Read The Body in Bodega Bay for Free Online Page A

to you.”
    â€œI suppose so. But Tom Keogh won’t see it that way. Say, you don’t think it really could be worth something, do you?”
    â€œThe icon? I wouldn’t count on it.”
    â€œAfter all, somebody went to the trouble of stealing it.” Toby raised his eyebrows, considering the prospect of a windfall. I’d seen that look on his face before, whenever he thought he was cadging a piece for his shop that he could turn around for a quick profit. When that happened, he usually was disappointed.
    â€œDon’t get carried away,” I said. “Remember The Maltese Falcon ? What was that line in it about greediness and dreams?”
    Toby made a sound between a snicker and a snort. “‘The stuff that dreams are made of,’” he quoted, with a rueful grin.

3
    I N EARLY MARCH , daybreak sometimes starts with a streak of rose over the dark Bodega hills. As dawn swells, I like to be seated in the kitchen looking out at our deck, so I can watch the sky shift from orange to pink, with a hint of green, giving way to daylight blue. Sometimes I just sit, soaking in the view. Other days I’m grading papers or answering e-mails but looking up every minute to catch the kaleidoscope of color before it’s washed out by the clear light of morning.
    On this day, however, in the aftermath of Charlie’s murder, I rose late and sat in the living room brooding over a hot mug of tea and following the white sun as it hovered in the distance over Tomales Bay. Toby was sleeping in. He heals best by sleep. I cure what ails me by keeping busy, and now I was sketching out the best possible day. I would make some calls and then get the kitchen ready for a comforting breakfast once Toby was up. He and I were going to spend all day together. We’d made the plan in our exhaustion the previous night. We’d get a soft start to the morning, and then he’d drive with me to Berkeley, to consult with Al Miller.
    Before Toby was up, I put in a call to my sister, Angie. Since she lives on Cape Ann north of Boston, she can take a call when it’s dawn in California. About then she’s due for her midmorning coffee break at the coolest beauty salon in Gloucester, where she’s made her way up from manicurist to top stylist in just three years. I texted her to call me when she was free from clients, and sure enough, she was back to me in five minutes.
    â€œHi, Angie, we’re still on for your visit,” I assured her. “But I want to let you know we’ve had an awful thing happen here. Toby’s business partner has been murdered, and I’m helping the sheriff’s department look into some art that’s missing.”
    We took some time going over the story, and I accomplished what I’d aimed to do—warning Angie that I might be less available than we’d planned, but making her feel as welcome as ever. It was true what I told her. Toby and I were in need of those special gifts she always brings with her, a light touch and a shot of joy. It makes me happy that Toby delights in Angie’s zaniness as much as I do. You see, Angie, who is twelve years younger than I am, is a man-magnet. Since nursery school, she’s been attracting the opposite sex and finding that delightful. Unfortunately, her enthusiasm isn’t always matched by her discrimination. She’s been passionately involved with fellow students, a musician, a writer, a magician, a fashion photographer, a lawyer, a yogi, two grocery store clerks, one of her teachers, and a few first-class swindlers. Each time she’s convinced she’s found her soul mate.
    Last summer, we helped extricate her from a relationship with a bored barista who wanted her to lend him money for a cockeyed business scheme. His idea was to buy a camper and convert it into a van for hauling motorcycles from New England to Florida in the winter. His premise was that bikers would pay to ship their