Free Spit In The Ocean: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 4) by Shelley Singer

indeterminate origin.
    The house went nicely with the doors. Very big. This was no rustic crackerbox covered with plywood siding and batten board. The front exterior was solid, with no windows other than the little leaded jobs by the door, and made of thick redwood planking set on the diagonal. I looked up. There was some transparent glass on what could have been the second or third floor, depending on the downstairs ceilings, but it was screened on the inside with potted plants. At least I supposed they were potted.
    All he needed was a moat. I couldn’t wait to see the inside. I grabbed the big iron ring that hung from the door, but Rosie poked my arm and, reaching alongside the doorframe, pressed an electric bell. We heard it resound deep inside the building, a throaty two-note chime. A window slammed up somewhere around the side of the house and a voice yelled, “Who is it?”
    “Friends of Nora Canfield,” I yelled back. “We need to talk to you.”
    Sometime later, maybe two minutes, a small door set in one half of the big doors swung back. Spiegel was frowning, his chunky shoulders cast aggressively forward. He was dressed in a T-shirt and those little shorts people run in. The T-shirt didn’t say anything. I noticed the heavy glasses were held together on one side with a small safety pin.
    “What’s the problem?” he wanted to know.
    “No problem,” I said, and was about to launch into my
Probe
magazine scam when I realized the spiel wouldn’t work with him. He’d dealt with the press too often, and I thought I remembered something about how hard it was for reporters to get to see him. So I played it straight.
    “We’re looking into some things for Nora, and we want to talk to you about the accident out here last night.”
    “Accident?” He slumped against the doorjamb, the aggressive stance suddenly gone. “You mean Gracie. You some kind of private cops?”
    I shrugged and nodded, a half statement he could interpret any way he wanted. “Actually, we were looking into the break-in at the bank, but then this happened. This accident…”
    Again, I let him fill in the blanks. “Could we come in and talk to you about it?”
    He tightened up again, and danced a couple of steps in place, like he was going to start sparring. “I’m kind of busy. There was some damage to the house. I haven’t even checked every room yet.”
    “We won’t take much of your time,” Rosie said.
    “Well, okay. But I don’t know much about last night. I was in L.A. I feel so bad that she came out here— can you understand that I’m not feeling too great about that? Shit. Come on in, then, for a few minutes. I’m not trying to be hostile or inhospitable or anything, you know, it’s just that a lot of people are always bothering me… Come on in.” Finally, he stood aside and we entered.
    The man was in great shape. Short, maybe five foot seven, but every inch was pared down to the muscle. I’d been doing some bicycling lately, and my spare tire was nearly gone. But he made me feel flabby. I resented it.
    The entry hall was big and square and empty except for several black iron coat hooks screwed into the paneled wall. The floor was quarry tile. He led us across the tile into an immense room that would have done service as a Saxon Great Hall. Squares of white plaster wall were framed in chunky redwood. The vaulted ceiling was crossed by beams a foot wide and two feet deep.
    The floor was pegged hardwood planking. Along one wall was a stone fireplace with a firebox that must have been five feet across. Along the back of the room were anachronistic sliding glass doors leading to a deck. There wasn’t a lot of furniture, just a seating arrangement, facing the fireplace, consisting of an eight-foot brown leather couch, a couple of leather chairs, and a few obviously hand-hewn tables. The rug on which the furniture sat also looked handmade, Scandinavian, and very thick. A wide staircase led up to a gallery, along the