Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  Mud. Slick mud from my earlier shoe-scraping.

  I was still mostly upright when I landed at the bottom of the stairs, but then Lila was on me like a piggyback rider, kicking her sharp heels into my sides, a forearm clamped across my neck. I bent in half, collapsed my face into my knees (there’s something to be said for practicing a yoga ritual nearly every morning), and she slid off head-first into more mud.

  I didn’t stick around. I had our two cars between us before she’d righted herself and swiped her hair back out of her eyes.

  I thought maybe I could reason with her. You know, talk like civilized adults? Plus, my car keys were in my tote bag. What did I care if she’d been two-timing a couple of guys who hated one another’s guts? Or even if one of them had set her up to tattle on the other one’s activities?

  “I understand if you thought it was necessary to spy on Frank Cox for Ian by dating him,” I offered. “Or working for him,” I added since I couldn’t remember which aspect had come first, or if the sequence mattered.

  “You don’t understand!” Lila screamed again. This was getting monotonous.

  “Why don’t you explain it to me?” I wanted to say the words calmly, but Lila was picking her way around the back of her car. I sounded a little short of breath as I sidled sideways, keeping the full width and weight of my old tank of a car between us and accumulating gloppy layers of mud on my boots in the process.

  “He loved me,” Lila announced and raised a fist full of clenched keys.

  As a weapon, she’d have to throw the clump of jangling metal, so I wasn’t too worried. Besides I needed clarification. “Which he?” I asked.

  Lila stabbed a key into the lock on the trunk of her car and popped the lid open. “Ian,” she grunted, completely hidden behind the tiny hatch. She emerged with a kayak paddle.

  I was mystified as to how the paddle had fit. Maybe the engineer who designed the vehicle put a premium on cargo space over leg room. Another reason I would never drive a sports car.

  “What about Frank?” The pieces still weren’t fitting together in my head—at least not well enough to explain why Lila would go berserk like this.

  “Complete and utter idiot.” Lila snorted in a way that would have made Willow proud.

  I knew her statement couldn’t be entirely true. Frank had figured out how to hire a teenage hacker. Not without leaving a trail, but still, that’s not something most people would consider doing. Most people also weren’t motivated by the prospect of massive fines for polluting a public waterway, either—if Ian’s mercury readings were correct and came to the attention of the proper officials.

  “So you should be glad Frank’s facing the tough questions down at the police station then,” I said. “Right? Considering your feelings for Ian.”

  “Except for one teensy problem.” Lila advanced, the paddle balanced easily in her right hand. “Frank might be tempted to tell the whole truth.”

  It had dawned on me that a kayak paddle wasn’t particularly useful for navigating muddy construction sites. But it might make a sufficient…what was a name of a weapon which an attacker used to whack someone else upside the head? Bludgeon? Thumper? Cranium-cracker? The paddle was plastic, not too heavy, but wielded at the right angle, it could be vicious. She wasn’t swinging it yet, but I didn’t plan on letting her get close enough to try it, either.

  “It’ll be expensive,” I agreed, backing up.

  Lila faltered, her gaze locked onto me, the skin of her face so taut she reminded me of an aging actress who’d had too many plastic surgeries.

  “What?” I bleated. I didn’t dare risk a glance over my shoulder to get my bearings.

  “Expensive?” She took another step forward.

  “The pollution. Fines.” I waved a hand indicating the muddy acreage we were in the midst of. “I assume the digging here has exposed toxic soil that’s leaching, or else Frank has been dumping contaminated materials from one of his other sites on this riverbank to reinforce it, carve himself a little more real estate so he can build right to the edge of the river. The mercury readings have been elevated…” I trailed off because Lila had developed large, ugly red blotches on her cheeks and neck.

  She hadn’t known about the sensors. Her soaring blood pressure and hollow stare made that clear.

  I’d assumed that any woman who’d slept with Ian also knew about all his pet projects. Big mistake. I should have realized the man had been able to compartmentalize better than that.

