The Sunset Witness Read online

  As I walked from Frank's home back toward the diner, I noticed that his home as well as those few on Main Street and on the first terrace above it were older than the homes on the hill and that a few owners, like Frank, had painted the exteriors white, blue, or green. They were so close together that from a distance, it appeared they shared a common wall. Frank was the only one who had at least two vacant, treed lots next to his home on the south side. I could see no motels or hotels. A sign advertised CABINS, but I saw nothing to rent. I wondered if the three structures that looked like miniature motel rooms on the other side of the treed lot next to Frank could have been the cabins. The diner was next to the sign advertising cabins. On the same side of Main Street a small deli advertised espresso and shared a shallow lot with parking for only two vehicles. The retaining wall at the rear of the lot was covered with morning glories. The building on the corner next to the road leading in and out of town was vacant.

  On the ocean side of the street were an auto repair business and the restaurant Sarah had told me about. It seemed strange there were so many places to eat with, apparently, only the cabins for visitors. There was a vacant lot next to the restaurant before a steep hill led to a parking area for beach visitors. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever find Sarah's beach house when I saw two small houses adjacent to the parking area, tucked behind dense shrubbery, and perched above the beach. I crossed the street to my car and then parked it in a space to the side of Sarah's house.

  The porch leading to the only door was nearly obscured with foliage. Once I found the loose brick and the key Sarah had hid behind it, I opened the door and went inside. I started the tea kettle and was looking for a cup, when I realized I hadn't replaced the key. As I was hiding the key behind the loose brick, I noticed the public restrooms that had a view to Sarah's beach house. The restrooms were at the entrance to the beach parking lot. A scruffy-looking man in ragged jeans and a soiled t-shirt with the image of Mick Jagger on it walked out of the restroom and waited outside while lighting a joint. A younger woman wearing a camisole that revealed the straps of her sports bra and tight cutoff jeans that ended right above the curve of her lower buttocks joined him. He took a drag on the joint before handing it to the woman. They headed toward the beach. I was surprised that Sarah's romantic beach house left me feeling exposed and wary. The tea kettle shrieked, startling me so much that my body lurched, ready to flee, and I gasped and felt my heart racing.

  I locked the door behind me, poured the hot water over my teabag, and let it steep while I fished for my phone at the bottom of my purse. Sarah had left another message. She'd spoken in a loud whisper so I could hear above the background noise without anyone hearing her. She'd not be driving to Sunset that night, after all. I was disappointed but not surprised. I'd agreed to assume the lease on Sarah's beach house in Sunset after she found a job as a graphic designer in Hoquarten and grew weary of the hour's commute to and from it over the narrow, winding, two-lane highway. She'd arranged for me to take her job as a waitress.

  Sarah and I were still pursuing our artistic passions while our thirty-something friends were rearing small clones of themselves. The prospect of being a waitress in Sunset while I wrote my great American novel by the sea had sufficient allure so that, for once in my life, I'd not agonized over every detail before I jumped at the chance. Obviously, I hadn't anticipated living next to the Sunset Beach Access that must attract suspicious characters like a wrecking yard attracts derelict vehicles. I made an effort to stay positive and filed the scruffy-looking man away as a character in a future novel.

  The first thing I did after listening to Sarah's message was to remove the key from its hiding place under the loose brick. Before I did that, I scanned the parking lot to be sure no one would see me. I felt safer having the key inside with me. I'd sleep better without wondering if Sarah's hiding place had been compromised.

  The door to Sarah's beach house opened into a small kitchen. I lowered the shade on the door glass that provided a view to the lower row of parking spots angling into the dense shrubbery above the beach. The only other window in the kitchen was over a four-foot drop leaf table across from the counter. That window faced southeast toward the upper row of parking spots. I was surprised to see the roof of Frank's house after recognizing the brick-colored two-story house next to it. Depending upon where I stood, I could see the entire hillside of homes above Main Street. The countertop across from this window ran the length of the wall common with the living room and was interrupted only by a large, stainless steel sink and built-in range and refrigerator in white. The cupboards were white and had been painted several times. Each layer of paint on the undamaged surface added thickness that accentuated the shallow, scraped areas that had received only one coat.

