by E L Irwin
Driving home, Ryler tried not to stew too hard over the matter. But his mind refused to shut off. AJ’d been worried over this fan of hers, that they’d broken into her house, worried that they’d harm someone, specifically her landlady, Mrs. Carson. And now Mrs. Carson was dead. And AJ herself might be in danger. Ryler was feeling anxious. Dread seeped into his bones, coating him from the inside out. He needed AJ to call.
Sitting in the Coronado Police Department’s waiting room, I tried to gather my thoughts before my meeting with Detective Whitaker. The mantra, This is my fault, this is my fault, this is my fault, seemed to play on endless repeat inside my skull and refused to silence no matter what I did. And if that wasn’t consuming my thoughts, then I continuously questioned what I might have done differently.
When the detective called me yesterday to schedule a time for me to come in to discuss the case, I was both relieved and anxious at the same time. I wanted this to be over with, but in the same breath, I was somewhat frightened by what I might learn. What if all of this was indeed my fault? What if I was truly to blame?
I’d been sitting here now for ten minutes; the detective was five minutes late. Feeling anxious, I got up and paced around the room, glancing out the windows onto the street, taking in the portraits of various officers, news articles, and awards on the walls. One portrait caught my attention. My heart clenched in remembrance. Officer Wade Irwin, of the San Diego Police Department and his partner had been ambushed on what should have been a routine stop. Irwin had survived; his partner hadn’t. The news had hit our community hard. The cold-heartedness of the senseless act that shattered so many lives had shocked us all. My heart had broken for the fallen officer’s wife and children. I could only be thankful that Officer Irwin had survived, and that his wife and child had been spared the pain his partner’s family had gone through.
My phone buzzed just then, jerking me out of my painful thoughts. Glancing at the Caller ID through misting eyes, I saw it was Ryler. I stared at his name for several moments unsure as to what I wanted to do. The ringing stopped as the call went to voicemail. Seconds later, the phone began buzzing again. Ryler was calling back. Again, I hesitated. I wasn’t ready to speak with him just yet. It wasn’t that I was mad at him. I just wasn’t ready to talk, not after all I’d gone through these last several days.
With recent events and what had happened between Ryler and me, along with the revelations I’d learned from Chief, and now Mrs. Carson’s death, I just didn’t have anything left in reserve to address whatever Ryler was after. I assumed he’d learned that I’d left town and was trying to check up on me. And while I was definitely able to acknowledge that that was a kind gesture on his part, I just wasn’t up to talking about it with him right then. I needed time to properly process everything.
My phone went silent once more, before notifying me that I had a voicemail waiting.
“Ms. McAdams?”
Turning at the sound of the male voice, I took in the detective. He was close to six feet tall, clean-shaven, and bald; you could tell he stayed fit. His skin was so dark that his eyes seemed to pop out of his face. And when he smiled, his teeth flashed, white and even. He wore plain street clothes – jeans and a blue polo-style shirt. His badge hung on a chain around his neck, his gun on display in its holster. “Yes,” I said. “Are you Detective Whitaker?”
“I am. Come on back.” His demeanor was open, friendly.
Detective Whitaker held a door open for me, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave as I passed him and found it subtle and pleasing. I followed him down a long hallway to a cluster of desks in a large, open room. Indicating one of the two chairs in front of his metal desk, the detective sat down, drew a file out of the drawer, and flipped it open. He slid a yellow legal pad toward himself and pulled a pen from the top drawer. Before I could stop myself, my eyes had landed on the documents contained in that file. The pictures.
Even upside down, I was able to ascertain that Mrs. Carson hadn’t just been murdered. She’d been brutalized. This wasn’t just a desperate act by someone trying to rob her, and things had gotten out of hand; this was hatred. Malice. This was evil. Whoever had done this was evil. My heart clenched tightly in my chest as my pulse leapt, making me dizzy and glad that I was seated.
“Ms. McAdams, I know you’ve been out of town, and I’m sorry you’ve had to come back to something like this. We’ve been monitoring your blog, but so far, Amber has not responded to any of your posts.”
“Are you sure that my fan was involved then?” I managed to get out past the lump in my throat.
“We aren’t ruling anything out as of yet. And while it may not have been that particular fan that broke in last week, we do think it has to do with you.”
“And, why is that?” If it was possible to feel even more lightheaded without passing out, I was there. The edges of my vision were dimming, and black spots sprinkled across the view in front of me.
“In addition to what was done to your landlady, we found your books in a pile under her body. They’d been destroyed. Pages were ripped out, cut, and torn. And a message had been left for you.”
“What was the message?” I whispered, trying to calm myself, to still the shivers snaking over my body.
“’She didn’t have to die, but you had to be a selfish witch. I’m not playing games — this time I’m coming for you,’” he quoted, as he read the note. “It was written in the victim’s own blood.”
“Oh my…” Tears I wasn’t able to hold back slid from my eyes. This was all my fault. I’d done this. I’d brought this on poor Mrs. Carson. Those words boomed through my head: My fault… this was my fault, my fault, my fault…
“I’m sure this is a shock, Ms. McAdams,” he said quietly, his voice gentle as he slid a box of tissues my way. “But I need to ask if you have any idea, any at all, as to who might have done this.”
I took a moment to collect myself, to clean my face up and wipe away my tears. “I don’t know. I can’t even fathom why this might have happened or who might have done this.” This is my fault, my fault, my fault. “The only thing that strikes me is the use of the word selfish. Amber has called me that several times in her comments. And I hate to say it was her, as she just may be a reader with a strong opinion and have nothing to do with this at all. Honestly, I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Just take your time. Have you noticed anyone at any of your events that may have given off a weird vibe? Or noticed anyone hanging around the house? How many people outside your residence knew where you lived, Ms. McAdams?”
That question gave me a start. I hadn’t considered that before. My address was not available to the public. I kept that private, using a post office box in San Diego and not here on Coronado Island. How had this person known where I lived?
“Detective? My address where I live is private. I’ve never shared that with the public.” I told him about my post office box, explaining that I’d done that to ensure my privacy.
“This indicates that the perpetrator may know you personally, Ms. McAdams. Does that thought bring anyone to mind?”
“No. No one. I… I mean, this is all just a bit crazy, you know. I don’t really know anyone who would want to do something like this.”
“We’ve interviewed your roommates, the other occupants that live with you. Everyone checks out, at least at face value. Can you think of anything about one of them that might have any bearing on this? Anyone come across that makes you uncomfortable?”
I considered my roommates, trying to determine if any of them might have ever given off an odd vibe. Briefly, I considered Paul and his awkward comments, but then dismissed him, unwilling to bring such a quiet and private man into such intense scrutiny. I supposed that any one of my roommates might have told someone that they lived with me, but that was such a broad spectrum; I couldn’t fathom how we could find that needle in the haystack.
Then I had another thought. It was farfetched, I knew, but st
ill, it was at least something. “Um, Kat… Kat tends to bring men home. She’s a bit of a cougar, if you know what I mean. Maybe one of her dates? I don’t know. This is all just wild speculation.”
Detective Whitaker wrote down some notes in his binder, nodding to himself. “We’ve taken prints from the crime scene and photographed the entire area. So far, the only prints we’ve identified are of those who live there.”
“Okay. Um, do you know when I’ll be able to get in to move my things out?”
“I believe you should be able to get your things squared away today or tomorrow at the latest. Our crime scene investigators should be finished processing the area soon.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“How long are you planning to be in town?”
“Just long enough to get my things together. I’ve cancelled a previously planned event that would have taken place next week. I just couldn’t… not right now. And I’m still staying in Sequim and am unsure just how long I’ll be there. I may just stay there, as I have my dad’s house now.”
