enticement to trash the rooms and leave a pile on the carpet in a primitive gesture. Houses on West Bay Road were year-round, complete with nosy neighbours, and thus less vulnerable. She pulled up to a modernized two-storey log cabin with a bright red steel roof. A B&B sign featured a classy soaring bird with a white head. Eagle’s Nest.
A knock at the door brought a woman in her forties. She wore cutoffs and a scooped neck blouse. Behind her the screams of young kids playing in the yard made her shield her ears. “Sorry, it’s summer. Please wake me when it’s over.”
Holly introduced herself and was led around the side to a quiet corner under massive spruces with branches trailing like ball gowns. A guest cottage with a spectacular ocean view had a window which had been jimmied, perhaps with a screwdriver or knife. “We were so embarrassed,” Jean McNair said in a slight Scottish accent. “Our guests were from Ottawa. They had the place for the week and spent two more nights away at Bamfield. Since we weren’t booked, we let them leave some belongings. When they got back, they found the theft. They left early this morning to get the ferry to Anacortes. Of course we’ll reimburse them from our insurance once the police report is made. I can’t even tell you on which of the two nights it happened.”
Holly followed her into the small cabin. Like most upscale boutique places, it had a cozy bedroom with pillows, bolsters and nautical-themed drapes and covers. On the glowing honey pine floors, dressers, bar fridge and sofa along with a small table and two chairs completed the furniture along with a plasma tv and microwave. “There’s a four-piece bathroom with jacuzzi. Sleeps four with the pull-out sofa. Parents take the bedroom. Kids stay here.” She reached over to a vase of larkspur and bluebells backed by salal leaves and nipped off a faded blossom. A bowl of potpourri scented the air with jasmine.
The small villages along the coast, under pressure from businesses like Jean’s, had discouraged the usual accommodation chains through draconian zoning and were able to charge from one hundred to two hundred dollars a night with bookings made through the internet. They boasted super breakfasts, including fresh baking and even eggs Benedict. In contrast, the nearest motel, a refurbished but ancient model, was far down the road in Sooke. “What was taken?”
Jean passed Holly a paper. “They left their video camera in the room those two nights. It was giving them trouble with the electronic settings. The man dropped it when they were taking pictures of the gardens at the Sooke Harbour House.”
“Wish I could afford to eat there,” Holly said by way of conversation. Condé Nast had called it the best small inn in Canada. There was a knock-three-times special price for locals.
“We try to serve as an information agency for our guests. See that they enjoy all the highlights of the area according to their interests. Some like to hit the beaches west or whale watch. Some come for the Art Show in August or the Fall Fair in September.” She pointed to a table set up with brochures of local attractions, including the Tugwell Creek Honey Farm and Meadery.
“And a Rolex watch, too?” Holly said, scanning the information in the paper for her report. “That’s traceable.” The police had solved an international murder case in England by matching numbers. Who would have thought that a body cast into the Atlantic would have surfaced tangled in a net? Karma.
Jean put her hand on her chest. “I feel so responsible. Things were kind of hectic. They had a teenaged girl who complained all the time, and you know what they’re like to motivate on a trip. The Rolex number’s on the paper. And the serial number for the camera. He said that the watch had cost him over ten thousand dollars, and he’d taken it off when he went into the hot tub.”
Holly checked her bargain Timex to date her entry. “Your notes will
A knock at the door brought a woman in her forties. She wore cutoffs and a scooped neck blouse. Behind her the screams of young kids playing in the yard made her shield her ears. “Sorry, it’s summer. Please wake me when it’s over.”
Holly introduced herself and was led around the side to a quiet corner under massive spruces with branches trailing like ball gowns. A guest cottage with a spectacular ocean view had a window which had been jimmied, perhaps with a screwdriver or knife. “We were so embarrassed,” Jean McNair said in a slight Scottish accent. “Our guests were from Ottawa. They had the place for the week and spent two more nights away at Bamfield. Since we weren’t booked, we let them leave some belongings. When they got back, they found the theft. They left early this morning to get the ferry to Anacortes. Of course we’ll reimburse them from our insurance once the police report is made. I can’t even tell you on which of the two nights it happened.”
Holly followed her into the small cabin. Like most upscale boutique places, it had a cozy bedroom with pillows, bolsters and nautical-themed drapes and covers. On the glowing honey pine floors, dressers, bar fridge and sofa along with a small table and two chairs completed the furniture along with a plasma tv and microwave. “There’s a four-piece bathroom with jacuzzi. Sleeps four with the pull-out sofa. Parents take the bedroom. Kids stay here.” She reached over to a vase of larkspur and bluebells backed by salal leaves and nipped off a faded blossom. A bowl of potpourri scented the air with jasmine.
The small villages along the coast, under pressure from businesses like Jean’s, had discouraged the usual accommodation chains through draconian zoning and were able to charge from one hundred to two hundred dollars a night with bookings made through the internet. They boasted super breakfasts, including fresh baking and even eggs Benedict. In contrast, the nearest motel, a refurbished but ancient model, was far down the road in Sooke. “What was taken?”
Jean passed Holly a paper. “They left their video camera in the room those two nights. It was giving them trouble with the electronic settings. The man dropped it when they were taking pictures of the gardens at the Sooke Harbour House.”
“Wish I could afford to eat there,” Holly said by way of conversation. Condé Nast had called it the best small inn in Canada. There was a knock-three-times special price for locals.
“We try to serve as an information agency for our guests. See that they enjoy all the highlights of the area according to their interests. Some like to hit the beaches west or whale watch. Some come for the Art Show in August or the Fall Fair in September.” She pointed to a table set up with brochures of local attractions, including the Tugwell Creek Honey Farm and Meadery.
“And a Rolex watch, too?” Holly said, scanning the information in the paper for her report. “That’s traceable.” The police had solved an international murder case in England by matching numbers. Who would have thought that a body cast into the Atlantic would have surfaced tangled in a net? Karma.
Jean put her hand on her chest. “I feel so responsible. Things were kind of hectic. They had a teenaged girl who complained all the time, and you know what they’re like to motivate on a trip. The Rolex number’s on the paper. And the serial number for the camera. He said that the watch had cost him over ten thousand dollars, and he’d taken it off when he went into the hot tub.”
Holly checked her bargain Timex to date her entry. “Your notes will
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