A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2)

by Mindy Quigley

  ###

  Lindsay watched the minutes on the digital clock tick by. 3:22 a.m. 3:23. One of the springs in the mattress of the chaplain’s room cot was doing its best to pierce her spleen, and the hospital’s central heating system seemed to have been cranked up to the temperature of a pottery kiln. The physical discomfort only added to the disquiet of her mind. She rose, deciding to take a walk around the hospital grounds to cool off and clear her head. If she stayed close by, she could still respond quickly if she was paged.

  The pocket of unseasonably warm air that had ruined her Yule log had continued to hang over central North Carolina. Temperatures had hovered in the low 60s each day, and even the predawn chill lacked its usual wintry sharpness. Inside the chaplains’ room, Lindsay had been lying, overheated, in her clothes. Now, the pleasantly cool air slowly unstuck them from her body. She wandered out past the bright lights of the ambulance bay and circled all the way around the hospital until she reached the small meditation garden that was situated outside the recently-completed oncology wing. It was much darker in the garden, shielded from the hulking concrete building by rhododendron and azalea bushes. She stood still, letting the cool night air wash over her. The crickets and cicadas were silent this time of year; only the hum of the hospital’s overzealous heating units broke the stillness.

  Alone in the small garden, Lindsay inhaled deeply, trying to get a bead on the source of her mind’s unrest. She sat down on a concrete bench. Geneva was right about one thing—she had turned the scraps of her thoughts over in her brain so often that she’d created a mental compost heap. She decided to try a different tack. She cleared her mind completely, closing her eyes and focusing on her breath. As her mind emptied, she fell into a trance-like state, peace settling over her like a warm blanket. She focused on her breathing. Gradually, she became aware of a warm presence alongside her. “Do you need help?” a soft voice whispered in her ear.

  Her eyes flew open. “Jesus Christ!” she shouted. But the person whose eyes met hers was decidedly not Jesus. Probably for the best, considering she had a bad habit of taking his name in vain when she was startled.

  A teenage boy with a leather jacket and a tight crown of dreadlocks crouched over her, shining a penlight keychain into her face. “Sorry. Did I scare you? I just wanted to know if you need help,” the boy repeated, using the kind of tone that was usually reserved for frightened animals or small children. “Do you want me to call somebody for you?”

  “Who are you?” Lindsay asked. She put her hand to her throat in a reflexive gesture of self protection.

  “My name’s Owen.” The boy paused and looked at the lanyard dangling from her neck. “Wait. Do you work here?” He gestured to her staff ID badge. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m a chaplain at the hospital.” She gathered up her jacket, which was crumpled into a makeshift pillow on the bench beside her. Her meditation session had apparently turned into a full-fledged nap.

  “Oh. I thought you were homeless.”

  “I guess I can see how you’d get that impression.” Her outfit choice that day—a boxy knitted cardigan and wrinkled 90’s-era khaki pants—did nothing to dispel the notion that she obtained her clothing from the castoffs at Goodwill.

  The boy flopped down on the bench next to her and took a sip from a paper coffee cup he was holding. “Nice night.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lindsay agreed. She checked her pager to make sure that she hadn’t missed any calls while she slept. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning, and there was still no hint of a sunrise. “I know I’m not really in a position to ask, but what’re you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m in town visiting my uncle. We just flew in from Thailand yesterday—the jetlag is pretty bad. I really needed a cup of coffee, but Mount Moriah doesn’t have a 7-11. You don’t have anything actually. I just started walking until I found somewhere that was open.” He held up the coffee cup from the hospital cafeteria as proof of his veracity.

  “You live in Thailand?”

  “For the past few months, but I’m from Chicago.” Owen took another sip from his cup. “So, you’re a chaplain. I met a lot of chaplains when my mom was sick. She died last year. Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. That must’ve been awful.” Lindsay had seen only one case of the rare, degenerative disease in her career. It caused a rapid loss of muscle control. The sufferer wasted away until they were left wheelchair-bound, unable to eat or breathe for themselves.

