Orcas Investigation

By Laura Gayle

Camille Tate has found the spot she would like to call home . . . but staying in one place has dangers for a woman who always fades away.

When winter comes to Orcas, ice strands Cam indoors. It’s time to work on her script, do some caretaking, and recover from the danger of her early time on the island. But Cam is grieving her friends, lost to betrayal, travel, and whatever called Lisa Cannon away with barely a word.

What will break Cam’s loneliness? JoJo, the rakish son of her boss, offers a charming distraction from all the things Cam should be doing. With him at her side, Cam is swept into a new investigation. Against a backdrop of hilarious island politics and eccentric neighbors, the secrets of Cam’s childhood—and her mysterious gift—begin to surface.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shannon Page
• Release date: Oct 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781611388381

Laura Gayle

Laura Gayle is the nom de plume of two friends who love to collaborate.Shannon Page was born on Halloween night and raised without television on a back-to-the-land commune in northern California. Her work has appeared in Clarkesworld, Interzone, Fantasy, Black Static, Tor.com, and many anthologies. Books include the contemporary fantasy series The Nightcraft Quartet; fiction collection Eastlick and Other Stories; personal essay collection I Was a Trophy Wife; hippie horror novel Eel River; cozy mystery series the Chameleon Chronicles, co-written with Karen G. Berry; and Our Lady of the Islands, co-written with the late Jay Lake, as well as a forthcoming sequel co-written with Mark J. Ferrari. Her many editing credits include the essay collection The Usual Path to Publication and the anthologies Witches, Stitches & Bitches and Black-Eyed Peas on New Year’s Day: An Anthology of Hope. Shannon is a longtime yoga practitioner, has no tattoos (but she did recently get a television), and lives on lovely, remote Orcas Island, Washington, with her husband, author and illustrator Mark Ferrari. Visit her at www.shannonpage.net.Karen G. Berry has lived in or near Portland, Oregon, for forty years, but remains solidly Midwestern in outlook and recipes, which is why you never find any of hers in the recipe sections of the Chameleon Chronicles. She has one wonderful husband, three wonderful daughters, two wonderful grandsons, and several thousand books. A marketing writer by day, Karen is a prize-winning poet and has published seven novels and one nonfiction book, Shopping at the Used Man Store. As a committed underachiever, Karen finds all of this fairly amazing. Visit her at www.karengberry.mywriting.network/.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Felicia: It’s such a dark and stormy night.

It wasn’t dark, though, or stormy, or night. I deleted the line and sighed, staring out my kitchen window. I’d moved my laptop in here because the room was brighter and cheerier than the little bedroom I’d designated as an office, but the writing wasn’t going any better.

I got up and poured another cup of coffee and brought it back to the table, so I could stare out the window a little longer. Outside was an icescape, brilliantly beautiful, lethal. Which didn’t stop a small cottontail rabbit from hopping across the mossy lawn to a wilting flower bed, pausing to nibble here and there. James glanced up from where he’d been sleeping on a chair, as if magically aware of something invading his domain out in the yard, and came loping over to leap into the window box and gaze down at the rabbit—who stood suddenly, and stared back up at James in alarm, then darted away, showing me a flash of white tail as he went.

Happy now? I asked. All your frozen grass is safe again. He did not dignify my taunt with so much as a glance, so I ignored him too, and got back to work.

Felicia: I don’t know how to untangle this mystery. I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head.

Delete, delete.

I sipped my coffee and watched the rabbit cautiously edge his way back over the frozen moss, keeping well away from the window now. Didn’t he freeze his little paws? Probably everything he was finding to eat was crunchy. It had been below freezing here for nearly a week, starting right after the…eventful…Thanksgiving weekend. Right after everyone left. Leaving me here, alone in a three-bedroom guesthouse behind an I-can’t-count-that-high-bedroom mansion owned by my employers, the Brixtons.

Well, at least it wasn’t raining. But it had been so very, very cold. My meager supply of firewood was gone, and I was crossing my fingers that the power would stay on so the central heating would work. After a hair-raising trip to town the first day, I hadn’t dared to drive on the ice again.

