by J. R. Ripley
I swiveled. “Are you moving out?” I asked, hopefully.
Paul barked out a laugh. “Nope. Sorry. Still working on getting things at the house in order.”
Paul Anderson’s house seemed to be plagued with problems that prevented his moving out of my house and into his. My real problem with Paul Anderson ran deeper. He and my ex-boyfriend, Craig Bigelow, owned the recently opened Brewer’s Biergarten directly next door. Seeing Paul only reminded me of Craig.
And Craig reminded me of hurt and pain.
“Then it will have to wait!” I hollered, turning the key in the lock and leaving him standing alone inside. Things could have been worse. At least Craig was not an active partner in the pub. He lived in Raleigh and I hoped he stayed there.
* * *
The day was sunny and warm. I left the van parked behind the store, determined to hike to the lake. The trek would do me and my waistline good.
My stomach rumbled as I cut across the Ruby’s Diner parking lot. The smells of eggs, bacon, and biscuits called my name, but I kept on walking. After my hike, I’d reward myself with a nice Sunday brunch.
Following the greenway out to the lake and marina, I spotted what appeared to be the same boat I’d seen in the water on that now infamous stormy morning that the McKutcheon house had come into my world. The small boat was one of dozens tied up along several finger piers that jutted out into the lake. The roof of the motorboat was orange. Across the stern, the name Sunset Sally was spelled out in matching orange letters. I stepped onto on the pier and called out. There was no reply.
I didn’t know who owned the boat, but I was certain the marina manager could tell me. Whether he would tell me was a whole other issue. I decided to leave the motorboat for later and linked up with the same trail my bird-watching group had taken the day before.
A light fog had settled on the lake overnight and the sun worked to slowly burn it off. I unzipped my jacket and moved inland, into the cooler shadows of the trees.
A rustling caught my ears and I followed the sound to find a gray squirrel foraging through the undergrowth for seeds and nuts. We eyed each other warily. A titmouse flew past my nose and disappeared among the dense branches. The squirrel went one way and I went the other.
Being alone in the woods was a lot spookier than I’d imagined it would be. It was something I did not plan on doing again.
A flash of red appeared in the distance, then disappeared just as quickly. Was that a man’s shirt? My arms grew cold. Maybe I wasn’t so alone after all.
That was an even scarier thought.
I stood still a moment, my eyes scanning the trees and coming up empty. I turned as silently as I could and reversed course.
I came across a small leaf-clotted stream and followed it. Funny, I didn’t remember crossing a stream yesterday. Had I missed it? Had I missed a turn?
Worse, was I lost? I looked at the treetops, hoping for a sign of the McKutcheon house, but was disappointed to see only the trees.
The sound of a woodpecker drew me. There was a red-bellied woodpecker midway up the trunk of an old sycamore. It looked like my old pal, Drummy. There was no way to be certain. But it wasn’t the bird that interested me.
It was the body of Bessie Hammond propped up against the base of the sycamore.
7
Bessie Hammond sat on the ground, propped against the bole of the tree, shoulders slumped, hands at her sides. Bessie’s head lolled to my right, her sagging chin on her chest. She was dressed in a pair of khaki pocket shorts, a blue popover top with a tiny white flower pattern, brown hiking shoes, and white socks. This was not the outfit I’d seen her in the day before.
The leather strap of her binoculars hung around her pale white neck. The glasses rested against her breasts, two lenses staring at the cold hard earth between her outstretched legs. No matter, her eyes were shut.
I turned and ran. I thrashed through the brush, ignoring the beating my bare legs were taking as the branches whipped relentlessly at my thighs and calves. The heavy binoculars around my neck slammed mercilessly against my chest with each step. I grabbed at the strap in an attempt to stop the pain.
A hundred yards away, I stopped, out of breath. I’d veered off the trail and was hopelessly lost.
I doubled over, supporting myself with my hands on my knees. I gulped mouthfuls of air. Rivers of sweat ran from my forehead, stinging my eyes. I felt frigid and scared. I had that prickly sensation at the nape of my neck, of being watched. I did a three-sixty. Nothing but trees and more trees.
