Buoys clanged in the bay, the sea fog had lifted, and the sun shone. He stopped long enough to draw in a breath of salt air. He watched the town come alive as shop owners opened their doors, rolled out displays, and called greetings to each other. It was like watching a grand Victorian lady put on her jewelry.
He blinked back the fleeting image of Lynnette. He had hoped, when he awakened this morning, that it was all a bad dream. No, it had not been a nightmare; it had really happened. The full reality of what he’d done settled firmly in his mind.
A cheery voice startled him back to reality. “Good morning, Mr. Noone.”
He squinted up at the mayor’s wife. “Ayuh, ’tis a fine morning, Mrs. Shipley.”
At that moment, Mrs. Perry, who owned the pastry shop, walked up. “Lovely, Mr. Noone. Just lovely. Don’t you think so, Martha?”
Martha Shipley gathered her plump body like a hen fluffing its feathers. “Ayuh. I believe you are a better gardener than old Mr. Wilton. The flowers will look beautiful for the annual Lobstah Fest and Fourth of July fireworks. Well, ta-ta. As president of the women’s society, I have much to do before next week’s opening ceremonies.”
Mrs. Perry offered a large disposable cup filled with steaming coffee, along with a sack containing a bagel spread with cream cheese and thin-sliced lox. “A young man needs to keep up his strength.”
He accepted the refreshments. “Thank you kindly. I’ll stop by and pay you after I finish up he-ah.”
“Oh, pshaw. It’s the least I can do while you work to beautify the town square.”
A shard of panic raced through him when the middle-aged woman grabbed his hand. “You orta wear gloves. Scratches like that can turn septic from working in the dirt. What happened? Oh, my, and look at your poor face.”
A streak of dirt stained his cheek where he reached up and touched it. “I’ll heed your advice, Mrs. Perry, and buy a pair of leather gloves. Rose thorns can make a mess of your hands. B-but I found a kitten in the woods. It’s kinda wild and didn’t take kindly to me. Between the kitten and the scratches from the rose thorns, I probably look like I’ve been in a fight.”
Maudine Perry patted Ben on the shoulder. “You are a kind soul. Now, sit and enjoy your breakfast before the coffee gets cold.”
He opened his mouth but closed it without speaking, merely acknowledging her with a nod. Seated inside the summer house, he looked across the bay toward Pine Island. He watched the world go by until he was finished with his snack. Disposing of the sack and cup in a public garbage bin, he knelt down, enjoying the feel of the soft earth that sent its cool dampness through his old blue jeans to his skin.
As he began his careful effort to plant rows of petunias, then variegated border grass, a feeling of unease settled in his mind. He found himself thinking of the young woman who lay in a lonely grave. And then he smiled. How incredibly smart of him to bury the body right under the town’s regal noses. He sucked in gulps of fresh air, clearing the residue of death from his lungs.
Chapter One
Ten years later
The weeks had passed in a blur of pain and sorrow. Although the windshield wipers worked at full speed, Laura Friday leaned forward to peer through the heavy mist that blanketed the two-lane highway to Cole Harbor.
Justice. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth as she thought back to the night she’d cradled Jolly’s head in her lap. Jaali Zuri, her cameraman and friend of many years. In Swahili his name meant “fearless and beautiful.” Always smiling, he lived up to that and to his nickname.
Overly zealous, and not heeding her editor’s warning about checking the reliability of an informant’s sources, the only thing that had mattered to Laura was to out-scoop her competitor. She’d beat him, all right. And at what cost? Jolly was dead, and she was left with scars deeper than the permanent limp from bullets that had nearly taken her life.
Other reporters had jockeyed for positions, flashed cameras, yelled questions. In spite of wavering in and out of consciousness, she’d heard every profane word shouted by the two drug mules being shoved into the patrol car. She’d swung her gaze to the two lumps covered by white sheets. She wanted to scream that she hoped they rotted in hell. And then she had shifted to look at the kid, handcuffed, his eyes glittering with pure hatred. The informant. He’d set her up, and she had trusted those childlike brown eyes, the innocent baby face. He shouted something. She didn’t understand the language, but even amid the noise and confusion the gist of his words was not lost on her: I’ll get you.
