by Lucy Quinn
“We poked it,” Rain called from her side of the shack. “We found that stick and decided to poke it and figure out which of us was right.” She shuddered. “Turns out we were both way, way off.”
Cookie’s training taught her to never assume, and even though she suspected her mother and Winter had come across another corpse, she dropped into a crouch so she could fumble around for the stick without taking her eyes off the shape before her. Cookie finally found it, got a decent handle on it, and leaning forward a little, used it to poke the shape. The mass shifted slightly then fell to the side, landing with a flat flopping sound upon the floor and exposing a hand right at her feet. A human hand, large and wrinkled and discolored. And very clearly dead.
“Right,” Cookie announced, straightening up so quickly she almost got dizzy. She dropped the stick and turned to face her mother, Winter, and Scarlett, who were all peering at both her and the body behind her with mingled fascination and revulsion. “Everybody back outside. Time to call in the cavalry.”
“Hunter?” Scarlett asked, and Cookie shook her head, trying to keep from grimacing.
“No. Last I heard, he was out of the country,” she replied, astonished that she was even suggesting this. “We need to call Deputy Swan.”
Her three companions all stared at her like she belonged in the psychiatric ward. And, hearing the words herself, Cookie could hardly blame them.
“Okay, explain this to me again,” Scarlett asked quizzically, keeping her voice down as they watched the squad car come skidding down the beach, sand spraying from under its tires as the car slid over the damp surface. “This guy’s an idiot.”
“Agreed,” Cookie replied just as quietly. “But he’s the local law, right?”
“So are you,” her friend said.
Cookie shook her head. “Watkins deputized me, but only for special situations.”
“Like a dead body?” Scarlett asked pointedly.
“Maybe, if it turns out to be foul play,” Cookie answered. “But if it’s just natural causes or something along those lines? Not really my thing. And Swan already gets pissy whenever I flash a badge, so I figured I should throw him a bone.” Of course the last time she’d done that, he’d wound up wrecking his squad car, nearly taking down the town Christmas tree, and letting a trio of dangerous art thieves-turned-murderers get away.
“Looks like you’d be better served throwing him a clue,” Scarlett said, her hands on her hips.
Her friend had a point, and Cookie could hardly argue. She turned her attention back to Swan and winced as she watched him brake to a stop, the car spinning sideways and producing a tidal wave of sand that sprayed grit all over them.
Spitting sand from her lips, Cookie already suspected she’d made a mistake.
“What’s the problem, ladies?” Deputy Swan bellowed as he stepped out of the car. But none of them answered—because they were too busy staring.
Scarlett was the first to recover the power of speech. “Are you… wearing a bathrobe?”
If Scarlett had expected the island’s lone deputy to be embarrassed by her question, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead he straightened, puffing out his chest and lifting his head. “That’s right,” he answered proudly. “Neat, ain’t it? It’s a special collector’s edition.”
Cookie eyed the deputy’s bathrobe, covered with images of spaceships, robots, aliens, and men and women with blasters and glowing light sabers. Why anyone over the age of ten would voluntarily buy, let alone wear, a Star Wars bathrobe in the privacy of their own home, much less out in public, was beyond her. But instead of acknowledging his statement, she asked, “Aren’t you cold?”
“Naw,” Swan answered, hands going to his hips in what might have been a very manly pose if not for his doughy frame, equally soft features, and odd attire. “I can handle it,” he said, despite the fact that his teeth had started to chatter. “So, you said something about a body?”
“Right in there,” Cookie answered, pulling the boathouse door open and stepping aside so he could ungallantly rush inside. She followed him in, shutting the door firmly behind her. No need for her mom or Winter to have to witness it again.
Swan spotted the body right away and made a beeline for it. “Hmm,” he grunted once he’d gotten close and had nudged it with his boot. “Hang on.” Reaching into the bathrobe’s pocket he pulled out a small flashlight and switched it on. A surprisingly bright beam of light shot forth, almost like a light saber itself—which Cookie guessed was probably the point—and he grinned as he directed the light toward the body, playing it over the man’s face.
