“When did Loretta leave town?” I asked. “And why? Did Ernie go with her?”
“I’m not sure.” Uncle Pete scratched his ear. “Do you remember, Jack?”
“Ernie stayed here when she left,” Dad said. “I remember thinking it was a shame their marriage didn’t work out. Then Ernie died.”
“Wasn’t that just a few weeks after Loretta left?” Pete asked.
“Yeah. Tragic, really. He was so young. And Loretta never returned.”
My head was reeling from all of this information. Loretta had worked for the Jorgensens. She’d married poor Ernie and then left town. But Dad was wrong. Loretta did return. At least twice. And ultimately she came home to die.
“So Loretta and Ernie got married,” I prompted, “and then Loretta left town. Do you know why?”
“Nope.”
I sighed and tried a different angle. “Did you know Ernie well?”
“Not as well as I knew Loretta,” Pete said. “But he was a nice enough guy.”
“And Loretta was the housekeeper?”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “Anyway, she and Ernie got married and had a baby, and then all of a sudden she left town. Took the baby with her.”
“Wait.” I shook my head a little to make sure I was hearing correctly. “Loretta had a baby?”
“Yeah.”
“And when she left, she took the baby with her? And then Ernie died after that?” I had to repeat everything because I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.
“Yeah.” Uncle Pete squinted, trying to think. “Didn’t he fall from the roof?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “He was up there repairing the chimney and he fell.”
I felt my stomach tumble at that news. “He fell from the Jorgensens’ roof?” I had been staring out at that very roof the day before. I shivered at the thought.
“Yup,” Pete said. “Sad way to end your life.”
“You can say that again,” Dad muttered.
I couldn’t agree more. “Did Ernie and Loretta live in the house with the Jorgensens?”
“Oh yeah. The third floor was the servants’ quarters, and since it was just the two of them, they had the entire floor to themselves. Well, until the baby came along.”
I frowned, trying to picture it, since I’d had a tour of that floor just yesterday. “The attic is Matthew’s studio now.”
Dad nodded. “I remember when they blew out the bedrooms and turned the whole space into one big studio. I bid on that job, but Greenwich underbid me.”
“Who took care of the baby while Loretta and Ernie were working?”
Uncle Pete and Dad exchanged a glance; then Dad shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Too many pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and I still had no clue what they all meant.
Pete tapped his finger on the photograph of Loretta. “Only one problem with this picture. Her hair is all wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “She’s a brunette.”
“No,” Pete said, grinning as he wiggled his eyebrows. “She had thick, wavy blond hair and she was a real looker. What we used to call a blond bombshell.”
Chapter Ten
On my walk home after breakfast, I gave Mac a quick call and was relieved when he answered the phone. “I have so much to tell you.”
“Why don’t you come over? We can watch the waves and talk.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.”
After I hung up, I called Amanda to let her know I would be coming to work late.
She chuckled. “You’re the boss, you know. You can show up whenever you want to.”
I laughed with her, but it faded quickly. I had so much on my mind, so much I wanted to say to her, but couldn’t. “Please be careful. Don’t do anything dangerous, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I’m just going to sit in the dining room and carve pretty flowers and grapevines.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you later.”
The winding drive to Mac’s new home, otherwise known as the lighthouse mansion, was downright nostalgic. My parents used to take us to the beach out here. Chloe and I would climb up the sandy dunes and use a folded newspaper to slide down the other side. Dad taught me how to skip a stone across the surface of the water. And of course, we used to love to climb up to the top of the beautiful old lighthouse. I never dreamed back then that I would be the one who refurbished the famous lighthouse mansion—for the equally famous thriller writer MacKintyre Sullivan.
Mac, holding two cups of coffee, greeted me on the wide front porch. “I thought we could sit out here for a while.”
“That sounds so nice.” We sat in the comfy patio chairs and I took a sip. Even though I’d had two cups at the diner, I was ready for one more, especially the rich, dark French roast that Mac always used.
“I hope I haven’t interrupted any writing,” I said.
“I’m just waiting for revision notes from my editor. So you actually interrupted me trying to reorganize my files.”
“Ooh, good times.” After another sip, I asked, “How do you like your new home?”
“It’s fantastic. I love what you did in the master bedroom. And the kitchen is pure joy. Those French doors are beautiful.”
I beamed with pleasure. “Just following orders.”
“I think you’ve got a real future in the construction business, kiddo.”
“Gosh, I hope so,” I said, laughing. Taking another sip of rich coffee, I stared out at the horizon, marveling at how peaceful it was.
Mac studied my face for a moment. “You look worried. I know you wanted to talk. Something happen I don’t know about yet?”
“You could say so.” I proceeded to tell him everything I could remember of what my dad and Uncle Pete told me about Loretta Samson and her husband, Ernie, who died so tragically. I told him about the baby that Loretta took with her. And then I told him what happened last night at Jane’s inn. How I saw Loretta lying dead in the bathtub.