  Then what was Lila worried that Frank might blab about? The other big thing was the murder. Why shouldn’t Frank confess to both in one fell swoop?

  Unless.

  Unless he was responsible for only one of the crimes. Massive fines were nothing compared to a murder rap.

  What did Frank know?

  At least he was safe inside a jail cell or an interrogation room. I was standing in the mucky middle of nowhere facing off with a crazy woman. My phone was in my tote bag along with my keys.

  The accelerating effects of adrenaline on the brain are amazing. I’d processed a lot of causation versus correlation analysis in about the same amount of time it took for Lila to shift her weight. Enough for me to consider her far more dangerous than her petite size might otherwise suggest.

  She shot forward like a drag racer at the drop of the flag. I didn’t bother with parrying or feinting—I turned and fled. My legs were longer than hers.

  It was like one of those horrible dreams where you’re running in slow motion no matter how much blood-pounding effort you put into the excruciating sprint. Plod. Drag. Plod. Drag. Each of my feet gained about a pound of mud with every awkward stride.

  I glanced back. Lila weighed less than I did, and it was proving to be an advantage. She sort of skimmed over the top while I sank in with each leg thrust.

  She tried to hook me from behind with the paddle. I swerved, fell, rolled, and somehow got back on my feet. Set my sights on the river, and a spot where the perimeter silt fence had collapsed. It became my goal, if for no other reason than that it wasn’t muddy in the river.

  A sharp jab from behind, and a sudden burning pain in the meat of my right thigh. Lila was using the paddle like a spear—stabbing and slicing. She had the technique down pat.

  I reached around, grabbed the flat blade on the end of the paddle as it arced toward me on her next pass. It snapped off and left my hand stinging. She’d have to change her lunging motion or take a moment to flip the paddle around. I surged ahead. The fence gap was close—fifteen feet maybe.

  This time the shaft of the paddle connected with my back, across my ribs, scraping vertebrae. I stumbled, flung my arms out. Before I could regain my balance, Lila had the shaft between my knees, torquing it. I slipped sideways and crashed into the first jumbled heap of fencing. In the process, I jammed my left foot on a wood stake embedded in the fabric of the fence, and my ankle rolled over with a grisly crackling sound.

  So close. I rolled again. There’s no claim to fame in crossing the finish line on your feet—as long as you cross the line.

  The bank had been elevated and reinforced with a concrete retaining wall to provide a level, buildable surface. I went off the ledge, and the drop felt like interminable minutes of cold nothingness. It couldn’t have been more than a fraction of a second though, and then I hit the water, stunning the air out of my lungs.

  Breathing, blood pumping, thinking, blinking—it all stopped.

  CHAPTER 21

  My brain screamed for oxygen and kicked my reflexes into action. I flailed to the surface and gulped a searing breath. Lila was lying on her stomach, gripping the edge of the retaining wall, her hair a wild snarl around her head as she peered down at me.

  With a couple sluggish strokes, I extended the gap between us, out of paddle-swinging range. If she wanted to get me now, she’d have to enter the river too, or find a weapon that fired bullets. I tried to blink the water out of my eyes, clear my head, steady my ragged breathing.

  She
hadn’t moved. She wasn’t going to come after me. Or was she? I’d read her wrong all along. No reason my track record should improve now.

  I kept swimming. Clumsily—my sodden clothing dragged on my limbs. In less than a minute, just staying afloat required all of my energy. It was so cold that I couldn’t feel the injuries to my ankle or thigh or back and ribs. Pain was probably raging through my body, but I wasn’t registering any sensation other than numbness.

  My only consolation was knowing that, due to the current, floaters often ended up at the marina. At least I had a slim chance of being close to home when someone found me. I didn’t harbor any illusions that I could stay conscious the whole distance.

  I thwacked into something hard then bobbed around a splintered wood piling, its broken top barely poking out of the water. Then another one, a little taller, thick as a telephone pole. I curled and arched and managed to hook my arms around it as the current tugged on my clothing.