It was a face Cookie recognized and knew had been handsome, even in its advanced years, before the mottling death had turned his features blue. A scratch marred his left cheek and there were dirt stains on his white thermal shirt.
“Fleet Defoe,” Swan declared, straightening and shutting off the light before pocketing it again. “Poor old sod. This is his boathouse—well, his and Lester Margolis’s. They built it together when they were just kids.” He scratched at his chin. “Probably had a heart attack in the middle of the night. Too bad.”
“Wait, that’s it?” Cookie asked, stepping into his path as the deputy turned back toward the door. “You aren’t going to investigate?”
“Investigate what?” he replied, his thick lips twisting into his customary sneer. “Not everything is a conspiracy or a drug bust or a kidnapping ring, Miss James. Sometimes it’s just an old guy whose time is up.”
“If he was having a heart attack, what’s that scratch on his face about? And why is he all dirty, like he’d been rolling around in the woods?” she snapped back, her temper fraying as it always did when she was forced to deal with Swan and his lazy, preconceived notions. “You don’t think that’s suspicious?”
“Nope. He probably caught himself on a hook or something while he was out fishing,” Swan replied, shouldering past her to reach for the door. “But go right ahead and poke around if you like. I know you get off on that sort of thing.” He tossed the remark back over his shoulder as he stepped outside and headed for his car.
“Come back here and I’ll poke you with something,” Cookie grumbled under her breath as she followed him out. She watched as he hurriedly climbed back into the squad car, revved the engine, and peeled out, spraying them with sand all over again. “Jackhole.”
“So, that went well,” Scarlett commented as they watched the cop car laboring to flee the beach. “Now what?”
“Now we call Hunter,” Rain stated. Then she backed up a step at Cookie’s glare. “What? That’s what you always do.”
“Not this time,” Cookie replied through gritted teeth. She shoved her hair back out of her face, spitting out sand. “This one I’ll handle on my own.”
She pointedly ignored the way the other three exchanged glances. And they very carefully didn’t ask any more questions as she dug her phone out and called Jared Delgado, Hancock’s medical examiner, to tell him she had a body she needed him to come out and retrieve.
So much for taking a break.
3
“So?” Rain asked as soon as Cookie came traipsing down the stairs the next morning and dropped into her customary chair at the table. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Cookie blinked up at her, hands halfway to the coffee pot that sat in the middle of the table, steam rising up from its spout. She smiled gratefully at Scarlett as her friend nudged the pot closer. After pouring the steaming, near-black liquid into her cup, she took a long sip, her eyes sliding closed in contentment as the hot coffee hit her system and the caffeine provided a welcome jolt that finally kicked her brain into gear. “What plan?” she repeated, cautiously eyeing her mother.
“Why, for investigating poor Fleet’s death, of course,” Rain replied, smiling brightly as she set the tray of fresh, hot biscuits down next to a plate of crisp bacon and one of scrambled eggs. “You did say last night that you were going to handle this one yourself, didn’t you?�
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“Yes,” Cookie agreed slowly. She wasn’t fully awake yet and usually required all of her wits about her when her mother was being devious, as she clearly was right now.
“So you must have a plan on how to go about that without calling anyone else in,” her mother continued, settling into the seat across from Cookie and blinking big, bright eyes at her.
Cookie could tell that this was a trap, but at this early hour she couldn’t quite see how, so she decided the best response was to tell the truth. “I thought I’d start by going to see Fleet’s friend,” she said, reluctantly setting her coffee down after one more sip so that she could load her plate with eggs, bacon, and a freshly-buttered biscuit. “What’s his name? Lenny?”
“Lester,” Rain corrected. “Lester Margolis.” She slapped the table with one hand and pushed herself up back on her feet. “Good. I’ll go get ready.”
“Huh?” Cookie just stared at her over the egg-laden fork already halfway to her mouth.
