Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  Shelby scooted out from under the desk and stood up, grinning. Wow! Living in Port Scuttlebutt was more exciting than the city. Even without theatre. She glanced into the bathroom and quickly took some notes, then hurried out into the hallway, feeling slightly guilty about overhearing the conversation.

  Alice was trudging up the stairs, an upright vacuum cleaner in hand. She set it down at the top and began unwinding the cord. A wispy lock of hair had come loose from her ponytail and she pushed it behind her ear, her mouth set in a grim line.

  Shelby could see she was not in the best of moods. She approached cautiously. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “If firing the one woman who was willing to help out around here is okay… then yes, it’s great.” She stuffed the cord into the outlet like a death thrust with a sword. The woman would probably make a good Hamlet in an all female version of the play. She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Actually, it’s terrible. The only time I was able to get away to shop or run errands, or just have a few moments to myself, was when that horrible woman came by to watch my father. It wasn’t often and he didn’t like it, but it was necessary for my sanity, and now I will surely go insane.”

  She would definitely make a great Hamlet. Shelby put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. This is our fault. You shouldn’t have to stick up for Blake or…”

  Alice cut her off. “How do you know…?”

  She shrugged. “Open vent. Big ears. Insatiable curiosity.”

  “Ah! You were in the gray room.” She glanced down at the notebook Shelby held. “You might want to add broken vent to your list. It won’t close.”

  “Good to know.” Shelby jotted it down. When she looked back up, Alice was staring at a painting on the wall, her eyes suspiciously damp. Rough seas threw a small boat about like a matchstick. Lightening flashed in the sky and off in the distance the dim glow of a lighthouse could be seen. “Local artist?” she asked.

  “My mother.”

  “Oh.”

  Alice rubbed a finger over her lips, a faraway look in her eyes. “When I was a child, my father found work on barges or fishing boats. He would often be gone for a week or two at a time. Mom painted in her spare time when he was gone. Almost every one of her works depicted a storm on Lake Superior. It was like she was painting away her fears. She said the lighthouse in the distance stood for hope.” She sighed. “Dad always did manage to come home safely.”

  Her words held a touch of bitterness and Shelby wondered if her relationship with her father was stretched thin because of circumstances or whether it had always been tenuous. Fathers had a different way of showing love to their daughters. She knew from experience. Sometimes it felt like they didn’t care at all.

  Shelby flipped her notebook closed and slid it in her back jeans pocket. She smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’m going down to that old boathouse to have a look around.”

  “It’s been closed up for years. We had a small sailboat once and then a fishing boat when I was a teenager, but we sold that…” she paused, her brows drawn tight in thought. “…at least eleven years ago.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s nothing in there to steal, as far as I know. Maybe some old nets or ropes. But everything, including the flooring, is probably decayed and falling apart. So be careful.”

  “No one uses it anymore? Not even a neighbor?” she asked, curiosity getting the best of her. “I could have sworn I saw a light outside the building during the storm last night.”

  Alice made a face and shook her head. “Probably just a reflection of lightening in one of those metal wind chimes my mom hung from the roof years ago. Don’t know why anybody would be hanging around that old shack now. Especially during a storm.” She pulled the vacuum to the side of the hallway so Shelby could pass, and flipped the switch. The roar of the old Kirby drowned out any thought of further conversation.

  <<>>

  Shelby stood on the dock soaking up the view. Lake Superior reflected blue sky today, innocent and calm. It lapped gently against the posts of the dock and nearby rocky shore, a caress of sorts as though reassuring an abused child after a raging temper tantrum. A couple of sailboats were already out, tiny specks on the horizon, taking advantage of perfect conditions.

  She took the four remaining steps down to the old boathouse, careful to test each board before putting her full weight on it. Some of the steps had been loose and unstable down the side of the hill to the dock and she had no doubt these boards were just as old and unsafe. She certainly didn’t want to take a tumble into icy water. Lake Superior never really got warm but right now it would be freezing.

