Bummer at Luna Beach

By Lisa M. Lane

A beach, a bluff, and a body

 

A body has been found at Luna Beach, one hairy arm sticking out of the sand at the bottom of the bluff. While police detective Rory Gallardo and his staff uncover the man's origins, 72-year-old Rosie McMahon and her cat Hephaestus are also on the case. Pursuing clues with the help of her journalist pal Lou and environmentalist student Tiffany, Rosie discovers a mystery bigger than a dead tourist.

Set against the backdrop of a classic Southern California beach town, Bummer at the Beach is a cozy mystery to win the hearts of those who like their beach towns funky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grousable Books
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989033713

Lisa M. Lane

Lisa M. Lane is a multi-genre author and historian who creates well-researched historical mysteries, literary fiction, and cozies.

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Grousable Books

Bummer at Luna Beach

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© Lisa M. Lane 2024

All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of Lisa M. Lane.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to any actual person, living or dead, or any actual beach town, is purely coincidental.

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Published by Grousable Books, Encinitas, California

ISBN: 979-8-9890337-0-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024900105

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Cover and map design by David M. Daymude. Sea monster design by Tempestuous Gloor. Map images by gahag.net, publicdomainq.net,  openclipart.org, publicdomainvectorx.org.

Map of San Benno

California

Cast of Characters

Rosie McMahon: 72-year-old long-time resident of San Benno

Hephaestus: Rosie McMahon’s orange tabby cat

Lou Kline: long-time resident and newspaper reporter

Rory Gallardo: Detective, new to San Benno, previously with Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department

Amy Gallardo: Childhood resident of San Benno, married to Rory

Jane Robles: Senior Sergeant

Diego Maura: Junior Sergeant

Mary Gunther: realtor and owner of Gunther Realty

Sam Struthers: Hardware store owner, lover of Mary Gunther, member of City Council

Jerry Jarman: owner of JJ Blueprints, head of Beach Estates Homeowners Association, member of City Council

Geoff Arnold: owner of Arnold Stationers, member of both Beach Estates HOA and City Council

Tim Merriwether: Mayor of San Benno

Tiffany Sparrow: high school student

Austin Sparrow: Tiffany’s father

Bud Carson: employed by Western Petroleum, Bakersfield

Corky Wells: VP of Marketing, Western Petroleum

Laura Peters: Administrative Assistant, Western Petroleum

Stella Cashman: developer from Los Angeles

The Dude: long-time resident of San Benno, enjoys the beach life

Prologue

The hand sticking out of the sand at the base of the cliff was, unfortunately, discovered by a pair of tourists. The slimmer of the two, sporting a sunburn that clearly spoke of origins far inland, at first thought it was a jellyfish or cactus. He almost moseyed past it with his partner, but something in his gut told him this was unusual. As he approached, what he noticed mostly was the hair­–hair on the knuckles, hair on the wrist–indicating a rather hairy person. It was, he told the police later, obvious that it had to be the body of a man.

Stephan followed behind, having tangled his ankle in some bladder seaweed, but was equally horrified. He ran for the lifeguard tower, a hundred yards up the beach. Two lifeguards arrived at the scene where Adam was digging out the sand with his hands, having managed to keep himself from throwing up at the thought of what was underneath. The lifeguards arrived with a rescue board, which would soon prove to be useless. One of them tried to keep back the gathering looky-loos while the other helped Adam dig.

Rosie McMahon happened to be walking on Luna Beach that morning, as she did every morning with her large orange tabby Hephaestus. The cat was singularly uninterested in anything that might draw a crowd and was pulling at his harness lead to avoid the cluster of people. But Mrs. McMahon, who at seventy-two was always assuming she’d seen everything, knew she hadn’t seen this. A dead body at the base of the cliff was too big a draw to miss.

1

Although San Benno had its own police department, it was very small. The City had only incorporated recently, and the police squad of three still relied on the Mata County Sheriff for support. There was only one detective, Rory Gallardo, and he’d been gone a lot getting trained. But the discovery of the body had him back in the department, determined to handle his first big case as professionally as possible.

Detective Gallardo had come up through the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Office, where he’d been in charge of answering calls about mountain lions in the hills above L.A. His wife Amy, however, was from San Benno and had always wanted to return to the beach life. An opening and a few of her real estate connections meant they could move to the coast.