She had dropped her gaze to Jolly’s dark curly hair and with one hand stroked his cheek, her fingers laced with blood that glistened in the street light. From somewhere far away she heard someone say her name.
Pain, sharp and intense, had slammed into her with blinding force. She recalled nothing else until she opened her eyes to see a nurse adjusting the IV and asking if she needed anything.
She’d been a crime reporter for ten years. Her job had always meant everything—her career, her obsession. With her nearest relative living in another state, the newspaper had become her family. Nothing had mattered except getting the story, exposing the bad guys.
None of that mattered now. Nothing would erase the guilt from her soul.
Shaking off the memories, she squinted through the windshield to see the road ahead. The endless sweep of trees on one side reminded her of ominous giants, balanced against the cold waters of the bay on the other side. An unexpected sense of loneliness twisted her heart.
A blast of wind slammed against the side of her car, sending it with a lurch into the opposite lane. Wrestling the steering wheel for control, Laura scanned the darkness on either side of the road. She hadn’t seen another vehicle for more than an hour. If she careened down the steep embankment, she likely wouldn’t be found for months. But then, who was there to miss her? She hadn’t bothered telephoning her Aunt Phyllis. Foolish! Her nearest living relative, and she hadn’t considered the possibility of not being welcomed. Their last contact was a brief encounter at her mother’s funeral. Aunt Phyllis had invited Laura then to stay a few days in Cole Harbor. She had used the excuse of needing to return to New York City for a news story she was following. Yeah, foolish.
Laura checked the odometer. The highway seemed to stretch on forever. The sheer desolation made her shiver. Already she missed the bustle of crowds, the honking horns of irate taxi drivers during rush hour traffic, and the comingling of savory aromas from food vendor trucks.
She lifted the container from the cup holder and shook it. Empty. What she needed now was an extra dose of caffeine.
The large stop sign loomed in front of her like an unexpected red eye. She touched the brakes. Hitting the electric button to lower the window, she listened for the sound of another vehicle. Poor visibility, the throbbing pain in her hip, and the overwhelming need for a strong cup of coffee made her wonder if she’d made the biggest mistake of her life.
A familiar wash of grief and anger flowed through her. No, she’d made a worse mistake. The one that had cost her friend’s life. The whoop-whoop of a siren invaded her thoughts. She glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted the flashing amber bubble.
Every sense she owned went on red alert. An isolated location. She pressed the button to close the window, then opened it again, a few inches. A light flashed, momentarily blinded her.
“Car trouble?”
She met his gaze squarely. “No. Because of the fog, I was being extra careful.”
The badge on his jacket meant nothing to her, although his body language didn’t seem threatening. But looks were deceiving. Out here, totally alone. Fingers of fear chilled her. What if Elio Casper had escaped prison and somehow found her?
She gave the man with the badge a bland smile. “My aunt is expecting me. She’s probably worried because I’m running late; and I have no bars on my cell phone to call her.”
“I assume you’re on your way to Cole Harbor?”
Swallowing hard,
she said, “Why would you think that?”
He pointed to the right. “Unless you plan to spend the night outside the national park, except for a few cabins, not many people live in that direction. If your aunt lives close to the park, you can follow me.”
“Mmph, no. She lives in town, above her store. Again, thanks for the directions.”
“I’d escort you in, but I need to check on a complaint.” He pointed. “Hang a left. The town is less than a half mile.”
She caught herself captivated by his slight southern drawl. Maybe he wasn’t what she’d thought after all. Consorting with narcs and stoolies had made her edgy, had honed her sense of caution. Not that it had helped in Jolly’s case. Still, a crime reporter who didn’t develop a sense of awareness didn’t last long in a tough business. She drew in a deep, steadying breath and slowly exhaled. “Thank you.”
He offered a nod before returning to his vehicle.