  When I'd first entered the kitchen and filled the tea kettle, I was startled to see a mural directly in front of me on the windowless wall common with the next beach house. It was so realistic that I'd tried not to look at it. The mural was framed by the same hemlock that was around the real windows. The window created by the mural started a foot from the front of the refrigerator and ended a foot from the front of pine shelving that was next to the drop leaf table. The overall size was about three feet square. The view from this imaginary window was to the window of an imaginary apartment and the near naked couple who was caught in a passionate and private moment.

  The woman's face was obscured by long, dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She wore hip hugger cutoff jeans, much like the ones I'd seen on the girl in the parking lot that day. The woman was sitting astride a man who was reclining on a bed with his head resting on a pillow propped against the headboard. His mid-length hair was sandy colored, and fell around his face. His shirt was open and his jeans were ragged at the cuff. A strap on the woman's halter top dangled over her bare arm. Her full breasts nearly tumbled from the halter as she leaned toward the man's open mouth.

  The mural was tastefully done with enough sexual content to arouse sensations so far in the past that I'd almost forgotten them. I made a mental note to find something with which to conceal the mural as soon as I assumed the lease. Then I took a picture of it with my phone, so I'd have a better idea of its size when I shopped for something to place in front of it.

  A narrow, arched opening led to the living room that shared the kitchen wall on one side, and had windows on two others. The wall that was common with the next beach house was about ten feet long with a five-foot closet behind louvered doors and two more built-in pine bookcases on either side. The opposite wall had a small window that was mostly obscured by the same vegetation that crowded the porch. A folding screen concealed the bed and a dresser from the living room. A small bathroom was offset on the west end of this area with a shower/tub combo built in next to a linen cabinet, a pedestal sink, and a toilet all in white. A small window at eye level in the shower delivered a breeze from the ocean. The west wall of the living room had a large picture window with an unobstructed view to the ocean and the arched rocks that looked like remnants of some ancient, decaying civilization.

  Sarah had told me the house came completely furnished, and it certainly appeared to have everything I'd need as far as furniture, linens, kitchen utensils, and appliances, including an older small television on the pine shelves in the kitchen, and a single CD player/radio next to the bed. I'd brought only my clothes, toiletries, laptop, printer, miscellaneous computer accessories, eBook reader, MP3 player, compact disks, a few decorations, and my pillow. Anything that didn't fit in my car, I left behind. I was disappointed that there was no washer/dryer combo in the beach house. I disliked using public laundries, especially in a beach town like Sunset. It occurred to me that I'd not seen a laundry or even a grocery or gas station in Sunset, and I made another mental note to ask Sarah where they were located.

  I made up the futon in the living room with the sheets and comforter Sarah had set out and then went to the car for my pillow, the small case with my toiletries, and the suitcase I
'd packed to avoid unloading the entire trunk whenever I stopped for the night along the way to Sunset. It was getting dark by the time I changed into my pajamas. When I opened the jalousie windows on either side of the picture window in the living room, I realized I'd missed seeing the sun go down.

  I'd looked forward to hearing the soothing rhythm of the surf while I drifted off to sleep or awoke in the morning. I was not expecting to feel afraid. The ocean roared into shore toward high tide as I was slipping out of consciousness. I remembered the signs warning TSUNAMI HAZARD ZONE and TSUNAMI EVACUATION ROUTE. That night I dreamed an earthquake caused the kitchen mural to crumble at my feet. I was scrambling up the hillside above Sunset with a monster wave menacing toward me when I woke up screaming.

