“A Cleveland woman who was discovered dead Wednesday night has been identified. Sybil Berndt died from blunt force trauma to the side of her head, according to the Cuyahoga County Coroner’s Office. The incident is being ruled a homicide.
“The Cleveland Police Department on Thursday announced in a release that officers are investigating the death of a 70-year-old woman and a dismembered cat, found next to the body, according to a press release.
“Around 5:30 p.m. Wednesday, police responded to a welfare check in the 1200 block of Italy Street, where they found the deceased woman and cat. Neighbors reporting a ‘foul odor’ coming from the home, prompted the welfare check, police said.
“Neighbors said that Ms. Berndt was apparently the mother of adult sons—twins—who they never saw. One is allegedly incarcerated, the other’s whereabouts is unknown. These details have yet to be confirmed.
“‘It’s a tragedy, and we’re digging to the bottom of it. In the meantime, with Canada just across Lake Erie, we’ve also notified US Border Patrol, Immigration, and Customs Enforcement in connection with the incident,’ CPD spokesman Andrew Smith stated.”
Agonizing pain brings Jason back from his mental reverie. I won’t die! I won’t die until I’ve had the pleasure of sending McPherson to hell! Blind with rage, intent on revenge, Jason views the dips, divots, and outcroppings. In his mind, it looks like a craggy, pockmarked face. One that he can descend to freedom.
He’s done rock climbing on numerous occasions with his brother. He’s aware that even at his best it’s a physically demanding sport. But with a wounded arm and no equipment, it’s going to test every bit of his strength and resiliency. As he examines the prospect of what lays ahead, he grits his teeth. I need a stiff drink to calm my nerves, just a shot. He gathers his resolve, waits for the next flash of lightning, then makes his move.
“What on earth has gotten into Hemingway?” As he barks incessantly, Libby turns to Niall with a look of concerned surprise.
“Hold your horses,” Niall shouts as he makes his way through the mudroom to the outside door where the barking continues as if the house is on fire. As he opens the door, Niall steps back and catches himself on the deep sink when Hemingway rushes him, wild-eyed, continuing his frantic barking.
“What is it, boy?” Niall pats Hemingway’s rain-soaked coat, trying to calm him. The big dog’s skin flinches at Niall’s touch. Drawing a blood-soaked hand away, Niall yells for Libby. “Come quick, Hemingway’s hurt, and it looks bad!”
Always cool under fire, Libby makes a quick assessment and moves into action. “Niall, bring me the first-aid kit and help me lay him down.”
Backing toward the still-open door, Hemingway continues to bark.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Libby says in a soothing tone. When Libby reaches for Hemingway’s thick, leather collar, he bares his teeth and continues to back up.
“Niall, aside from the gaping wound, something’s terribly wrong. Mick lived with him from puppyhood and understands his every move. Call his cell phone and tell him to hurry.”
Still running high on adrenaline from his after-dinner conversation with Cynthia, Mick pushes Emma’s wheelchair through the rain to Austen cottage at almost a run. “When we get there, I’m making you a hot cup of tea, then tucking you into bed,” he says with a wolfish grin, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “But first I want to talk about what Cynthia said.”
The warmth of the cottage envelops them. Emma asks, “You mean about her work as a forensic intuitive to help solve cases?”
“Yes, even long forgotten cold cases,” Mick says as he brings two lavender towels from the bathroom and hands one to Emma.
As he dries his face and hair, his rich masculine scent fills Emma’s nostrils.
When Mick tosses the plush fabric over his shoulder, Emma notices that his wet shirt is stuck to him, like a second skin.
He walks into the kitchen, ignites one of the burners on the gas stove, fills the tea kettle with water, and places it over the low flame. While waiting for the water to boil, Mick forages for mugs in the cupboard.
“I find it fascinating,” Emma says. “I don’t know Cynthia very well yet, but what I do know, I like. She’s a straightforward woman who shoots from the hip. I appreciate that in a person.” Bent forward at the waist drying her hair, Emma sees rain-drenched jean cuffs resting on the tops of two masculine feet come into view.
Mick’s fingers weave into Emma’s wet hair, savoring its dark luxuriance.
Looking up, she finds herself drawn into his smoldering gaze.
