Murder in the Mist

by Loretta C. Rogers

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Laura labored up the stairs. The apartment was quiet. That worked for her. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation. She carried the camera case and trekking poles to her bedroom and dropped everything on the floor, then turned to look in the mirror and stood there not believing the course of the day’s events. The laugh that escaped her came out as a disgusted snort.

  Glad to be home and thankful no stitches were needed to close the inside of her lip, Laura touched her tender cheek, which was rapidly developing into a black eye, and then peeled off her clothes. Aunt Philly would understand if she didn’t watch television with her tonight. A soak in a hot shower and a glass of wine cured many ills when all else failed.

  In the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of merlot from the cabinet and poured a glass, then headed back to the bedroom to finish undressing, cranked up the hot and cold knobs, and settled on the shower seat, her legs stretched forward and her head resting against the tiled wall.

  Steamy water gushed over her battered body as she sipped, grimacing when the wine stung the cut inside her lip. The alcohol would have to wait for another night. She closed her eyes and allowed the last vestiges of stress to drain away.

  She stepped from the shower and snagged a towel to wrap around her body, tucking the corners in at her breasts, then bit back a moan from the pain in her hip. She gritted her teeth to walk without a limp to the bed. Ahh, the bed. It crooned her name. What she needed at this moment was a pain pill. She grabbed a clean baggy T-shirt, pulled it over her head, and hobbled to the kitchen, Ken Musuyo’s scowl and words still fresh in her mind. If you don’t allow your hip to heal, I can guarantee another surgery in your future, and this time the outcome might not be as successful as the first.

  After a feast of potato chips, peanut butter slathered on graham crackers, a large glass of cola, and three scoops of chocolate ice cream, she sighed. There was nothing like a healthy dose of junk food to bolster a girl’s fortitude.

  She fell back on the bed and used a pillow to support her bad leg, grabbed a romance novel from the bedside table, and opened it to the marked spot. Her eyes had a mind of their own, and drifted shut.

  The cell phone vibrated and hummed against the nightstand. Turning on her side and wrapping her arms around a pillow, she let the message go to voicemail.

  ****

  A week later, Bryan Cole strolled into the newspaper office holding a vase filled with a variety of colorful flowers. Laura closed the top to her computer. She greeted him with a smile and extended a hand, offering him a chair. He set the container in front of her. “Peace offering.”

  She lifted the flowers to her nose and sniffed. “It’s me who should apologize to you for spoiling the picnic lunch at the gazebo. I could offer you a thousand reasons for my rude behavior, and yet none of them can excuse the way I acted.”

  She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “You didn’t seem fond of roses, white ones, especially. So I chose wildflowers. These are from my garden. Hope we can be friends.”

  Friends. His voice reverberated through her with a lazy sensuality. Perhaps she had been too quick in her judgment of him. “The flowers are lovely.”

  An awkward moment of silence passed as if each of them were searching for something to say. It was Bryan who interrupted the moment. “How does owning your own newspaper in a small town compare to being a big city reporter?”

  Laura realized with a start that with recent events, she hadn’t given much thought to her life in New York. She stared at Bryan, recalling Mitch’s words about giving the friendship a chance to grow but to go at her own pace.

  Bryan chuckled. “If it takes this long to compare your city life to this, you must be trying hard to be tactful.”

  “Not at all…but it’s not what I expected. It’s beautiful.”

  He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “And deadly boring.”

  She gave a shout of laughter. “Is it, really? You mean after all that’s happened since I arrived?”

  “So, tell me.” His voice was soft and low. “What do you miss about being an investigative reporter consistently appearing on the nightly news?”

  The moment of camaraderie shattered as her memories flooded back. In an instant, she was sitting on the sidewalk, soaked in blood, cradling Jolly’s head in her lap.

  “It was my life for ten years. Every time a drug ring was busted up, or a serial rapist put behind bars, it made me feel needed, as if I were helping keep the streets clean. Plus, the adrenalin rush of danger and excitement becomes addictive.”

