The Body in Bodega Bay: A Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery

Chapter 7

93 7 THE FOGHORN WOKE ME. I lay in the dark, counting the seconds between its eerie notes: ten, as usual, never varying. Finally, I fumbled for my clock and saw it was just past five. The call of the foghorn wasn’t necessarily bad news for my day’s plan. In fact, it’s a constant feature, day and night, all year long, because of the dangerous rocks off Bodega Head. But last night’s news had forecast morning fog, and it’s not wise to take the winding road up to Fort Ross in that kind of weather. I might have to cancel my research at the fort’s library. With this worry nagging at me, there would be no more sleep. I gently rose and crept into the kitchen. Before dawn on this stretch of the coast, and especially in fog, there’s no radio reception, so I couldn’t get the weather report that way. I made a cup of tea and fired up my computer. The Internet would give me an hour-by-hour forecast, which was necessary for planning the trip. In addition, the computer could deliver data by zip code, which we definitely would need. Conditions in San Francisco can generally predict temperature and rain in our bay, which is only sixty miles from the city and similarly exposed to the sea. But getting to Fort Ross entails climbing 94 mountains and negotiating a tortuous road. Conditions there could be very different from the city and even from Bodega Bay—clear when we are foggy, foggy when we are clear. It took me a while, but I figured out that the fog would lift from the mountain by ten. That should allow time to get to the fort, do the work, and get home safely. I switched to my e-mail and kept looking out the deck window to track the light, which hung like a white curtain, blocking a view of the harbor. The horn kept calling. Some may find its one note comforting, the ultimate lullaby, like a heartbeat, slowed nearly to coma. I find it alarming, which is what it’s intended to be. It must be my Portuguese sailor’s blood welling up to sense danger on the rocks—my mother’s ancestors were Gloucester fishermen, immigrants from Portugal a century ago. Luckily, there’s a series of sand dunes between us and the horn, so its sound is muted at our house. Angie and Toby slept blissfully through its muffled calls, until I filled the air with the aroma of coffee and pancakes. Over breakfast, we talked about the wisdom of our excursion. Looking out the window, Toby argued for postponement, but when he saw how disappointed I was, he volunteered to do the driving and skip an afternoon at the gallery, provided we would start home early. With that as the plan, I sent them off to get dressed while I packed a lunch in the cooler, since there’s no restaurant at the fort, or anywhere near it. It’s always tough to get Toby out the door, so I wasn’t surprised that we didn’t start till 11:00. The sky was still white, but the landscape by now was visible. Nonetheless, the usually bright views of the ocean from Route 1 were dulled by the cloudy weather. Steel-gray waves crashed onto black rocks and brown beaches, producing a dirty gloom. A few intrepid tourists wrapped in rainwear walked the shore, intent on proving that their Saturday had not been ruined by a little weather. At Goat Rock, in Jenner, farther up the coast, we hit the first mist cloud. We were in and out of it in a few seconds. That was just the remnant of the morning fog. A sign appeared, announcing that it was twelve miles from Jenner to Fort Ross, a short distance as the crow flies, 95 but Toby and I knew that the way consisted of a steep, perilous climb along ocean cliffs on a veritable corniche. Suddenly a hawk swooped across our windshield, and I watched it sail past the cliff and over the steely sea. On our left there was a photographer standing at the side of the road trying to catch a view of the fog over the Jenner rocks. A white car far ahead of us was disappearing into mist. I...