“Then I’m going to shoot from the hip. You’re beautiful and I’m going to kiss you.” Leaning forward to deliver on his promise, the peal of his cell phone wrenches them both from his intent. “Who on earth would be calling at this time of night?” He fishes the phone from his pocket, brows furrowed in puzzlement, as caller ID indicates that it’s Niall. He rarely calls, and only if it’s important. “McPherson,” he answers.
Emma hears an indiscernible voice on the other end and watches as Mick’s eyes, moments earlier smoky with intent, register alarm. Then the color drains from his face, baring dread. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, then hangs up. “Hemingway’s hurt. Niall says it’s bad. I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, my God, run. I’ll follow, just go,” Emma urges.
Mick puts on his shoes and bolts out the door while Emma follows as quickly as she can. She’s grateful for her upper-body strength. Like steel coupling rods on an express train of days gone by, her well-toned arms pump rapidly. The wheels of her chair make a hissing sound as rubber speeds over the smooth, wet pathway where subtle walk lights vie with lightning to show the way through the unrelenting rain.
As Mick rounds the corner at a dead run, hip aching, his frantic mind tries to reconcile the scene presenting itself in what seems to him, slow motion. The doorway of the well-lit mudroom looks like a gaping hole in a jack-o-lantern’s smile, with Hemingway’s body silhouetted against the humorless grin.
When Mick squats down, he asks Hemingway, “What is it boy?” His voice thick with concern.
The burly dog turns and gently wags his tail, a poor imitation of his usual enthusiastic greeting.
Mick draws closer to his friend.
The shaft of light from the doorway reveals a blood-sodden coat and an eye that’s swollen almost shut.
First nuzzling Mick’s hand, then licking it anxiously, Hemingway takes Mick’s wrist in his powerful jaws and gently tugs.
“Do you want to show me something?” Mick asks his companion of several years.
Hemingway gets to his feet.
“Niall, throw me a flashlight. Libby, call the police and the vet. Get them both out here. Now!” he bellows.
“Where are you going?” They ask in unison.
“I’m following Hemingway,” he says, catching the flashlight. “I’ve got my cell.”
Hemingway let go of Mick’s wrist and walks away, looking back only once to make sure Mick’s following.
“I’m coming boy. I’m coming.”
When Emma rounds the corner, she sees Libby’s and Niall’s shattered expressions watching an empty space where the dark had just swallowed both man and dog.
“What happened? Is Hemingway okay?” Emma asks between gulps of air, trying to catch her breath.
“Come inside and we’ll talk in the kitchen once we’ve called the police and the vet.”
“The police?” Emma asks, hand-to-heart, wide-eyed in alarm.
“Yes, Mick told us to call them both before he followed Hemingway into the woods.”
Hemingway pants ahead. He turns periodically, his soulful eyes urging Mick to catch up. When they reach the clearing at the end of the forest, he bolts across the expanse, stopping when he arrives at a dark mound on the ground. He turns back to Mick and barks urgently.
Mick ignores the mud sucking at the bottom of his shoes and runs. As he draws closer, he sees Hemingway hovering over a perso
n. A woman in a dress.
Reaching them, he recognizes Cynthia. “Oh, my God!” Dropping to his knees, he checks her pulse. “She’s alive,” he says with relief as much to himself as the big dog. He gets out his cell and calls the main house. “Niall, Hemingway led me to Cynthia. She’s alive, but unconscious. She’s covered in mud from head to toe.”
“What happened, Mick?”
“In this merciless wind and rain, it’s hard to tell, but she’s bleeding.” With great care, he pulls the fabric of Cynthia’s dress away, and continues. “She has a deep gash on her thigh. I don’t think whatever caused it severed an artery, or she would have bled out by now. But still, she’s bleeding a lot. It’ll be impossible for an ambulance to make it out here, and they can’t airlift her in this storm. Bring the ATV to the bluff by the cliffs and hurry!”
Mick’s medical emergency training from his years on the police force kick into high gear. He rips off his shirt and staunches the flow with a shirt sleeve. After containing the wound, he assesses the rest of Cynthia’s body to see if she has any other visible trauma. “Cynthia, if you can hear me, it’s Mick. Help is on the way.”
