Page 13 of Cougar Point

I say, “I can take it with us if you want to—” I don’t get to finish before he snatches up the roll.

“Evidence,” he says. “I’ll keep custody.”

We anticipated getting permission from Tony and both of us packed a small bag. Ronnie said we would be put up at the Marsh house. If it gets awkward, I’m going to a motel and she’s on her own.

TWELVE

It’s after 4 p.m. by the time we reach our destination. The Marshes live on a peninsula north of the city of Birch Bay, bordered by Drayton Harbor and Semiahmoo Bay. Ronnie directs me down Birch Point Road and north along Semiahmoo Drive. We pass a sign reading: SEMIAHMOO GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB and a mile later come to a private drive flanked by a stone arch with steel gates. A plaque is mounted above the arch. COUGAR POINT.

“Cougar Point?” I ask.

“The peninsula is shaped like the head of a cougar, and our property is the nose. My granddad thought so when he named it.”

Ronnie takes out her keys, hits a button on a fob and the gates slowly open. A camera and a speaker are mounted in the stones on both sides of the arch. The aggregate drive is lined with miniature pine trees and the paved road rises slightly and turns from aggregate to yellow bricks.

“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” I remark.

Ronnie smiles. “The yellow brick road is Dad’s idea of a joke.The Wizard of Ozwas Rebecca and my favorite movie when we were kids.”

The waterfront residence sets on a promontory overlooking Semiahmoo Bay; a mixture of Tudor and Cottage style with spectacular west-facing sunsets . I park and follow Ronnie along a meandering walkway lined with weeping cherry trees. A monkey tree sits to one side of the door; on the other side is a stone path that disappears and reappears at a sandy beach and a boathouse the size of Ronnie’s apartment in Port Townsend. If I owned this gorgeous view, I’d never go inside. I might take up painting. But first I‘d have to learn to draw.

A slightly older replica of Ronnie comes out of the front door and greets us with a serious look. She hugs Ronnie.

“Megan, this is my sister, Rebecca.”

“Detective Megan Carpenter,” Rebecca says, and takes both of my hands in hers. “I’ve heard a lot about you. When Ronnie calls she regales me with your adventures. You’re just what she needs to keep her safe.”

Ronnie looks uncomfortable and I immediately defend her. “Actually she’s saved my life more than once. I’m proud to have her for a partner.”

Rebecca blushes. “I’m sorry for that remark. That was our dad talking.”

Nope. That was all you, Rebecca. I can see why Ronnie doesn’t talk about the family.

Rebecca redeems herself. “Sorry, Ronnie. I worry about you but I know you can take care of yourself. I hope you don’t think bad of me, Megan.”

Too late. “Absolutely not. Ronnie is your biggest fan. ”She never talks about you. I didn’t know your name until today.

Rebecca’s not buying it. “Does she? Well, please come in. Forgive the mess. Dad has dismissed all the help for a few days.”

We enter into a high-ceilinged lobby furnished with floating glass shelving filled with expensive-looking vases and trinkets on one side, and on the other is a sitting area with high-backchairs facing tall windows with a view of a rock garden and out over the bay. Rebecca becomes our tour guide. She’s obviously proud of the house, and should be. It’s beautiful and I’ve only seen the entrance. If this is what she calls messy, she’d have a stroke in my place.

A wrought-iron staircase leads down to a salt-water pool with a jacuzzi, seating at least a dozen visitors, a stone fireplace and kitchen. Steps carved into the rock lead to a private boathouse and four-acre sandy beach. I can see why Ronnie gave this up to live in a converted barn and become a deputy.

“Where’s Dad?” Ronnie asks.

Rebecca ignores the question. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Ronnie holds me back a moment. “She’s not a bad person. She’s just nervous.”

“I can understand.” She’s not nervous. She’s condescending. And she has no reason to think she has a better life than Ronnie. More money doesn’t make a better person. But I do understand about missing mothers. Although, some mothers are better off not being found.

“Not just that. She’s nervous about what Dad will say when he finds out we’re here.”

“He doesn’t know? Or he won’t approve?” I ask.

“Both, I guess. He’s very private. But he won’t make a scene in front of you.”

I don’t want to stay somewhere I’m not welcome. “If I’m going to create trouble, I can go get a room somewhere else.”

---