Pointing to the Clues

Kevin had always pictured retirement as a symphony of tomato seedlings, long walks along the bluff, and perhaps-should the mood strike-a watercolor of a sunset over the marina. Numbers, neat rows of them, were supposed to recede in his memory like the tide, replaced by the rich loam of garden soil and the briny air of Seacliff, California. But as autumn shed gold over the cypress trees, he found himself restless.
By mid-October, his garden had been ruthlessly organized into beds with military precision, and his canvas attempts at seascapes seemed stubbornly amateurish. So, when Dot O'Malley called, her voice bright with mischief, and suggested they start a detective club to pass the slower winter hours, Kevin had agreed before he really understood what he was getting into.