Off the Beadin' Path, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book 3 Read online

  Off the Beadin’ Path

  A Glass Bead Mystery

  Janice Peacock

  Vetrai Press

  Lafayette, California

  2017

  Copyright 2017 Janice Peacock

  Vetrai Press

  www.janicepeacock.com

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Edited by Ellen Margulies

  Cover design by Megan Haggerty

  Original cover concept by Greg Simanson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  ISBN (EPUB): 978-0-9984819-3-7

  For Jeff

  Books by Janice Peacock

  High Strung, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book One

  A Bead in the Hand, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book Two

  Off the Beadin' Path, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book Three

  Be Still My Beading Heart, A Glass Bead Mini-Mystery

  ONE

  The red and blue lights of a police car behind us flashed through the van’s windows as we hit Seattle’s city limits. Tessa rolled down her window, while the police officer who pulled us over walked along the driver’s side of her minivan, his boots crunching in the gravel as he approached.

  “License and registration,” the officer said, even before he bent to look in the window. His deep voice sent a familiar tingle down my spine.

  I rummaged through the messy glove compartment, looking for the van’s registration slip while Tessa rifled through her wallet for her driver’s license. Finding the slip, I silently passed it to her. Tessa glanced up at the officer as she handed him the items he’d requested.

  “Tessa, is that you? Jax?” Ryan Shaw asked, leaning down and peering into the van. He was one of Seattle’s newest police officers and had apparently been assigned to the least satisfying job—parking and traffic. When Tessa and I met him in Portland, Oregon, a few months ago at a bead bazaar, he was a lowly security guard hoping to become a cop. While Tessa spent only a short while with Ryan during our time in Portland, I had gotten to know him quite well, but not as well as either of us would have liked. I’d been looking forward to seeing him once he moved to Seattle. But in the couple of phone calls we’d had since he’d relocated, both of which I’d initiated, he explained how busy he was getting settled and starting his new challenging position. I wondered if his feelings for me had cooled, and I was becoming unsure of how I felt about Ryan.

  “Ryan! What are you doing here?” I asked. “I mean—you pulled us over, so I know what you’re doing here, but—”

  “Tessa was going forty-five in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone,” Ryan said. Tessa was a notoriously fast driver, so this news was not surprising.

  “Fortunately, you’re such a terrific guy, and you know us, so you’re going to let us off with a warning, right?” I asked.

  “I’m serious about enforcing the law. If you commit a crime on my watch, you’re going to have to deal with the consequences. Now, Tessa, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to give you a ticket. It’s nothing personal.” Tessa covered her face with her hands and took a deep rattling breath. I looked up at Ryan, pleading silently.

  “Che casino,” Tessa said with a quiet whimper, switching to her native language, as she often did in times of stress, or when she was drunk. Che casino meant “what a mess” in Italian, and she was right, it was a mess. Tessa and I got into plenty of messes, especially since I’d moved to Seattle three years ago.

  “Look what you’ve done to my friend!” I said, putting a comforting hand on Tessa’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.” Ryan handed Tessa her license and registration. Maybe she wasn’t going to get a ticket after all. Thank goodness! Of course Ryan wouldn’t ticket my best friend. “You’ll be getting the ticket in the mail,” Ryan said as gently as possible. He came around to my side of the van. I rolled down my window, although I was in no mood to talk with him right now.

  “How are you? Can we get together sometime?” he asked, leaning down so that his face was inches from mine. His olive skin and close-cropped dark hair were as perfect as ever.

  “Uh, well, Ryan, I…” I looked up into those beautiful, chocolate brown eyes and nearly melted. Could I really say no to those sexy eyes, and the sexy everything else that made Ryan Shaw such a perfect specimen of manhood? “You know what? No! We can’t get together. You gave Tessa a ticket. You haven’t been in touch for months. Sorry,” I said, pushing the button to roll up the window. Ryan unhooked his fingers from the edge of the glass as the window slid shut. I gave him a little wave. “Punch it, Tessa.”

  “I’m not going to punch it, but I will get the hell out of here. I don’t want to get two speeding tickets in the space of fifty yards.”

  I looked in the van’s side mirror as Tessa drove away. Ryan was standing at the side of the road, scratching his head. I don’t think anyone—any woman, at least—had ever said no to that man. I was the first, and I was proud of myself. But, damn, he sure did have broad shoulders.

  TWO

  Tessa pulled her van into the space behind my house, right next to the Ladybug, my lovely red VW convertible. As we entered the studio through the back door, we were confronted with the mess I’d created during these last few frenzied weeks while I was getting ready for upcoming craft fairs. After moving to Seattle, I’d taken up glass beadmaking as a profession. I’d plunged into it wholeheartedly, selling my beads and jewelry at art festivals and in local boutiques. At first, I’d struggled to differentiate myself from the cheap, mass-produced imports, but as I got better and people started to understand the time and skill that went into making hand-crafted glass beads, my sales picked up. I was skilled enough, and well-known enough, that I was starting to make a small, but steady, income from my beads and jewelry.