  Wednesday, June 1, 2011

  The next morning I allowed myself the luxury of waking up slowly while enjoying the same surf that gave me nightmares the night before. My mind wandered. Darkness makes everything seem more sinister than it is. Perhaps it is because darkness conceals everything, good and bad, and makes it easier for something evil to overtake us. Children aren't afraid to nap in the daytime. It is only at night that monsters lurk beneath their beds. Even cemeteries evoke fond memories of loved ones during the day. It is only at night that the dead rise from their graves to menace us. If I was going to assume Sarah's lease, I'd have to conquer the fear I felt when the ocean I loved in the daylight became a black, roaring, lethal mass at night.

  I was eating a bowl of cereal at the drop leaf table in the kitchen when I saw a booklet with tide tables on the pine shelving. The cover had an anthropomorphic beaver wearing a hat and life jacket on the front and the caution to be aware of the tides. The tide for the night before was the highest it would be when I was falling asleep for another week. Once I was asleep, I'd not notice the rising tide. With another high tide at 1:40 p.m., I had ample time to find a line of debris on the beach from the previous night. That would tell me how close I came to being swallowed up by the ocean.

  After dressing in tan capris and a hot pink blouse, I slipped into my flip-flops and locked the door. The parking lot was empty, so I placed Sarah's key under the loose brick and walked through the lot until I came to the steps leading to the beach.

  A man who appeared to be in his early seventies had almost reached the landing. He was out of breath by the time he stopped, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that showed the outline of stubborn stains left behind after washing. His face was pale and clean shaven except for a bushy, brown mustache. He was taller than I, and his belly was barely contained above his belt. He wore shorts that ended at the knee, revealing legs that were hairless, smooth, and shapely for a man. He kept walking across the street as I descended the stairs.

  I reached the bottom of the single flight of stairs, and looked for a line of debris from the high tide the night before. Tangled masses of kelp, broken shells, pebbles, sand crab skeletons, a water bottle, and a Frisbee formed a line about twenty feet from the short bluff on which the beach house was built. Ordinarily, a high tide would not be a threat to me as I slept. I supposed the tsunami warnings I'd seen were the result of the devastation in Indonesia in 2004 and, more recently, in Japan. I made another mental note to ask someone if a tsunami had reached Sunset in the past.

  While I was trying to remember the other mental notes I'd made since arriving in Sunset, I saw the same couple I'd noticed the day before as they exited the public restroom in the parking lot. The woman's cutoff jeans and camisole reminded me that I needed to find something to put in front of the mural. The soiled jeans worn by her companion reminded me that I needed to find a laundry, grocery, and gas station.

  I returned to the beach house, brushed sand off my feet and legs, and changed into a pair of hot pink wedges. I checked my phone for a message from Sarah and then headed in the direction of Twyla's Tea Room.

  The restaurant appeared to be a box about twenty feet by forty feet with a simple pitched roof that needed new shingles. Five gulls rested at the apex, lending a certain charm which would have been missing elsewhere. I was reminded of the type of buildings described in the brooding novels by Bronte and Hardy. The long, north-facing side that I could see was covered in rough cut cedar that matched the distressed look of the lumber at the shorter, east-facing front. The entire building was a drab, grayish brown with an odd assortment of windows. Those at the top of the building were of such size, shape, and placement that I supposed it was the living quarters for the owner. The lower part of the building had only three, evenly-spaced windows that were about a foot wide and about eight feet from the ground. The building looked at least a century old, and I supposed it had once been used for something else. A white sign above the door was shaped like a tea kettle and advertised Twyla's Tea Room. The menu was posted outside and enclosed in a small box. When I peered into the front window, I could see that at least four tables in the rear had a view of the ocean. The restaurant appeared to have settled about a foot lower than the adjacent sidewalk. As I came closer to the entrance, I saw two window boxes on either side of the door. They were painted the same Newport blue. The door, boxes, and assortment of red and yellow flowers in them gave life to the drab building and were enticing welcomes to go inside. I opened the blue door and knew instantly that I'd entered a place I'd never forget.

  It was mid-morning, and the restaurant was quiet. The blended aromas of items baked that morning made it impossible to tell what it was that I craved. A teenager behind the counter cheerfully asked what I'd like.

  "I'd like one of everything," I said. "But I really need to see Twyla. I'm a friend of Sarah Duncan."