The body was declared dead on the scene by Sergeant Maura and was collected by the coroner’s office. According to the man’s wallet, he was one Bud Carson from Bakersfield, forty-two years old, Sergeant Jane Robles reported to Gallardo. He had business cards indicating he worked for Western Petroleum in Kern County. The guys who picked him up said it looked like he’d only been under the sand overnight, so we wouldn’t expect reports that he was missing.

Did Sergeant Maura interview anyone on the scene?

Yes, sir. But none of the bystanders recognized the man or knew him by name.

All right. Let’s start listing what we should do. First, contact Western Petroleum and see if they know why he was here. We need to find out if he had business connections in town. Then contact the Bakersfield Police to see if he had family that needs to be notified.

Sergeant Jane Robles took notes. Sergeant Diego Maura came in and put down coffee in front of each of them, then took a seat to listen.

Thanks, Diego, said Jane. Sir, when should we get into the issue of the sand bluff? The man was mostly buried. The lifeguard said there had been quite a bit of erosion recently, that they’d asked the City to rope off under the bluff, but the Council said no.

Gallardo nodded. He had come to rely on Jane Robles since he’d arrived a few months before. Her intelligence and initiative had made it possible to get the new department rolling even when he’d had to be in training. She had the respect of Diego and the volunteers, and he realized he was extremely lucky to have her.

Would you like to be in charge of investigating bluff stability? he asked, knowing she had an interest in city development.

I’d be happy to, she said, making a note.

Good. I’ll focus on his local connections. Guess I’d better talk to The Dude.

The Dude, Gallardo had learned, was more than just a local character who seemed to live on the beach. He knew about everyone in San Benno, how long they’d been there and what they did. His gappy smile scared the tourists, to whom he offered tours, with the result that they frequently gave him a few dollars just to go away. He also rolled and sold cigarettes of the finest Humboldt hemp, but the department was willing to look the other way. As a result, The Dude was happy to help the police so long as he wasn’t seen talking to them.

When he’d first met him, Rory Gallardo had asked the obvious question.

"The Dude? You mean like in The Big Lebowski?"

Well, no, The Dude had said. He’s fictional. We have some things in common. But I don’t bowl and I kinda like the Eagles.

Thus it was that late that night Gallardo was seated at The Dude’s fire circle in the sand, with the man himself seated in a camp chair. It was clear that Gallardo was expected.

Fun day, yeah? said the Dude, his leathery face looking spooky in the fire light. A body!

Yes. Bud Carson from Bakersfield, apparently.

Bummer.

The Dude grinned, took a toke, and held out the joint to Gallardo, who waved it away and handed him a Corona he’d brought with him. He opened one for himself, too. The Dude gave an appreciative pull and looked out to sea. It was a warm night, and the beach breeze had stilled since the sun went down. There were only a few kids on the beach, sitting in a circle around one of the three fire pits. It reminded Gallardo of being a teenager at Santa Monica pier, but it was less crowded here.

Oil man, I hear. They used to all be oil men. Bakersfield. Or cotton. The Dude looked thoughtful.

Is that so?

Things have changed in the valley now. Big big agribusiness.

Anyone around here know this guy?

Well, I heard that woman on the Council, the one who wears red a lot—

Mary Gunther?

Yeah, that’s the one. She was down here with the man no one knows she’s seeing. Excepting I know, cuz I seen ’em when they think no one is around. Well, heard ’em, anyway. Coupla nights ago, around three in the morning, they drive down with their lights off into the lot, and put a blanket down in the sand, and—

Gallardo was less than interested in the illicit sex life of Mary Gunther.

So you think she knew Bud Carson?

Yup. The guy and her were walking back up the beach, and it was real quiet, and I heard her say something that sounded like ‘Bud’, then Western Petroleum, then how she was sure something would be a success. Profitable, I think she said. He handed his empty bottle to Gallardo, who gave him another.

Thanks, man. I’m gonna save this for breakfast. Sure you won’t—? he said, offering the joint again.

No, thanks. Anything else you know about this guy?

Nope. The Dude looked thoughtful. But, man, cuz he’s dead, I’m gonna ask around. Ear to the ground, you know. Well, the sand. He chuckled, which turned into a cough, then he sucked in the salty air.

That would be great, said Gallardo. Appreciate the help.

Jerry Jarman pounded the toy gavel he had purchased at HomeGoods in a fit of pretentiousness, but the members of the board continued chatting.