“Well, I’m coming with you, of course,” Rain explained gently, like when she’d informed Cookie she was going to accompany her to her first day of kindergarten some twenty-odd years ago. “You’ll need help, and I know this town and its people a lot better than you do.”
“No.” Cookie frowned and tried again. “No, thank you.” Her attempt at discouraging her mother’s involvement was better, but still not great, so she went for a third attempt. “Look, Mom, I appreciate the offer, I really do, but—”
“You need a partner,” her mother cut her off, her tone surprisingly firm. “After some of the things that have happened to you since we’ve been here, there’s no way I’m letting you run around playing Nancy Drew all on your own.” Which was a fair point, actually. Cookie had already been shot, drugged, tossed in a freezer—for such a small, sleepy, out of the way place, Secret Seal Isle had proven to be surprisingly dangerous. Still, that didn’t mean Cookie wanted her mom playing ride-along.
“I’m trained for this. I’ll be careful,” Cookie promised, setting the fork down so she could focus more clearly. “You don’t need to worry.”
But Rain shook her head, bright-orange hair swaying with the motion. “Not good enough,” she stated. “You need someone with you. And if you won’t let me go, I guess I’ll just have to call…” She let that sentence trail off, but the threat was all too clear. She’d find a way to get in touch with Hunter, something Cookie definitely didn’t want her to do. Not after she’d rejected his offer to move to Philly with him just a few weeks ago. And Cookie knew her mother would do it, too. Rain had never been one for idle threats—as more than one of her teachers had discovered after parent-teacher conferences, much to their chagrin.
“Fine,” Cookie said with a sigh. “You can go talk to Lester with me. But that’s it.”
“Of course, dear,” her mother agreed in that tone that clearly indicated that this was only the start. Then she whisked off back to the kitchen, saying something about cinnamon buns. After she’d gone, Cookie turned and glared at Scarlett, who had stayed silent during the entire exchange.
“Thanks for the help,” Cookie said, but her friend just laughed.
“I learned a long time ago not to get in between the two of you,” Scarlett pointed out. “Besides, she’s not wrong—on either count. And you know it.”
“I know.” Cookie sighed and reached for her food again. She really shouldn’t be out investigating anything without a partner. Though Rain was hardly the person she’d choose to back her up. Too often her mother was a walking trouble magnet. “I just wish she wasn’t quite so pleased about it.”
“He’s what?” Lester Margolis demanded, eyes wide, dark skin going pale. “That can’t be.” The old man staggered back a step, and for a second Cookie worried they were about to cause a second death. But the older gentleman recovered, reaching out and pressing a hand against the wall for balance. They had found Lester at his house, the residence next door to Fleet’s and located just a few hundred feet to the west and slightly inland from the boathouse.
Lester had already been up and puttering about on his front porch when Cookie and Rain had arrived, apparently adjusting a row of buoys that were hanging from netting strung up on the railing. Since she didn’t trust Swan to do his job, Cookie had felt she needed to inform the man of his best friend’s death.
“Fleet, dead?” Lester muttered, staring off into space. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cookie told him. She noted a bruise along his jaw, and wondered if he’s gotten it in a fight. One with Fleet perhaps… But considering Lester’s reaction to his friend’s death, she believed he was genuinely surprised.
The sound of her voice seemed to bring the old man back to himself, and he turned toward the still-open front door, pushing it wider and waving them through. “Come on inside,” he told them, and Rain quickly slipped into the house without comment—one of the only times Cookie had ever seen that happen. Cookie followed, and Lester came last, shutting the door behind them to keep out the cold.
His home was cozy, everything a little threadbare but comfortable, and all kept neat and tidy, Cookie noted with approval. It was nicer than she’d expected from someone she knew to be a lifelong bachelor in a small fishing town, and she accepted an invitation to sit on the large leather sofa without hesitation.
“What happened to him?” Lester asked as soon as they were all seated. “Was it the cancer that finally got him?”
