisioned it during the cold winter months.

  With the arrival of peak harvest season, the stalls were overflowing with the very best of the local farmers' crops. And that was despite having set aside substantial quantities for the new delivery service I'd launched a few weeks earlier with its own mobile app. With a few taps on a screen, Danger Cove residents could now order tomatoes from Fordham Farms or beverages from Pear Stirpes Orchard or anyone else in the market, and have them delivered to their door by noon every Saturday. Buyers no longer had to worry about getting to the market early to make sure their favorite products wouldn't be sold out.

  The market's delivery service was still small compared to big, national ones like Grubhub or Uber Eats, but it was gaining in popularity. I might even have to hire another delivery driver before the end of the season. For now though, Scott Ingell, who for most of the week was a driver for the popular mobile apps, was doing an excellent job of getting the products delivered quickly and accurately.

  Of course, a good deal of the credit for the timely deliveries had to go to Cary Baines, my market assistant. He was a wiz at filling canvas tote bags with the orders, calculating the most efficient delivery route, and making sure everything was loaded into the SUV in an organized manner for easy access
.

  Cary was also a wiz at finding lost people. If he was done with packing Scott's SUV, he might be able to help me find Andy.

  I made my way down to where the Memorial Walkway petered out near the parking lot. Scott's pristine SUV—it was five years old but looked like it had just been driven off the new car lot, with not so much as a speck of dust visible anywhere inside or out—was parked there, the back end pointed toward the grassy area where the filled orders had been compiled by Cary. There were only about a dozen bags left to be packed by the time I arrived.

  "Good morning, Maria Dolores." Cary looked like a teen, although he was in his twenties. He was slightly built with the gangly legs and knobby knees that stuck out of the cargo shorts he wore with the market's official green T-shirt printed with a cameo of my namesake and great-great-great-grandmother, the first lighthouse keeper of Danger Cove.

  Cary went on excitedly. "There were seventeen percent more orders today than last week. Did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "There were," he said. "But I'll make sure everything fits in Scott's 2016 Toyota Highlander LE."

  "I'm sure you will."

  "I just need four more minutes. I had to move some of Scott Ingell's things out of the back first, or we'd be done by now," Cary said, pointing toward the front of the vehicle. "I put them beneath the front passenger seat. You'll never believe all the cool stuff he has there."

  I wanted to tell him I didn't have time to hear about cars at the moment, but once he started a conversation, he needed to finish it or he'd get upset. Rushing him would only turn his estimated four minutes into forty.

  "Like what?" I asked, giving him the opening he needed.

  "A whole kit for emergencies. Every driver should have one," Cary said earnestly. "With first aid supplies and a pocketknife in case you need to cut yourself out of the seat belt after an accident. Scott Ingell is going to help me get what I need for my car."

  Cary didn't actually have a car, and the exact specs for his fantasy future vehicle had changed just about every week since he'd started working in the repair shop of a local car dealer. That didn't stop him from creating a hope chest for when he did manage to acquire his vehicular soul mate. So far, he'd shown me the air freshener, tire gauge, and—accompanied by lengthy explanations about special features I didn't understand—a set of jumper cables.

  "I'm sure Scott knows a lot more about such things than most people do. You're fortunate to have him as a mentor."

  "I am, for sure." Satisfied, Cary raced off to finish the packing.

  I turned to Scott with a more immediate concern even than finding Andy Zielinski. If the demonstrations started a few minutes late, no one would be too upset, but if people didn't get their fruits and vegetables on time, it could sink the delivery service before it truly got off the ground.

  "Will you be able to get everything delivered before noon today?" That was what the app promised—order by 9 p.m. on Friday, and get everything delivered to the door by noon on Saturday.

  "I believe so, ma'am," Scott said in the Texas drawl that had faded but not quite disappeared in the thirty or so years since he'd moved to Danger Cove as a teen. He was tall, with sun-weathered skin, and a bit gaunt. He always seemed to slump, as if he were worn down by life. Of course, that could just be from too many hours behind the wheel of a car or even that anyone would look tired in comparison to Cary, whose energy and enthusiasm were boundless. Cary would need a five-page manual outlining how to slump, and even then he wouldn't be able to carry it off.

  Scott glanced at the three remaining bags that Cary was lugging over to the front passenger door. "It'll be close, but I can do if it I leave in the next few minutes. And if there's another seventeen percent increase next week, I might need some extra time to get them done."

  "We can discuss it on Friday when we know how many orders we have, and I can get you some help if you need it," I said. "You've really done a fabulous job with the deliveries so far. I've received a lot of compliments, but you're the one who deserves them."

  "Thanks," Scott said. "It's a lot less complicated than the schedules I used to have to juggle when I owned my own business. Passengers can get finicky about routes and driving safety, but backseat driving is a lot easier to deal with in an actual car than the micromanaging that happened in my old career. I may not earn as much as I used to, and I'm working longer hours, but you're a lot more appreciative than my old customers ever were."