The rain pelts his flesh, the wind whips his hair, but he’s focused and impervious.
Mindful of inflicting further harm, Mick positions Cynthia so that her wounded thigh is up. He tilts her head back to keep her airway open, knowing that an unconscious person can’t cough or clear their throat. In doing so, her clenched hand falls open, exposing a smooth rock. What on earth? Was she going to use this as a weapon?
Ignoring his own, he sees goosebumps on her flesh. She needs to be kept warm. I wish I’d grabbed my jacket.
As if reading Mick’s mind, Hemingway lays on his side with his back next to Cynthia’s, letting out a tired sigh.
“Hemingway, you probably saved Cynthia’s life. You’re a hero, big fella.” The usual whip-like force of his long tail is replaced by a gentle thumping on the ground.
As he looks at the surrounding area, Mick’s eyes catch a flash of splintered glass, registering a broken bottle several feet away. Careful not to tamper with the scene or touch anything that might be evidence, he makes mental notes and remains where he is.
Head cocked, ears alert, Mick takes Hemingway’s cue and follows his suddenly alert gaze. In the distance, two headlights dance in unison over the rugged landscape as the ATV nears the forest’s edge. With its rugged build and knobby tires, it makes quick work of the terrain.
Before it reaches the clearing, Hemingway is up on all fours barking for attention.
Mick stands and waves his arms, hoping not to be a lightning rod in the wicked storm.
“Kära Gud!” Niall says, scrambling out of the all-terrain vehicle.
“I don’t think she has any broken bones,” Mick responds. “I’m going to lift her and lay her in the backseat. Then I’ll get in and hold her for support.”
“She’s got to be freezing in this wind and rain,” Niall says. “Libby sent a wool blanket.”
“Thank God for Libby. She thinks of everything. Niall, I don’t want to bump Cynthia’s head, so help me guide her in and bundle her up, then Hemingway can ride up front with you. Instead of heading straight east the way you came, let’s head south. I know it’s a longer route, but in this weather, it’ll be faster and smoother.”
Niall looks puzzled. “I didn’t know there’s another route,” he shouts over the roaring wind.
“It’s more of a wide path, but wide enough for the ATV. The trees there are younger so there aren’t as many exposed roots. I used to take my wheelchair through there.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
As the all-terrain moves forward, the bluff falls behind, leaving the mysterious scene in its wake. Mick calls ahead to say they’re on their way and adds an ambulance to his original request of police and vet.
With his guidance, they enter the property just south of Austen cottage. Then, like a switchback on a mountain trail, they head north on the smooth, wet pathway between the copse of blue elderberry trees and the main house.
Around the next bend, welcoming light from the main house emerges ahead. As they connect with the circular drive, they’re greeted by flashing blue, red, amber, and white lights from a patrol car, ambulance, and what seems sedate in comparison, a pickup truck and horse trailer with Fairhaven Veterinary Hospital stenciled on the side.
Someone in the main house must have been on the lookout because their arrival doesn’t go unnoticed. As the all-terrain enters the circular drive, a wave of umbrellas bears down on them at once—Libby, two paramedics, two police officers, the vet, Emma, and Fran.
The paramedics transfer Cynthia from the all-terrain to the ambulance on a stretcher board. Mick hops in beside her as they pepper him with questions and check her vitals.
Skip, a seasoned paramedic with silver hair that commands respect, breaks open what looks like a glow stick. He wafts it back and forth under Cynthia’s nose as several pairs of curious eyes watch from the back end of the well-lit, efficient space.
Her forehead draws into a puckered frown and her nose wrinkles. She coughs, splutters, then coughs again. Cynthia’s eyes fly open, and she tries to sit up, but can’t. Gripping Mick’s hand she looks him straight in the eyes and says, “It was Jason. He fell over the cliff and he’s dead.” Then she passes out cold.
CHAPTER 17
“When you write suspense, you have to know where you’re going because you have to drop little hints along the way. With an outline, I always know where the story is going.”
—JOHN GRISHAM
Libby hears rapid-fire conversation coming from the kitchen as muffled voices rise and fall like the rhythmic ebb and flow of a tide, punctuated now and then by a sharp staccato as someone slaps the well-worn pine table for emphasis.