“Fleet had cancer?” Rain asked, leaning forward and shaking her head. “That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, he had a scare with it some years back,” Lester confirmed. “They got it all, but he had to get regular check-ups just to make sure. Thought he had gotten it again, this last go-round—was waiting to hear back on the lab results, in fact. Melanoma, awful stuff,” he added with a shudder. “So it wasn’t that, then?”
“We don’t think so, no,” Cookie confirmed. “We don’t know for certain yet, but we found him out at the boathouse last night. It may have been a heart attack or a stroke.”
Lester nodded, his face taut with grief. “He always had a weak ticker,” he declared, his voice rough. “Whenever we used to race in our younger days I’d win, not because I was faster but because he’d run out of breath and have to stop.” Pausing, he ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I can’t believe he’s gone, though.” He gave the women a sad smile. “Fleet was the most full-of-life guy you’d ever meet.”
“He certainly was,” Rain agreed. “And a charmer, to boot.” Which was exactly how Cookie remembered him, too. She’d only met the man a few times, but he’d always been flirtatious, his charisma winning her over. He’d been very gentlemanly, however, the twinkle in his eye had suggested a bit of devilry lurked below in case anyone was interested.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Lester agreed, his tone taking on a sharp edge. “Fleet could get any woman he wanted, always could, even when we were young lads. And he just got smoother as he got older.” He shook his head. “Even got to our very own Madame Librarian, if you can believe that.”
Cookie frowned. She’d been to the island’s small public library only once, and vaguely remembered being glared at by an older woman behind a desk. “Slim, proper, white hair up in a bun?” she asked.
“That’s the one,” Lester agreed with a sigh. “Winifred B. Lassiter. Winnie to her friends, if you could get past that ice wall, which not many could. But when that woman lets her hair down,” a brief smile flitted across his lined features, “she’s something to behold.”
“And she was seeing Fleet?” Cookie asked, her FBI training taking over. In any investigation, good agents always questioned the significant others first.
Lester nodded. “Yeah, he won her over with his activism. On any given weekend he’d be out protesting something. Wall street, big oil, pipelines, the slaughter of baby seals. You name it and he had a sign for it. Dude never did outgrow his hippy days. He and Winnie met at a meeting for a book-banning p
rotest and have been together ever since.”
“So they were solid. No relationship issues?” Cookie asked.
“None. Winnie’s ex-husband wasn’t exactly thrilled with it, though.” He scowled. “Jeremy Lassiter. Man’s a real piece of work. Winnie did right to leave him, but he’s not the type to let go—or to let others near anything he thinks is his. He and Fleet got into it just the other week. But Winnie stepped in and told him to back off.” His scowl deepened. “Guess Jeremy got the last laugh, though.”
Cookie made a mental note to speak to both Winifred and Jeremy Lassiter. Not that anything so far suggested Fleet’s death hadn’t been completely natural. But she’d learn to trust her gut, and it was saying that something about all this didn’t add up. “Anyone else Fleet didn’t get along with?” she asked.
Lester let out a bark of a laugh. “Well, there’s Peaches.”
“Peaches? As in Peaches who works at the salon?” Cookie couldn’t even begin to guess what problems Fleet could have with the resident aesthetician.
“Sure, he was one of her clients,” Lester explained. “Went by at least once a month to get a trim, if you know what I mean.” He glanced down at his groin area then winked at them. Predictably, Rain giggled, which provoked a toothy smile from the old man as he continued, “But they got into it the other week. Fleet said he wanted to look good for Winnie, so he told Peaches to go whole hog this time, give him the deluxe package on his package,” he said, painting a picture Cookie hadn’t really needed. Ever.
“I guess he wasn’t too happy with the results, though, ’cause he totally stiffed her. She was pretty pissed,” Lester added with a chuckle.
“That man could have stiffed me any time,” Rain muttered, and Cookie elbowed her as discretely as she could. Was it any wonder Cookie hadn’t wanted to bring her along?