“Just be careful. We don’t know who is behind this. You need to be on your guard.”
“I will.” This is my fault, this is MY fault. “Detective, I’m thinking about something… about doing something.”
“Such as?”
“I’m thinking about using my blog to call out this person, challenging them maybe, getting them to respond and hopefully slip up, so we can catch them.”
“I understand your feelings, Ms. McAdams. However, I’d advise against it at this point as we don’t really know who, or what, we’re dealing with. The perpetrator could be anyone. You wouldn’t know who to watch out for.”
“I can’t just sit around and do nothing. Mrs. Carson was killed — horrifically killed — because of me. I have to do something.”
“Again, I’d advise against doing anything at this point. Let us investigate.”
“I don’t want anyone else to be hurt on my account. I can’t deal with that.”
“I understand that. But again, let us do our work. Maybe post about your heartbreak for Mrs. Carson and see if anyone responds. Start there, and let’s see what happens.”
I inclined my head as I stood to leave. “I’ll see. Right now, I just want to get my things and get back home.”
Detective Whitaker walked me back out to the waiting room and saw me off. He shook my hand and again advised me not to act rashly and let him and his team do their jobs.
CHAPTER NINE
Suspicions
The next day when she got off work, Harley drove me to the house on Ocean Drive; my stomach felt like it might spring from my throat at any moment. I took several deep breaths, hoping to keep it in place. The CPD were still there, removing crime scene tape. The moving truck I’d hired to haul my things to storage sat on the street, waiting on my arrival.
Kat was coming down the steps as we got out of the car. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes smudged and swollen. Despite this, she still looked good. Enough so, that she had not one — but two — gentlemen assisting her as she moved her things out of the house.
When she saw me, Kat lost it, breaking down as sobs shook her. Harley hung back to give us privacy, not wanting to intrude. I reached Kat’s side and let her hug me close. “I’m so sorry, Kat,” I whispered to her as she continued to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
“Wasn’t your fault, AJ,” she hiccupped.
“Still.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry you found her. Did you see anything, hear anything?”
“No, she was… she was cold when I found her. I’d been away that night, stayed with a friend, ya know? When I came home the front door was opened just a little, like maybe it hadn’t closed entirely, and the breeze had blown it open. And then, then I found her in the study. It was awful. So awful. I still have nightmares…”
“I’m so sorry. Where are you going now?”
“I’m staying with, with a friend, and then, later, when I’m ready, I’ll find myself a place. How about you, kid? What are your plans?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her I was going back to Washington, but then Detective Whitaker’s warning rang in my skull, cautioning me. “I’m… not sure yet. I’m still trying to decide. You take care, all right?”
“You do the same, AJ.”
We moved past each other, and as I stepped over the threshold, my eyes were drawn to Mrs. Carson’s study. The doors were closed, crime scene tape still up, crossing them in a large X. Harley maintained a silent, but steady presence — there if I needed her, but in no need of attention or acknowledgment. Swallowing, I turned to the staircase, pain and dread pooling in my middle. As I reached the landing, my phone buzzed, and looking at it, I saw that Ryler was again trying to reach me. I still hadn’t responded to him. Still didn’t know what to say to him. He wasn’t, by his own words, ready for a relationship. And I wasn’t sure how to remain his friend, keeping him at a distance, yet still allowing him close enough to comfort me or check on me.
I knew he meant well, I just didn’t know how to keep my heart uninvolved while he worked through whatever he was trying to. So once again, I sent Ryler’s call to voicemail. And told myself that I’d deal with him after I got back. Right now, I needed to take care of my things here.
Pausing on the landing, I caught the scent of new paint still fresh in the air. Mrs. Carson hadn’t waited to get the repairs done. I couldn’t help but wonder if that might have had anything to do with the nature of her death. Taking a deep breath, I continued on to my room.
