Relative Silence

by Carrie Stuart Parks

“Thanks.” Tucker took the proffered coffee.

  “I’ll talk to the hospital staff about visitors. How do you feel today?”

  “Like someone shot me.”

  Gragg set the white bag on the table. “Scones. Great for the healing process. Are you ready to meet with Miss Boone?”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Did you bring—”

  Gragg produced a sketchpad and a pencil set.

  Promptly at ten, Piper arrived balancing a box of chocolates, a stuffed rabbit, an immense purse, and a vase of flowers. Her face flushed at his expression.

  “Hello. I . . . I didn’t know what to bring.”

  “Miss Boone, meet Tucker Landry. Tucker, meet Piper Boone.” The lieutenant moved toward the door. “I’d like to stay, but I have some follow-ups to tend to. My phone number is on the card on the table. Call me when you’re done.”

  After the door closed, Piper busied herself placing the flowers and candy near the bed, then putting the bunny on a chair. She refused to meet his gaze, keeping her head down and using her long hair like a curtain.

  “Do you mind if I call you Piper?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Piper, have a seat.”

  The woman stopped fussing with the rabbit and sat in a chair against the wall, placing her purse beside her on the floor. She smoothed her cream-colored linen slacks, straightened her matching jacket, and folded her hands.

  They both spoke at the same time.

  “I don’t know how—”

  “I appreciate you—”

  Tucker grinned. “‘What we have here,’” he said in his best Southern drawl, “‘is a failure to communicate.’”

  “Cool Hand Luke, 1967.” Piper smiled slightly.

  He lowered his voice. “‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world—’”

  “‘She walks into mine.’ That was easy. Casablanca, 1942.”

  He thought for a minute. “‘He’s a Pooka.’”

  “I should tell you that Jimmy Stewart is my all-time favorite actor. That’s from Harvey, 1950. My turn. ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’”

  “Rebecca, but I don’t know the year.”

  She grinned, causing deep dimples to appear on her cheeks. “Nineteen forty. I’m impressed.” Her gaze darted to the monitor, which announced his increased heart rate. Her face flushed and she looked down.

  So much for hiding my thoughts. “Um . . . well . . . besides being a bona fide movie buff, what else can you tell me about yourself? Do you have a job?”

  “I’m . . . between jobs. I was an editor. Books. Novels.”

  “Did you want to be a writer?”

  “Yes. No. I’m not good enough to be a writer.”

  Now came the question he wanted to ask first. “Are you married?” Please be single.

  “Divorced.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” She looked up at him.

  “Children?”

  It was as if all her muscles loosened and her face sagged. The sparkle left her eyes and her shoulders dropped. “No.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Fool. Change the subject. Before he could speak again, she straightened in her chair. Her face returned to normal, though her lips were tight. “What about you, Mr. Landry? Tell me about yourself.”

  A woman entered wearing green scrubs under a white jacket. He recognized Dr. Rice from the day before. “Good morning and good news. We’re releasing you today. We can arrange for home nursing to come in and change your dressing.”

  “Good. I’m itching to get back to work, and I have a flight to catch in a couple of days.”

  “Not so fast.” The doctor frowned. “You’re not in any condition to travel for at least a week. Where are you staying?”

  “I have a hotel room.”

  The doctor folded her arms. “I don’t think you realize the amount of press coverage this shooting has launched, with you at the center of the storm. You’ll be hounded. Senator Boone just announced a $50,000 ‘reward’”–she made quote marks in the air—“for the man who tried to kill his sister.”

  “Oh no!” Piper put her hand over her mouth.

  “You need to lay low for a bit while you recover,” Dr. Rice said. “I’d recommend you get someone else to collect your things from the hotel. I’d bet the press has it staked out. I need you back here to take out those stitches in two weeks and recheck the wound.”

  “He can stay with me.” Piper stood. “With my family,” she amended quickly. “We can arrange for a nurse if needed.”