As a matter of caution, she waited for the deputy’s car to pull around hers. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands until the flashing blinker light showed the car turning to the right. After she’d turned in the opposite direction, and again as a matter of caution, she checked the rearview mirror to make certain no one followed her.
As he’d predicted, in less than a minute the town opened up. Even with the buildings shrouded in gray mist it was a welcome sight. Laura drove down the main boulevard until she spotted the gazebo. She swung the car into an empty parking space in front of Friday’s Bookstore and Tea Room.
Chapter Two
The last dregs of winter air hung mild and misty as dense sea fog blanketed Cole Harbor. Inside the conference area of Friday’s Bookstore and Tea Room, Phyllis Friday glanced around the table at the other five participants. “Perfect weather for our little experiment. I believe we’ve followed all the instructions to conduct a proper séance. Let us join hands, and no matter what happens, don’t break the circle.”
In the center of the round table, lighted candles emitted eerie shadows over the tureen of steaming lobster chowder and a platter of crusty bread. Phyllis adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose as she peered at the open book. “It says to call forth spirits we must provide them with physical nourishment and lighted candles—enough divisible by three.” She sniffed and sighed her appreciation for the food’s savory aromas.
Maudine Perry lamented, “I’m not so sure we should dabble in the arts of dark magic, Phyllis. What if we accidently call forth an evil spirit?”
Phyllis studied the pale, pinched features of her friend. “Maudie, are you a mouse or a woman? We’re merely trying to contact Sally Wentworth’s spirit, and none other.” Once again, she glanced around the table at the faces of women past their prime, some widows of lobstermen and crabbers. She herself was a spinster. Maudie baked the pastries and ran the tea and pastry shop inside the bookstore, and the others were a teacher, a minister’s wife, a librarian, and a travel agent, all long retired and often feeling cast aside because of their age and various stages of mobility.
During their last monthly Friday Sisters Book Club meeting, which had included a discussion of Sherlock Holmes and The Disappearance of Lady Carfax, the group compared the case to that of a teenage girl whose family had moved to Cole Harbor over fifty years ago.
“Stay or go, we thank you for preparing the chowdah. If you decide to go, that will leave us with a numbah not divisible by three.” Phyllis sighed. “In that case I’m afraid, ladies, we’ll have to cancel the séance and find anothah way to figure out who murdered poor Sally.”
She didn’t know if the sighs filtering around the table were those of relief or disappointment. Her chin went up. “Are we mice or women? Where is your courage? While our new deputy is too handsome for his own good, and has proven his prestigious credentials, he is young and inexperienced. Plus, he himself said he wasn’t interested in solving cold cases.”
Maudie Perry broke the circle. She clasped her hands together. “I think we’ve read too many mystery novels. Look at us. Nadia is almost eighty, and deaf as stone. We’re old. Not sleuths or psychic mediums. Besides, Sally Wentworth disappeared forty years ago. I agree with the majority of the town folks. She ran off with that no-good Corbin Drake. Sheriff Pitmeyer, God rest his soul, never found any evidence of foul play. Besides, Sally’s parents died a long time ago, and there is no family who would care one way or the other. I don’t understand your obsession with solving a mystery where there is no mystery.” Maudie reached across the table and grabbed a crusty roll. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
“Ayuh, I agree with Maudie. Ladle me a bowl of chowdah, will yah? And for your information, I’m not all that deaf. I have selective hearing.” The wrinkles smoothed from Nadia Cruex’s cherubic face when she smiled.
Bing bong…bing bong!
Phyllis Friday huffed, “For Pete’s sake. It’s aftah seven.” She yelled, “The store is closed.”
Bing bong…bing bong!
The incessant ringing of the doorbell was followed by, “Aunt Philly, open the door. It’s me, Laura.”
“By Godfrey! This is certainly unexpected. It’s my niece from New York. I told you about her…the reporter.” Phyllis pushed away from the table. “Coming… Hold on, I’m coming.”
Phyllis unlatched the door and swung it wide. After the hugs were done, she prattled, “I wasn’t expecting you until next month. Is something wrong? Oh, dear, this is a lovely surprise. Put your suitcases there.” She clasped her niece by the arm. “I’m rambling like a doddering idiot. Come, you’re just in time for a bowl of the best clam chowdah you’ve ever tasted.”