  Bryan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “You seem to have brought some of the big city drama with you. Dead bodies popping up all over the place.”

  Laura shuffled the papers on her desk. She studied him for a moment, the teasing glimmer in his eyes fading.

  “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

  “What?”

  “Insulted you.” He stood and paced around in a circle as if looking for something he had lost. He huffed out a breath. “I’m not usually a bumbling idiot. It seems whenever I’m around you, it’s open mouth, insert foot. I…I…”

  She stared at the papers in her hand. Swallowed. A little part of her liked having this effect on him. Before she could get the words out of her mouth, the chime over the door pealed, and Mitch walked in.

  Laura watched Bryan quickly mask his disappointment. Apparently, he still thought of Mitch as competition. Well, all that romantic love crap be damned.

  Mitch and Bryan shook hands. After the pleasantries were over, Mitch gave Laura a half smile. There was no humor in his eyes. “Three calls this morning, each one to report a missing dog, and all of the dogs were old, so it would make them easy to catch.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. She placed a hand to her cheek. “You don’t think he’s struck again?”

  “That’s my first thought.” Mitch cut his attention to Bryan. “What time does Amy Osmond usually get to work?”

  “Always early. Around seven-thirty. Good worker. Visitors and staff love her. Why?”

  “She takes a shortcut from her house to the edge of the forest until she gets to a marked trail in the park. Are there any employees who live in town that might give her a ride?”

  “I’m not in charge of the civilian workers. Laura, okay to use your phone?”

  She nodded. “What’s happened, Mitch?”

  He blew out a breath. “Might not be anything. I stopped by the Silly Lobster for dinner, and Amy’s mother asked to speak to me in private. She didn’t want anyone to hear her concern that a couple of times Amy was certain someone was in the woods watching her. At one point, she thought she was being followed. She even called out. When no one answered, Amy chalked it up as a deer rustling the bushes. Naturally, her mother is concerned, and so am I.”

  Bryan pursed his lips as he disconnected the call. “All the locals work different part-time shifts.”

  “I’d take it as a personal favor if you changed her hours…maybe ten to two. That way anyone who lives along the rim is already at work and still at work when Amy leaves for home.”

  Icy fingers shuddered down Laura’s spine. “You’ve got a suspect in mind—someone who lives near the park?”

  Mitch’s voice sounded tired. “I wish I did. This is merely a precaution.” He looked at Bryan. “My gut tells me the missing dogs are buried in the park. Notify your rangers to keep an eye out for any freshly disturbed earth.”

  Bryan straightened to his full height. “With thousands of acres, that’s a big request, but anything to catch this pissah, all you need do is ask.” He smiled at Laura. “Duty calls. Enjoy the flowers.”

  She tilted her head and thanked him again for the bouquet.

  Before the ranger walked out the door, Mitch said, “Hey, Bryan, don’t you own a small sloop sailboat?”

  “Ayuh. You want to go out sometime?”

  Mitch chuckled and shook his head. “I’m a landlubber, like to s
ee what’s under my feet. Give me a horse and saddle any day over a boat and water.” He winked at Laura. “Actually, I was thinking you might invite Friday to go sailing. It’s not nearly as strenuous as hiking trails. Whadda you say, Friday?”

  A wobbly smile cut across Laura’s face. “Well—” Damn Mitch Carter for putting her on the spot. The expectant look in Bryan’s eyes reminded her of a little boy waiting to hear if he’d won a prize. Hell. “Sure. What about Saturday morning, at nine? This time, I’ll pack the lunch.”

  “I’m on call the entire weekend. Monday?”

  She was her own boss and could set her own hours, yet she didn’t want to get into the habit of allowing pleasure to interfere with work. “Just this once, I’ll take a work day off.”

  The expectant frown on Bryan’s face softened into a smile. “My boat’s name is Not for Sail. She’s red with white trim. Slip number five.”

  He waved and walked out the door.

  Laura scowled at Mitch. “You put me at a distinct disadvantage. How could I possibly say no?”

