by Sarah Fox
“We could be in for a long wait,” he said, keeping his voice low, even though we were alone except for the mosquitoes and Tommy across the way.
“I know, but hopefully it will pay off in the end.”
With no telltale rumbling of an approaching engine, I remained standing and leaned against Brett, and he put his arm around me. Silence fell around us again, but after several minutes, Brett spoke quietly.
“Are you still scared?”
It took me a second to realize what he was talking about. I tipped my head back, but the darkness hid anything more than the outline of his features.
I considered his question, wanting to be sure I’d give him an entirely truthful answer. “Yes,” I said finally. “But not as much, and not as often.”
He gave me a gentle squeeze and I rested my head against his chest.
“What about you?” I asked after a moment. “Do you get scared?”
“About us?” He seemed surprised by the question.
I nodded, knowing he could feel the movement. “Chloe told me you’d been hurt badly in the past. Does it scare you to get close to people now?”
He didn’t answer right away, but I sensed that he was thinking about the question, rather than not wanting to reply.
“Maybe a little,” he said eventually. “No one wants to get their heart broken. But I also don’t want to let the past get in the way of the future.”
“I like that perspective.”
Across the clearing, a light flashed twice. I straightened up, listening, and a second later I heard the low rumble of a vehicle heading our way.
“This is it,” I said.
Brett and I sat back down on the log so we’d be shielded by the undergrowth. We didn’t have to wait much longer before a pickup truck backed slowly into the clearing, bumping over the uneven ground. I leaned to the side and peered through a gap in a huckleberry bush, hoping to get a look at the truck’s license plate, but I wasn’t at the right angle, and it was probably too dark to see any such details anyhow. I hoped Tommy’s borrowed camera would be able to pick it up though.
When the truck was in the middle of the clearing, the driver cut the engine. Two men climbed out of the cab and met up at the back of the truck. The taller of the two looked like Jake in size and build. When the shorter and stockier one spoke a moment later, the sound of his voice confirmed my suspicion that he was Kirk Jarvis.
“Let’s get this stuff unloaded and get out of here,” he said as he opened the tailgate.
My hands clenched into fists as the two men began removing items from the back of the truck and tossing them a few feet away. One object looked like an old tire, but I couldn’t tell what the others were. Fortunately, nothing they tossed to the ground rolled down the bank to the river. As long as nothing was leaking toxins, maybe a quick cleanup would prevent any lasting damage.
It was hard to sit there and watch what Kirk and Jake were doing. I wanted to charge out there and yell at them, but I knew that wouldn’t be wise. Who knew what lengths they’d go to in order to keep their illegal activities secret? As long as Tommy got some good footage, the dumpers would get what they deserved in the end.
Kirk heaved another item out of the back of the truck and dropped it at the edge of the pile of garbage.
“Is that the last of it?” Jake asked.
“Yep,” Kirk replied.
“Then let’s get going.”
Somewhere on the other side of the clearing, a branch snapped. Something thumped to the ground. Kirk and Jake both swiveled in that direction.
“What was that?” Jake sounded nervous.
I sensed that Brett was as tense as I was as we watched Kirk march toward the tree where Tommy was hiding. Kirk bent down to pick up a dark object off the ground.
“It’s a backpack.” He craned his neck to look up into the tree. “Who’s up there?”
“There’s somebody there?” Jake edged toward the passenger door of the truck.
“I know you’re up there!” Kirk bellowed. “You’d better get down here now.”
My hand closed around Brett’s wrist, my heart thudding with fear for Tommy.
Brett put two fingers in his mouth and let out a loud whistle.
Kirk and Jake spun around again, this time staring in our direction.
“Man, let’s get out of here,” Jake said. He yanked open the passenger door and jumped into the truck.
It only took a second for Kirk to follow his lead. As soon as he jumped into the driver’s seat, he gunned the engine.
“Stay here,” Brett said.
By the time I’d processed his words, he was already on his feet, pushing aside the huckleberry bush and running out into the clearing.
The pickup truck shot forward and out of my line of sight. Brett tore after it.
My heart thudding harder than ever, I swatted aside the undergrowth and hurried out into the open. I couldn’t see the truck or Brett.
A dark figure dropped to the ground across the clearing.
“Sorry about that,” Tommy said. “I hung the backpack on a branch, but it broke and fell.”
I barely heard his words. “Brett?” I called out.
The sound of the truck’s engine was growing fainter.
A loud bang cut through the air.
“Was that a gunshot?” I didn’t wait to hear Tommy’s answer, instead breaking into a run.
I tripped on a rock and hit the ground hard. Ignoring the dirt on my hands and the pain in my left knee, I pushed myself back to my feet and ran for the road.
“Brett?” I yelled again.
I could barely draw in a breath, terror constricting my chest. I rounded a bend in the dirt road and spotted a dark shape ahead.
“I’m here.”
Relief rushed through me at the sound of Brett’s voice. “Are you all right?” I asked as I reached his side.