  The doctor smiled. “On Curlew Island? Now that’s a plan.” She looked at Tucker. “I think you just got an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “The Godfather,” Tucker and Piper said together.

  Tucker smiled but shook his head, and immediately regretted it. The pain meds must be wearing off. “I couldn’t put you out like that.”

  “You saved my life. You’re hardly putting me out. And the house is huge. And private.”

  “Then it’s settled. You should be set to go after lunch.” Without waiting for Tucker’s response, the doctor left.

  The room was silent for a moment, with only the clicking of the machines still plugged into Tucker. He finally spoke. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  * * *

  I surprised myself when I offered to take Tucker to Curlew Island, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was the right decision. “I’ll call and let Mildred know to expect another person for dinner. Maybe two if Hannah doesn’t want to eat on the mainland. There’s not much food in Joyce’s house, so—”

  “Wait! Whoa! Who’s Mildred? And Joyce? And whoever else you just said? And have you forgotten we’re here to do a composite drawing?” Tucker held up a sketchpad.

  I slowly sank back into my chair. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Where were we before the doctor arrived?”

  I looked out the window at the palmettos. “Um . . . you were about to tell me about yourself. I suspect that’s part of your interview process.”

  “It is. You already know I’m a fan of old movies. I work for a company, a group, called Clan Firinn.”

  My expression must have asked the question.

  “Clan means ‘children’ in Gaelic but can refer to people with a perceived kinship. Firinn is Scottish Gaelic for ‘truth.’ It’s a group of law-enforcement and forensic experts based out of Spokane, Washington. We work on cases outside of traditional law-enforcement jurisdiction.”

  A thatch of his dark hair had caught in the square bandage on his forehead. I wanted to smooth it away. Stop it. I’m not attracted to him. I’m grateful. “Hmm. And you’re a composite artist?”

  “Forensic artist. I do more than just composites.”

  “Such as?”

  “Skull reconstruction. Unknown remains. Age progression. Crime-scene reconstructions.”

  “You have a fascinating career.”

  He looked away from me. His heart monitor sped up, then returned to normal.

  Something I said struck a nerve.

  He smoothed the bedsheet and settled his sketchpad on his lap. “Well then. Shall we get started on the sketch?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have to admit, this composite will be a first for me. I’ve never been both the artist and one of the witnesses.” He smiled at me, then motioned around the hospital room. “And I’m a bit far from all my art supplies and materials, so I’ll be doing this differently than I usually draw.”

  I smiled back. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”

  He opened the sketchpad. “I’m going to start drawing what I remember, then show it to you to see what you’d like me to change. I’ll do this several times. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  He bent over his sketchpad, pencil flying.

  “Do you mind if I talk to you while you’re drawing?”

  Once again the monitor sped up, but all he said was, “Not at all.
”

  “You mentioned you do skull reconstructions. Is that like the clay sculptures?”

  “Yes, and drawings.” He turned the artwork around so I could see it.

  “Yes. That looks like him. Maybe a bit longer hair.”

  “Good.” Returning the sketch to his lap, he continued to work.

  “What is age progression?”

  “Drawing the face of a known suspect and updating it.” He didn’t look up. “Missing-children age progression. That sort of thing.”

  Missing children? “What if . . .” The little hairs on my arms stood on end. “What if the child is . . . dead, and you want to know what she might have looked like, you know, now?”

  Tucker’s eyebrows drew downward. “Yes. I’ve done that.”

  Do I dare? Could I stand the pain? Maybe, but I have to know. “Could you do a drawing for me?”

  His pencil stopped moving. Slowly he raised his head and looked at me.

  “I need you to draw my daughter. She died fifteen years ago.”

  Chapter 7

  Tucker placed his pencil on the bed and stared at Piper. The muscles of her face had again sagged. “I am so sorry. Could I ask what happened?”

  She didn’t move.

  Me and my big mouth. He hated anyone asking about his past—why would he think she would be any different?