  Mitch shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “By the looks the two of you wore when I walked in, it was obvious I had disturbed an about to happen important moment. I’m just makin’ amends.”

  Not wishing to pursue the romance subject, Laura switched gears. “Seriously, Mitch. Do you have any leads on who killed Daisy Fuller?”

  “Nothing. Her body was squeaky clean. No DNA, not a hair or a fiber. But he’s here, and he’ll mess up. When he does, I’ll nail the jack-off.”

  “Shall I write an article about the missing pets?”

  “Yep, and if the owners have pictures, post ’em.” He rattled off the list of names.

  “By the way, care for a bit of gossip?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess—Louise.”

  “Told Aunt Philly you threatened to fire her, and with great embellishment said she told you a thing or two.”

  He offered a sardonic smile. “Louise is a real prize. Embellishment or not, I meant every word I said.”

  Laura hesitated. “Are you still planning to run for sheriff in El Paso?”

  He waited a heartbeat, then pivoted on his heel. “Yes.”

  She watched as he disappeared through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mitch spent the rest of the day knocking on doors and asking questions of the various residents along Cole Drive. No one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary the night of Daisy Fuller’s murder. He garnered the same responses from those who lived along Atlantic Avenue. Everyone expressed concern for their own safety, some more vocally than others.

  He drove to the highest point of Lighthouse Road. Except for the Osmond family, and a few of the fisher families, the remaining structures were abandoned. It wasn’t until he headed back to town that he noticed a dirt road made nearly invisible by the overgrowth of trees. He turned onto the narrow lane and followed it to a rundown dwelling. An aging beauty with a sweeping front porch. Whoever resided here took little pride in the property’s upkeep.

  Mitch exited the patrol car. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Taking precaution, he used his door as a shield. “Hello, the house.”

  No answer.

  He called again. “Deputy Sheriff Mitch Carter. Anybody home?”

  He scanned each window fronting the house and saw no sign of anyone peering out at him. Feeling relatively safe, he approached and walked up the steps. He rapped on the door and called out once again, identifying himself.

  Stepping to a window, he placed his hands on either side of his face and peered inside. The interior showed signs of being lived in. One large space consisting of kitchen, eating area, and living room. A shirt draped over a dining chair. Pots sitting on a drain board. From what he could see, the inside was neat and orderly.

  As he turned to leave, he felt as if he had stepped into a painting and was part of the scenery. The blue-hued panoramic vista of the bay was beyond description. He doubted if an artist could capture the beauty and bring it alive on canvas.

  Reminding himself he was here to work, he walked down the steps and around the side of the dwelling. A greenhouse drew his attention. Inside, long wooden planks atop cinderblocks formed neat rows of potted plants, lined the length and width of the structure, with pruning shears, plastic gloves, fertilizer, sacks of peat and potting soil all visible.

  He didn’t recall seeing a mailbox as he entered the drive, which wasn’t unusual. Most people received their mail at the Cole Harbor Post Office. At the rear of the house, a footpath led from the yard up an incline. Mitch followed it. He wasn’t surprised when he spotted a trail marker. The path definitely led to the national park’s interior.

  Glancing around, he did a mental calculation of how far this dwelling was from the abandoned structure he and Laura had investigated a few days ago. An easy mile along the paved road. He searched for signs of a path that ran along this property to join the other. If there was one, it wasn’t visible in the day’s fading light.

  He checked his watch. He didn’t want to get caught off guard should the owner return and find his patrol car. His cop instinct warned this property belonged to Benjamin Noone. Mitch mentally questioned if Noone fit the profile of a murderer.

  In the evening’s quiet dusk, a roaring sound caught his attention…the crash of waves spewing through a blow hole. Sprinting along the park’s path, he estimated he was no more than a half mile from the scenic area where, just two days ago, the tide had almost swept him out to sea.

