Rebecca Stone I Kissed a Girl: Rebecca Stone, #1

By Tim Hammill

I KISSED A GIRL  

Rebecca Stone is a twenty-something girl sleuth, with a special gift, she has second sight. Its a curse and gift passed down through the females in her extended family. Her most famous is one Nancy Drew who is now dead and a ghost that Becky talks to. Together they get mysteries solved and property returned back to the true owners. Becky lives in a trailer park with many, odd ball characters including a motorcycle club and an over the hill rock and roller who performs on the top of his trailer in his "tidy whities" It can be fun at the park.

Join Rebecca as she starts off needing to pay the rent and scores a job to find a lost dog. Things get exciting as she unfolds more and more of an old mystery that happened in the coastal town of Ocean Beach that is just outside San Diego Ca.

Aunt Nancy helps as much as she can and Beckys loyal sidekick Dee helps too. It just might get nasty out there in Ocean Beach and the surrounding neighborhoods of San Diego.

-30-

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Hammill
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223390152

Tim Hammill

Tim Hammill has been a storyteller all his life. A few years ago, he came across two characters that he has come to know and wants the world to know. Max the cat, a trailer park feline who causes alot of trouble. Then there's Rebecca Stone a twenty-something girl detective who has the gift of second sight. Which helps her find stuff. She also has the help of her Great Aunt Nancy, who is a ghost. Both live in Ocean Beach CA a strangely wonderful place. Where Mr. Hammill grew up. Tim has said that he doesn’t think of myself as a terribly interesting person, but he has stumbled thru some interesting times, and situations namely in the 60s. Not to mention many very interesting people.  

Book preview

Chapter 1

Whoa, Come With me Now . . .

Igot up this morning with absolutely nothing on my mind. Well, maybe there was one thing: how I was going to pay the rent that was due, like, now. No way could I pay it. So it was off to my mom’s to get yet another loan.

I dressed as fast as I could, slipping into some jean cutoffs, a sports bra, and a cut-up T-shirt, then reheated some day-old Starbucks. The shirt was one from a Led Zeppelin concert that my mom went to many years ago. With it on I looked amazing in the mirror! Yep, so happy. I threw on my lucky blue denim jacket, the one that I never washed, from a Kid Rock concert. It had a Kid Rock impersonator’s sweat on it. I, uh, did the guy in one of the girl’s stalls. Then the asshole went back to his seat to sit with his girlfriend, whata jerk! (But hey, the concert was good.) I quickly combed my hair, which I was wearing short these days in sort of a pixie style. Last, I grabbed my classic Roy Rogers wallet off the kitchen table, which had all of $2.50 in it. I stuffed it into my jacket pocket on the right side and hit the door. My mom buys me all this old stuff. She says, You wait, someday it’ll be worth big money, but the guys on Antiques Roadshow say different.

The trailer park I live in is not terribly big, but it’s way up a hill. I don’t have a car, so I’m forever bumming rides all over town. Oh! The town that I live in isn’t terribly big either. It’s a smallish beach town that has an excellent surfing spot and an old amusement park that went out of business years ago. At one point a bunch of investors tried to restore and rebuild it, but all they could do was a portion of it: a couple of arcades, a small roller coaster, some kids’ rides, and then at the last minute, one of those wave machines—now that was cool. The park was right on the boardwalk, but not too many guys used the wave machine, then the whole project went belly-up as in BK. Now it sits there with no customers.

The weather here is always good; we’re only a few miles south of the Orange County line, in San Diego County. Our little town of Ocean Beach is located on a point that stretches out into the ocean, which gives us a nice point break that gets monstrous in the winter. The town then sweeps around to a south-facing beach that gets really nice surf in the summer. There’s also the parking lot where all us kids would hang out on the west side of the railroad tracks, which span a wildlife sanctuary. The tracks (it’s the Santa Fe line, I think) cross over a big trestle bridge farther down. Our downtown is really small, just a courthouse and police station, a public library, and a painfully small financial district with a few cocktail lounges. Farther up a small hill is the high school. That’s where I went to school. Good old Palm High. It’s named after the fact that  so many palms grow here, mostly Mexican palms, but no one cares really. Up by the freeway (that’s Interstate 5) is a business that sells palms to the state of California for the landscaping around state buildings, as well as freeway on-ramps and roundabouts. A lot of the kids from school wound up working there loading and moving palms around the property and of course watering them. Palm trees are everywhere here, along with an assortment of Torrey pines and spruce and other types of trees.

