Murder in the Mist

by Loretta C. Rogers

  Neither woman spoke.

  Laura closed her eyes and swallowed the knot in the back of her throat. The velvety texture of the chocolate laced with alcohol worked like a magic potion. She set the empty cup aside. A slight blush rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Aunt Philly.”

  Phyllis tipped her own cup for the last luscious drop of liquid. “Whatever for?”

  “For barging in without an invitation, for being rude to your friends, for…for—” and then like the gates of a dam had burst, her tears flowed and heart-wrenching sobs tore from Laura’s throat. Damn her aunt for unleashing the vulnerability she’d chained down so she could investigate crimes without crumbling under fear.

  Phyllis shifted to the bed and opened her arms. She stroked the silken strands of short blonde hair as she cradled her niece. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on you things were not right. I’m a good listener, if you’re of a mind to talk.”

  Laura sat up. Between sobs, hiccups, and blowing her nose, she managed to relate about Jolly’s death, about her own injuries, and about the implied threat to her life. “It’s all my fault. I have a knack for plunging ahead without thinking. Max, my editor, warned me. If I had listened, if I had waited for DEA to arrive, Jolly would be celebrating his wedding day instead of lying in a cold grave.”

  Phyllis offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about your friend, but what worries me the most is the threat that young punk made about hurting you. At least he’s in prison, and I assume no one knows you’re here. You’re safe.”

  Phyllis stared at Laura with genuinely kind eyes. “I’m guessing all this has something to do with you changing your name from Schofield to Friday.”

  “The more anonymity, the better. Max helped me make the name change legal. You don’t think Dad would mind, do you?”

  “It’s a shame your parents aren’t alive to see the fine young woman you’ve become. In death as well as in life, Tom and June would agree with your decision. Besides, you’ve always been more Friday than Schofield.”

  A yawn caught Laura by surprise. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “The amaretto is doing the trick.” She patted her niece’s arm. “Don’t you worry. My lips are sealed. Now, it’s late, and you need to rest. I’ll take the dishes to the kitchen and bring up your bags.”

  “I’m serious, Aunt Philly. Not even to old Sheriff Gilman.”

  “Amos Gilman had a fatal heart attack a few years back. His daughter, Roberta Gilman, is sheriff now. She’s on temporary leave of absence—honeymoon. Mitchell Carter is the new deputy. He’s arrogant, too handsome for his own good, and behind those baby-blue peepers is a man harboring a sad soul.”

  “I don’t remember her. In fact, there isn’t much I do remember about Cole Harbor. Is the new Sheriff Gilman capable?”

  “Ayuh. Seemed only reasonable for her to fill Amos’ shoes. She’s more’n qualified.”

  “I wondered about the deputy’s southern drawl.”

  Phyllis’ eyebrows arched upward. “You met him?”

  Laura gave a brief sketch of her encounter with Mitchell Carter, then scooted from the bed. “I’ll get my travel bag, and we can leave the rest of the suitcases until morning.”

  The sudden motion of standing caused her to yelp when pain sliced through her thigh and her leg collapsed. She grabbed the bedpost to keep from crumpling to the floor. This time the tears that leaked from her eyes had nothing to do with emotions and everything to do with the multiple gunshot wounds that were still healing.

  She swallowed back the bile. Her hands trembled as she reached for her purse and lifted out the bottle of painkillers.

  Phyllis took the cue, grabbed the cup off the tray, and rushed next door to the bathroom, to return in seconds with cool water.

  Laura swallowed the pills, then settled on the edge of the bed. “I should probably check in with Mr. Fremont tomorrow. How far is it to the newspaper office?”

  Phyllis tsked. “Out the bookstore door…into the newspaper’s door. We knew Dan had planned to sell the paper and move out west to live with his daughter. He always was a close-mouthed ole coot. I’m surprised he kept quiet about you being the new owner.”

  “He doesn’t know it’s me who bought it. I desperately need anonymity. The purchase was made through a dummy corporation, so that it appears as a subsidiary of the New York Crier. As far as anyone knows anywhere else, I’m merely here to run the one-person operation.”

  “Smart girl. You take after me.” Phyllis offered a sly grin, and a wink.

  Laura took a deep breath to discredit the statement. She picked at a piece of lint on the quilt. “Do you ever get tired of being alone?”

  “Who says I’m alone? I have my friends, regular patrons who enjoy sipping tea and enjoying a pastry while sitting in a comfy chair with their books, and now I have you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Of course, I do. I loved someone once. He died in Vietnam. I never wanted anyone else. For better or worse, we choose our own paths, Laura. If we’re not happy with the choice, then we work to change it.”

  A smile kinked one corner of Laura’s mouth. “At the office they call me the ice maiden. Behind my back, of course.”

  “You are no longer in New York. Plus, you said you wanted a new start. Close your eyes, sleep off the exhaustion, and when you wake up it will be a brand-new day, a brand-new job, and a perfect time to become someone other than the ice maiden.”

  Phyllis blew a kiss and shut the door behind her.

  Laura undressed and stood naked in front of the long mirror behind the bathroom door. She had always taken pride in her early morning runs, keeping her five-seven frame lean and fit. That had been nine weeks ago. Now her eyes held dark shadows, her cheeks were two pale hollows, and her limbs had become almost too thin to bear her weight. In a word, she looked like a scarecrow in dire need of more stuffing.

  She traced the line of the long scar that marred her hip and traveled the length to her knee. Bullets from an M-16 had splintered the bone, leaving little for the surgeon to repair. Yet he had saved her leg, merely leaving it shorter than the other. No more early morning runs for her. No more runs, period. She couldn’t stand the sight of her own body, nor the ugly orthopedic shoes that had become a permanent part of her wardrobe.

  Chapter Four

  Three days later, the morning sun spilled through the glass-paned window of the newspaper office. The scent of lemon oil filled the growing warmth in the office as Laura wiped the dust cloth over the antique wooden desk. She smiled as she worked her way around the room, giving the wood a polished gleam and humming along softly to the tune on the radio.

  Laura stood in the center of her new office. Hands on hips, and satisfied with her efforts, she surveyed the space. No more overflowing file cabinets, or stacks of folders piled in chairs or in every corner of the small office. Dan Fremont had said to keep what she thought was important, chuck the rest. The paper was hers to do with as she pleased.

  Cleaning and organizing had a cathartic effect on her. She felt good. The floors shone with new polish, and years of dust had been removed from the venetian blinds, shelves, and the ceiling fan.

  “You look like the cat who swallowed the canary. Gloating, I see.”

  Laura turned when the little bell over the front door dingled. “Good morning to you, too, Aunt Philly.”

  Phyllis handed her niece a cup of coffee, then pulled up a chair and sat down, taking a sip from her own cup. “I have an assignment for you. I’d like you to find a missing person.”

  Laura removed the plastic cap from the cup. “Sounds intriguing. Tell me more.”

  “Sally Wentworth disappeared almost fifty years ago. My theory is she was murdered and her body dumped in the bay. The night you arrived, my book club ladies and I had planned to hold a séance to see if we could call forth her spirit.”

  Laura chided. “Really? Don’t tell me you believe in such nonsense.”

  Phyllis wagge
d her finger. “Don’t poke fun. Cole Harbor isn’t exactly a beehive teeming with activities. We have the Lobstah Fest, of course, and the Fourth of July Arts Festival, and in October we hold a Halloween Ghost Hunt at the Lighthouse Museum. Other than going about our daily lives, the rest of the time there isn’t much to do. So if we want to hold a séance, then humor your old aunt and her cronies.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Philly. I didn’t mean to be crass. Was Sally a close friend?”

  “Yes and no. Her parents rented a cottage here for several years when we were both in grade school. She was such a pretty girl, and so much fun. She and I became inseparable during that time, and she drew boys the way honey draws flies. Shortly after her sixteenth birthday, Sally started skipping school to hang out with Corbin Drake. She was sixteen, and he was twenty. In our day, anyone who wore a black leather jacket, smoked cigarettes, and rode a motorcycle was considered a real pissah, you know, a hoodlum. Then Sally disappeared and was never heard of again. Corbin was gone too, of course.