“Fine, but I only got a partial plate number.”
I let out a whoosh of air. “I thought they’d shot you.”
“The engine backfired, that’s all.” He reached for my hand and I gripped his, my heart still galloping. “Hey.” He must have realized then how scared I was. He gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m okay.”
I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. My heart rate slowed down a notch as we turned toward the sound of running footsteps coming from the direction of the clearing.
“Everyone okay?” Tommy called out as he approached.
“We’re fine,” Brett said. “You?”
“All good here.”
“Did you catch it all on camera?” I asked Tommy.
“Yep. Got it all.”
“What about the license plate?” Brett asked.
“Nah. I didn’t have the right angle for that. But I zoomed in on the guys. The sheriff should be able to identify them from the video.”
“Between that and the partial plate, hopefully we’ve got them,” I said.
Tommy tucked the camera into the backpack and zipped it shut. “So what now?”
Brett already had his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll give Ray a call. He might be done with the accident scene by now.”
That turned out to be the case, but Ray was at his office in Port Angeles and would be tied up there for another couple of hours. As Brett related that information to me and Tommy after he’d hung up, I unsuccessfully tried to stifle a big yawn.
“He said he’ll speak to us in the morning,” Brett finished up. “That’s probably for the best, considering the hour. We all have to work in the morning.”
“And tomorrow’s the fundraiser day,” I added.
“I’ll leave the footage with you.” Tommy handed the memory card to Brett.
“But what about all the junk they dumped?” I asked.
“Let’s see what it is.” Brett led the way back to the clearing.
With the help of our flashlights, we examined the pile of trash. Along with the old tire, there were several pieces of scrap lumber, some pain
t cans, old insulation, and broken tiles. I wasn’t sure if I should be worried about leaving fingerprints, so erring on the side of caution, I covered my hand with the sleeve of my hoodie before lifting one of the paint cans.
“I don’t think this is empty.” I lifted up another can. “Same with this one.”
“At least they’re sealed,” Tommy said.
That was true. Nothing from the pile of waste was in immediate danger of leaking out onto the ground. And it didn’t appear to be waste from a clandestine drug lab.
I carefully set down the paint can. “Still, I don’t like leaving it here.”
“But don’t we want the sheriff to see it before it’s all taken away?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
Brett had his phone out again. “Tell you what, I’ll see if I can get in touch with Bill Archer from the Department of Natural Resources and find out what he has to say about it.”
I yawned again and swatted at a persistent mosquito as Brett put the call through. Despite the late hour, he got hold of Bill and let him know what had taken place. He described what had been left in the clearing and listened for a moment or two before thanking Bill and hanging up.
“He says he’ll be by first thing in the morning to check it out, but we can leave it for the time being.”
“Then I guess we should head home,” I said.
I cast one last, uneasy look at the pile of junk, and then we carefully navigated our way along the dark road to Brett’s truck. We dropped Tommy off at the house he shared with his roommates, and then Brett drove to my place. As he walked me to the front door, I yawned again.
Brett squeezed my hand. “Looks like you need to head straight for bed.”
“I’m about to fall asleep on my feet,” I admitted.
I unlocked the front door and kissed Brett good night. Although I was tempted to invite him in, I really was barely awake, and I needed every minute of sleep I could get that night.
With promises to talk the next day, I entered the house on my own and heard Brett’s truck rumble off along the driveway moments later. After setting out fresh water for Flapjack and checking to make sure I’d locked all the doors on the main floor, I headed upstairs to bed, hoping our nighttime adventure would lead to one of Wildwood Cove’s recent mysteries getting wrapped up.
—
I slept like a log that night, which was fortunate because as soon as The Flip Side’s doors opened at seven in the morning, I didn’t have a moment to rest. To my great relief, the fact that my name had yet to be officially cleared wasn’t keeping people away. The locals had come out in force to support the fundraising efforts for the gate and security camera for Mrs. Rideout’s property. Together with the usual steady stream of tourists, they kept the place packed, and despite my placing a few extra tables outside along the front of the building, there were times when hungry customers had to wait for a table to free up.
Around mid-morning, Patricia Murray popped in to see how things were going. On my way to replace an empty coffeepot with a full one, I paused to have a quick word with her.
“Wow,” she said as she surveyed the restaurant. “The place is hopping. That’s fantastic.”
“It is,” I agreed. I nodded at a jar on the cash counter containing several bills. “And people are making extra donations. How are things at the market?”
“Great. Not quite as busy as it is in here, but we’re still getting lots of people.”
She and I stepped aside as Sienna emerged from the kitchen, carrying two plates full of strawberry vanilla pancakes and maple pecan sticky rolls.
“Hi, Mom,” she said with a smile as she hurried by, delivering the plates to the proper table.
Patricia smiled after her daughter before turning back to me. “I’ll let you get back to work. And I’d better rescue John,” she said, referring to her husband. “I left him in charge of my market stall.” She was about to turn away, but stopped. “Oh, Gavin Paulson and his friend Marco have offered their free labor when the gate and camera need to be installed, as long as they’re in town at the time. They’ll both be going back to college in a few weeks.”
“Brett volunteered too.”
“Perfect. John will help out if he’s not out of town on business, so that’s a great start.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Thanks for organizing this, Patricia.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad you brought it to my attention.” She turned to go and waved as she went out the door.
I fetched a full coffeepot and made my way around the restaurant, offering refills. By early afternoon, the donation jar had filled impressively with bills and coins, and I felt a surge of pride for the townsfolk and how they’d rallied together to help out one of their own.
At two o’clock, I was about to close up the restaurant when Gwen Georgeson came in off the promenade. We exchanged greetings and she asked me how the fundraising had gone. I told her about the busy day and showed her the jar of donations.
“That’s fantastic, and I have some more good news.”
“Really? What’s that?” I asked, hoping she’d say that Ida’s killer had been caught.
“I just heard from Ray that Kirk Jarvis and Jake Fitzpatrick have been charged in relation to the illegal dumping by the river. He said you’d be interested.”
“I definitely am, and that’s great news.”
While it wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear the most, the news still brightened my already good day. “They’ll likely only end up getting fined,” Gwen continued, “but hopefully that will be enough of a deterrent to keep them from doing the same thing again.”
“Hopefully,” I echoed.
Gwen left a minute later, and I took a moment to enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that Kirk and Jake would pay for what they’d done. If the same could soon be said of Ida’s killer and the people responsible for the clandestine drug lab, all would be well in Wildwood Cove.
Chapter 23
Once at home later that afternoon, I flopped down onto the couch and stretched out. Flapjack padded over and stared at me.
“Am I taking up too much space?” I asked. “Sorry, Jack, but I need a nap.”
Apparently having decided he didn’t want to share the couch with me, Flapjack wandered off and my eyes drifted shut. As tired as I was from the busy day and my recent lack of sleep, I couldn’t get comfortable on the couch and only ended up tossing and turning. Eventually I decided I might have better luck upstairs in my bed, but before I could test that theory, someone knocked sharply on the front door.
Still longing for my bed, I crossed the foyer and opened the door.
“Mrs. Haynes,” I said warily when I saw Sheryl standing on the porch. I became even more uneasy when I noticed Melinda leaning against her mom’s car, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed in my direction.
“Hello, Marley.” Sheryl smiled, but there was something chilly about the expression. “I was about to leave this for you if you weren’t at home.” She held up a folded piece of notepaper.
Casting another glance in Melinda’s direction, I took the paper.
“I thought you should know how unappreciated your recent actions have been,” Sheryl said as I unfolded the note.
“My actions?” I skimmed over the handwriting. Although I didn’t read the note word for word, it was clearly a rant about what Sheryl referred to as my nosiness and disrespect for others.
“You’ve been disrupting our lives,” she went on.
“A woman was murdered,” I reminded her. “I was just trying to find out who was responsible.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t us!”
I looked down at the handwritten note again, and two dots connected in my head with a flash of understanding. “But you were behind the blackmail.”
Melinda pushed off of Sheryl’s car and stormed up the steps. “What are you going on about now?” Her mother’s face had paled, but Melinda was too focused on me to notice. “We weren’t behind anything. Ida was
the one blackmailing my dad.”
“I don’t think anyone was blackmailing your dad, and certainly not Ida.”
“Of course she was,” Sheryl protested, but her voice wavered.
“I found the blackmail note on my dad’s desk,” Melinda said. “Why else would it be there if he wasn’t being blackmailed?”
I held up Sheryl’s written rant. “Your mom tried to disguise her handwriting when she wrote the blackmail notes, but she didn’t do a very good job. Her Ks are very distinctive.”
Melinda opened her mouth to retort, anger flashing in her eyes, but when she glanced her mother’s way and saw her pale face, uncertainty replaced her ire. “Mom? It’s not true, is it?” Her mother’s lack of a response was enough of an answer. “But why?”
Sheryl’s pale cheeks suddenly flushed red and fury danced in her eyes. “Because they deserved to squirm. All of them. They deserved to know what it was like to fear the exposure of their darkest secrets.”
“Why did they deserve that?” I asked.
“Because they all knew mine! They whispered about me behind my back, snickered and looked down their noses at me. They thought I didn’t know, but I did. I knew. Ever since I moved to this wretched town.”
“You mean they knew about your dancing?” Melinda said. “Nobody cared about that, Mom.”
“Oh, yes they did. And they judged me for it. All of them, judging me every single day.”
“Dancing?” I said. “What’s wrong with dancing?”
Melinda seemed startled by the question, as if she’d forgotten that I was there. “My mom was an exotic dancer before she married my dad,” she explained. “In Miami.”
“So?” I said.
“You might be from the big city,” Sheryl said, “but the people in this town aren’t so open-minded.”
“So you blackmailed them for money?” Melinda asked, still sounding like she was having trouble accepting that.