Different from the comfortable atmosphere of conversation and laughter that usually fill their home, the air is charged with a prickly edge born of interrogation as the two police officers, Herb and Chris—short for Christine—ask and re-ask their questions, trying to piece together the evening’s events after briefly checking Thoreau cottage to verify that Jason isn’t there.
Niall is one of the warmest people on earth, and Libby knows with certainty that he, ever the diligent host, is in the kitchen dispensing Scottish coffee—an antidote as effective as any.
When his mother passed away, he told Libby, “Sometimes it’s the rituals that get us through.”
She remembers how he looked. Niall had a dish towel fisted on one hip as he explained—his Scots burr coming thicker—“Scottish coffee is a wee bit different than the Irish kind. The main difference is that Irish whiskey is distilled three times, whereas scotch, only twice. That means we use half again as much. Are you followin’ the mathematics of it all darlin’?” he’d ask her with a big smile and a deep wink.
As if in a classroom instead of a kitchen he’d continued, “Now we start by brewin’ a pot of espresso. You know, espresso is as much an art as it is a science.” This bit of knowledge he’d delivered while using the dish towel to wipe an imaginary smudge from his shiny espresso machine.
“Now measure the scotch and sugar together in warmed glass mugs with handles. Add the espresso and stir until the sugar’s completely dissolved. Don’t skip this step,”—he’d lifted a warning finger—“even if you don’t normally put sugar in your coffee. You see, lass, the sugar helps the cream to float above the coffee. Then top it off with a big dollop of freshly whipped cream. Once the cream’s in place, don’t stir. It’s imperative to drink the coffee through the cream.” He’d ended with a flourish, bending at the waist and handed her a delicious cup of freshly made Scottish coffee.
Libby shakes her head to clear her mental reverie. Given the gravity of the situation, she knows that to soothe frayed nerves, the doses in Niall’s coffee this evening are more liberal than usual. And as sure as the sun will rise, she also knows that she’ll soon smell the heavenly goodness of his homemade biscuits,
as much to ease himself as everyone else. The warmth of this knowledge helps dispel the chill she felt moments before.
Sitting on the tiles in the first-floor bathroom with Hemingway’s head in her lap, the length of his body across the cold, hard flooring, Libby distracts herself from watching Dr. Sutton gather instruments from his bag. As she looks up, her gaze takes in the lights above the mirror over the sink. Her thoughts take a welcome, mind-numbing turn as it wanders to a piece of homemaking advice her mother had given her as a young bride.
“Always use soft pink lightbulbs in your bathrooms dear, especially the guest bathroom. The subtle pink color coating enhances everything with a slightly warmer tone that detracts from flaws and compliments any face, delighting your guests.”
Looking down at Hemingway’s lacerated body she knows full well the lighting isn’t complimenting anything, and it can’t come close to easing the harshness of the situation.
“Is he going to be okay?” Libby asks Dr. Sutton, watching his rough, old hands feel through Hemingway’s blood-soaked, wiry coat and then insert the bevel of a needle into a vein in his neck.
Hemingway flinches slightly but holds his doe-eyed gaze—filled with trust—on Libby’s face as the vet’s calloused thumb slowly pushes the plunger down the syringe barrel, easing sodium pentobarbital into the bloodstream where it travels swiftly throughout his system. Eyes too heavy to keep open, Hemingway closes his lids and drifts off to sleep.
“He’ll be much better off anesthetized while I wash and tend to his wounds. And so will we for that matter,” he says, his eyes smiling through craggy brows. “You’re holding up well,” he continues encouragingly. “Care to help me get him cleaned and stitched up?”
“I’m at your service. Tell me what to do.”
The hospital is shockingly bright compared to the storm-tossed evening outside. Mick can’t seem to sit still. He needs to do something. With a thin green ambulance blanket draped over his shoulders, he wears a path in the highly buffed linoleum floor of the emergency waiting area, his limp more pronounced than usual. Frustration mounting, Mick realizes that repeatedly checking his watch doesn’t make its hands move any faster. As he walks, he clenches and unclenches his hands. Just hours ago, they’d been holding Emma’s.
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