Harley and I finished packing my things into boxes, getting them sealed and labeled. It didn’t take too long, thankfully. And as we looked back over my old room, making sure that we hadn’t missed anything, I called down to the movers, letting them know that I was ready. Most of this was going to storage, but some of my things, I was going to ship to my place in Sequim. Harley would to take me to the airport in the morning. Tonight, I would stay at her place instead of the hotel where I’d had a room, where I stayed holed up avoiding people.
I knew that eventually, I’d have to come back, if just to finish deciding what I was going to do with my things. But for right now, they’d be safe enough in storage. We were just coming down the stairs when Paul came through the front door. He looked jittery and more uncomfortable than I could remember seeing him.
He stopped as he saw me, his brown eyes widening. He must have been miserable, being a man who enjoyed his privacy and routine.
I caught that mild scent of cloves that always came off him. “Hey, Paul,” I smiled at him.
“AJ.” He mumbled, somewhat distant.
“You all right?”
He hesitated then said, “As all right as one can be under the circumstances.”
“Yeah, I know. You take it easy, okay?”
“You do the same, AJ.” He moved toward his room, located at the top of the stairs, then stopped to face me. “Are you sticking around, then?”
Again Detective Whitaker’s warning echoed in my head, so I said, “I haven’t decided yet. There are still things I need to deal with in Washington, so… I just don’t know.”
It looked as if he might say something further, but then he just nodded curtly and continued to his room. Harley and I passed the police who were still stationed at the front door. They were there to lock up after the others had packed and moved out. I hoped Paul wasn’t blaming me for Mrs. Carson’s death. I was doing enough of that on my own. I also hoped that he found another living arrangement and was happy and able to continue his travel writing.
BLOG POST
Hello Beach Bums,
Tonight, I’m writing to you in a state of heartache. This is difficult to even talk about, but I need to share this with you. Earlier this week, my landlady, Mrs. Carson, was found by one of my housemates murdered in our home. We still don’t know what the motive could have been, but needless to say, we are, all of us, devastated by this news.
I�
�ll be taking some time to deal with this but will try to be in touch with you soon. Thank you for understanding. Take care and stay safe. Hug someone close to you.
Your Siren of the Surf, AJ
Harley and I awoke early. I had to be at the airport by seven, which meant I had to be up at the ungodly hour of four. Yesterday, on the way back to Harley’s, we’d stopped, and I was able to mail my packages to Jake’s in Washington. So, this morning, all I needed to do was dress for the flight and grab my one carry-on bag. We made a stop at Café 1134 for a coffee and pastry before we headed to the airport. By chance, Kevin was working the early shift, so I was able to see him before I left.
“Hey, shorty!” Kevin fairly shouted as I stepped inside the café. He came around the counter and scooped me up in a giant hug. “Long time, no see.”
“Hello, tall man. What’s new?” I asked as he set me back down.
“Same old, same old.” He gave me a long look. “I read what happened, AJ, on your blog. I’m sorry. How’re you really doing?”
“It’s hard, Kev. She didn’t deserve that. And I feel guilty about it.”
“Ah, hey, that wasn’t your fault, AJ. The fault lies squarely on the one who committed the crime, not you, hon.”
“Yeah, I guess. Hey, I gotta get going though. My flight leaves early.”
Kevin moved back behind the bar. “Same drink?” He looked to me and Harley, knowing our regular orders by heart.
I indicated yes and checked the time on my phone.
“You coming back soon, or are you moving?” Kevin asked as he worked.
My shoulders tightened as I considered my answer. Who could I trust? If I wasn’t careful, I’d be suspicious of everyone. “Not sure yet, Kev. Still working on some things, I guess.”
“Fair enough. Just don’t be a stranger, shorty.”
Less than five minutes later, he was handing us our coffee. I handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change. And then we were out the door and walking back to Harley’s car. We’d agreed that she would just drop me off rather than try to fight terminal parking, so we said our goodbyes in the car at the curb. She promised me that she’d see me soon as she was planning a trip up north to see my fairytale house before Christmas.