Excuse me! I’d like to bring this meeting to order.

He ran a hand through his shock of brown hair as the other three began taking their seats around the table. The firemen could be heard joking around near the truck, but the group was used to that. Several of the members were bundled up because the breeze from the beach made the firehouse meeting room chilly.

Very well, said Jerry, taking a seat. I call to order this 44th meeting of the Beach Estates Homeowners Association, 2004. Our first item is approval of the minutes from last month. May I have a motion to approve?

Tiffany raised her hand, her eyes bright behind her Warby Parkers. I so move.

Second?

Geoff started to raise his hand.

Geoff Arnold seconds. Discussion?

There was the usual pause before Lou’s hand went up. Jerry and Geoff sighed.

Yes, Lou?

Last time I brought up the issue of the need for soil testing in Creek Park.

Yes, Lou. You always bring up the issue of soil testing in Creek Park.

Then it should always be in the minutes. Lou looked over his glasses at Jerry with an expression of exaggerated patience.

Very well, said Jerry, turning to Geoff. Geoff, please add that. Anything else? No? All in favor?

Aye, said everyone but Lou.

Abstain, said Lou.

Thank you. Now, the first item tonight is the squalid appearance of the three properties listed in your agenda.

I’d hardly say squalid, said Lou.

Then let’s say untended, okay? Weeds growing, trash cans out in front, hollyhocks popping up everywhere. Unsightly and attractive to rats. Shall we cite these owners as per the rules?

Jerry looked at each of the others, but only Geoff met his look.

Of course we should, he said. Can’t have property values going down.

Lou laughed, a mirthless chuckle. Are you serious? So long as we have the sun and the beach, property values will be just fine.

Shouldn’t we be talking about the body on the beach? said Tiffany. There was silence.

Not much a homeowners association can do about a body on the beach, said Jerry quietly. That’s an issue for the San Benno police.

Should worry about that for property values, grumbled Lou.

Our topic was whether we should cite the owners of these three properties, said Jerry. Again, there was silence.

The reluctance you hear, Jerry, said Lou, is the refusal of some of our members to issue citations for small infractions, a kindly perspective no doubt encouraged by the discovery of a body on the beach.

Jerry looked around the table.

I see. We’ll save this item for next time, shall we? Let’s move on to the next item: unauthorized garage sales. Some in our neighborhood, as you know, have held these sales without approval from the Board. At the very least they need resellers’ licenses from the state.

Is this like the issue with the lemonade stands in the parking lot? asked Tiffany. Eyes turned toward her. At seventeen, Tiffany was the youngest member of the Board. Because she received high school Civics credit for attending, the others had assumed she wouldn’t participate much. Most students just wanted to do their time and go. But Tiffany had proven to have concerns about her own community.

Yes, said Lou. We need to make sure that neighbors don’t sell anything to each other without Big Brother controlling it.

"I’ve read 1984, Mr. Kline. I get the reference. Tiffany smiled and turned toward Jerry. Wouldn’t we also have to get licenses for the Girl Scouts selling cookies too, then?"

The Girl Scouts have their headquarters in Temecula, not here.

Then according to the sales tax law, they would need to pay the additional 1.25% to the City of San Benno as municipal tax.

Jerry turned to the man next to him, who had been silent until now.

You’re the money guy, Geoff. Is that true?

Technically, yes. Geoff blinked, unaccustomed to being asked anything. But it’s been a tradition more honored in the breach, rather like lemonade stands and, um, garage sales.

The meeting continued as it always did, with Jerry trying to enforce stricter regulations on homeowners, and Lou and Tiffany taking a more Lockean position that the role of the board was to ensure homeowner liberty. Geoff waffled back and forth and then sided with Jerry. As a result, and as usual, no business was concluded even as it approached 9 p.m. Also as usual, Geoff promised to post the minutes online, and everyone knew that wouldn’t happen.

Hephaestus knew that the woman who considered herself his owner was old, so every morning he did her a favor by sitting on her heart and licking her nose until she awoke. Rosie McMahon was a night owl, busy writing her memoirs until two or three in the morning. Hephaestus was not, preferring to go to bed by eleven and rising early. Pretty much everything else they had in common.