My best subjects in school were English and graphic arts. In my mind, I always leaned toward becoming a writer of sorts but could never make up my mind what to write about. I mean, I did the poetry thing, and I wrote about horses and dogs and being in love, but life and guys got in the way. Along with my graphic arts I did some photography, and one summer I went to work at a photography studio here in town. It was only part-time, and my butthead boss only let me do a little bit of sales, even though I could sell to the kids way better than he could. I did do a bunch of shots for the yearbook two years in a row. That was pretty nifty, alright! But the paycheck from the studio hardly paid the bills. I still have my camera, but it’s kind of old now and only shoots film. When I do get photo work, I have to borrow a camera from either the studio (that I still work in part-time) or my other employer, Frank. This allows me to make some extra bucks from time to time shooting portraits of people here in the park with their kids and pets, which means I’ve also come to know lots of people and their stories.

But my big talent is finding stuff. I mean, if you lose something, chances are I can track it down. That‘s pure Stoner talent. It all started when I was a kid growing up in another park with my mom. A friend, Jenny Johnston, lost a hair comb that her grandma had given her. It was Spanish looking and made of some delicate material. It was expensive or old, or both. Her mom got really pissed off when Jenny told her it was gone. All us kids got questioned, but no one knew where it was. That is, no one but me. I knew where it was. When Mrs. Johnston asked, What can I do to find it? I mean, one moment I’m standing there with all my friends and then the next, my hand is up in the air. I told Mrs. Johnston that I could find it, no problem. Lots of bravado for a ten-year-old kid.

The thing was, for some time I’d been following Jenny’s older sister Robyn around, whenever she would sneak off with the Miller brothers and play doctor in this shed a few doors down from the Johnston’s trailer. She, that’s Robyn, wanted to look pretty for one of them one day, so she took the comb. I watched from the shed’s small window as they played their games. I remembered that the comb had fallen out of her hair and into a beat-up pillowcase somewhere in the tangle of sheets on this improvised bed that was in their make-believe doctor’s office.

After all the jeering from the kids had simmered down, Mrs. Johnston shook her finger at me about making claims about finding stuff. I glanced up and there, staring at me, was Robyn, her arms crossed and her eyes fixed on me as if she were willing me to die on the spot. She knew that I knew that she’d had the comb all along, and that I knew where it was. Or did she?

Now all of a sudden I had two problems to deal with. All of the kids—and there were a lot of them—were going to follow me around the park on my quest, as was Robyn, who wanted me dead.

Mrs. Johnston had words with her friend Mrs. Rollins, who happened to be the mother of my best friend (that’s Delores). Together they said they’d pay me two dollars as a reward for finding the lost comb. So now I had a co-conspirator in this, The Lost Comb Caper, but I never told Delores that I already knew where the comb was.

The first day, all I did was walk around the park with D looking under bushes, and for a while, the kids dogged our every move. On the second day there were only a few kids, but they (along with D) soon melted away in the summer heat and beat feet to the pool. That’s when I noticed that I was being tracked by Robyn and the older Miller boy. He had his own car. They followed me from street to street and down the few alleys that the park had. I knew at some point I’d have to make a break for it and find my way over to the shed. Obviously, Robyn hadn’t figured out where she had lost it yet either, and I didn’t want to give it away.

I was almost to the end of the last alley when I turned around, and there was Miller’s car. Robyn had opened the passenger door and gotten out, but before she could say anything, I made a break into one of the back yards and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t think anyone was behind me, but when I ran across the big intersection by the pool I glanced over my shoulder and to my amazement I was being followed on foot by the older Miller boy. He was a big guy and was closing on me fast. All of the kids that were playing in the pool looked up and then rose to their feet and took off after the both of us.

