Deadly Dry Rot: The Saywer Macaulay Carpentry Mysteries, #1

By Maree Brittenford

Carpenter and woodworker Sawyer Macaulay loves everything about living with her dog in her little cabin in a California mountain town. Everything, except for the gossip. Especially since she doesn't share the excitement the rest of her neighbors feel when Oscar Sarkson unexpectedly drops dead. Sure, most of the town hated Oscar, but Sawyer got on fine with him. He sold her fine woodworking in his gift shop, and she didn't pry into his private business. 

 

It worked for both of them. Right up until he died, that is. 

 

Now everyone in town seems to think she must know what's happening to Oscar's store and the rest of his money and property. All she knows is that everything he owned has been inherited by a distant relative. But everyone knows that.

 

Eddie Martinez is the contractor hired to remodel Oscar's building and Sawyer starts working for him. But any attempts at finding out more about the mysterious heir from him are met with evasiveness.

 

In between uncovering shocking secrets as they remodel the old building and everyone in town pestering her for information, Sawyer has her work cut out. She needs to find out what really happened to Oscar—and whatever it is Eddie is hiding. Especially if they're connected. 

 

To Sawyer, these secrets are like wood rot that goes deep. And as any carpenter knows, the only way to get rid of rot is to cut it out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maree Brittenford
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223753506

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

No one in town really liked Oscar Sarkson. So when he dropped dead one night as he was closing up his store on Main Street, the people of Little Peak, California were more curious than heartbroken. Nobody's wanted to talk about anything else since. At least, everyone has been pestering me about it. Just because I was one of the few people on cordial terms with the guy, everyone thinks I have insider information.

Oh, Sawyer, have you found out what's going to happen to Oscar’s store? Terri Rutledge asks as she scans my groceries. She fluffs her bleached hair, styled as always into a retro Stevie-Nicks-circa-1983 look. As her hair drifts and then settles, it sends a wave of rose-tinged hairspray scent in my direction. (As best I can tell, Terri was in high school in the early eighties and has stubbornly clung to her look ever since. I guess if something works for you, you stick with it.) 

I usually do my best to stay out of the town gossip mill, but that hasn’t been happening lately, what with everyone trying to pump me for information (that I don’t have) about Oscar.

I don't know, I respond, swiping my credit card. What’s going to happen to Oscar's store has been a hot topic. Or stores I suppose, since he owned a whole building on Main Street, with four stores in it, even though he was only using one of them and letting the other three stand empty.

I thought if anyone knew, it would be you. I was just saying to Bertrand this morning that I hoped you'd come in today, because if anyone knows what's happening to Oscar's store it would be Sawyer McCauley. That's the woman who'd know, I said. Terri and her husband Bertrand own the supermarket, so presumably she doesn’t need to be running a check stand, but she seems to love it. At least she’s always doing it. It does offer the best opportunity to collect gossip from all of her customers.

I’m tired of everyone thinking I would know what’s happening to the building. Yes, I've been doing business with Oscar for a few years now. He carried my handmade jewelry boxes in his store. So while I wouldn't say we were friends, I probably am one of the few people who doesn't harbor some level of resentment towards him. I'd managed to forge a decent enough business relationship with Oscar. He was snarky and could be mean, but he sold my stuff and he paid me for it, more or less on time. That doesn’t mean he confided the contents of his will to me. 

I want to know what’s going on with everything too. I still have a good thousand dollars’ worth of my work sitting in a custom display case (also mine) in Oscar's gift shop. On consignment, since Oscar was too stingy to buy it outright. But just because I want to get that back from the new owner, doesn't mean that I have any more information than anyone else.

I heard that he overdosed on some of those pills he's always taking, Terri adds. Maybe he was taking meth. Or those opioid things. People who take that stuff do crazy things to keep up the habit, you know. 

I think all he was taking was heart medication, I say. 

I know about Oscar's heart problems only because I'd seen the prescription bottles sitting on his desk from time to time when I'd followed him back into his office so he could settle up accounts with me. Getting money out of Oscar usually required me to hang around until he had no customers in the store and he could go in and sit down at his desk. Heaven forbid he check the stock and write up a check in advance. 

I guess it's true that his heart gave out on him then. Terri sounds disappointed that she hasn’t managed to uncover anything more salacious. I'm sure we're all going to miss him, she adds halfheartedly. She's trying to be kind, probably for my sake. 

I appreciate the attempt, but we both know no one will miss him. Not even me, much. I know after I got past the initial shock of the news my main concern in Oscar's passing has been the loss of the gift shop as a sales outlet, and worry about getting my stock back. It’s sad that no one seems to care that he’s gone, but that's more of an abstract sorrow. I’m glad to skip the monthly ritual of nagging my check out of him. It wasn’t a big check, but it was still nice to get.

