Free Misery Bay: A Mystery by Chris Angus Page A

facing the island view, and high-priced art and sculpture, it nonetheless was always a bit of a shock to Sarah. She’d known the picturesque little fisherman’s house that had once graced the spot on the inlet.
    When the cottage was sold, everyone speculated over who had bought it and how they might spruce the old home up, since it had been empty for several years. It was a shock when the dozers came in one morning and flattened the place. The building that rose in its stead was modern, full of glass and redwood decking, and, most disconcerting of all to the others who lived in the cove, round. That fact alone caused endless speculation and derogatory comments.
    Still, she supposed it was progress of a sort. The tiny little homes of the fishermen were cold and drafty, the living rooms, kitchens, and bedrooms tinier still. The Germans had set the trend when they arrived, building new, modern homes with thermopane windows, super insulation, and high-efficiency furnaces.
    They passed through the living area and out a sliding glass door to the deck, where Grace, a petite, startlingly beautiful blonde, greeted Sarah warmly. She also had a bathing suit on. It was practically a required uniform whenever the sun made its all-too-infrequent appearances this wet summer.
    “Roland’s going to be made to stop with the engine,” Ingrid announced with a flourish. “We’re going to drink ourselves into a stupor to celebrate.”
    “Oh my God,” said Grace. “What’d they do? Threaten to take away his fishing license?”
    “Nope,” Sarah said, collapsing on a chaise lounge. “Our new Mountie’s going to reason with him.”
    “Well he’ll be a bloody magician if he can pull that off,” said Ingrid. “Like reasoning with a ball-peen hammer.”
    “A very skinny ball-peen hammer,” said Grace. She giggled and shook the ice in her drink. Evidently, they’d begun the celebration before the arrival of the good news.
    Ingrid handed Sarah a Manhattan. It was the house drink and Sarah had never been here when there wasn’t a pitcher standing by.
    “Have you heard from Ayesha?” Grace asked. “I haven’t seen her in almost a week.”
    Ayesha was the daughter of Ali Marshed, the Iranian who ran the grocery. She was fifteen and going through something of a teen-age crisis. Grace had taken a liking to the girl, immediately recognizing that she was depressed. She hired Ayesha to help in their garden. The pay was good and the girl’s father hadn’t objected. For the past several weeks, she’d arrived in old jeans and chamois shirt and seemed to revel in getting herself as dirty as she possibly could. Seeing how much escaping from the dreary little store meant to Ayesha, they had all taken to her.
    “Hmmm,” Sarah said. “I saw her in the store yesterday and she was kind of quiet, barely said hello. I wonder if something’s happened.”
    “I bet that bastard Roland has been bending Ali’s ear again about what a bad influence we are on the girl,” said Ingrid with a snort.
    “You are kind of a scary looking broad, Ingrid,” said Grace with a laugh, but Sarah could tell she was concerned.
    “I’ll see if I can talk to her when I stop at the store tomorrow,” Sarah said. “Usually Ali’s not there late in the afternoon.”
    Conversation turned, as it inevitably did, to the neighbors.
    “I actually saw Rose the other day,” said Grace.
    “You didn’t!” said Ingrid.
    Grace raised her right arm in a mock two-fingered salute. “Scout’s honor. She hobbled out onto the back deck with her walker. First time I’ve seen her in a year. I think it’s actually the first time she’s been outside in all that time. God, she was even bigger than the last time I saw her.”
    “Did you talk to her?” Sarah asked with interest. The houses had rear decks that were close enough for conversation.
    “You could call it that, I suppose. I called hello. I think she grunted. Or maybe it was a wheeze. I’m not sure. Anyway, soon as