I wasn’t going to starve, though. The Thanksgiving leftovers would keep me going for another week, easy. Even without all the extra food that my parents and Kevin had brought.

Kevin…

Felicia: I think about my ex-boyfriend only very occasionally, and only when I’m unfortunately reminded of his existence. I simply do not have time for such nonsense, because I

Ugh. Delete, delete, delete.

I took another sip of coffee and stared at my silent cell phone beside the computer. I wished I could call my friend Jen. My former new best friend who had taken off with my ex-boyfriend, Kevin, in his Intruder, to shack up in Moran State Park, and…nope, not going there. Not yet. Kevin and I were done. He and Jen…it hurt, but I was okay. I wished them well.

I really did. Except when I didn’t.

And it made it awfully quiet around here.

But quiet was good! I had a play to finish writing, and by finish I meant write the second and third acts and revise the first act. The long (cold!) dark nights and short (cold!) days of winter should be giving me plenty of time to work on it.

Instead, I was writing—and deleting—stupid lines and pointless stage directions and basically diary entries, knowing even as I wrote them that they were not part of this story, but the words bubbled out all the same. The wrong words. So many wrong words.

I got up and paced around the house, checking the thermostat as I went through the living room, inching it up another degree. Gazing sadly into the empty, dark fireplace. Jen had said she would help me find seasoned firewood—seasoned, that meant old and dry and long-dead, not fresh-cut, not rain-soaked. Not frozen solid. See how much I was learning about rural life already?

I rubbed my arms, careful to avoid the place where I had actually been shot. It was mostly healed, but touching it brought back memories: a terrible night, so much fear, the sound of the gunshot. Even a grazing wound hurt like heck, and I hated remembering that night.

I needed some distraction.

James had followed my pacing; now he gave me a half-heartedly inquisitive meow, and jumped up onto the couch, no doubt to continue his slumber there. He’d been much more of a homebody since everyone had left. Or maybe it was just the cold snap. I think he did like the quiet and solitude, though; or maybe he was just growing up. Though he had a ways to go. He was barely the equivalent of a teenager, in cat years. All legs and mischief and appetite.

I paced back into the kitchen. My blank screen, ACT TWO in bold and Italics at the top of it, stared back at me.

Felicia: I must get out of this house, or I’ll go stark raving mad.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Okay, Cam, I said to myself, as I stood in front of the open fridge that I had no memory of opening, much less walking over to. I don’t know about Felicia, but you are not cut out for the cabin-fever lifestyle. I had to go to town, to see another human being, to do something. After all the drama and intrigue and madness since I’d arrived here on Orcas Island, to have had everything suddenly go so quiet and peaceful…it was intolerable.

But I couldn’t drive on that ice. My little Honda just couldn’t handle it, even with the chains I didn’t really know how to put on.

And I had nobody to call for help.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d relied on my little community of friends and neighbors, until they’d all vanished. My family, of course, had only been visiting for the weekend, as had the Brixtons (and their entertaining children, JoJo and Clary). But my island friends were gone too. Colin, who’d taken a contract job in San Diego for the winter, taking his boat and sailing away. Lisa Cannon, also off-island, tending to mysterious business in Seattle, or somewhere. And Jen…yeah, Jen.

And then there was Kip. I supposed Kip was a friend, no matter that he’d confused me terribly when it all went down on Snooks’s boat. Kip, San Juan County Deputy Sheriff, who I’d last seen being hauled off in handcuffs by a very impressive FBI agent—and, if that weren’t enough, a Canadian Mountie as well.

I still couldn’t quite get my head around the fact that Kip had been led off in handcuffs. He was the most straight-laced guy I knew, with rugged good looks and that mellifluous voice. But I couldn’t deny the evidence of my own senses. Kip had waylaid me and tried to drag me off to the strange, abandoned boat, all the while accusing me—vaguely—of being somehow behind all the intrigue Orcas had been experiencing of late. Of harboring secrets.