“I read about that in the paper,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I was going to ask if you wanted to go see Jane and commiserate. But it sounds like maybe you took care of that last night.”
Was it any wonder I liked Mac so much? I mean, he had slid into life in Lighthouse Cove as if he’d been born here. And he was generous and kind enough to know that both Jane and I could use a little commiseration time.
“I spent several hours with her last night, but I would love to go over there sometime today and see how she’s doing.”
“I’ll go with you.” But he was still frowning. “Are you all right?”
I took a few deep breaths. “You know, I guess I’m a little shaky. It’s been a weird couple of days.”
“I can’t believe you went into a bathroom where a woman was dead in the water.” He studied me for a long moment. “What were you hoping to find?”
“I’m not sure, really. But I installed those outlets and that TV, Mac. I had to get a look at the scene.” I sipped my coffee. “I’ve worked on every room in that house, so I guess I thought I might be able to spot something out of place or jury-rigged. Something wrong or suspicious.”
“You are one amazing woman.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You have very low standards.”
“On the contrary,” he said, smiling, “they are impossibly high, but you meet them in every way.”
He met and exceeded all of my standards, too, so I knew how he felt. “Thank you.”
He watched me for a moment. “So, it was pretty awful.”
“I’d never seen a dead body in a bathtub,” I murmured. “And now that I have, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
“Of course not.” He stood up and reached out, grabbing my hands and lifting me up and into his arms. He held me and I leane
d into him, relishing the hard strength of his chest muscles. I was strong enough to take care of myself and do what needed doing, but I was also woman enough to enjoy having a strong man to lean on when I needed it. I was pretty sure I would’ve collapsed if he hadn’t been holding on to me.
After a long while, I felt steadier. I leaned back. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He smiled. “I did, too.”
We stared out at the ocean for a moment; then Mac nudged me. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
We left our coffee mugs on the small table between the porch chairs. Holding hands, we walked down the steps and headed for the shoreline.
“So, Loretta Samson—or Beeman, if that’s her real name—had a baby, and then she left town,” Mac mused. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. But then Ernie died tragically a few weeks later.”
“Huh. He and his wife work for the Jorgensens. His wife and baby leave town and he dies shortly after that. Coincidence?”
At the water’s edge, I absently picked up a rock and tried skimming it across the calm surface. It plunked and sank and I chuckled. I definitely needed more practice. “What do you think?”
“You know what I think about coincidences.”
He didn’t believe in them. We’d talked about that before. “Okay, since there are no coincidences, what do we think about Scully? Where does he fit in?”
“Scully’s death is a mystery,” Mac said, shaking his head as he found a smooth stone on the sand and skimmed it perfectly across the water. “Everybody hated him, but enough to kill him?”
“Someone did.”
“Definitely. And knowing what I do about him now, I would say his murder smells like he either knew too much, or heard something he wasn’t supposed to hear, or worse.”
“Worse? As in blackmail or a bribe?” I told him what my father said about getting Scully fired over a bribe.
“So he wasn’t your everyday, average jackass,” Mac said. “He was a really evil jackass. Whoever killed him must’ve reached the end of his rope.”
“Like Mr. Derry, maybe?” I tried a second time and the stone skipped merrily across the water. I was ridiculously exultant.
He thought about it. “Maybe.”
We headed for the breakwater and began to climb the rugged rocks that led up to the flat surface of the jetty. The stretch of concrete and rocks extended one hundred yards into the ocean. At the end of the jetty, there was a flashing warning light that signaled to any boats that were moving too close to the shore.
As I climbed, I pulled my jacket collar up to protect my neck from the crisp breeze. “So, what if Scully really did see or hear something he shouldn’t have?”
“If he did,” Mac said, “his fatal error was in trying to bribe or blackmail that person.”
I scowled. “It sounds like his kind of sleazy move.”
“So, let’s play it the other way. How does Loretta’s death relate to Scully?” Mac held out his hand to pull me up to the top of the jetty. It was windier out here and it felt glorious, but my hair was blowing every which way. This was an ongoing problem, especially if I wanted to see where I was going. I reached into my jacket pocket and found a scrunchie—I never left home without one—and wrapped it around my hair.
“Call me self-absorbed,” Mac said with a grin, “but I usually wind up bringing everything in life back to my writing. So, if this were my story and I had two people die under suspicious circumstances within a day or two of each other, there would have to be a connection. We just have to figure out what it is.”
“There was a third suspicious death,” I reminded him.
“Right.” He nodded. “Can’t forget about old Ernie. Of course, he died more than, what? Thirty years ago?”
“Something like that.” I grimaced. “He fell off the roof while he was fixing the chimney.”
“That’s an ugly way to die,” Mac muttered.
I glanced at him. “Is there a pretty way?”
“I’d like to go when I’m sound asleep in bed, around age ninety-five. That’s about as pretty as I can imagine when it comes to death.”
“You’d be a healthy ninety-five, right?”
“Of course. No hideous illnesses and no medications that make you constipated and cranky.”