  “It sucked,” he said, titling his face upwards. It was momentarily illuminated by one of the lights mounted on the exterior wall of the hospital, and Lindsay could make out the tones of his amber skin and coal-black eyes. “It’s weird. You’d think I’d hate hospitals, doctors, all this medical stuff. But it makes me feel close to her.”

  “I don’t think that’s weird. It makes sense.”

  “My dad won’t go anywhere near a hospital. That’s how we ended up in Thailand. My mom was always really careful about money and stuff, so she had a bunch of life insurance lined up. When she died he quit his job and pulled me out of school. We’ve been travelling all over—a few months here, a few months there.”

  “That’s a lot of change for you. Losing your mom and then losing your home and friends.”

  “It’s okay. My dad’s the one I’m worried about. He tries so hard to be upbeat, so that I won’t be sad. He wants us to appreciate every moment. If he points out the fleeting beauty of the sunset one more time, I might have to punch him. Seriously, sometimes I just want to play Xbox and space out. And he’s all like, ‘Savor the moment. Let’s go kiteboarding and eat dehydrated shark testicles.’”

  “He makes you eat shark testicles?”

  “Actually, I don’t even know if sharks have testicles. But you get the picture.”

  She smiled. She knew more than Owen could guess about living with an overcompensating single father. When Lindsay’s mother had abandoned them, her father had also buried his grief and confusion in a flurry of activity. While Owen seemed to be on a treadmill of non-stop adventure, Lindsay had been force-fed a diet of selflessness and religion. She’d participated in tent revivals, volunteered in soup kitchens—if there was a soul to be saved, her father had dragged her out to help him save it. She felt a pang of shame when she contrasted her own reactions to Owen’s. He seemed world-weary, deeply caring, and wise beyond his years. She’d spent her own teenage years doing her damndest to derail her life with excessive drinking, partying, and hooliganism.

  “Anyway, I think he’s getting better. He just needs time.” Owen downed the last of his coffee and threw the cup away in the adjacent trash can. “I’d better be getting back home. My dad and my uncle will probably be up soon. I don’t want them to worry.”

  “Thanks for waking me up. It was really nice of you to be concerned.”

  “Sorry I thought you looked homeless.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this sweater. And these pants. Anyway, it was nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.” Owen walked away in the loping, haphazard way of teenage boys, as if his limbs were made of rubber bands being pulled in different directions. Lindsay watched him until he evaporated into the darkness.

  ###

  When Rob came in to take over from her at 7 a.m., Lindsay told him about her encounter with the oddly self-possessed teenager in the garden. “He was so much more together than most teenagers. Heck, he was way more together than most adults,” she said. “It made me sad, though. A kid that age shouldn’t have to deal with that much stuff.”

  “I thought you usually dated teenage boys, not befriended them.”

  Rob was referring to a disastrous blind date that Lindsay had been on the previous summer with a 19-year-old Civil War re-enactor.

  “Obadiah Dong Larry J. Robinson Wu,” she said, addressing Rob by his deeply embarrassing given name. “That’s plain old slander. First off, I never actually date
d that guy. And secondly, you swore that you would never mention that incident again.”

  “I’m not sure a pinky swear would hold up in a court of law. Anyway, I’m just glad that he was nice. After last summer, with the murder and everything, I’d have expected you to be on your guard a bit more.” He paused. While he’d been talking, Lindsay had begun patting down her body as if she was subjecting herself to an airport security screening. She took off her white coat and turned the pockets inside out. She removed her pager and a pack of Altoids and placed them on the desk.

  “Lose something?” Rob asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “My angel pin,” Lindsay said. “You know that silver angel pin that Mrs. Keenan gave me when I first started working here?”

  “How could I forget your angel pin? That thing is so tacky it makes the rest of your clothes look hip.”

  “I like it,” she said defensively. “And besides it has sentimental value.” Mrs. Keenan had been an early patient of Lindsay’s—one of the first she’d gotten to know well. She’d helped the old woman through her long struggle with breast cancer, and she had given Lindsay the pin as a thank-you gift. Mrs. Keenan had had it engraved to say, To Lindsay, my very own guardian angel. Lindsay had worn it every day since, pinned to her shirt.

  “You probably dropped it outside,” Rob said. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

  “Yeah, I hope so,” Lindsay said uncertainly. She took her coat from her locker.

  Rob began thumbing through a stack of files on his desk. “So, have you given any more thought to what we talked about the other night?”

  Lindsay crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, “You tease me for being a cougar, violating your sacred pinky swear oath, make fun of my angel pin, and then you have the gall to bring this up?”

  “Look,” he continued, “I know you think I haven’t given this any thought, and that I’m just being a coward. And I know chaplains are supposed to be ‘living our truth’ or whatever. I try to do that. If a patient asks me point blank about my personal life, I’ll tell them the truth, even if it means they kick me out of their room. You’ve seen that yourself. I’ve had people report my ‘deviant lifestyle’ to the hospital board and try to get me fired. And I’m sure you remember the time when that cancer-ridden old man, with barely an ounce of strength left in his body, asked me to come close and pray with him, and then turned his head and spit in my face. He’d heard that the hospital was ‘harboring queers.’”

  Lindsay put a sympathetic hand on his arm.

  “If I thought that it would do any good for my mother to tell her about John, I’d do it, but I really can’t see how it would,” he continued. “My mother isn’t going to change the way she feels, and even if by some miracle she could, it would alienate her from all of her friends back home. I don’t want her to have to choose between me and her church. If I told her, it would only be to make myself feel better. I’m caught between not bearing false witness and not honoring my parents. I’m between a rock and some stone tablets.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I brought you into this with my stupid lies.”

  “I know you’re not a coward. I know you’re walking a hard road. You and John chose to live in Mount Moriah, which doesn’t exactly have a thriving LGBT scene. There’s basically you guys and then that transvestite who works in the gas station.”

  “What transvestite?”

  “That man who dresses like a woman, but has huge, hairy hands and a face full of stubble.”

  “Um, Lins? That’s a woman. I saw her in the maternity ward a few months ago. She had twin girls.”

  “Really?” she grimaced. “Well, best of luck to them. They can do wonders with laser hair removal nowadays.”

  He smiled at her—the same disarming, twinkly-eyed smile he’d used a million times in the dozen years of their friendship. “So, will you consider it?”

  “I’ll consider it,” she said slowly. “But that’s all I’m committing to.” Lindsay’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked at the call screen. “It’s Warren.” Rob made a sour face.

  “Don’t start,” she cautioned. “Remember, you still need a favor from me. You should be on your best behavior.”

  “All right, but as your future husband, I’m not sure I can support you dating another man, especially one as smug and annoying as him.” Rob scurried out the door, narrowly avoiding the packet of post-it notes Lindsay hurled at him as he left.

  “Hey,” Lindsay said, catching Warren’s call on the last ring.

  “Hey. How was your night shift?” Warren’s voice was raspy and raw.

  “Pretty uneventful. How about you? You sound like you pulled an all-nighter. Either that or you up and decided to chain smoke a pack of unfiltered Marlboros.”

  “Yeah, it’s been a long night.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said at Rob’s house. All that stuff about Sarabelle caught me off guard. I just hate that she can still get to me, even when she’s not around,” Lindsay said. “Are we still on for lunch today?”

  “’Fraid not. That’s why I called.”

  Lindsay tried to mask the disappointment in her voice. “It’s okay. I should probably stop by to see my dad anyway. He’s still laid up with that slipped disc. He can hardly get out of bed.”

  “Poor guy. It’s a shame that he’ll be alone for Christmas.”

  “Oh, he won’t be alone. He’s a handsome, newly-single pastor. It’s hard enough to find any single men around here, but a single Christian man who still has all his hair? He’s not just a catch; he’s the dating equivalent of a 15-pound largemouth bass. Ever since my parents’ divorce was finalized, the middle-aged ladies of Mount Moriah have been practically clawing each other’s eyes out for the chance to cook his supper and clean house for him. Last time I went over there, I almost had to break up a fight between two women from his congregation who’d both brought him homemade Brunswick stew,” Lindsay said. “Anyway, what’s keeping you so busy this close to Christmas?”

  “We got some new information about Lydia Sikes’s death. It wasn’t a suicide. That’s for sure.”

  “So your hunch was right.”

  “Can’t say that I’m too pleased about it. If I’d’a had any inkling about how dangerous Swoopes was, I’d have done my damndest to make sure he stayed locked up. I can’t believe what a close shave you had with that man.”

  “We don’t know Swoopes killed her, right?” Lindsay asked.

  “All’s I’m saying is, until we figure out who did this, I want you to be careful. With the link between Swoopes and your mother, this whole thing is a little too close to you for my comfort. I’m glad you’re getting out of Mount Moriah for the week.”

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, you’re coming out to the Outer Banks for New Year’s Eve, so I’ll have New Albany’s finest as my personal bodyguard.”

  Warren paused. “Lins, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I might have to work all week.”

  “What?! You swore you’d come no matter what!”

  “I know the wedding’s important to you, but at the end of the day, it’s just a party with your friends. A woman’s murder has to take precedence.”

  Lindsay thought about Geneva’s advice. If she loved Warren, she shouldn’t say what she was thinking. She shouldn’t tell him that his dedication to work struck her as a form of selfishness, as a way of avoiding living a real life, and, she feared, avoiding really being with her. The angry words boiled up in her throat with such force that she had to physically pinch her lips shut with her fingers for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “You’re right, honey. You’re such a hard worker.”

  Warren had seemed poised to smash her words back at her. He sputtered, momentarily disarmed. “Well, this is an important case. There have been major developments.” He paused, going through the usual pantomime of keeping the details of the investigation confidential. He would invariably drop a tantalizing detail and wait for her to press him for more information. Without fail, he would confide
in her eventually, using her as a sounding board for theories about the cases he worked, and gleaning new ideas from her fast-firing brain.

  “You might as well just tell me,” Lindsay said, refusing to engage with the well-established charade.

  “Well,” Warren began, “there were some surprises in the postmortem and the ballistics tests. It appears that a different gun killed Lydia Sikes than what was found with her body. The bullet that killed her came from an antique Smith and Wesson Model 29, like what Dirty Harry used in the movie. Real big sucker, and they don’t come cheap. We’re talking thousands for one in top condition.

  “The gun that was found in her hand was a run-of-the-mill Beretta. The registered owner ran a bait and tackle store in Winston-Salem. But he’s been dead for two years. Nobody’s sure where the Beretta went after that, but generally speaking those guns aren’t hard to come by. You can get a new one down at Walmart for a few hundred dollars—a used one would be even cheaper, and obviously a stolen one would be cheapest of all. So whoever killed her wanted to make it look like suicide, but didn’t want to give up a valuable gun.

  “So he put a cheap one in her hand,” Lindsay shuddered involuntarily.

  “I believe so,” Warren said. “What I’ve gotta figure out is why anybody’d go through the trouble of making it look like suicide.”

  “Maybe all he needed was a smokescreen to buy him a little time.”

  “Could be,” Warren agreed. “But time for what?”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Lindsay said, “whether we want to or not.”

  Chapter 6

  Just after 8 p.m. on Christmas Eve, Lindsay pulled her car up to the front of a small coral-colored house in the historic, restored village of Corolla, North Carolina. Like all dwellings on the Outer Banks, the house had a standard postal address—what Lindsay thought of as its Sunday name, little used and reserved for official business. The house’s real name, the name it used for everyday life, was “Sailor Girl.” Such nicknames emerged from the maritime tradition of naming boats, and could change when the house changed owners. Vacation houses tended to make themselves over every few years—this year’s “Sunchaser” could be next year’s “Ocean Breeze.” Sailor Girl, however, had borne the same name, inscribed in tiny seashells on a wooden plaque, since Lindsay first came to the island as a child.