All of a sudden I could feel his fingertips on my blouse on my shoulder, but the screams from the kids behind us must have startled him because on the ground I saw his shadow part from mine and then it was gone. I didn’t dare stop so I really poured it on. I knew I wasn’t going to last long, and at this point my strength was waning. I slowed and took one more step and then another before I finally fell to my knees, exhausted. That’s when Miller’s car pulled up in front of me and stopped as well. I heard the car door open and the crunch of feet on dirt and little rocks as I tried to catch my breath. I looked around and realized that I was in front of the trailer with the shed. The cries and screams from the neighborhood kids drowned out any other noise.

Robyn got out of the driver’s seat and walked around it to stand in front of me. I looked up at her, her face partially obscured by the brightness of the sun. She gazed down at me and then at the house and then at the shed. Her face changed . . . She knew.

I got to my feet, and we both darted toward the shed. From all the commotion from the neighborhood kids behind us, I could tell there was no way the Miller boy could keep them all back forever.

We got to the shed almost at the same time. She pushed me down and kicked me, then threw open the double doors and looked from side to side. Guessing that she’d never find it, she bent over and held me by the arms and shook me. Where is it, you brat? she exclaimed. No way was I going to tell her.

That’s when all the kids got around the Miller boy and ran to the open doors. Bringing up the rear was my friend Delores and her mom. The shed wasn’t that big, and the bunk bed was only a few steps away from me. What saved me was the fact that being the older kid, Robyn was asked by Mrs. Rollins what was going on. Robyn had to stand still and answer her. All the while I sidestepped over to the end of the bunk bed looking and feeling around and under the covers and the sheets for the comb, but I couldn’t find it.

The seconds turned to minutes and the minutes seemed to drag by. Robyn was telling Mrs. Rollins some kind of BS when I reached into the pillowcase and my fingers touched the comb.

I looked over at D and smiled this great smile of mine. (I’ve always had perfect teeth, you know.) She grabbed her mom’s arm, and the two of them walked inside the shed as I held up the comb. The kids outside all gasped. Mrs. Rollins turned to stare at Robyn, who was busy looking at everything but her and her eyes.

In the end, I got my reward, and months later a very fat and preggers Robyn moved away, and the Miller boy got to join the army. With my hard-won two dollars Delores and I went down to the local five-and-dime. We got a couple of push-up ice cream sticks, and I bought my first detective comic book. We sat on the curb and looked at the pictures and read about a Sam Spade–type PI, and I dreamed of the day I might be one too.

From that day on, if you lost anything in the park—a dog, a cat, or even a comb—I was the go-to gal to find it for you. To a big degree, I was not too bad at my new vocation, but then school and life and boys all got in the way. A couple of years later we were at a family get-together and I met my famous cousin Nancy. We all called her Aunt Nancy ’cause she was so old and it seemed to fit her better, made her special. At first, she wouldn’t talk to me. She just watched me and asked my mom tons of questions. But before the end of the day, she told my mom I was special. I became her favorite at these gatherings, but whenever we talked she and I, my mom was always there. They’d ask me questions over and over again, like Can you keep a secret? and whether I could see things in my mind.

Then the feud started between the Drews and the Stones, and I never saw or heard from Aunt Nancy again. And then she was gone. Well, kinda . . . That was many years ago.

Motivated as I was by my continuing rent problem, I ran (boobs bouncing all the way) down the hill to catch the bus, which I missed by seconds. I’m sure the bus driver saw me—I mean, who wouldn’t notice me, with the way I look? I stood there looking and feeling stupid when I glanced up and on the telephone pole there was a poster with a picture of the cutest dog, a Chihuahua, I’d ever seen. He was lost, poor puppy. His name was Ronald and he belonged to a woman who lived on 43rd street, which wasn’t too far from me. The little beast became even cuter, if not downright handsome, when I spied a hundred-dollar reward for his return, and no questions asked. The ad included a phone number followed by ask for Alison. Boy, a hundred bucks! That would just cover my rent. Then I wouldn’t have to go see my mom and beg for some cash. Then again, if I had the reward and got another hundred from my mom, I’d be up on the game. Wow! The possibilities were endless.

I was standing there mulling this around in my head, imagining all the things an extra hundred bucks or two could straighten out for me, when my ex Robert Lee Byrom pulled up in this hot rod that he thinks is really great. It’s an early seventies Camaro that he got off his dad before the courts shipped daddy’o off to San Quentin for something or another, probably car theft. Don’t get me wrong; the car is nice . . . if you like gray primer paint, rusty chrome wheels, a crappy stereo, and the smallest backseat that GM ever installed in a car.

Lee (we all call him by his middle name) pulled up next to me, leaned across the passenger seat, and said in a rather creepy voice, Whoa, Becky baby, whatcha doin’? I almost expected him to wink at me. I’ve known Lee for, like, all my life, it seems. We went to first grade together, then his family moved away for a few years. When he returned he’d become this juvenile badass with rolled-up short-sleeved T-shirts, and he combed his hair all the time. Meanwhile, I had sprouted big boobs and wanted to show them off to the world, or at least to the neighborhood guys, which I did every chance I got. Then, for some unexplainable reason, I became hard to get, especially for Lee. Don’t ask me why. I mean, I liked the guy well enough and even had some fantasies about him, usually involving him buck-ass naked and me with a whip in my hand, but that’s another story.

Lee was always a skinny kid, and you know what they say about skinny guys. Well, I found out for myself one day some time ago. I was amazed, horrified, and simply blown away at the sight of his outstanding oversized digit. Then I remembered where he was going to put that monster and what he wanted to do with it. All of a sudden I just couldn’t stop laughing. I’d grab ahold of it and laugh, or I’d bend over, open my mouth to cop a taste, and laugh. On another occasion in the late afternoon, he got me loaded on some Hawaiian weed to the point that I couldn’t stand up. With extreme care he contorted me into position in the backseat of his car, and everything was great, it was a go. He expertly got me on my knees and pulled my bright-pink thong off my ass; it was my absolute favorite thong. (See? I even dressed up for him.) I thought, Houston, we might have lift-off here. That’s when I opened my eyes and turned my head to look back at him—you know, a sentimental mental image, something for my memory before he sent me to the moon. It was the proportions that did it, my lover so skinny and that monster swinging around looking like some sort of lethal weapon. Then I giggled, and that started a laugh. His manhood, his pride, the legend of so many public restroom walls shriveled up from its impossible Saturn V rocket status to this mini thing that looked just like a cock, only much smaller. Which made me laugh even harder. The man was spent before he even got up to the launch pad. For us, it was just not in the cards for some reason. Oh, over the years we‘ve done a lot of kissy face and foolin’ around, but when it came to slippin’ it to me, well . . . I don’t know. Maybe it was that small backseat. But today just might be Lee’s lucky day. Before he could spoil my mood, I tore the poster off the telephone pole, opened the Camaro’s door and plopped my butt down with a smile.

Lee, you old horndog, how you been?

I spread it on pretty thick for Lee, but I didn’t want him going all Romeo on me. He kissed me on my cheek, and I leaned over so he could get a look at everything. Of course, he’s seen the girls many times; I was just reminding him. Now for the real hard part: conning him into getting me over to 43rd street so I could start the search for Ronald the Chihuahua, and do it before Lee got any ideas of his own, which always included my lady parts. 

Catching up with Lee didn’t take too long. It was all Hi, how’s your mom? and What’s up with that girlfriend of yours? and Oh, I like the way you’ve styled your hair. He’d let it grow out, surfer style, but it did smell good. I wondered if it was a real expensive shampoo or if he’d just been to the beach. I moved on to Got anything to smoke? and of course the whole point of me getting into this piece-of-shit car of his. Can you take me over to 43rd street so’s I can talk to this old lady about something?  For good measure I added, Oh! It’s hot today, and pulled my cut-up Led Zep T-shirt out quickly, over and over again, so he could get a good look at some really great cleavage. With a fantastic smile, I laid my head on the headrest of that car of his and flashed my wild hazel eyes at him. He was putty in my hands, and he didn’t even know it.

So off we went down the street, his mighty Camaro leaving a trail of black smoke and burning tires behind us as we chug-chug-chugged on down PCH. He really needed to give this beast a tune-up.