Laura leaned in close and whispered, “Introduce me as Laura Friday. I’ll explain later.”
Her aunt gave a faint nod, although curiosity gleamed in her eyes.
After the introductions were made, questions came at her from around the table, everything from “How long do you plan to stay?” to “What’s it like being a big time New York investigative reporter?”
Laura cast a haggard glance at the curious faces staring back at her. “If Aunt Philly is up to my bunking in with her until I get my own place, I’m here permanently.”
Phyllis’ gasp echoed those of the other ladies. “What about your job? What I mean is, of course, dear. Stay as long as you like. I have plenty of room.”
Laura dipped a piece of bread into the rich, creamy soup and plopped it into her mouth. She chewed, stretching out the answer to her aunt’s question. “I’m burnt out, Aunt Philly. I don’t have the physical or mental energy to cover another story about murder or kidnappings or anything concerning drug pushers and gangs. My editor is friends with Dan Fremont, and—”
Phyllis interrupted, “Dan Fremont who owns the Harbor Gazette? You’re going to work for that crotchety ole grouser?”
Laura lifted the linen napkin and dabbed her lips. “Yes and no. Yes, Dan Fremont who owns the Harbor Gazette, and no, I’m not going to work for him. I’m sure you’ve heard about his health, and that he’s retiring.” She spread her hands wide, “Sooo, the corporation that bought the Harbor Gazette has employed me. You are looking at the new editor-in-chief and reporter extraordinaire, all in one.”
Maudie Perry offered, “But, dear, nothing exciting ever happens here. Life is dull, routine. In a word—boring. In time you’ll tire of writing mundane articles about the women’s society planting new flowers around the gazebo, or who died, or who won the annual pie-baking contest. You’re young, talented, beautiful. Couldn’t you find something more exciting?”
Phyllis scolded. “Maudine Perry, what my niece does with her life is her business.” She flashed a thoughtful smile toward Laura. “Part of me agrees with Maudie, but the other part is totally delighted you’re here.”
Phyllis noted the desperation that crept into Laura’s voice. “I needed a change. A do-over, if you will. I was born in Cole Harbor and lived here until I was five. It seemed logical for me to come home.”
The gaunt look and dark c
ircles under her eyes spoke volumes. Phyllis didn’t need a sixth sense or a séance to know something was amiss with her niece. She placed her hands on the table and pushed her chair backwards as she stood. “Ladies, we haven’t left a drop in the pot or a crumb of bread to evoke a wisp of smoke, much less a spirit. I declare the séance officially postponed.”
Laura groaned when she arose. A reaction to the pain, she gripped her hip. The wan look on her niece’s face caused Phyllis to hasten her friends toward the front door. “Be careful going home. It’s thick as pea soup tonight.” And then to Laura, “Don’t worry about your bags. I’ll bring them up. Take your mother’s old room. It has its own bathroom. Top of the stairs, end of the hall.”
Laura let out a tired breath. “It was nice meeting all of you. Forgive me for intruding.”
Maudie patted Laura’s shoulder. “Now, now, none of that. We’re just a bunch of dotty ole busybodies who haven’t learned to mind our own business. It’s my turn to host the next Friday Sisters Book Club meeting. Promise you’ll join us.”
“Perhaps.” Laura turned toward the stairs.
Chapter Three
“Knock, knock.”
“Door’s open, Aunt Philly.”
Phyllis used the toe of her shoe to nudge the bedroom door completely open. She set the tray containing two cups, a small teapot, and a canister of whipped cream on the end of the bed. “I thought you might like a cup of hot chocolate, with a healthy splash of amaretto. It’s my specialty.”
Phyllis sniffed her appreciation for the aromatic fragrance as she lifted the canister. “Whipped cream?”
Laura smiled and nodded. She accepted the cup as she sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, knees drawn up. Her aunt relaxed in the wingbacked chair next to the window.
Murder in the Mist Page 2