Then I remembered I had my cell phone in my day pack. I unzipped the side pouch where I’d secured it and punched in 911. I waited impatiently for the operator to pick up.
And waited. And waited. I pulled back the phone and looked at the screen. No reception.
Now what?
I did another 360-degree turn, not that it made any difference. I still had no idea where I was and not a single bar of signal. I pushed the useless phone down into the front pocket of my shorts. Okay, this called for some rational thinking. I was alone in the woods with a dead woman.
And maybe her killer.
Oh, this was so not good.
I heard a muffled shot. Were there hunters about?
I glanced skyward. Think, think, think. From the angle of the sun, I reasoned that the lake would be to my left. So that was the direction I took.
After about fifteen minutes of speed walking—and I feared ten of those minutes had been spent running in circles—I came upon a narrow, hard-packed trail sloping uphill, maybe nothing more than a deer trail. But at this point, if it was good enough for Bambi, it was good enough for me.
An arch of yellow sunlight soon came into view and I quickened my steps.
Until I saw where the trail led. I stood at the edge of the woods staring up at the McKutcheon house.
The rambling two-story house had a broad wraparound porch. A couple of dusty rockers sat on either side of the solid front door. All the curtains were pulled shut. The chimney was cold and smokeless.
There was a barn to my right with a lean-to against it that contained bales of hay. A gray goat peered at me from within a wood-fenced pen. Several others huddled at the far end, their snouts grazing the ground. I told myself that it was just a house like countless other houses in countless other towns. Still, it frightened me.
I cautiously approached the McKutcheon place. I angled closer until I was standing pretty much directly below the window I’d been looking in the other morning. I ran my toe over the patchy grass and earthen ground. A few scraps of paper, a bit of wood, and a torn and stained white rag were the only signs of whatever had lain here before—body or otherwise.
I thought long and hard about what to do next. Now that I knew roughly where I was, should I turn and run back to Ruby Lake? Or should I knock on the door?
I didn’t think time was of the essence. After all, there was little to be done for poor Bessie now. But still, it would seem disrespectful to the woman to leave her lying alone any longer than necessary out in those woods.
Besides, the sooner the police were called, the sooner they could catch her killer.
Despite my reservations, I approached the front porch. The wooden steps creaked and groaned as I put my weight upon them. I held my breath, made a fist, and knocked.
A moment later, I heard the patter of feet. It sounded like someone was bounding down a flight of stairs. The front door was thrown open quickly and I took a surprised step back.
“Oui?” A young man stood looming over me. His shirt was unbuttoned and hanging loose over a pair of skinny jeans. He was barefoot. “I can help you?”
He eyed me without fear, which I thought was kind of funny for two reasons. Number one, I was up to my eyeballs in fear. And, number two, I’d be wary, at the very least, if I lived out in the woods and a stranger suddenly appeared knocking at my door.
“I’m Amy Simms,” I blurted. “Can I use your phone? Do you have a landline?” I couldn
’t imagine how I looked to this guy. My legs were crisscrossed with cuts, my hair was wild, my clothing torn and smudged and, though he couldn’t see it, my chest was bruised from the beating I’d gotten from the pounding of the binoculars against my sternum and ribs.
“Who is it?” I heard a second male’s voice call from somewhere deep in the house.
“Phone?” His green eyes blinked as if he was trying to comprehend my meaning.
“Yes, I need to use your phone.” I looked back the way I’d come. Bessie Hammond was out there somewhere. “It’s an emergency.”
He stepped aside. “Come.” He waved me inside. I followed. The house was dimly lit. There was a musty quality to the air as if the house and its occupants had an aversion to fresh air and sunlight.
“I said, who’s at the door?” A young man came sauntering in from what must have been the kitchen. An old white stove was framed by the doorway. He carried a plate containing a half-eaten slice of toast and two runny eggs. “Oh!” He came to a stop. Egg yolk oozed over the lip of his plate. He cursed and wiped at it with his fingers, then licked them clean.
The two young men looked at one another. The young man who’d opened the door was the taller of the two, with wavy brown hair. His companion’s hair was blond and his skin pale in comparison. Though he did sport a well-groomed goatee.
“Madam she needs to use the telephone,” said the first man.
“Mine’s in the other room,” replied the man with the eggs. His accent was foreign and Germanic sounding, but I couldn’t yet place it exactly. “Come on.” He waved for me to follow him back to the kitchen. “I’m Dominik Lueger.”
He twisted his thumb toward his companion. “That’s Jean Rabin. I don’t suppose he bothered to introduce himself?” I shook my head no. Dominik set his plate down on the tattered seafoam-green laminate kitchen countertop. “Who are you exactly?”
“Amy,” I said. “Amy Simms.”
He propped himself against the counter with his elbows. “So what brings you to our forest, Amy Simms?” His steel-gray eyes washed inquisitively over me. A curious tabby cat sat on its haunches gazing out the French door at a pair of cardinals playing in a lopsided birdbath at the edge of a little patio laid out with slate tiles.
I lifted the binoculars. “I was bird-watching.” It was sort of the truth, or at least close enough to it.
“See anything interesting?” inquired Jean.
“That’s just it,” I said. “There’s been, well, there’s been a murder!”
The two young men exchanged an indecipherable look. All of a sudden, Jean laughed, catching me by surprise. “Ha!” He slapped his thigh. “Yes, your police were here yesterday. The man in charge said some, how did he say, fool woman, reported seeing somebody thrown out the window!” He laughed again and mimicked tossing a body out a window.
I winced. That fool woman was me, of course. Had Jerry no discretion at all?
“Are you a reporter?” asked Dominik. “If so, I am afraid there is no story.” He held up a French press coffeemaker. “Coffee, madame?”
“No!” I stamped my foot against the linoleum and shook my head vigorously. I’d spooked the cat. It meowed a high-pitched complaint and left the kitchen with its tail high. “You don’t understand.” I pointed outside. “There’s a dead woman out there. In your woods.”
Dominik settled the French press on the counter. “No!”
“Yes,” I said. “We have to call the police.”
“You are certain, madame?” Jean asked.
“Yes, please,” I said, growing more and more exasperated. “We have to get help.” The two men shared yet another look. Dominik nodded and picked up his cell phone from the small kitchen table tucked close to the fridge.
“Don’t you have a landline?” I asked. “You won’t get any signal.”
Dominik ignored my warning and slid his finger across the screen of his phone. “What do I dial, 112? 147?”
Jean shrugged.
“It’s 911,” I replied. “Dial 911.”
Dominik explained to the operator the nature of the emergency and our location. His English, though heavily accented, was quite good. “That’s right, the woman tells us she sees a dead woman in the forest.” He angled his eyes at me and Jean. “The operator is putting me through to the Ruby Lake Police Department.” This being Sunday, emergency calls were first directed to the county emergency response center.
I gulped.
“Hello?” Dominik said. “Yes.” He repeated his story. I could hear a tumble of words coming from the receiver but couldn’t make them out. It sounded like Anita at the other end. “Yes.” He nodded, looking my way. “Amy Simms. She is right here beside me.” He pushed the phone at me. “She wants to talk to you.”
I took a deep breath and put the phone to my ear. It was Anita. “Yes, Anita. Everything Dominik said is true. Yes,” I said in reply to her unprofessional response. “A dead woman.”
“Do you know who it is?” Anita inquired.
“Bessie Hammond. Please, Anita, get Jerry out here right away!” Anita promised that help was on the way and I cut the connection. I handed Dominik his cell phone.
“The police will be here soon,” I explained.
“Maybe we should go take a look at this body,” Jean suggested.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I replied. “We don’t want to disturb the scene.” And the scene consisting of Bessie sitting with a snapped neck under a sycamore tree was disturbing enough. “Besides, we should wait here so we can show the police where the body is.”
