The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine Page A

hair?”
    â€œWhy not? Even a nun likes to look half-decent. Unlike some people I know.”
    â€œStop ragging on me. Give me the cut you think I should have.”
    â€œBless you. This will be fun. You know, your hair’s not half-bad. I know you say it’s thin. But it’s not. It’s fine. But thick. You have Helen Mirren hair.”
    â€œOh, God. She’s decades older than I am.”
    â€œBut still sexy. You should feel lucky that I even put you in the same category.”
    â€œThe point being?”
    â€œHelen Mirren is not gifted in the hair department. But she knows that she needs help, and she gets it. And the result is: she is Helen Mirren, sex goddess for the golden years.”
    â€œYou win. Cut away.”
    An hour later, I looked ready for our dinner at the River’s End. But would Toby notice?
    â€œHow about a second Pimm’s Cup?” I proposed, in approval of Angie’s work.
    â€œWe have a long night ahead,” Angie replied. “Let’s wait for Toby.” Upon which, he burst through the door.
    â€œAngie, you look terrific. And what have you done to your sister?”
    â€œYou like?” I ventured.
    â€œYou bet,” he answered on cue.
    And we were on for a happy evening. While we were freshening up, I gave Toby a quick rundown on my day’s work in the library, but we agreed to leave all that aside for tonight and to enjoy our dinner out.
    We left quickly, so that we’d have light for Angie’s first drive up the coast. We wanted to be seated at our table looking out at Goat’s Rock when the sun set. That’s the whole point of River’s End. Water, sunset, and a great meal. We weren’t disappointed. On the drive up, Angie admired the views, as the road skirted one dramatic beach after another—the long sandy sweep of Coleman Beach, with its surging white surf, then Arched Rock Beach, which always reminds me of Monet’s paintings at Etretat, then hidden coves that made the road veer in and out at sharp angles. We’d had a good share of ocean drama by the time we reached River’s End, which in spite of the turbulence caused by the entrance of the Russian River to the sea, always breathes peace.
    Before taking our table, we walked around the deck, watching the sky gather color for the sunset and pointing out the shoreline features to Angie—Goat’s Rock, the array of birds that nest there, and the sandbar where seals play with their pups. We’d timed it right, just as the color wheel in the sky put on its full show. On this stretch of coast, late winter holds the most spectacular sunrises and sunsets. That’s the secret that year-round beach residents keep from the summer people. Angie and I reminisced about our youth, recalling the sunrises we used to watch from the sea wall behind Grammy Molly’s beach house in Hull at the other end of the country, looking out at the Atlantic.
    By then it was time to move inside. The entrance to the restaurant, which is done in rustic redwood décor, passes through a narrow space adjacent to the bar, and there, listing slightly on a stool, sat Tom Keogh. He was perched between two men I didn’t recognize, sloshing a swizzle stick in a tall drink. His eyes were glassy when he looked up and saw us. “Toby Sandler,” he said in a challenging tone. “I want my stuff back.”
    Toby nodded hello, smiled, said nothing. Meanwhile a hostess approached with menus and led us to our table. Tom got up and followed us. He stood swaying next to the table as we were seated. “That stuff is mine, and I want it back,” he repeated. The hostess shot him a disapproving glance, and several heads turned at the tables near us.
    Toby replied in a calm but firm voice, “This isn’t the place to discuss it, Tom. I said we’d work something out. We will.”
    Tom stood there for a moment looking confused. Toby said, “We’d