Well, that last part was true. But I had only one big secret, and the rest weren’t my secrets, and they really shouldn’t have been the cause of any of our handful of dead bodies. Gregory Baines. Megan Duquesne. Ephraim Snooks. And the woman Clary found at Thanksgiving, the mysterious woman who had been searching for the binder on Snooks’s boat. And through it all, Sheila. Sheila who just kept turning up, who was supposed to be incarcerated now, but was she? She’d come back to life once. A jailbreak would be nothing after that.

Who were these people? How were they connected? Why was I wasting time writing a madcap mystery for the stage, when there were so many other mysteries to unravel?

If only Jen were here to help me figure it all out. I missed Jen so much, my teeth almost hurt from it.

Felicia paces the stage, out of her mind with loneliness.

Felicia: Maybe if I just drive really slowly and carefully, I can make it to town and back without sliding off the road and into the sound. It’s movie night at the Sea View, after all; and I’m nearly out of cream.

Delete, delete, but I wasn’t wrong, was I? The sun was already setting, I’d gotten no writing done today, the icepocalypse was never going to melt, and semi-first-run movies played only two nights a week here. I’d missed last night, being too scared to drive. If I didn’t go tonight, I’d not get to see the new Marvel release at all.

Unless I went to the mainland—America. Not likely.

So that’s how I found myself bundling up against the cold, preparing to crunch across the frozen driveway to my iced-shut car. I wound a plaid muffler (a Pendleton, a real thrift shop score) over my head and around my neck, and put on my wool peacoat. That would do it, yes? I’d be protected by all this wool if I slid off the road and landed in the ditch and it was too icy to walk out for help and no one passed my car for hours because every other resident of this icy, remote island was too sensible to leave home on a night like this?

What was I thinking?

I was thinking that I was going stir-crazy. And needed diversion and human interaction. Like, you know, a normal person would. And that a movie would be good for me. It would take me out of my own head, which was preoccupied with personal disappointment and the strange goings-on that I had no real explanation for. Like Sheila, and how she’d come back from the dead. And Lisa’s binder, and how strange it was that she’d been desperate for me to find it, and then totally unconcerned about getting it back from me.

And those strange gifts at my back door, where I heard a knock. A knock?

Company, in this weather?

I headed back through the house to the kitchen, where I opened the door to the most peculiar woman I’d ever seen. She was tall, though she’d clearly been even more statuesque when she was younger (like, less than eighty-five); and she was swathed head to toe in turbulent, dramatic colors. I think it was a coat, once; now it was an assortment of fire-engine red boiled wool underneath; patches of purple and green on the sleeves; a black-and-white polka dot belt, eight inches wide at least; and what could only be epaulettes on both shoulders. Epaulettes that didn’t match, even sort of: a tight military braid on one side; a tasseled, hand-sewn number on the other. She had beautiful snowy hair (but had she cut it herself? Oh please no), milky blue eyes, and a strong mouth adorned with lipstick to match the first layer of her coat.

This vision held out a gallon-sized jar of clearly homemade pickles, in a hand that did not tremble. She must be way stronger than she looks, I thought. Hello, dear, she said, in a clear, forceful voice. I thought it was about time I introduced myself. My name is Paige Berry, and I find myself in a bit of a pickle. My eyes dropped to the jar of pickles in her hand; she raised a white eyebrow and lifted her reddened lips in the ghost of a smile. "Yes, I know, a pun of an introduction, isn’t it? But I’m talking about a real pickle. I find myself in a serious situation, Ms. Tate."

Another situation? My heart sank. How serious?

Very serious. Her pale blue eyes fixed mine with an oddly commanding stare. I’m hoping you can help me with it. I understand you have a way with mysteries.

They seem to find me, I blurted. Well—come in. We were both heavily bundled up, but I could still feel the iciness colonizing my house.