  An array of emotions flickered across her face. Her gaze drifted toward her purse. Slowly she reached over and opened it. After lifting a leather journal from its depths, she opened it and pulled out a photograph. She stood, brought it to him, then walked to the window. “That’s Dove. She drowned.”

  He looked at the image. Dove had been an exquisitely beautiful child, with large blue eyes, light-brown hair, and a slender build. “It was this same time of year. October. The whole family was on Curlew Island for the annual shareholders’ meeting.” She glanced at him. “Boone Industries. My brother, Tern, is the CEO, though Mother oversees the financials. Anyway, Mother, Tern, my ex-husband, and I are the stockholders. And my sister Raven, of course. My other sister, Sparrow, passed away years ago.” She absently reached up and pulled out a yellow-colored necklace, held it in her hand for a moment, then tucked it back into her blouse.

  “Your daughter’s necklace?”

  “Good guess. Yes. It’s an amber teething necklace—a gift from my mother on her birth—I had it restrung.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Your family meets once a year?”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? We meet on an island during hurricane season. Anyway, one day Ashlee—that’s my ex—had an errand to run on the mainland, so he took Dove with him on the Faire Taire, the main boat we used. Dove loved to go out on the water . . .” With her finger on the windowpane, she traced the outline of a palm frond outside.

  He made a point to loosen his white-knuckled grip on the photograph of Dove. Fortunately he hadn’t bent it. I know this kind of pain. His mind returned to That Night. That’s how he always thought of it. That Night. The night his old life ended. Followed by The Darkness.

  “I said, are you okay?” Piper was staring at him. “You kind of zoned out there for a moment. Are your pain meds wearing off?”

  “I’m sorry. No, I’m fine. Keep going.”

  “When Ashlee arrived on the mainland, while he was tying the boat to the dock, someone came from behind and smashed him over the head, then tied him up. He’s lucky he wasn’t killed. His attacker took the boat . . . with my daughter still in it. The boat was never seen again.” She turned back to the window. “Dove’s body washed up on the northern tip of Curlew, near Joyce’s house, but Joyce was in Wisconsin. The family Newfoundland, Nana, found Dove’s body and didn’t leave her side.” She took a deep breath. “We didn’t hear Nana’s barking. Not for almost a week. Everyone was concentrating on the ocean and places where the boat could have docked on the mainland. Poor Nana was barely alive when we finally did . . . find them.”

  “How old was your daughter?”

  “Almost three.”

  He wanted to ask more questions, but she was drooping as if she could barely stand.

  “As you’ll be my host for a bit,” he said, “I’ll do a portrait of her for you. I have my art equipment at my hotel room.”

  She straightened and cleared her throat. “I would like that a lot.” She moved to his bedside and took back the photograph.

  “Would you take another look at the composite sketch and see what you might want to change?”

  She nodded, sat, and returned the photo to her purse.

  Turning the sketch so she could see it, he watched her expression.

  Her eyes opened wider and she paled slightly, then whispered, “That’s him.”

  He nodded toward the business card Lieutenant Gragg had left on the table. “Do you want to give him a call?”

  She checked her watch. “I have some time before I have to be at the airport. I’ll drive the sketch over and see if there’s anything new on Joyce.”

  “You mentioned this Joyce before. What’s going on?”

  Piper updated him on the missing doctor and her plan to pick up Hannah, the granddaughter. “I think something bad happened to Dr. Mueller. I’d like to help, but I don’t know what I could do . . .”

  “You know, a great number of criminal cases are solved with the help of civilians.”

  She looked down and allowed her hair to drape over her face. “I was always told to let the police handle it. That I would be in the way, maybe even . . . I don’t know . . . make it so the case couldn’t be solved.”

  “Piper, look at me.”

  She raised her head.

  She looks so fragile. “The police, law enforcement in general, are slammed with cases, many of which go unsolved. You can be a squeaky wheel.”