Maybe now we'll see some new businesses opening up, Terri says, her brief moment of feigned grief passing easily. Did you know he owns that empty lot behind this one? Bertrand and I have been after him to sell it to us for years now so we can expand the store, but he wouldn't budge. But that relative of his, surely he'll be willing to sell? 

Some distant family member that had never visited while Oscar was alive had claimed his body and seen to his burial, but there hadn't even been a service.

It’s rumored that the same relative had also inherited everything, and since the old curmudgeon was intent on asking stupidly high rents for the stores in his building, most of them have been standing empty for years. I never knew he owned the empty lot next to the supermarket too. I have to wonder—how much more property around town did he own? How much of it will be put up for sale or rent? It is an exciting prospect. The town could potentially have a lot of new jobs and business opportunities if new stores open and new tourist dollars start to come in.

Little Peak isn't so far off the main route between L.A. and Big Bear, and we get plenty of people driving through, taking the more scenic route on their way to skiing, hiking, or boating (depending on what time of year it is). We also have our own smaller local Lake Geoffrey, and we have a good number of vacation rental properties in the area. We should have a nice selection of businesses catering to tourists. Instead, with Oscar tying up the block of stores in the middle of Main Street, our main features are the supermarket, a hardware store and a Laundromat, and a stretch of ugly empty storefronts right in the middle. Hardly the type of places to lure in tourists.

It would be nice to see some new businesses open, I say. And seeing the supermarket expanded would be great. I'm sure you and Bertrand would do a wonderful job of it.

She fluffs her hair again, always susceptible to flattery. Thank you, you're so nice to say that! Of course we'll want you working on the expansion. I already told Bertrand that. There's no carpenter I like better.

Thank you. I'll be happy to work for you when it happens. I grab my grocery bags and make my escape before she can ask any more questions or try to book me for work that doesn't exist yet. Not that I wouldn't be happy enough to do it. I do a lot of smaller jobs, but it would be nice to have a few months of steady work. But who knows if or when the project would materialize?

The air is still crisp when I step outside. It's March in Southern California, but this isn't the mild climate of the beaches that come to most people's minds when they think of the region. Up here in the San Bernardino Mountains, the upper slopes are still in the process of shedding snow, and although it's all gone at our elevation, there's still quite a bite in the air. I grew up down on the flatlands, and even after a few years living up here I still don't much like the cold.

I pull the collar of my jacket up a little higher as I load my groceries into the back of my truck, which isn’t technically a truck, but an old Land Cruiser. It's twenty-five years old, and while it may have been a higher end vehicle in its youth, it's long since given up any pretense of being anything but a work truck. I've even taken the seats out of the back to make room for tool boxes and construction supplies. And dogs.

One dog at least. Mark steps over the cargo net and jumps down onto the sidewalk. He has better manners than I deserve, and instead of racing around sniffing things like any normal dog, he stands and politely waits for me to dig his leash out of my backpack. Leaving him in the closed vehicle is fine at this time of year—the only injury is to his sense of importance.

He's some sort of collie mix—probably boxer or pitbull—but he’s got the longish brown and white hair of a collie. It’s a good mix. He’s got that collie focus, and most people don’t seem to notice his big jaw and more stocky body.

In summer we have a different routine so he's not left in a hot car, but for now he gets to come along when I go to town. I clip the leash to his collar and we head down the street to a more dog-friendly establishment. He stays right at my side, the leash hanging limp between us. I don't know if his former owner taught him that, or if it's just some collie instinct, but he's done it ever since I got him from the shelter three years ago.

I turn into the only restaurant on main street, Hungry Hal's. Hal’s is a big old house, painted maroon with a big neon sign on the roof of a mouth chomping down a vaguely burger shaped object and the word Hal’s. Not a particularly classy place. 

It serves standard California diner food, hamburgers and burritos, with the standard sorts of flavors. Its main claim to fame is the quaintness of the building and the murals on the walls inside, and maybe the size of the portions. 

My best friend, Abby Cohen, is already waiting at one of the outdoor picnic benches, managing to look stylish and sophisticated even dressed in jeans and a knit hat.

I take my own hat out of my pocket and pull it on. I doubt I manage to look as stylish as Abby does, but since her kids picked out the hat for me I can rest assured that its bright shades of teal are adding something to my otherwise boring outfit of many-pocketed Dickie's work pants, work boots, and fleece jacket.

Abby beams when she sees me. 