  The girl's expression changed from welcoming to disapproving.

  "She's upstairs," the girl said.

  "Can I wait?" I asked.

  "Sure. I'll tell her you're here. What's your name?"

  "Rachel Douglas. I think Sarah mentioned me to Twyla." I tried to stay upbeat as if I'd not noticed the chilly reception. The girl's nametag spelled Tiffany, and I filed it away to ask Sarah about her later.

  When she came to the bottom of the stairs, Twyla was not at all what I expected. Instead of being heavyset with a bib apron and hairnet, she was about ten years older than I, shapely, and allowed her blonde hair to fall over her right shoulder. Her eyeglasses were framed in red rectangles that brought out her blue eyes and lent warmth to her pale face. Unlike Tiffany, Twyla gave me a warm smile and extended her hand.

  "I'm so glad you're here!" she said.

  "It's great to be here. But I think I've gained ten pounds inhaling the air in here." I laughed.

  "You'll get used to it. Are you ready to start?" she asked.

  "I assumed you'd want to do an interview and have me fill out some forms," I said.

  "No hurry for that. Sarah gave you a great recommendation, so that's good enough for me."

  "Sarah was pretty vague about her plans. When did she leave this job for the one in Hoquarten?" I asked.

  "She took a job in Hoquarten?" Twyla looked like somebody who received bad news.

  "I probably shouldn't have said anything. I assumed you knew."

  "Sarah told us she was going back to Pennsylvania. She said you'd be arriving last week, so we wouldn't have to look for someone else," Twyla said.

  "I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. I'm sure Sarah knew I couldn't be here before yesterday. I'd have come in then, but I didn't realize you expected me last week. I can't explain the miscommunication about her returning to Pennsylvania. She left a message yesterday that she'd be working late and didn't want to drive to Sunset and then back to Hoquarten in the dark," I said.

  "I suppose I could have misunderstood about Pennsylvania. The important thing is you're here now. This is a good time to show you around while it's relatively quiet," Twyla said.

  "Sarah did tell you my experience is limited to working as a dining room attendant while in college, I hope."

  "She did. But you sounded like the type of person I'd like for an employee.
It's harder to get someone dependable these days than it is to train someone. I prefer a clean slate. I'd rather teach you to do things my way than break you of bad habits." Twyla laughed.

  She showed me the tables in the formal dining area with a view to the ocean and then took me into the kitchen. She introduced me to the baker and luncheon chef, Henri, who worked from early morning until after the lunch crowd left. Simone would take over until closing at 9 o'clock p.m. The menu had a lunch and dinner special every day. The dinner menu was limited to one entrée each of beef, chicken, or fish along with a side and either salad or soup. The chefs did not prepare sandwiches. A luncheon quiche, torte, or soufflé along with a vegetable of the day was standard fare. The wine list was limited, and cocktails were not served. Desserts were very popular and brought customers in all through the day, although they were required to sit near the bakery counter at the front in an area of smaller tables that allowed for self-serve beverages with desserts.

  After giving me a quick tour of the kitchen, Twyla and I went upstairs to her office. She told me she lived above the restaurant and was there for me whenever I needed her. She stressed that customer service was paramount and reminded me that the customer is always right. However, she was adamant about not varying from the menu and told me to refer customers who wanted sandwiches, burgers, and a truck-driver breakfast to the deli and diner across the street. She explained that she could not stay in business by duplicating those establishments. Instead, she catered to those with more discerning palates who were looking for atmosphere and a view of the ocean while they dined. She promised I'd get generous tips if I gave good service and said I'd start at $8.50 per hour, the current minimum wage. I completed the required employee forms, and she showed me where the time cards were located. Joel and the dinner chef, Simone, would train me in the kitchen routine. I promised to be back at 4 p.m. dressed in black slacks and a white shirt and eager to prove myself. Before I left, Twyla offered to treat me to something from the bakery. I settled on an orange-cranberry scone and coffee and watched customers come and go for a while.