Thank you. She thrust the pickle jar at me; I took it, needing both hands for the weight. From my garden, she said, as I wrestled the jar to the counter and set it down. No wonder she’d needed such a huge jar; these had been made from the biggest cucumbers in creation. I’m out of the fresh stuff, but I had time to put up a few dozen jars before the deep freeze. As I closed the kitchen door, she glanced around appraisingly, her eyes lighting on the coffee pot. Well, well. Pour me a cup, and get comfortable. This may take a while.

orca

After doctoring her cup with more than half of my remaining cream, Paige Berry settled back in her chair and gave me a long, not unfriendly stare. Taking my measure, clearly, as I’d taken hers at the back door. She nodded, sipped what had to be lukewarm coffee after dumping all that cream into it, and set the cup down. Yes, she said, a pickle. Though you’ve certainly seen more than your share of our island drama already, haven’t you!

I didn’t bother asking her how she knew. Everybody knew everything, almost before it happened. It was the way of island life, apparently. It had befuddled and astonished me for weeks, making Jen laugh every time.

Ha, ha.

I blinked away the dampness at the corner of my eye and swallowed the lump in my throat, now wishing I’d poured myself another cup as well. Yeah, I finally managed. I thought it was supposed to be peaceful out here.

Paige gave a startling bark of a laugh, nearly upsetting her coffee cup as she smacked her hand on the table. Peaceful! Don’t be absurd. Why, there’s more intrigue on this island than in any ten Seattles.

I couldn’t argue with that.

Which brings me to my problem. She leaned in, holding my gaze with her cloudy blue one. I know you haven’t been here through a spring season yet.

She said it as a statement, but clearly waited for a response. Uh, no. I haven’t been here more than about five, six weeks.

Just so. Then her gaze sharpened. Where did you come from, then?

Seattle.

She took another sip of her coffee. I watched her corded throat move as the beverage went down. Always Seattle, or did you come from somewhere before that?

I grew up in Wenatchee. What in the world was she getting at? What did where I came from have to do with anything?

Paige nodded vigorously. "Good, Pacific Northwest, then. That will make this easier. You’re familiar with the azalea sub-family Pentanthera, then?"

Huh? I knew what an azalea was, but—sub-family? Penta-what?

She rapped the table again, impatiently this time. "Spring bloomers! Big shrub, member of the family Rhododendron but smaller than what most folks typically call rhodies. Pacific Northwest plant. Good gracious, girl, don’t they teach you kids anything in school these days?"

I felt my cheeks flame. Um, yes, I know what azaleas are. Bright pink flowers—

Pink! She rolled those blue eyes to the ceiling, then polished off her coffee and shoved the empty cup toward me. I got up and refilled it, pouring in the last of the cream with a shrug, and brought it back to her. Pink, she says.

Part of me was beginning to get a little annoyed—who asked this peculiar woman to drop in and begin insulting me?—but the rest of me was simply bemused. She was a character, all right. And I’d been very bored, and very lonely. Maybe I could write someone like her into my play, maybe that’s what it needed.

I sat back down across from her, then wondered if I shouldn’t have gotten myself a beer while I was up. Didn’t look like I’d be going to that Marvel movie after all.

Pink is just the problem, you see, Paige was saying as she stirred the coffee, then dropped the spoon on the table with a damp clank.

Why is pink a problem? I asked, playing along.

She narrowed her eyes and leaned in, as though about to tell a secret. "There are other colors of Pentanthera than pink, you know."

Okay.

"In fact, she went on, giving me a look of the utmost seriousness, if I didn’t know you had just moved here, I might almost wonder if you were having me on. Already playing for the other side. She winked, slowly, still frowning. A convert to the nefarious Porterites."

I stared at her. The Porterites?

Tell me you haven’t already joined the Porterites.

I haven’t joined the Porterites. I don’t even know what they are.

She looked around my kitchen, scanning the open shelves, the still-cluttered countertop. I would never manage to eat all those russet potatoes, I just knew it. Her eyes landed on the cardboard wine box that still held nine bottles, leftover from my parents’ absurd over-shopping. Where did you get that? She pointed that unflinching hand at them.

Thanksgiving—my parents brought way too much food, I explained. And drink.

Paige Berry looked unaccountably relieved. Then you haven’t bought wine in town?

Oh! I did, once—from that, um, elderly guy, Porter.