I smiled. “A natural death.”
“Exactly.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “So, back to murder. Have we figured out the connection here?”
Frowning, I said, “Well, for one thing, both Loretta and Scully were at Jane’s inn at the same time the other day.”
“What were they doing there?”
I couldn’t seem to shake the frown. “Loretta was minding her own business, being a guest. And Scully was traipsing around, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.”
“A sure way to get it cut off,” he murmured.
“There has to be a connection between the two deaths,” I said. I explained what Jane had told me about Scully being shocked to see Loretta and the other woman glaring at him.
“Who’s the other woman?” he asked.
“That’s a mystery so far.”
“Did you talk to Eric? Do we know if Loretta’s death was actually a murder?”
I gaped at him. “Don’t we?”
“Let’s talk it out,” he said genially. “You’ve got a television and a hair dryer in the tub. There’s a very slim chance that it was an accident, but I seriously doubt it.”
“Me, too.” I slipped my arm through his when we reached the end of the jetty. The ocean was fairly calm, but the wind was still blowing. I took a deep breath and felt my lungs fill with healthy sea air. I felt so lucky to be here, close to the ocean, with this man. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“I’ll just throw this out there. It could’ve been suicide.”
I thought about it. “No way.”
He nodded. “I agree with you, but I was playing devil’s advocate for a minute. Trying to electrocute oneself is not the way most women would choose to commit suicide, statistically speaking.”
“Of course not. No woman would want to be found naked in the tub with her hair wet, all sprawled out and—” I broke off because I seriously didn’t want that sad image in my brain again. “Not that I would ever consider it,” I went on, “but I suppose if I were going to kill myself, I would take some pills, or something nonviolent like that.” The very thought of wanting to kill myself made me shiver, which was getting to be a habit, by the way.
“As we both know, the new small appliances they’re making have a cutoff switch to prevent electrocution. So the hair dryer was never going to electrocute her.”
“But not everyone knows that.” I glanced over at him. “But you do.”
“I do.” He flashed me a tight grin. “Have to stay current with all the latest murder ploys. For research purposes only.”
“Good to know.” We turned and headed back to the shore. I tried to picture the grim scenario in Loretta’s bathroom—without focusing in on Loretta. “So, I imagine the killer tossed the hair dryer into the water and when nothing happened, he got frustrated, grabbed the TV, and tossed it in.”
“That’s my theory.”
“So, when the hair dryer fell into the water and didn’t kill her, why didn’t Loretta scream or yell for help?” I asked.
“Maybe she did,” he said, giving me a sideways glance. “But I think in that moment, her main goal would have been to get out of the tub. Maybe she and the killer were screaming at each other. Maybe she grabbed the hair dryer out of his hands, and they tussled with it. Then it dropped into the water, and nothing happened. The killer was furious.”
“I would have been, too,” I said. “If I thought the hair dryer was going to be my murder weapon and then I watched it poop out on m
e, I’d have been more than a little irritated.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “So, does he immediately go for the TV?”
“There was water all over the floor,” I mused. “And meanwhile, Loretta might’ve been standing precariously, fighting for her life. In an enamel-coated tub filled with soapy water and bubbles?” I winced as I pictured myself in the same position, slip-sliding around, scrambling to escape from a dangerous, deadly situation. It wouldn’t be pretty. “She’s lucky she didn’t slip and hit her head.” I cringed. “Well, not lucky, considering the final outcome.”
“However you look at it, it was a terrifying spot for anyone to be in.”
“Just imagining it gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah.” He scowled and I appreciated it. It was good to know we were on the same page. “So you saw the cord wrapped around her neck. Was it pulled tight enough to strangle her?”
“It had loosened by the time I got there.”
“The killer must’ve been going crazy by now. None of the electrical appliances had done the job, so he was forced to get up close and personal with his victim. Meanwhile, Loretta was fighting him off. He grabbed the only thing within reach, the hair dryer. He wound the cord around her neck and pulled. When the job was done, he let it go. Loretta slipped back into the water, and he let go of the cord.”
I shivered once again, and Mac pulled me close. I leaned my head on his shoulder as we walked. “I’m still trying to figure out how Scully and Loretta knew each other.”
“You have some ideas.”
“Yeah.” I did a quick calculation in my head. “They’re both around the same age as my dad and Uncle Pete, who both knew Loretta.”
“And your dad and Pete both knew Scully, too.”
“Right. So maybe Scully and Loretta knew each other.”
“Did Scully grow up here?” Mac asked. “Maybe they went to school together.”
“Here in Lighthouse Cove? I never even thought about that, but it’s possible. I can ask my dad.”
We climbed down off the jetty and trudged across the sand to Mac’s property line. Staring back at the water, I grabbed my phone from my jacket pocket and was about to push Dad’s number on speed dial when something else occurred to me. “Matthew Jorgensen grew up here, too. And he’s around the same age as my dad.”
Eaves of Destruction Page 18