  My cat, Gumdrop, had settled into the toastiest spot in the whole house. Today he was sprawled in front of the large windows in my studio trying to absorb any sunlight that peeked through the clouds. That location had an advantage. If the clouds obscured all the sunshine, he could hop down onto the heating vent with minimal effort, blocking all the heat to my studio while keeping his belly nice and warm. He rolled over and stretched his paws out in front of him, spilling the contents of a few shallow white dishes I’d set up with the components to make a necklace for a custom order.

  “We’ll only be gone during the day, so be a good boy,” I told my cat, giving him a little tummy rub. “We promise we’ll come back every night to feed you.” He started purring and melted into a puddle of gray fluff among the piles of beads on the table.

  Tessa dropped her small red suitcase in my spare bedroom, which was also my overflow bead storage area. Tessa liked to call this room the “Bead Lair.” She was fortunate to have her suitcase after it had been nearly hauled away by an overly-enthusiastic camp counselor a few hours earlier.

  • • •

  I’d started the day at the artful home Tessa shared with her husband, Craig, and t
heir three children. They lived in the quiet Seattle neighborhood of Ballard, not too far from Tessa’s beadmaking studio in the Fremont District.

  “I think sending Izzy and Ashley to camp for spring break will be a positive experience,” I said, tossing Tessa’s suitcase into the minivan’s trunk. “That way they won’t get into trouble, like you know they would if they stayed home while we’re off taking a class out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m worried the girls are going to be miserable. A whole week at theater camp...how do I know they’ll like it?”

  “They both certainly have a flair for the dramatic, so they should do quite well,” I said, doing my best to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

  “At least I know Joey will be fine, since Benny will be with him at Camp Grammy,” Tessa said. Benny was the son of a young couple we knew who had recently gotten back together after a few years apart. The boys had become fast friends last year during the grand opening festivities at a local bead store, and after that weekend, they were nearly inseparable. As we entered the house, Joey and Benny ran toward us.

  “Are you big guys ready to go?” Tessa asked, kneeling to greet them.

  “Yeah! Let’s go!” the boys shouted, slamming into Tessa’s open arms, nearly knocking her over. At five years old, they bubbled with enthusiasm about nearly everything except eating green beans. I hoped they didn’t lose their energetic spirit anytime soon and that they’d eventually become more enthusiastic about veggies.

  “I’ll go get the girls,” I said, heading up the staircase toward their room. The door to the teens’ room was shut. I knocked. “Izzy? Ashley?”

  No answer. I tried again. “Izzy? Ashley? Can I come in?”

  “I don’t want to go,” Izzy said with a groan.

  “Ditto,” Ashley said, sounding equally pained.

  “I’m coming in!” I pushed the door open. The girls were sprawled on their beds. Each of them looked like they were in agony, arms thrown across their beds in despair. “Come on, girls. It’s not going to be that bad. You might like theater camp.”

  “I don’t understand why we can’t stay here. We’re old enough to be by ourselves,” said Izzy, who, at seventeen, probably was old enough to stay at home by herself. But, when combined with sixteen-year-old Ashley, Tessa’s daughters were far too volatile to leave alone if we expected the house to be standing when we returned.

  “No, sorry. What your mom says, goes,” I said, picking up their duffel bags and leaving their room. “Time to go.”

  Dragging their heels, they followed me.

  “I’m not your Sherpa. You can carry your own bags,” I told the girls, dropping the bags at their feet at the top of the staircase. The girls took the bags and dragged them down the stairs, heaved them into the back of the van, then continued their protest by sitting on the back bumper and looking at me darkly.

  “I’m not the one making you go to camp,” I said, which was, in fact, untrue. I had insisted Tessa’s kids go to camp to ensure this week would be as hassle-free as possible. During our disastrous trip to Portland, Tessa’s daughters had fought like wild animals at home, causing her so much anguish that she couldn’t enjoy her time at the Bead Fun sale. That, and the fact that I’d found a dead body, had made it a particularly stressful weekend. With her kids at camp and her husband on a fishing trip, I hoped Tessa would have a distraction-free week taking a glassblowing class with me.

  Tessa locked up the house and came down to join us. Joey and Benny were already in the van and had buckled themselves into their booster seats.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!” both boys chanted while clapping their hands.

  “They have the right idea. Let’s go!” Tessa said as she swung herself behind the wheel.

  With an audible sigh, Tessa’s daughters climbed into the very back of the van, and I jumped in the front seat next to Tessa. The little boys chattered away while the girls were silent, each staring out their own window, sulking.

  We headed first for Camp Grammy, also known as Craig’s mother’s house. She lived on the Olympic peninsula, an hour’s drive from Seattle. We took the ferry across to Bremerton and out to Sequim, which all the newcomers and tourists called SEEquim, but locals called Squim. I’d been calling it Squim for at least a year, which meant that I’d finally lived in the Pacific Northwest long enough to feel, and talk, like a local. When I’d first moved here from Miami, I felt like a fish out of water—a tropical fish, to be precise. These days, I’ve adapted to life here in Seattle, Washington, with its cold, wet weather, but I still relish a sunny afternoon, knowing that it will soon be gone and replaced by rain clouds.