  Mitch turned and jogged back to the trail and skittered down the path to the yard. He stooped to look beneath the house. Uncertain of what he was searching for, he used his cell phone to take pictures. What was it he was missing? An elusive detail teased his mind. He couldn’t quite call the information forward.

  Placing his hands on his hips, the yard was much the way Amy Osmond had described it: weedy, littered with bits and pieces of lawnmower parts, a wheelbarrow. He checked for signs of freshly dug dirt that resembled small graves. Nothing.

  Mitch returned to the porch. He jammed a business card between the door and the frame. Maybe Benjamin Noone was exactly who he was. An eccentric loner who enjoyed gardening.

  ****

  Weary from helping string lights and getting the town ready for its annual Fourth of July bash, Benjamin’s headache increased when he removed the card from the doorjamb and read Deputy Sheriff Mitchell Carter’s name. Anxiety race through him like a dose of medicine attacking his bowels. His afternoon sandwich roiled up his throat, and he gagged. Whimpers echoed in his ears as he reached for the key lying inside a rusted birdcage.

  His hand trembled as he unlocked the weathered front door, flung it wide, and stumbled inside. Slamming it shut, he collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball, his knees drawn to his stomach. He closed his eyes and allowed the black tomb of darkness to engulf him.

  “Bennie, that deputy sheriff was here. What should I do?”

  Only the thrumming inside his head answered.

  He pleaded, “Where are you when I need you?” Benjamin balled his fist and slammed the floor. “Sniveling bastard! I hope you burn in hell.”

  Shadows gathered at the fringes of his mind.

  A voice mocked him. You always were the weaker twin. Stop whining. Deputy…smeputy. He’s got nothing on you.

  Snickering. Whose? Benjamin wasn’t certain who made the sound.

  I know what will make you feel better.

  “What?”

  This time his mind filled with teasing laughter. A…woman. Bennie needs a woman.

  Benjamin placed his hands over his ears and pressed. “How many times do I have to tell you…I am…not…you?”

  He was tired. So very tired. His eyes closed of their own free will.

  He dreamed of fire. He was tied to his bed, a gag in his mouth. Daisy Fuller laughed as she poured gasoline over his body and lit a match. Flames licked up his legs. Lynnette Braswell watched. She clapped he
r hands in glee and danced a little jig. In unison the girls taunted—Don’t scream, Benjamin. Don’t ever scream.

  The fire savored his flesh, starting at the tips of his toes and slithering up to his elbows. He choked on the odor of burning hair. The flames singed his eyebrows, and stole inside his nostrils. His brain melted, and he felt all the little cells of gray matter leaking out his ears.

  Water. Water. He needed water to cool the burning inside his scalded body.

  Inching his eyes open, he found the smoke had cleared. There was no fire. He was on the floor in his little crackerbox cottage.

  He lifted his hand and looked at it. Not my hand, his mind whispered. He felt his hair, patted it, and pulled a lock forward to examine.

  Not my hair.

  What was going on? He pushed to his hands and knees and crawled to the bathroom. His strength had left him. He used the toilet to pull himself upright, and looked into the mirror.

  A hollow-eyed reflection stared at him. Hello, Bennie. That was a terrible dream we had.

  Benjamin gripped the edges of the sink. His breaths came in heaves. “Go away. I’m…Benjamin.”

  And then there was screaming, uncontrollable screaming.

  Shh..shh. Don’t scream…We don’t like screamin’.

  His mouth was dry, his stomach churned, and his head pounded so hard he was certain it would burst. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face. He bent closer, cupped his hands, and drank. Lifting his throbbing head was too much effort. He opened the medicine cabinet. His prescription bottle was empty. The refill date had expired. He counted out four aspirin and allowed them to melt in his mouth.

  Only a few feet to the bedroom, and a few more feet to the bed. He turned toward the door, careful not to shuffle his feet. Each step vibrated like a tuning fork inside his brain. He sank to the mattress.

  He lay facing the ceiling, his head on the pillow, an arm flung across his eyes. And though he whispered, the words seemed to echo off the walls. “I want to die and end this suffering.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine