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

by Mindy Quigley

  “Couldn’t he have escaped? Did she keep him locked up or something?” Butterworth’s revelations were deeply disturbing for Lindsay, all the more so for the parallel to the more recent circumstance of Aunt Harding hiding Sarabelle in her house for months.

  “There wasn’t nowhere he coulda gone to where he wasn’t gonna raise suspicions. Don’t know if he spoke any English, even, and everybody was tuned in back then, trying to listen out for a German or Jap accent.”

  “What happened when they were discovered?” Lindsay asked.

  “Well, he got sent down to a POW camp in Oklahoma. Heard he died before the war ended. I don’t think she ever got over it. She brought me a German gun to restore a few years ago. She said it had sentimental value. She didn’t say whose it was or how she came by it, but I knew.”

  Lindsay was silent for a moment, remembering the gun lying on the floor of the shack next to her aunt’s body. “Was the gun valuable?”

  Butterworth raised an eyebrow. “Not particularly. Mauser pistol. Not in very good condition, from being in the salt water, I suppose. And everybody and their Great Aunt Fanny seems to have a Nazi gun in their collection, which keeps the prices down. I tried to convince Patty to leave it as it was because I didn’t think it was even worth what it’d cost to restore it, but like I said, she told me it had sentimental value.”

  “Speaking of sentimental things, have you ever heard of anybody named Rita Lutz? My aunt seemed to have some sort of attachment to her.” Since Butterworth was clearly plugged into the lore of the islands, Lindsay thought it might be worth a shot.

  “Can’t say that I have,” Butterworth replied.

  “What about Mari?” Lindsay asked, thinking of the worn scrap of cloth from her aunt’s safe. “Spelled with an ‘i’ at the end. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Mari? There was a Mari Gilbert, used to live down in Kitty Hawk. She moved to California twenty years ago or more. Wanted to grow almonds. No, wait. Come to think on it, I believe that gal’s name was Marie.”

  Lindsay thanked Butterworth and rose to leave, but then realized that something was troubling her. “Wait, didn’t Aunt Harding get in huge trouble when the soldier was discovered? I mean, what she did was practically treason.” Lindsay could scarcely believe that Aunt Harding had willingly risked her life for the love of an enemy soldier, especially when the stakes were so high.

  “Well, she did and she didn’t. Her ma and her old man—well, to say they was cross would be the understatement of the century. From what I heard, they tanned her backside something fearsome and locked her in her room. I think everybody reckoned it was better to treat her like a fractious child rather than a grown-up traitor. Those of us that knew her before heard about what happened of course, but mostly everyone didn’t care to mention it. Like I said, the military and the government wouldn’t’a been too excited to have a story like that come out. Especially not at that time when we still didn’t have any vessels in the whole U.S. Navy fleet that could sink a U-boat. For people to find out that a Jerry was on American soil, hidden by a little teenage girl who’d outfoxed all the patrols for weeks on end?” Butterworth let out a low whistle and shook his head. “No, ma’am. That’s the kind of thing that’s best kept hidden.”

  Chapter 18

  Since the murder, Lindsay had settled into a routine of running, getting phone updates from Claire Burke on the on-going manhunt for Leander Swoopes, ordering overpriced sandwiches from room service, and trying to avoid Big Lindsey at all costs. She steered clear of what appeared to be an unending cavalcade of pre-wedding festivities, fearing that her own preoccupations and pensive mood would spoil Anna and Drew’s happiness. The morning after she visited Butterworth, however, she shook off her passivity. There was clearly something mysterious going on. Butterworth’s depiction of her aunt as a brave, lovelorn teenager seemed so much at odds with everything she knew. And, based on her long experience of her aunt’s personality, the way the old woman hoarded odd tokens in her safe was inexplicable. Then there was the nagging question of why her aunt had been so desperate to conceal Sarabelle’s presence in her house.

  She retrieved the box of her aunt’s possessions from the drawer in her room and made her way down to the small business center off of the hotel’s lobby. Sitting down in front of one of the computers, she began keying in search terms. Her initial search of “Rita Lutz” yielded no hits, and a search of “Nancy Mix” was similarly unproductive. Digging deeper, she tried combing through Federal Census records to see if she could turn up anything relevant. The census records, however, were only publicly available beginning in 1940. Given that the newspaper article about the car crash was undated, it was impossible to know if Rita Lutz had been born before or after that time.

  A possible lead came in the 1940 census record, where Lindsay found an entry for a Lutz family in Virginia Beach. They had several children, but there was no mention of their having a daughter named Rita. She next called the offices of the Elizabeth City Daily Advance to see if their editions from the past few decades could be viewed online somehow. This, too, proved a fruitless endeavor. Any editions prior to 1985 had been destroyed in a flood decades before anyone had thought to record them digitally or even transfer them onto microfilm.

  Her investigations into Butterworth’s story about the German submariner proved more productive. Because of the war’s information blackout, no newspaper accounts of the soldier’s capture had been written at the time. However, the U.S. military records had now been declassified. Combing through the government’s online archives, she found mention of a POW named Peter Hunzinger, a sailor on the German U-Boat U-85, who had been captured near Corolla late in the summer of 1942. He had indeed been transferred to a POW camp, Camp Tonkawa in Oklahoma, where he later died. Though exhaustive attempts were made to interrogate him, he never revealed any information to the Americans other than his name, rank, and home town.

  A further search of “U-85” pulled up dozens of images of the wreck, lying silent and still, covered in marine life at the bottom of the Atlantic. As she clicked through the pictures, her eye caught something that made her gasp. It was a picture of a low-ranking submariner in full dress uniform. Like Peter, the man held the rank of Matrose, or seaman recruit—the lowest man on the U-boat totem pole. He wore a flat cap, similar to a beret. Around the brim ran a ribbon-like piece of material, about two inches wide, and on it, the word KRIEGSMARINE—“war navy” in German—was embroidered in an elaborate script. She compared the picture to the scrap of cloth that said MARI. Sure enough, they were identical.

  Her mind was spinning in a tight circle, like a speedboat without a rudder. Connections and possibilities were firing off in her brain, but she could think of no one with whom to discuss her theories. Finally, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Claire Burke.

  “Hi, Claire. It’s Lindsay Harding.”

  “Hi, Lindsay,” Claire said, sounding weary. “I’m afraid there’s nothing new to report.”

  “I found something that I think might be relevant to my aunt’s murder.”

  “Shoot.”

  “During World War II, she hid a German soldier for months. From the description, I wondered if she might have hidden him in the same shed where she was killed. And the gun was German, too. Maybe it was his. I’m not sure how it relates, but it seems important. And there’s another weird thing. A newspaper article about a woman named Rita Lutz. Why would she have cared that much about the death of a stranger? I’m wondering if Rita Lutz and my grandmother, Nancy Mix, could be the same person. They were the same age, and the description of the car accident seems to be the same.”

  “Lindsay, are you sleeping okay? Are your friends taking care of you?”

  “I’m fine,” Lindsay said, sensing the patronizing tone in Claire’s voice. “I know what I’m saying sounds a little crazy, but it seems relevant. My aunt only kept a few things in her safe. Things that were important to her. I recognized everything but a scrap
of Nazi cloth and this old news story.”

  “I know you’re trying to be helpful. And I know it must be frustrating that we don’t seem any closer to catching Swoopes. But we’re running down leads. We really think that Swoopes killed your aunt in a botched robbery. She probably got to know him through your mother somehow. Your aunt had started supplying him with guns for some reason, maybe to keep him away from Sarabelle or maybe in a scheme to get money, and things went sour. Think about how much more likely that is than her death having something to do with events that happened more than 60 years ago, long before Swoopes was even born.” She paused to allow Lindsay to absorb her words. “We’ll get the killer,” Claire soothed. “I promise.”

  “Can I at least bring this stuff by for you to look at?”

  “Why don’t I send someone over to get it first thing tomorrow? You can leave it at the front desk, okay?”

  Lindsay hung up and rested her forehead on the smooth wood of the computer desk. Warren would’ve listened to her. He trusted her hunches, and respected her intellect. But she could easily see that, to anyone else, the things that she was saying seemed like a disconnected jumble of useless information. She had no idea how the pieces fit together, but the answer seemed tantalizingly close. She thought seriously about calling him, but her festering anger stopped her. He didn’t really trust her. He’d practically accused her of being complicit in her aunt’s murder. Why would he listen to her now?

  “So this is where you are? I’ve hardly seen you since you got here.”

  Lindsay looked up to see Anna standing in the doorway. She wore a silky crimson dress with black ballet flats. She held an expensive-looking embroidered shawl around her shoulders to ward off the December chill. She looked as beautiful as ever, but a line of nervous tension bisected the space between her eyebrows.

  “I was just looking at some stuff on the computer.”

  Anna put her hands on her hips. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  Lindsay slapped her forehead. “The rehearsal. Sorry.” She glanced at her watch. The wedding rehearsal and dinner were set to start in 45 minutes. She’d spent the entire day online and completely lost track of the time. “Don’t worry, I can get ready quick.” She was wearing the outfit that had become her uniform over the past few days—jogging pants, sneakers, and an oversized t-shirt.

  “Hurry up, okay? Rob just texted to say that he’s not going to make it until after dinner now. I know it’s a terrible week for you, and if you’re not up to it, I understand. But tell me now, okay? You’re my maid of honor, and I’m relying on you.”

  “I’m really, really sorry. I’m up to it. I’ll be ready. I promise.” Lindsay had observed how, as the day of the wedding drew nearer, Anna’s usual laid-back demeanor had slowly eroded to reveal a new and decidedly un-improved Anna—a stressed-out, frightening control freak.

  “My mother offered to make up the seating charts and get the order of service printed. She found a printer in Kitty Hawk that can do them on short notice, thank God. And she and I are going to spend tomorrow making up all the wedding favors.”

  “Oh. I thought you said that you weren’t going to do wedding favors and seating charts? Didn’t you want to keep everything really casual?”

  Anna let out a sigh of exasperation, as if the idea of a casual wedding were a ridiculous concept that Lindsay herself had invented on the spot. “My mother convinced me that everything would run smoother if we did a bit more pre-planning.” Her head bobbed up and down as she spoke in a manic nodding motion. “Anyway, she’s also going to help you with the flowers on the day of the wedding so you don’t have to stress about it. Now I’m really regretting telling Geneva that she didn’t need to get here until the morning of the wedding. I mean, what if she gets stuck in traffic or something? If the officiating minister doesn’t show up, what are we supposed to do?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be here,” Lindsay consoled. “And luckily, you’ll have no shortage of ordained ministers, right? I mean, Rob or I could just step in.”

  What was offered by Lindsay as a light-hearted joke was received by Anna as an assault on the institution of marriage itself. “No, no, no, no! The maid of honor has to help me get dressed and hold my flowers and hand me Drew’s ring when it’s time for that. And Rob needs to make sure everyone sits in the right places during the service and help everyone get seated where they’re supposed to be for dinner. Oh! I better have my mother double check that Mike doesn’t lose track of the rings. You’d never guess that he used to be a successful lawyer. He’s such a flake—no help at all. I think he’s mad at me because we decided to hire a professional photographer instead of having him and Owen take the pictures. Isn’t that petty? I mean, it’s my wedding, right?”

  “Is it?” Lindsay asked, raising an eyebrow. “It sounds a little like you’re letting it become everybody else’s wedding.”

  “With large groups of people, it’s better that everybody knows what to expect. It’s all way more under control this way,” Anna replied firmly.

  “You seem kind of…jittery. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “It’s all taken care of. All you have to do is be where you’re supposed to be and do what you’re supposed to do. Talk to my mother if you have any questions.”

  While they were talking, Anna’s mother had sauntered up behind them. “There you are, Little Lindsay! You’re so tiny you seem to be able to disappear almost anywhere! Ladies, we must get going. Anna, why don’t we go ahead and try out your wedding day makeup tonight? That way, there’s still time tomorrow for me to run out and buy different products if something doesn’t work out, okay? I’ve already started some of the calligraphy on the wedding favors so we won’t be so pressed for time tomorrow.”

  Lindsay looked at Anna. “I thought you were leaving tomorrow free so you and Drew would have a whole day to relax before the big day? Wasn’t that the whole point of having the rehearsal tonight? To set a nice, easy pace? Plenty of down time?”

  Big Lindsey clicked her tongue. “A lot of people travelled a long way to see Anna and Drew get married. We can’t have the ceremony be some slapdash affair. It’ll be much more relaxing for Anna to know that all the little details are safely in hand. They’re both trained surgeons, after all. They know you don’t just stroll into the operating room unprepared and hope that you have everything you need.”

  “But this is a celebration, not an appendectomy,” Lindsay protested. She looked to Anna for support, but Anna just nervously picked at one of her cuticles.

  “I think she’s right, Lins,” Anna said. “I was silly to think that we could pull of a perfect wedding without any effort.”

  “Well, that settles it, then,” Anna’s mother said with a sharp clap of her hands. “The rehearsal starts in 40 minutes. Try to be ready, okay?” She hooked Anna under the elbow and led her through the door, leaving Lindsay blinking in their wake.

  As promised, Lindsay managed to throw on a dress, pin her hair up, swap her glasses for contact lenses, and still arrive at the rehearsal with time to spare. She even put on mascara and lipstick, which she hoped would distract from the fact that she’d forgotten to pack any dress shoes and instead had to wear her running shoes. At least from the ankles up, she was the picture of maid of honor chic.

  With Big Lindsey frog-marching everyone from place to place with the aggressive bonhomie of a practiced socialite, the run through and dinner both ticked along like a Swiss watch. Before they knew what hit them, the last lingering guests were having after-dinner drinks on the deck overlooking the pool, and the night was drawing to a close.

  Lindsay stood in the shadows at the far edge of the deck, looking beyond the line of dunes that separated them from the ocean. Drew walked over and stood by her side. “Can I hide over here with you? It’s too scary over there.” He smiled and gestured to a knot of women clustered around Anna. They were gathered under a tall outdoor heater, all sipping brightly-colored cocktails. Big Lindsey’s laughter thundered
across the wide space, competing with the low roar of the ocean.

  “How are you holding up? Things seem to have gotten a little, um, intense in the past few days.” Lindsay said.

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly what we planned.” He shrugged. “Her mom makes her crazy.”

  “I know the feeling,” Lindsay replied dryly.

  “Well, I’m going to enjoy this, no matter what. I kind of like this take-charge, crazily organized side of her, actually. It appeals to the surgeon in me. All this planning, everything in its proper place. Who knows, maybe now she’ll be more open to my idea of putting our spice rack in alphabetical order?”

  “Personally, I prefer the normal Anna, disorganized spice rack and all,” Lindsay said.

  Drew laughed. “I guess I do, too. I like that she sabotages my attempts to keep the house perfect and that she doesn’t freak out when plans have to change at the last minute. And how she sometimes makes me take off my rose-colored glasses and just accept that things don’t always work out like I want them to. Let’s hope we get that Anna back when this is all over.”

  “Here’s to messy spice racks,” Lindsay said, clinking her champagne flute against his.

  Drew looked across at Anna. Even in the semi-darkness, she outshined every woman around her. “I really am the luckiest guy on earth.” He inhaled and sighed contentedly. “Speaking of lucky, Anna said you grew up not far from here. That must’ve been great. I love being by the ocean, where you can really see all the stars. It’s kind of comforting how we all live and die and change, but everything out there just stays exactly the same.” He gestured to the wide expanse of star-spangled night.

  Lindsay furrowed her brow. “I guess I don’t really see it that way. I mean, the sky is living and dying, too. It’s a cosmic warzone out there—stars exploding, huge chunks of space rock crashing into other stuff. Every millisecond, something new is happening, on this huge scale. It’s like a play with a hundred billion characters in it.”