  “Her parents reported her missing. After his investigation, Amos concluded Sally had run off with Corbin. Apparently, clothes and a suitcase were missing, and some money stolen from her mother’s cookie jar”—Phyllis shrugged—“that sort of thing.”

  “What happened? Didn’t her parents pursue it further?”

  “Nothing happened. Sally was a change-of-life baby. Her parents were in their late fifties when she was born. By the time she disappeared, they were on the high side of seventy. Mr. Wentworth slipped and hit his head down at the fishing docks. Never regained consciousness. Mrs. Wentworth left Cole Harbor shortly after the funeral. We all thought the strain of losing her daughter and her husband was too much, and she went back to wherever they had come from. Case closed and, subsequently, forgotten. But Sally’s disappearance stuck in my mind.” Phyllis grimaced. “I always had visions of Corbin cutting poor Sally into pieces and feeding her to the sharks. My teenage imagination working overtime, I suppose.”

  Laura felt a quick sympathy for the sorrow she saw in her aunt’s eyes, and warmed toward her. “Have you tried searching on the Internet?”

  “I have not.”

  “Don’t you use a computer for your business?”

  “It takes a while for an old war horse to get into the race. I’m taking lessons at the library. Once I feel comfortable with what I’m doing, I may buy a computer. Until then, I’ll depend on you to search for Sally.”

  Laura opened the laptop to a search engine and typed in the girl’s name. When no hits came up, she tried another tactic. “Hmm, nothing comes up for Sally Wentworth. Let me try white pages?”

  “Humor your ole aunt. What is—white pages?”

  Laura offered a squinty smile. “It’s an informational site that lists the names, addresses and phone numbers of individuals and businesses. In fact, it also shows a map for people to find you. I’ll bet both you and the bookstore are listed.”

  “By Godfrey, is nothing sacred anymore?”

  Laura ignored the question. In the search space she typed Corbin Drake. “Aha. Mystery solved. Prepare to be disappointed.”

  “So quick. The wonders of modern technology.” A frown wrinkled Phyllis’ forehead. “Why should I be disappointed?”

  Laura turned the computer for her aunt to view the screen. She came around the desk, and leaned over to point at the page. “Corbin Drake. Living in the same household: spouse, Sally Wentworth Drake. Approximate age, sixty-five. Address: Washington State.” She patted her aunt on the shoulder. “Sorry, it appears your mystery girl and her bad-biker boyfriend eloped and are living happily ever after.”

  Phyllis huffed. “By Godfrey, this frustrates me to no end. It proves Maudie’s theory was right. She will never let me live this down.”

  Laura drifted to the large picture window. “Who is the man sitting in the gazebo?”

  Phyllis frowned as she followed Laura’s gaze. “Benjamin Noone. He’s the city groundskeeper and handyman. I once called him Ben, and he let me know right quick-like that his name is Benjamin. Strange duck.”

  “How so?”

  “A loner, mostly. Comes into the bookstore once in a while. Mostly, I think he comes in for the heat in winter and air conditioning in summer. Seems to enjoy reading about flowers and fertilizers.” She wrinkled her nose and gave an exaggerated shudder. “He should actually do a study on the benefits of taking a bath. Whenever people greet him, sometimes he’ll respond, other times not. Lives in an old cabin close to the national park. He moved here about ten years ago. On occasion, he’ll show up at one of the festivals, or the Christmas program at the church over there—for the free food, is my guess. For whatever reason, Maudie takes pity on him. Every morning she walks out to the gazebo with a cup of coffee and a bagel. And every morning, for at least an hour, he sits in the gazebo and stares out over the bay.

  “I can say one thing in his favor, he is an excellent gardener and keeps the town square clean as a whistle, even though I can’t say much for his own personal hygiene.” Phyllis tilted her head to look at Laura. “Why the interest? Has he been out of the way with you?”

  Laura rubbed her thigh as she limped to her desk chair and sat down. “I’ve never spoken to the man. Just curious.”

  Phyllis waggled her eyebrows. “Beginning to miss the excitement of investigative reporting, poking around in dark alleys and smoke-filled billiard parlors?”

