Highway to Homicide by Lucy Quinn

Author:Lucy Quinn [Quinn, Lucy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Cozy Mystery
ISBN: 9781092509183
Google: wsbSwwEACAAJ
Amazon: 1092509186
Publisher: Author
Published: 2019-04-01T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Dylan’s truck rumbled down the dirt road, woods on one side and the churning ocean on the other. The artist colony was at the other end of the island from the inn and was only populated during the summer. The communal area was dotted with camps, most of them with simple wood structures, but there were a few trailers and even a yurt—the place River Song called home for the summer.

River Song was a woman who, Cookie guessed, was in her late fifties. She’d been a part-time resident of the island for three decades, spending her time hand-painting silk scarves that she sold at the market each week.

Dylan pulled the truck into a clearing that housed a round yurt. Cookie and Dylan hopped out, and the pair stood there among the trees, marveling at the view. The sun sparkled over the deep blue sea, and off in the distance there was another island. Docks lined the coastline while boats motored around the bay.

Seeing no signs of the woman in question, Cookie walked up to the door of the yurt, but knocking proved futile on the canvas door so she called out, “River? Are you home?”

No answer. She tried again. When she was met with silence, she let out a frustrated sigh. “Should we wait or come back?”

“We don’t have any other leads, right?” Dylan asked.

“Nope.”

“Then I guess we stay.” He gestured to the bay. “Want to wait on the dock?”

“Sure.” Cookie followed him down to the water, where they waited and waited and waited some more. Finally, after a few hours, Cookie stood. “We might as well go back to the inn and get some food. We completely missed lunch.”

Dylan opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of a loud motor cut him off, and they both turned to find a yellow VW Thing pulling to a stop beside his truck. “Looks like we’re in luck.”

“Well, hello there,” a woman called as they made their way up to the yurt. “Are you the ones who were looking for hemp cheese?”

Cookie and Dylan glanced at each other before turning their attention back to her. She had a gorgeous blue and purple scarf wrapped around her head with her long dark hair spilling out the back. She was wearing formfitting tank top, a long peasant skirt, and so many bracelets that they covered half her forearms. As she moved toward them, her long cotton skirt swirled around her ankles, showing off her dusty Birkenstocks.

Dylan leaned down and whispered, “What’s hemp cheese?”

“No idea,” Cookie whispered back. Then she smiled at River. They’d met the summer before at the market. “Hi, River.” Cookie held her hand out. “I’m Cookie James. My mother and I own the inn on the other side of the island.”

“Of course. How’s Rain doing?” She scowled. “I heard the fuzz has her locked up. Some of the artists have been collecting money for her legal fees.”

“That’s very kind,” Cookie said. “She’s doing as well as can be expected, I guess.

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