  There was a lump, a knob on the slippery, algae-slicked wood just below the surface of the water, and I grabbed hold of it. A moment later, my handhold broke free, and so did I. All I had to show for my fumbling efforts was a fistful of cracked plastic and a dangling wire.

  I rolled, tried to stay on my back, spread my arms like a snow angel so I could have a view downriver and see what was coming next.

  Another long row of decaying pilings. This stretch of river must have been a busy commercial port many decades ago. Maybe the docks had been ferry landings before Portland’s bridges had been built, or for unloading cargo of some kind. I swirled my hands, flicked my feet—at least I intended to, but couldn’t tell whether they were functioning or not—trying to aim myself. I’d only have one shot at grabbing another piling as I drifted by.

  Bear hug. If that piling had been alive, I would have squeezed all the air out of it. Initially, I hadn’t latched on so much as been swept into it. The rush of the water pressed me against the rough wood. But then my arms and legs wrapped around it, and nothing ever felt so solid or so good, even if it was coated in green slime.

  I dug my fingernails into rotted crevices and banged my knee on a crossbar a couple feet under the surface, which probably linked to the next piling over. With some squirming, I hooked the heel of my right boot on that narrow horizontal ridge—another point of contact. I’d take all of the leech-like connections I could get.

  And then it was just a matter of hanging on. I was getting fuzzy, losing focus. How long until someone on a passing boat noticed me? Tugs, barges, leisure craft, maybe a late-season sightseeing outing or a fishing charter? I had to hope someone would spot the weird bump on this particular piling and come investigate.

  Hang on. Hang on. Hang on. It became a broken-record mantra in my mind. I pressed my cheek against the black wire stapled vertically up the piling. Which wasn’t decades old. Which meant someone, somewhat recently, had visited this piling. Maybe he would return soon.

  oOo

  Small, dark eyes and a broad, squatty nose. And whiskers. Lots of whiskers.

  It was so cute and sleek. The creature slipped and dove in the water around me, popping up here and there. And then I realized it wasn’t just one—there were several. So acrobatic and busy that I couldn’t get a firm count.

  Apparently, I was a novelty and a territory invader, and they’d come to check me out. I was in no position to be a threat with my arms and legs clamped around the piling while the rain pelted down around me, creating divots in the swelling river surface. They seemed to sense that my presence was innocuous, that I was unable to help myself, let alone disturb them. They nudged me occasionally while diving, bumped my elbow with a curious nose once, shook droplets from their furry heads when they came up for air, and chirped to each other.

  They were adorable, and I was thinking how much I’d like to bring my nieces to see them. Ginger and Hazel would probably squeal with delight, though, and startle the otters.

  But since I didn’t move, and wasn’t currently edible, the otters quickly lost interest and moved on to more productive fishing grounds.

  oOo

  “Eva.” Tight ropes cinched my waist. “Eva, honey, let go.”

  Not ropes. Arms. The voice was warm in my ear.

  “Eva. Damn it,” Cal said. “I don’t want to be making a habit of this.”

  “Me neither,” I murmured, not sure what he was complaining about.

  “Let go, then.” A hand closed over one of mine, prying at my fingers. “I have you. Come on.”

  I cracked my eyes open.

  “Come on.” His face was inches from mine, and there were several bright-yellow nylon ropes looped around both me and the piling. Cal was sitting in a kayak, floating level with me, and the kayak seemed to be lashed to the piling too, because his hands were free. Free to help me.

  I might have sobbed a little.

  “That’s right, honey,” Cal said. “Let go. I have you. I know this kayak wasn’t built for two, but it’ll work. Like riding on the handlebars of a bike.”

  “I never did that,” I said.

  “We’ll discuss the deficiencies in your childhood later,” he said sensibly. “Right now you need to let go.”

  So I did.

  He dragged me up and onto the bow of his kayak, gave me instructions about balancing with my legs, pointed out new handholds on the kayak itself, and took off his life jacket and zipped it onto me instead. The ropes slithered off the piling as he rapidly looped them into neat coils. He stuffed them down into the well beside his knees.

  “Ready?”

  I could only nod.