  Heading off the main road, we finally turned toward what we had been calling Camp Grammy for weeks leading up to this. Craig’s mom, Patsy, greeted us on the front porch as Tessa pulled up to the rustic house.

  “Grammy!” Joey called, unlatching the seatbelt on his booster seat.

  “Just a minute, Joey,” said Tessa. “Wait until I can open the door.” As soon as it was open, Joey launched himself out of the van, with Benny following close behind.

  “Are you girls getting out?” Tessa asked Izzy and Ashley.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Izzy said, crawling out of the van.

  Patsy came around the side of the van to greet the girls.

  “Oh, my beautiful granddaughters! I wish you were spending the week with me! We could have so much fun cooking and sewing,” Patsy said, pulling the girls into a hug.

  “Sorry, Grammy,” Izzy said.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Ashley said.

  They weren’t sorry. I was certain that the girls thought the only thing worse than a week singing and dancing at theater camp would be a week cooking and sewing with their grandmother.

  “Mom!” Tessa gave her mother-in-law a kiss on the cheek. Patsy awkwardly tried to kiss her back. “I’m sorry I can’t stay, I’ve got to get the girls to their camp by eleven,” Tessa said, planting a second kiss on her mother-in-law’s cheek, which Patsy wasn’t quite ready for, belatedly kissing the air after Tessa had already moved on. Even after all the years Tessa had been married to her son, Pasty still wasn’t sure if it was one kiss or two when she greeted her Italian daughter-in-law.

  “I’m looking forward to spending time with the boys. Maybe I can plan something for another time with Izzy and Ashley. What’s Craig doing while you take your class?”

  “He’s going fishing out in Puget Sound,” Tessa said. Her husband had decided to take the week off, as well, while contractors worked on their house.

  “You’d better get going. I’ll keep these boys occupied out here in the woods,” Patsy said.

  Tessa approached Joey, who was sitting on the stump of a log, watching ants with Benny. She gave him a big hug. “You be a good boy and listen to Grammy Patsy. You, too, Benny,” she said, ruffling his hair. The boys were so focused on the ants that it seemed like the best plan would be to get out of there while they were distracted, so there would be no teary-eyed goodbyes.

  We got on the road and headed toward Camp White Horse. Tessa had chosen this camp for the girls while we took a class at a glassblowing studio east of Seattle. Initially, Tessa told her daughters they would be staying at Patsy’s. The girls didn’t seem to mind until Patsy got on the phone and told them her plans to teach them to sew and make beef stew.

  “Please, Mom,” the girls had pleaded, “find us something else to do. Anything. We’ll do it and we won’t complain.” Tessa chose theater camp for them, and so far, the girls hadn’t complained much, but their level of sullenness was rising to epic proportions as we headed into the final leg of our journey.

  Tessa turned down a long narrow side road, following the glitter-covered arrow on a signpost. After a few bumpy miles on a gravel road, the main gates of the camp appeared. Decorated with silver balloons and gigantic comedy and tragedy masks, the entrance looked a litt
le less like the horse ranch that it normally was.

  Tessa rolled down her window as a counselor dressed in a tuxedo approached the van.

  “Hi, and welcome to Camp White Horse! Or, as we’re calling it this week, Camp Broadway!” She started clapping and hopping up and down, which was a little too much enthusiasm for me. “We would like to take the campers right away and get started with some trust exercises.”

  Another tuxedo-clad woman opened the van’s sliding door, took the reluctant girls by the hand, and pulled them out. A young man wearing a black silk top hat with a rhinestone-studded brim grabbed the luggage out of the back of the van and slammed the doors.

  “Okay, thanks so much for dropping off your girls. We’ll take good care of them!” said the first counselor, giving us a sweeping bow.

  I noticed that the counselor with the top hat was carrying an extra bag—one that didn’t belong to the girls.

  “Tessa? Is that your suitcase?”

  “Oh no! Wait!” Tessa shouted, jumping out of the van and running to rescue her small red suitcase from the man. She gave each girl a last hug, reluctantly turned back to the van, threw the suitcase in the back seat, and climbed in the driver’s seat. “I’m lucky you noticed they were taking my bag. I wouldn’t want to be without it this week.”

  Ashley and Izzy looked over their shoulders at their mother and me, their eyes wide and their lips tight, as they were swept away by a gang of sparkly penguins.

  • • •

  “Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo!” Val called out as she let herself in the front door and sashayed down the hall to my studio. “Tessa, you get to be roomies with me and Jax this week, how fun is that?”

  Stanley the basset hound bounded in behind Val, nearly knocking her off her four-inch red patent leather stilettos when he didn’t stop in time. Strictly speaking, Val was not my roommate. Only Gumdrop held that title. She was my neighbor—actually, my tenant—who lived mere inches from me in our Craftsman-style duplex.