  That would explain why he always seemed so defeated. I was glad I could give him something to feel good about. "Maybe next week we can get the products packed up earlier so you can get a bit of a head start on the noon deadline."

  I looked over to where a uniformed police officer stood a few yards away, making sure that the traffic cones that blocked off the path to the market until opening time were being respected. It must have just turned ten o'clock, because he was reaching for the nearest cone to remove it and free the thirty or so marketgoers to get on with their shopping. That meant it was also time for the first demonstration to start, so finding Andy Zielinski had to be my top priority.

  Cary had fitted the last order into the vehicle like a piece in a Tetris game. Before Scott could get behind the wheel, I asked, "I need to find Andy Zielinski. Have either of you seen him this morning?"

  "Sorry, no," Scott said. "I'd help look for him, but I really need to go now or I won't make the noon deadline."

  "I can find him," Cary volunteered. "I can find anyone."

  He wasn't bragging. He'd proved his skill in the past.

  "Go for it," I said. "Text me when you find him and bring him over to the demonstration site."

  *

  Cary took off at his usual awkward sprint, and I retraced my steps in the direction of the first aid tent, expecting the Baxter twins to have returned from wherever they'd been earlier, and hoping they might have noticed Andy in their travels. The EMTs usually hung out in front of their tent between crises, good-naturedly flirting with every female who passed and seemed even remotely interested in them. Even from the parking lot though, I could tell the Baxters still weren't back in their usual spots. I didn't bother to look inside. It was too hot to be in there without the door flaps open. Besides, the twins only went inside if they were actively treating a patient, and I'd have been alerted if someone had needed that level of first aid.

  I only got as far as the quilt guild's setup before I had to stop. The quilters were as well-oiled a machine as the ones they used for sewing, and could install their latest raffle quilt in just minutes, even though the frame was large enough to seat four people on each long side and two or three on the shorter sides. I attributed it not just to practice—they'd taken to joining the market every weekend this summer instead of just the big holidays—but also to the oversight of Emma Quinn, the guild president's right-hand woman and best friend. Emma was a sturdy woman in her seventies, dressed in faded jeans and a tank top.

  Emma had broken off whatever she'd been saying and dragged a tall woman about my own age, with dark, shoulder-length hair, over to me.

  "Dee said you two need to meet," Emma announced, and then immediately went back to her efficient supervising of the setup.

  "Sorry," the other woman said. "Emma sometimes forgets about the niceties of social interactions when there's a quilt project to oversee. I'm Keely Fairchild."

  "Maria Dolores, market manager."

  We shook hands, and Keely nodded at my fingernails. "Nice art."

  "Thanks." The nail artist at The Clip and Sip had originally wanted to add little decals of tomatoes in honor of the salsa contest, but I had thought they looked too much like apples and hadn't wanted to spend all weekend explaining that they were actually tomatoes. The way the grapevine worked around town, I'd be fueling speculation that my wearing apple art when my boyfriend grew pears was a passive-aggressive signal that the relationship was in trouble. The nail artist had offered a much safer and much nicer set of hot-pepper decals that
now adorned my fingers.

  "You've done a great job with the market," Keely said. "I don't attend all the events the guild puts on, but I've been to a few here. I'm a quilt appraiser, so it's part of my job to spend time with the local quilters."

  "Perhaps you know why Dee thinks we need to meet then."

  "I don't always understand her, but in this case I do," Keely said. "I'm looking for Andy Zielinski, and they thought you might know where he is. They said he's involved with a salsa contest somehow, and it's something you organized so you'd be keeping tabs on him."

  "They're right," I said. "Unfortunately, I don't know where he is either. I've got my assistant, Cary, searching for Andy, and he's good at finding people. I'm not very patient though, so until I hear from him, I'm planning to revisit the vendors in case Andy got caught up talking with one of them and lost track of time."

  "I can see how that could happen," Keely said. "If I'm ever lost at the market, you can find me in the Dangerous Reads tent. I always lose track of time there."

  "Meri Sinclair couldn't be here today. Elizabeth Ashby was invited to do a book signing in a nearby town as part of a summer celebration, and Dangerous Reads is the official bookseller for the event." I adjusted the strap of my sling bag. I'd filled it fuller than usual today, with supplies not just for the market but also for the salsa contest. "You're welcome to search for Coach Andy with me if you'd like."

  "That would be great," she said. "It's always good to have company when I'm asking questions about a murder."

  I hadn't heard about any murder. The market had had too many disasters—including earthquakes, fires, and murders—in its short history, although this season hadn't seen anything worse than a broken wrist when someone slipped and fell on Independence Day weekend. Maybe I'd become too complacent recently.

  "What murder?"