Dominik rolled the now cold toast through his runny eggs and took a bite. “Maybe. But perhaps someone should be there to be certain no one disturbs the body.” Yellow yolk hung at the corners of his lips.
Jean nodded. “Oui. Perhaps even a bear or wolf.”
I wasn’t so sure we had wolves and bears, and would rather think we didn’t, but realized the boys could be right.
“Besides, Channing, Annika, and Ross are here.” Dominik ran his tongue over his lips.
“Who are they?”
“More of our roommates,” Jean answered. “I believe they are tending the vegetable garden at the minute.”
Dominik shoved his feet into a pair of leather sandals.
“Is Guster McKutcheon home?” I asked.
More looks passed between the young men. Jean answered that Mr. McKutcheon was out and they weren’t expecting him until later in the day.
“We are never certain when he comes,” added Dominik, throwing open the back door. He hollered and waved to several young people tending a large garden about a hundred yards away.
A lithe young woman with long dark hair set down a long-handled hoe and jogged to the house. “Yes?” She looked at me with searching blue eyes. A pair of jean shorts showed off an excellent pair of suntanned legs. Her flimsy silver-and-black tank top shimmered in the sun.
Dominik and Jean took turns explaining the situation. Jean asked Channing to stay put until the police arrived and then tell them where they could find us—and the body.
“Sure,” Channing said, quickly. “Where will that be exactly?” She had a lovely accent. Dirt from the garden had insinuated itself under her short fingernails.
I turned to the woods, half blocked by the house. That was a good question.
8
I was lost when I found Bessie. In my haste to get away from there and go get help, I’d become even more lost.
“We have a conundrum, non?” Jean said, recognizing the confusion on my face.
“I’m afraid so,” I admitted, glumly. We walked to the front of the house and I pointed out the path I had come in on. “It’s down that way. So, I think if we—”
I was saved from having to come up with a suggestion I was pretty certain would only get us all lost, by the sound of approaching sirens. Sure enough, two police cars and the town ambulance came screaming to a halt on the gravel drive.
Part of me wanted to
disappear rather than face Jerry Kennedy. But I held my ground. I owed it to Bessie.
Chief Kennedy flew from his squad car, heading straight for me. “What’s going on here, Amy?”
“That was fast, Jerry.”
“I was at the marina having coffee, if you must know. What is it now?” He looked at the two young men. “Is this woman making a pest of herself?”
Jean and Dominik looked amused. “Hello, Chief Kennedy, sir.” Jean bowed ever so slightly. “She is no pest. She found a murder.”
“Found a what?” Jerry removed his cap and scratched the top of his head.
I stepped in front of Jean. “He means found a body. I found a body, Jerry.”
Jerry’s mouth fell open. “Come on. You are not going to start that again?” He spun on his heels. By now we’d drawn a crowd. Channing and her two gardening companions, Officer Sutton, and the two EMTs watched with interest.
“What is it this time, Simms? You saw another body pushed out a window?” He played to his audience. “Or maybe this one was in their storeroom—” I winced at the image of something I’d seen once and wished I could forget.
“Maybe,” Jerry drawled on, a big stupid grin on his face, “this one came flying out that chimney!” He pointed and we all followed the imaginary line from his finger to the chimney top. “Like Santa Claus making his rounds.”
I tried my best to avoid the snickering of the two EMTs. Even Officer Sutton was smiling. The kids stood mutely and seemed curious rather than skeptical. I fought down my anger. “Bessie Hammond is lying dead out in that woods!” I practically shouted. “I think her neck’s been broken!”
Dominik said something to Jean in French, which I couldn’t understand, but from the way he mimed a pair of hands squeezing viselike around a neck, I got the gist of it.
“If you’ll stop hamming it up and start acting like the chief of police you claim to be, you’ll see soon enough yourself.”
Jerry opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers drummed the grip of his pistol. I wondered for a moment if I’d crossed a line—and that line led to handcuffs or, worse, bullets flying. Finally, he plopped his hat back on his head and spoke. “Okay, so you’re telling me Bessie Hammond is lying out there dead?”