Having ensured that Rosie was up and getting dressed, Hephaestus went out the cat door into the front garden. He always went through the cat door carefully, remembering the time he’d found a raccoon in the kitchen eating his food. Rosie now put an empty can next to the corner of the flap as a warning bell; he could easily avoid it, but a raccoon wouldn’t know any better.

The cat returned in time for breakfast, when he heard the kettle boiling from his spying spot in the garden. He liked to sit there on the narrow railing, with a good view of the street and beach. The seagulls were clustering near the outflow from Creek Park—must be something dead in there again. The two skinny joggers went past in their bright blue jackets. The newspaper was lying on the path as it should be. All was right with the morning.

There you are, said Rosie, putting down his bowl. I’ll just get the paper.

Humans seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at different things: screens, newspapers, books, each other. Why couldn’t they simply sit and stare, meditating a bit? Always doing something, or planning to do something, or resting after doing something. Hephaestus was fine with watching, and he tolerated his two walks a day so he could keep an eye on Rosie who was, after all, his favorite human.

Most appealing to Hephaestus was that Rosie believed in patterns. She did the same things most mornings, in order. Bathroom (but not a bath, so no fun), dressing, putting on the kettle. Newspaper, cooking eggs (with some for kitty), toasting toast, making tea. Taking all those colorful pills that Hephaestus wished she’d drop so he could kick some under the fridge, but she never did.

Rosie found little in the newspaper to interest her aside from the article on the body found on the beach. But even that had very little detail. The man was Bud Carson, an oil man from Bakersfield. Well, wasn’t everybody? Oil and agriculture. She wondered what he was doing here. Surely the police were investigating. Of course, there hadn’t been a police department very long. Perhaps they could use some help.

The chapter she’d been up writing the night before had been about her stint as a nurse during the Vietnam War. She’d missed the Korean War because she was too young and had used her frustration to go to school and get her nursing degree. As a result of that and her hospital experience, she’d been a Captain in Vietnam. In fact, although there had been little interest in forensic pathology from the higher ups, she’d been instrumental in helping determine the cause of death for a number of unfortunate soldiers. A dead body in some sand didn’t faze her at all.

While she was rather looking forward to writing the chapters that followed, when she’d traveled the world on her meager savings, she thought her nursing experience might come into play if she kept an eye on the case of the body on the beach. Not that she would dream of interfering with the police investigation.

I won’t push my way in, she promised Hephaestus, but I’m sure they’re short on experienced help. They’re a new department, after all. Perhaps we should go see the new detective, Rory Gallardo. I hear he’s quite nice.

Hephaestus didn’t much care where they went on their walk so long as there were lizards and other forms of life scurrying on the ground along the way. And it was pretty obvious that if there was police business afoot, Rosie would need his help.

The police station was on Main Street, which ran parallel to the beach for about six blocks before winding its way to the freeway and further destinations. The quarter mile from Rosie McMahon’s house was uphill but not too taxing. Hephaestus preferred to avoid the traffic on Main Street, so they took the alley behind the police station through the parking lot, then went up the narrow hall to the front reception desk.

Mrs. McMahon, how nice to see you. Officer Herbert was a member of the Security Volunteers, retired people who ran neighborhood patrols for the police and helped out in reception. Rosie had known him since he was delivering newspapers, back when Fourth Street was only a few houses.

Thank you, Officer Herbert. And how are you this morning?

Just fine, ma’am. He sneezed. Hephaestus looked up at him with disdain. What can I do for you?

I’d like to see Detective Gallardo, please, she said, taking a seat next to the water cooler and filling a small conical paper cup for herself. Hephaestus looked up at the cooler.

Have you met Detective Gallardo? Herbert asked, reaching for the intercom.

Only briefly, a few weeks ago at the Firemen’s Pancake Breakfast.

May I tell him what it’s regarding?

The barricade at the end of the street has been tampered with again.

Officer Herbert shook his head in sympathy. Wonder which one of ’em did it this time?

Rosie shrugged. Hephaestus jumped up onto the counter as Officer Herbert spoke with the detective, then pointed toward the door behind the counter.

It’s the second door on the left.

Thank you. Hephaestus was rolling pencils one at a time off the counter onto the linoleum floor, watching each one as it fell then giving Officer Herbert a cheeky look. Rosie reached for him.

No worries, ma’am. I’ll keep him up here with me. He grinned at the cat, who gave him a slow blink.

"But your allergies? I remember you’ve had them