The Body in Bodega Bay Read Free Page B

nothing to spoil the views. I usually don’t talk much in the car so Toby can concentrate on his driving and I can watch the ocean, which I never tire of. We were headed toward the shop, per Dan’s instruction.
    Just before Jenner, Highway 1 is joined on the right by Highway 116, which follows the Russian River on its way to the sea. After the turn, the drive hugs the river for about four miles until you reach the little town of Duncans Mills. That’s right, without an apostrophe. The hamlet was founded in the 1870s by two brothers named Duncan who built a lumber mill there, so by rights it should be Duncan’s Mill, or maybe Duncans’ Mill, not that it matters. The town was leveled by the great earthquake of 1906, but it came back in the early years of the last century as a tourist destination. It was close to the river and the redwoods and was served by the Northwestern Pacific Railroad, so folks from San Francisco came up on vacation. The railroad and the mill are gone now, but there’s a restored depot and an old passenger car on a defunct stretch of track, as well as a cluster of galleries, a craft shop, and a couple of cafés. The wooden buildings are a little ramshackle, and there’s even a boardwalk between the shops that gives the place the air of an old cowboy town. The road splits the town in half, with shops and restaurants on either side.
    Toby’s store, on the left side as you enter from the west, isn’t visible from the road. It sits behind the boardwalk stores with an entrance at the rear. It’s large enough for a good display of furniture: oak table sets, desks and bookcases, carved bed frames, gilt mirrors, lamps and curios, with a selection of nineteenth-century paintings of modest worth, as well as a wall of framed prints. We drove around to the back and parked in front of the shop entrance. The door was fastened by an old brass lock, but when Toby introduced the key, it wouldn’t turn. On closer inspection, the wood around the jamb was loose, and the door stood slightly askew on its bottom hinge.
    â€œIt’s been jimmied,” Toby said with irritation. “Dan was right. We’ve had a break-in.” He pushed open the door.
    At first glance, everything seemed orderly. But to Toby’s eye there were signs of disarray. “Things have been moved around. Someone’s been through this place.”
    I looked again and saw that here and there a chair had been swiveled away from a table, some drawers had been left open, a back cushion of a Victorian sofa was turned down, and a rocker was sitting in the middle of an aisle. Someone had done a search. “Is anything missing?” I asked, looking around the large open showroom.
    â€œI can’t tell right off the bat.” Toby began a systematic tour of the room. His face was taut with concentration as he roamed the floor taking a mental inventory of his stock. After completing a full circle, he came back to where I was standing and said with a puzzled expression, “Nothing of mine that I can tell.”
    â€œWhat about Charlie’s things?”
    â€œDitto. Nothing obvious. The big pieces are all there. But I’ll look again.” He did a second tour more slowly than the first, this time pausing at the wall of prints, then shaking his head. “Wait a minute.” He went over to a large oak desk that Charlie used for keeping his records and stared for a moment at an empty picture hook hanging on the wall above it. “That’s what I thought,” he said, pointing to the empty space. “There was a Russian icon that he picked up for us at auction last week along with some other stuff. It was hanging above his desk. Now it’s gone.”
    â€œWas it valuable?” I asked, remembering Dan’s question.
    â€œI doubt it. Charlie wanted to do some research before putting it up for sale. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much attention. It looked