  Smiling, Laura ran a hand through her spiked blonde hair. “Aunt Philly, you read too many mystery novels. Even if I were getting a bit bored, my leg is a constant reminder of why I left New York. Cole Harbor is my home now. Besides, I’ve sunk my life savings into this newspaper. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not looking for a story where there isn’t one.”

  “Well, you are certainly good at what you do. It didn’t take long for you to locate Sally Wentworth—which, by the way, has spoiled my chances of holding a séance.”

  Laura looked toward the ceiling and shook her head. “Mystery novels and mysticism. Aunt Philly, you are one in a million, and I adore you.” She placed a hand on her forehead, closed her eyes, and chanted, “Ohmmah. I see a customer in your near future.” The expression on her aunt’s face was priceless. “Truly, a woman just walked into the bookstore.”

  Phyllis shook her finger toward Laura. “If you’re funning with me, no more free coffee, or blueberry muffins.”

  Laura crossed her heart. “Hope to die.” She opened the bottom desk drawer and withdrew her camera. “It’s about time I start drumming up some front page news. I’ll walk out with you.”

  The sheriff’s office was first on her list. She walked the short distance to the town hall, which housed the courtroom, the city council office, the sheriff’s office, and a one-person jail cell. A gray-haired woman with a cherubic smile greeted Laura. Doesn’t anyone under fifty live in Cole Harbor? She offered the woman a business card.

  Before Laura could speak, the woman said, “Pleased to meet yah, and welcome. Maybe you’ll breathe new life into that ole rag Dan Fremont called a newspaper. He never printed anything worth reading.” She stood and offered her hand. “I’m Louise Highland.”

  The sheriff’s secretary had a strong grip. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Highland. Today is my meet-and-greet day. Is the sheriff in?”

  “’Fraid not. Sheriff Gilman is on her honeymoon. Deputy Carter is in charge until she returns.” The secretary winked, then sighed. “If I were younger, I’d give Mitchell Carter a run for his money. Anyhow, he’s down at the docks. There was a smidgen of excitement a while ago.” Louise’s overly penciled eyebrows lifted. “Say, maybe there’s a story for you.”

  Laura thanked the woman. What with her aunt and now the sheriff’s secretary swooning, Mitchell Carter must be more than she’d noticed that night on the road. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Laura hurried to the bookstore. “Okay if I borrow your bicycle, Aunt Philly?”

  Phyllis looked up from the circulation desk. “Ayuh. What’s up?”r />
  Laura waved. “Tell you later.”

  At the bike rack in front of the store she bit back a grimace as she straddled the bicycle. It took all the fortitude she could muster to set the pedal in motion with her bad leg. She told herself to push through the pain.

  As she pedaled toward the docks, Laura tried to remember the last time she’d felt this invigorated. Fearing she might lose control of the bicycle and fall if she lifted her arms in the air and shouted, she opted to simply breathe in the fresh, salt air and allow the smile on her face to widen.

  She braked before reaching the bottom of the hill. Her current vantage point provided a perfect view of the deputy sheriff’s car, an ambulance, a gathering crowd, several expensive yachts, and two men pushing a gurney up the dock. The sheet-draped body brought back vivid memories of the night she was shot, and Elio Casper’s threat. She shook off the chill that threatened to chatter her teeth on this picturesque May morning. She lifted her camera from the bicycle’s basket, set the shutter speed, and snapped pictures of the deputy lifting the sheet, random shots of the crowd, and, standing aft on the main deck, a young woman dressed in a white caftan.

  Laura removed the lanyard from her pocket and placed it around her neck. The badge at the end read “Press.” She pushed off and rode to the parking lot, where she parked the bike. “Good morning, Deputy, I’m Laura Friday, the new editor and sole reporter for the Harbor Gazette.”

  “We meet again, Miss Friday.”

  “What’s happened here?”

  “Wife called, said her husband collapsed. By the time we got here, he was dead. Heart attack, most likely.”

  “Do you mind if I look at the body?”

  “You fancy yourself a medical examiner?” The sarcasm in his voice spiked Laura’s own temper. She tamped it down.

  “In New York, investigative reporting was my specialty.”

  “This isn’t New York, and until proven otherwise, it appears the victim died of natural causes. Case closed.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yep.”