Incredibly, he didn’t get frisky for at least two blocks. I smiled and talked about the weather and missing the bus and how hot it was. But hot was a bad word to use around Lee, ’cause Lee’s one-track mind was on one thing, and being hot would lead to getting naked, and that would lead to his big dick. He asked if I’d be more comfortable maybe naked in the backseat. He even lifted his eyebrows together for emphasis, which made me laugh. He grabbed my hand and brought it dangerously close to his crotch, which made me laugh even harder. His foreplay had not changed one little bit. I glanced up and could see he was getting mad. I slunk down in the bucket seat. I gotta say, the front seats compared to the back seats are quite nice in that Camaro. Oh, but back to Lee and his dilemma . . . At this point, he reached over with his left hand to grab one of the girls as they swayed back and forth under Robert Plant’s miniature eyes. He wasn’t doing a bad job at steering the car with his knees when we both heard the siren, which was so loud it almost leaped in through the open windows.

The car swung over to the right, and we slowed down before he stopped the beast at the curb and put it in park. Quickly I got the door open, jumped out, and waved to the ever so nice officer.

It was Officer Cutter, who I knew from doing lots of stuff for my PI friend in the past. In fact, he called out over the din of traffic that OB’s one and only PI—that’s the world-famous Frank Scotto—wanted to talk to me. The blessing or curse of a small town: everyone knows everyone else.

So, it looked like I just might pick up some work of one sort or another; way cool! Mostly I do digital photo work for the man, like spotting, retouching, or resizing prints all the way up to eleven-by-fourteen for court exhibits. He does a fair amount of adult surveillance, like divorces and getting the dirt on just about anyone in town. Most of his clients reside on the hill—that’s the rich side of town—so no way does he want to take his masterpieces down to Wally’s World. Who knows who is going to be buck naked or who they’re spending time with and all that shit.

As laid back and get down as OB is, by contrast, the rolling hills above the village are filled with expensive homes and trust fund families with seven-figure bank accounts. Even the owner of the trailer park that I live in resides up on the hill.

But first things first, I gotta find Ronald. So off I walked to the corner, and much to my delight I was at the intersection of Coast Highway and 43rd Street. I turned to look back at Lee and Officer Cutter (a stud). Well, those two tom cats were watching me walk away—such focus for these guys!—which is kinda nice, sweet really. I like being noticed, even if it’s by jerks like those two.

The thought occurred to me that there was a phone number on the bottom of the poster. I thought I should call this woman and let her know that I was close by and could drop around for an interview. I reached into my jacket and fished out my phone and, lucky me, it had a charge on it. I made the call, and my potential client picked up on the second ring. We talked for a bit. She had a lovely cheerful voice and asked for references. I told her about my boss at the studio and Officer Cutter and Detective Rensing (I’ll let you in on him later). Those two policemen knew and liked me, and I’d been involved in little mysteries with both of them before, so they qualified as references, I guess, and because they were cops I figured she’d be impressed. We disconnected and I picked up my pace as I started to walk downhill.

There by the start of the cliffs, the hill is an easy walk. The sky was blue that day, and the coastline looked like a postcard with its coves, little beaches, and sheer cliffs that seemed to touch the huge white bulbous clouds leisurely making their way inland. I stopped and couldn’t believe my pure luck that I lived here, even though I called home a double-wide in a grade C and slightly run-down trailer park. Yes, even though I was forever late with the rent and had the total pain in the ass of not having credit cards and all that other grown-up stuff, I was blessed. Suddenly the ocean breeze lifted the hair on the back of my neck a little. I got goose bumps on my arms as I got closer to Ronald’s home. 

Amazingly, I could hear the ocean breaking on the rocks in Pirates’ Cove. It’s located below the S curve on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, which happens to be the oldest street in town and has always been one of the main thoroughfares that runs the length of Ocean Beach. The water sounded so close, as if the surf were running. It made a kind of chattering noise as it covered and uncovered the rocks. The sound of the ocean here is so constant that it takes you forever to get used to it, but it’s torture when it’s taken away from you; it’s almost like a privilege. Adding to the picture, a solo fishing boat was running south to the harbor to tie up. It all seemed like magic, this place, this time.