I had been a little overwhelmed by her attempts to make friends with me when I moved to town. That was four years ago, when I was twenty-three and it was my first time really striking out on my own. She’d intimidated me at the time. Especially since she was eight years older and far more fashionable. I was very sensitive to the way I was viewed, especially by women who looked like Abby, and I was wary of being treated like some sort of project. Abby and I are kind of opposites. She’s a stay-at-home-mom who’s a great cook and does stuff like canning and making her own fruit wine. She is always elegantly dressed and loves shopping. 

Me on the other hand? I’ve always favored practical clothes over fashion, and I’m stocky next to Abby’s willowy build. And of course I work in a masculine profession and don’t even own a pair of high heels. 

‘How to turn Sawyer into a more girly and conventional woman instead of one who dropped out of (community) college to work in construction’ had long been a project of my mother's. As well as ‘helping’ me to slim down. I had no interest in spending time around any other women with the same idea. But I gradually realized that Abby wasn’t trying to fix me. She was friendly and outgoing, and for some reason we just clicked as friends.

Today she looks nicer than usual. Normally she's got a little eyeliner and lip-gloss on for everyday wear, but today it's full face makeup. Her hat doesn’t detract from the shiny dark hair draping over her shoulders in artful blow-dried waves. I wonder what had made her spend the extra work today?

Next to her I probably do look shabby. I almost never wear makeup, and my medium-curly, medium-brown hair is hard to deal with at the best of times, (both curly and flat? That’s my hair!) Plus it’s been too long since I had it cut. I have it tied back in a sagging ponytail that I shove inside my hat.

The spot she's staked out for us is in the shade, overshadowed by the towering pinion pine trees. Hal’s staff were probably scraping ice off the seat a few hours ago—the weathered wood sure is chilly and damp under my butt. Inside I can see everyone looking cheerful and warm, but dogs are only allowed at the outdoor tables. Mark happily sits next to Abby, and I make myself as comfortable as I can, sitting my backpack on the bench beside me and zipping up the front of my jacket.

Hello, handsome, Abby says, rubbing his ears.

Mark accepts this greeting with easy pleasure and a doggy grin.

Did you order already? I ask.

Just drinks. Coffee and hot water should be right out.

The coffee is for me. Hal's doesn't make a gourmet cup of coffee, but it's drinkable. Abby, however, has opinions about tea (and a lot of other foods too,) and refuses to touch the 'dusty teabag water' they serve here. Instead, she always gets hot water, making the tea herself with an elaborate tea steeping set she carries around with her.

Hal brings the drinks out himself, his pale bald head and plump body damp with sweat from the kitchens and carrying the smell of fry oil. He lingers beside the bench, tucking his hands in the front pocket of his bib apron and watching Abby make her tea with apparent fascination. Another reason we prefer to sit out here: People tend to stare at her tea contraption. Usually the tea is something bright red and herbal, but today it's chai. She's even had Hal bring out a little jug of milk. 

I eye her carefully. Something is definitely up. She always looks nice and drinks fancy tea, but this seems like something extra.

So, have you heard the news, Hal says, dragging his eyes away from the stainless steel device as the anise and cardamom scent of spiced chai wafts up. Sounds like Oscar's heir wants to sell the building on Main.

Where'd you hear that? Abby demands.

Jose Jr. from the real estate office was just in here. Seems like some contractor from down the mountain is in town. Sounds like he's been hired to fix the place up.

That doesn't mean it's going to be sold, I say. Maybe the heir intends to keep it and rent out the stores.

Hal shrugs easily. Doesn't much matter either way does it? As long as that place gets a fresh coat of paint and isn't such an eyesore, and those stores are filled, I’ll be happy. Good for the town, I say.

Aren't you worried about competition? I ask. At least one of the empty spaces in that building is meant to be a small restaurant or coffee shop. Both of which will cut into Hal’s business.

Nah. Even if someone does open another restaurant, it still won't be Hal's. Am I right?

Abby nods sagely. Very true. No place could replace this one.

Hal grins. To be fair, while his food isn't exciting, it is reliably good. And unlike some greasy spoon places, he always gets a good rating from the health department. Besides, that place isn't very big. More than likely someone will open a fancy coffee shop or something like that. I'd do it myself but I'm already run off my feet here. He gestures towards Abby's tea-making kit. And I don't exactly have an opinion on that sort of stuff. Maybe you should think about opening a place. Pretty sure the tourists would like your sort of fancy drinks. It's what they all drink down there in L.A. Or so I've heard.

He says this as if L.A. is some far distant land of exotics, instead of a ninety-minute drive away.