  “Wind’s picking up. It’ll be rough. Hang on tight.”

  I nodded again. I’d been hanging on for what seemed like a very long time. My hands were permanently cramped in that position. I could do it for a few more minutes.

  Cal removed his paddle from the clips and used it like a rudder to aim us in the right direction. Then he stroked steadily, firmly, right, left, right, left. The kayak wallowed low in the water, but he made slow, relentless progress.

  We drifted the length of the wildlife refuge, dark and foreboding, water sloshing high on the muddy banks. I wondered, vaguely, where the otters nested. Nothing about the shore appeared accommodating to me. The brackish, chlorophyll taste of river water still coated my mouth, and whitecaps peaked and rippled along the sides of the kayak.

  Cal didn’t change course when we came to the south edge of the marina. He steered us past the Tin Can, looking spiffy in her new paint job. I didn’t have the energy to protest. My teeth were chattering wildly, and a tremor swept the length of my body. I’d been warmer when I was mostly submerged. The wind was slicing through my clothing like a million stinging paper cuts. I might as well not have been wearing anything.

  “Steady,” Cal said. “Hang on.” He dipped the paddle faster and veered toward Dock’s End.

  Bettina’s house looked battened down. All but the sturdiest lawn ornaments and wind chimes had been removed, stored away for the season at the dramatic turn in the weather, apparently. The house seemed bleak compared to its previous vibrant excess.

  Cal rapped the deck with the paddle and hollered Bettina’s name. “Hold on for one more minute,” he said, tying off the stern to a cleat on the deck.

  I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to.

  The sliding door opened, and Bettina stepped out on the deck with a startled cry, her hand over her mouth.

  “This girl needs a hot shower,” Cal said.

  Bettina knelt and tied the kayak at the bow. Between the two of them, they got me on the deck. I don’t know how, because my limbs only flailed ineffectually. Bettina disappeared for a second and returned with a massive blanket which she snugged around me until I was a swaddled papoose somewhere in the middle. My feet poked out the bottom, and there was a little peephole for my face.

  At that point, Bettina shoved Cal away. “Ladies only from here,” she announced.

  “I need your phone,” Cal replied.r />
  “You know where it is.” Bettina guided me inside, through the living room and into the hallway, patient with my mincing steps as I pinballed off the walls. At least she didn’t have to drag me. She clucked like a mother hen, pushing and prodding from behind until we were in the bathroom.

  She slammed the door behind us, dodged around me to spin the faucet knobs, and started peeling me.

  “Vaughn,” I whispered through debilitating shivers. “I need—to—tell—him.”

  Bettina shoved my sweater up to my armpits. “Bend,” she commanded.

  I did. The sweater slid over my head and landed on the floor with a soggy splat.

  “Cal can handle it,” she said once she’d unhooked my bra. “Sit.” She helped me ease onto the closed toilet lid and knelt to untie my boot laces.

  I whimpered as she jerked on the left boot. It did not come off easily. The pain seemed to have a direct relationship with my body temperature. Now that I was warming up, the screaming pain in my ankle was shooting off the chart.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Bettina murmured as she rolled down my sock.

  Was that my ankle? It looked like a giant log of salami, with indentations from my knit sock pressed into the swollen skin. No ankle bones in sight. I groaned.

  “Shhh,” Bettina cooed. “There, there.”

  I almost cried. I’d always wanted a mother to coddle me—with every earache, every bout of stomach flu, every sinus infection, every scraped knee and stubbed toe. And here was a sweet little lady, holding my tender ankle on her lap, making comforting sounds, trying to pretend she wasn’t appalled by how grotesque it was.

  I was so losing it. I blamed it on the swirling steam, which was turning the room claustrophobic and messing with my senses.

  Bettina eventually got me fully undressed and propped under the shower. I clung to the soap dish for balance and carried all my weight on my solid right leg. The water streamed over my head and down my body.

  I think I might have dozed. The next thing I knew, Bettina’s arm had sneaked into the enclosure and she was cranking off the knobs. The stream of water stopped.