I could almost feel the crispness of that wonderful Benjamin in my hot little hand. Benny with his cute John Lennon glasses, long hair, and that sweet let’s-have-a-good-time smile of his. At that moment, I felt like anything was possible. If Benny wanted to cop a feel, that would be way cool too.

Chapter 2

I Fall to Pieces

I WONDERED WHAT FRANK wanted with me. But what did I care what it was, as long as it made me a few extra bucks? I’d have to give him a call later. In the past, I’d scored a bunch of stuff for him and in return, I’d learned some things about tracking people and PI stuff from him. He’s a good teacher. One thing he always says is that the best way to get what you’re looking for is to be observant, even when you’re just going about your normal day. You should always be asking questions of anyone who might be around. You never know when a person is going to give you something useful. Maybe they’ll be just standing in line somewhere and hear some info and then remember that you’re looking for that thing, and then they’ll give you a call. It can be as simple as that, just letting people know you’re looking for the thing. And of course you pay them a few dollars for the intel—according to Frank that’s PI talk, don't you love it?

Sadly, my biggest problem is I’ve got a shitty memory. Mostly it’s my short-term memory that’s affected, so I’m forever writing stuff down: what I saw and where I was, who said what, and what cars were there. (’Cause of my hanging out with Lee and his motorhead friends, I’ve come to know cars pretty well, at least the older ones.) I’ll write down what kind of car I saw, where, who was driving, and, the best of the best, the license-plate numbers. To help with all this, I carry a little notebook around with me. On the spot, I can make my notes and then later at home transfer the info onto post-ups and put them on my refrigerator door. Then I look at them and arrange and rearrange them, take some down, and toss any noninteresting ones into the trash, never to be seen again.

I had walked about a block and taken a musical journey of sorts, thanks to the music that was wafting from the houses. So far I’d sampled some reggae (a Jimmy Cliff tune called One More; it was great). I’d heard it from three doors up the hill as I walked down toward the ocean and Ronald’s mom. Chances were that wasn’t Ronald’s home. Two doors down from there and across the street I could just hear Natalie Cole and her father knocking out their version of When I Fall in Love. She did the French version while he crooned it all in English. They sounded great together, even though it was a never, never thing, a taped creation that the gods of techno pulled off somehow. Still, it was super, for sure. The address on the curb told me I was close, and that’s when I heard Patsy Cline’s I Fall to Pieces. Her troubles lifted out of an old Craftsman-style bungalow sandwiched between two vacant lots. This had to be it. I put on my brightest smile and walked up to the chain-link fence that had a Beware: Killer Chihuahua on Duty sign hanging from it. Yep, had to be the right house. I opened the gate and strolled in, stepping over the cracked concrete walkway as I went. A female figure appeared at the screen door, and I stopped at the bottom of the wooden steps.

The house was a typical Craftsman number, painted a cocoa brown with these fantastic little details in paint and wood trim. In the heat, the smell of newly cut wood hovered around the front porch. Off to one side of the porch, I could see a woodworker’s chop saw and a bunch of wood scraps.

Hmmm, she’s in the process of restoring this old place. Could mean she’s got money, I thought to myself.

She called out to me in a husky voice, Are you the one who saw the posters about my dog?

Patsy was still falling to pieces, so I had to raise my voice a little. Yes, ma’am, I am. We just talked on the phone.

Yes, yes, you’re the one that knows Detective Rensing. He spoke highly of you. She chuckled and smiled, then opened the screen door. Come in, she said, ushering me to the door. I climbed the four steps of the porch and then entered her abode.

She looked to be in her late forties, a full-figured gal, not terribly tall, maybe five foot four. I was definitely taller, but not by much. If I had to guess, I’d say she was 150-plus pounds. She looked solid, not a stranger to hard work, and she was dressed like she was going to be traveling; she sported very comfortable garments, including a full skirt and pull-over blouse (both in earthy tones) and easy-off sandals. When she smiled, her face broke out in large creases that emitted total happiness, while her brown hair, which was pinned up, Betty Page style, showed hints of gray that peeked out all over her head. She wore a pair of dangly earrings that