  “That’s pretty much what Officer Chou told me.”

  “Well then, as long as you don’t get in their way . . .”

  “Would it be a problem if I did?”

  “I don’t know. I can make suggestions.” He clenched the sheet. What am I saying? I can’t get involved with anyone. I have nothing to offer but a boatload of regrets, guilt, and shame.

  “I just feel bad about Joyce’s granddaughter, but honestly, how much could I, as a civilian, find out?”

  “You never know until you try.”

  “Would you help me?”

  He slowly nodded.

  * * *

  I collected the composite and headed for the Marion Inlet Police Department. I’d have time to drop off the sketch, grab a bite of lunch, then return to the hospital to pick up Tucker. Joel agreed to collect his things from the hotel, drop off a change of clothes for Tucker, and transport everything else to Curlew. I would take Tucker with me to pick up Hannah from the airport.

  As I pulled into the visitors’ parking area, I spotted Officer Chou leaving. She had her head down and raced toward a nearby car.

  “Officer Chou?” I stepped from my car. “Is everything okay?”

  Chou paused midstride. She glanced at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face pale. “Wave at me, then ignore me. Meet me in half an hour. Buddy’s Diner.”

  I waved.

  Officer Chou waved back, then got in her car and drove off.

  Reaching into the car, I brought out the composite sketch. As I turned toward the police department, the blinds covering one window dropped back into place. Someone had been watching the exchange.

  The lobby of the police department had two chairs. Bulletproof glass protected a uniformed officer in the reception area on my left. The stainless steel counter had an opening allowing for small items to be passed under the glass. The building smelled of cleaning products. I approached the officer and spoke into the intercom.

  “I’m here to drop off a composite drawing for Lieutenant Gragg.”

  “May I have your name and some identification?”

  “Sandpiper Boone.” I pulled my wallet from my purse, extracted my driver’s license, a
nd passed it through the slot.

  The officer examined my license, then picked up a phone and dialed. “Miss Sandpiper Boone here to see you.” He paused. “Yes, sir.” After hanging up he returned my license. “Lieutenant Gragg will be right out. Please have a seat, ma’am.”

  I eyed the stiff chairs lining the wall and opted to read the bulletin board near the front doors. Prominently displayed was a wanted poster featuring a blurry image of a man with a rifle—obviously taken from a video surveillance camera some distance away. The poster said, “$50,000 Reward for Information Leading to the Identification and Conviction of the Marion Inlet Café Sniper.”

  “We’ve been swamped with calls since that came out.” Lieutenant Gragg had come up behind me. “I’m surprised you didn’t get swarmed by the press when you came over here. They’ve been camped outside since this happened.”

  I wanted to ask about Officer Chou. Instead I handed him the sketch. “I thought I’d save you some time.”

  “I appreciate it.” He took the drawing and looked at it. “Mr. Landry is quite the artist. I have to admit, he’s better than our own. Do you know when he’s getting out of the hospital?”

  “Today. He’ll be staying on Curlew Island for a few days if you need to speak to him.”

  “Good plan.”

  “Anything new?” I indicated the flyer.

  “Not yet. Lot of shoe leather and phone calls. We’ll keep in touch.” He nodded and left.

  I moved toward the door. Outside a news van had arrived and parked, with several people bustling about. I found a tissue in my purse, placed it over my nose as if blowing it, and strolled to my car, ignoring the press. I tried not to run. My shoulders were stiff, waiting for an outcry of identification. None came. I risked a glance at the van.

  Lieutenant Gragg had stepped from the building, drawing attention away from me. I was sure he’d done that on purpose, allowing me an escape window.

  I relaxed and pulled out my car key.

  “Miss Boone?”

  Rats. I clenched my jaw and turned.

  The striking redheaded reporter from outside the hospital shoved a mic attached to a recorder into my face. “How does it feel to be at the center of tragedy again? Do you think the Curlew Island curse has struck once more? Are you—”