Her lips narrowed into a thin line. Yes. Porter Wendergrast. She shook her head. "So I am too late after all. She began to get to her feet. Thank you for the coffee."

No, wait, don’t! I cried. I suddenly didn’t want her to leave at all. Sure, she was clearly wacko, but she was the most interesting thing to happen to me in almost a week. And she’d piqued my interest. What’s the matter with Porter? He just sold me a bottle of wine. When I first got here. I haven’t seen him since.

She paused, halfway out of her chair, and gave me a suspicious glare. "He didn’t…tell you anything?"

A very bad joke. That’s all. I thought about offering to tell it, but it didn’t seem like the time. And he helped me pick out an affordable bottle of wine, for…well, never mind that part. He seemed like a nice guy.

She settled back into her chair, as if begrudgingly. Nothing more than a bad joke and wine advice. You’re quite certain?

She should get a job with the sheriff’s office, I thought. Seemed like they might have an opening, with Kip out of play. But again, I held my tongue about all that. Yes, that’s all. But why? What’s a wine seller have to do with pink azaleas?

She shook her head. That’s what he would have you think, I’m sure. Claims nothing to do with it at all. But I’ve never been fooled. All done in spite, young lady. Plain, irrational malice.

I just blinked back at her. Either she was going to tell me what was on her mind, or she wasn’t. Amusing though she might be, I would soon grow tired of trying to drag it out of her.

Perhaps she sensed my thought. Porter is a relative newcomer on the island. He moved here in the nineteen seventies with his wife at the time.

My eyes widened at that. That’s…new?

Paige snorted. It is when you’ve lived here since nineteen fifty-six, she said, patting her own colorful chest. Pay attention, girl; I’m only going to go through this once.

I nodded. At least she seemed to be moving forward now.

"The wife was a flighty thing; didn’t have the least interest in gardening. Always rolled her eyes at Porter’s passion for it, resented all the time and money he put into their yard. People learned quick enough not to compliment their garden around her, I’ll tell you. Part of her mistake, I’ll concede. Not that I can blame her for what happened. That was all Porter, right from the start." She shook her head wearily.

So…what did happen? I asked, hoping to keep things on track.

He joined the Rescue Society and proceeded to make all nicey-nice with us ladies, of course. First man to ask for admission, and I don’t mind telling you that there was some debate about whether or not to even admit him. Times were changing, you know; at least, some of the younger ladies argued that line. She shook her head. I could see her knobby knuckles tighten around the handle of the coffee cup, which was empty again. One of them in particular, and not for reasons that had anything to do with gardening, I could have told you even then. Porter was not a bad-looking man in those days. I hoped she wouldn’t break the cup. Like everything else that furnished this guesthouse, it wasn’t mine.

What kind of a rescue society? I asked.

"Why, for the azalea Pentanthera, of course. Aren’t you paying attention?"

I felt a blush color my face again. Oh. I see.

She sniffed. Right.

They need rescuing? It seemed to me that azaleas were everywhere. In fact, I was pretty sure this very property was full of them, but I guessed I’d know more clearly in the spring. They might be rhododendrons (well, what we common idiots called rhododendrons, apparently). Or something else.

"The ones that aren’t pink do," she said in a low voice.

Ahh.

Paige Berry released the poor coffee cup and went on. "In the early days of the Rescue Society, we had to fight an uphill battle, let me tell you. The island was being colonized by outsiders—nearly as much as today, if you can believe it. Folks who’d come out here, buy a piece of property, and then just start yanking out hundred-year-old gardens and orchards, bold as you please. There were several breeds of Pentanthera, ancient, heirloom varieties, that we’ll never see the likes of again. It’s why we came together in the first place: to stop the losses."

Uh-huh. I started thinking more about that beer. I still had a dozen or more bottles in the fridge. More Thanksgiving bounty.

There was a brilliant yellow, bold as a canary. You should have seen it. Paige sighed, her eyes unfocused, her mind clearly on the amazing flowers.

I think I’ve seen yellow azaleas, I murmured.

"Lemon, she snapped. That’s all we have now. Insipid, might as well be white. Nothing like what