I've been thinking about it, Abby says. 

I cut her a look. She has? Since when? But that would explain why she's experimenting with the tea flavors.

Good for you! Anyway, you girls want your usual?

We both nod. We always split a double cheeseburger and fries, with a side salad each to make us feel virtuous.

The burgers Hal makes are large enough that I come away feeling more than satisfied with half.

It'll be right out.

Now there is a man who is happy with his place in the world, Abby says.

And you're not? Are you seriously thinking about opening a teahouse?

She sighs. I guess not. But I need something to do! I thought being a mom was my calling. Turns out once they're both in school it's just boredom and housework.

Abby and her husband Rob have two kids, both of them with Rob's easy going outdoorsy nature, so it’s not like she  had her hands full even before Robbie started kindergarten full time this last year.

And you think opening a tea shop is the solution to that? I ask. It sounds like a mammoth task. One that I'm not sure she's up to. I love her to death, but she's not the most driven of people. When I met her, she was already a stay-at-home-mom, but before she’d had kids she’d had a fairly stressful job at one of the larger resorts up the mountain, as an event coordinator. A job that she says has too many late hours and too much stress to go back to. She doesn’t want to give up time with her family. Which I totally get. I just don’t know that launching a business is a better solution. But part time work for her skillset isn’t exactly thick on the ground.

I don't know. It just seems like Oscar dying like that—it's good timing for me since it's opened up a lot of opportunities. I want to be ready to take advantage of whatever comes up. Even if I have to make it happen. You're lucky you can make your own work.

I am lucky in that way, I suppose. I have my own business, or two.

I'm a licensed contractor. I spent five years working for my uncle remodeling kitchens before I moved to Little Peak and went out on my own. These days I mostly do minor repair work on rental properties. I also make and sell fine woodworking, mostly small wooden jewelry boxes with hand-pieced veneers and inlay. My display in Reggie's store, Little Peak Gifts, was more of a nod to the local community than a serious revenue stream, although it did bring me a nice steady trickle of sales. I mostly sell my woodcrafts online and at the occasional craft show. 

Usually at this time of year I pick up enough carpentry work to pad out my bank account to see me through till the summer craft fairs, and then the holiday season in November/December, which is when I make most of my sales on the jewelry boxes.

Spring is when there’s a lot of vacancies on vacation rentals, between the snow season and the summer hiking and boating season. Right now is usually when landlords like to make any needed repairs on their properties. But so far this year I've had almost no work.

I'm pretty annoyed that this heir of Oscar's hired a contractor from out of town, I grumble. What's wrong with hiring locals? It's like they've already decided that we're not good enough.

Work will pick up soon, Abby says reassuringly. Actually Rob and I have been thinking about fixing up our storage room and adding built-in shelving and some cabinets. But Rob is too busy with the plum trees to handle it himself. You think you can come by and take a look and give us a price?

I frown. I hate the idea that she thinks she has to offer me work. Even though I know I'll give her a good product, it still doesn't sit right. Does she even need to renovate this storage room? Or is she just trying to help me out? Just how busy is her husband? It’s spring, I’m pretty sure this is the slow time for orchard work. 

She looks at me, her eyes guileless.

Sure, I say finally. I can come over tomorrow and take a look if you want.

She beams. I'll tell Rob. I think he thinks sorting out all that junk will give me something to occupy my time.

At least I'm not the only one being assigned busy work. Sounds like fun, I say, more sincerely. You know I'm always happy to do work for you.

I can't imagine that building shelving for Abby will take more than a few days. But like Abby, I do need something to keep me occupied. And if building some shelving is all we have available, then we make do with that.

CHAPTER TWO

Iown a small cabin on a couple of mostly unbuildable acres of hilly pine forest and blackberry brambles.

My grandparents bought the land back in the seventies and built themselves a little vacation cottage on it. It's in the design style I like to call Seventies Swiss Chalet (a popular style around the area, strangely enough). That is, it's an attempt at a European Tudor-style half-timbered building with stacked stone foundations. Filtered through the lens of 1972. By someone who saw a picture of a Tudor house once but wasn’t very observant.

In this case, that person was my grandfather.

I love it. Kitschy as the style is, there’s a heartfelt realness to the execution. (At least when it comes to my cabin.) The stonework is solid limestone, not the tiled veneer of stacked stone that was so popular around 2004. And even though the timbering isn't stylistically authentic, it is well built structurally. Solid wooden beams span the high wood paneled ceiling, and the joinery has stood the test of time.

My grandfather died when I was pretty young, so the cabin is the one of the only ways I’ve been able to learn about him. Through his craftsmanship on the cabin I know