  Up close the building looked even worse than Alice’s warning implied. She feared rickety boards and a cracked windowpane were only the beginning. A twist of the doorknob proved it to be unlocked, but she had to pull hard to get the warped door open. Swollen wood groaned as she yanked and the metal wind chimes hanging from the corner of the roof were set in motion, tinkling a discordant alarm. There was a clear path of pale, dirt free scrapes arcing away from the door as though it had been opened on a regular basis and recently. Had someone been visiting this place without the knowledge or permission of the owners?

  Shelby stepped inside and stared across the shadowed interior of the building, letting her eyes adjust. She slowly blew out a disappointed breath. Her seed of an idea hadn’t had time to fully germinate on her walk down here – a silly dream really – but the thought of directing a local theatre group someday, from this very spot, had filled her with anticipation. When Blake drove onto the B&B property the day before and she’d caught a glimpse of the boathouse down by the water, her imagination had soared. But now with dim light filtered through filthy windows, she could see how much work it would take to bring it up to code – not accounting for what would be needed to transform it into a stage – and she felt a bit disheartened. Blake’s idea of feasibility and hers would never be one. If he set eyes on this money pit he would nix the idea before she could even give it full voice. Even yet, there was something magical about the sound of water lapping outside this huge open room supported by heavy log beams and filled with pieces of a family’s past.

  She moved down the length of the building, avoiding a pile of broken boards and coils of rotting rope, cognizant of cobwebs swaying from the rafters as she disturbed the air. Just as Alice said, there were no boats here anymore. In fact, the place didn’t appear to have been used for water craft in quite some time. The large door that would open onto the water and allow access in and out was now shut and locked with a heavy plank.

  Further in, three dust covered oak barrels were lined up along one wall. She didn’t know what they were used for originally but she knew what she’d use them for. They would make perfect planters for summer – filled with bright geraniums, petunias and daisies – and brighten up the outside of the B&B.

  She tripped over a rusty fish tackle box sitting open in the floor, did a little side-step thing to avoid falling, and ended up with the heel of her shoe caught in a crack. Bending over to disengage, she managed to jamb a splinter under her nail.

  “Ouch!”

  At the sound of her voice something scurried across the floor and disappeared into a dark corner. Rodents. She shivered. She hated them. Moving carefully to avoid any other cracks in the floor, she stepped over a discarded oar and three-legged chair and peered through a grimy pane of glass. A beautiful view of the lake greeted her and she was reminded again of how great this was for a theatre setting.

  “Shelby?”

  Blake’s voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. She stumbled and fell over the chair onto a pile of old blankets. Imagining a nest of mice or spiders beneath her, she shrieked and tried to jump up quickly, only managing to get her foot tangled in a coil of heavy rope, causing her to fall face first back into the filthy blankets. The smell of sweat and fish guts assailed her senses and made her stomach churn.

  Her husband was b
y her side in an instant, strong arms pulling her back onto her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked, trying not to laugh but his eyes betrayed him.

  She released her death grip on his neck and stepped back, “I’m fine,” she said, even as her eyes darted here and there searching the floor for scurrying critters. “What are you doing here? I thought you were spending the morning with Tucker.”

  “We hung out for a while but he had to go open the store. He’s all serious and responsible now that he’s a business owner,” he said, making a silly face. “Besides, I wanted to come back to tell you that I’m sorry I got angry.”

  She shook her head and moved back into his arms, tilting her face up toward him. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I volunteered your services without talking it over with you first. I didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened. And then Mr. Booth was so happy and I couldn’t take it back even when I saw the look on your face. I’m truly sorry.”

  “No you’re not.” He smiled, shaking his head. “You thought getting me involved in a homicide was a good way to help make up my mind about buying the place.”

  “I…” he put a finger over her lips, stopping her denial.

  “You were right. If we’re going to live here, I need something to do besides…” he paused, glancing around the dilapidated boathouse, “…demolition.”

  “You can’t demolish this place. It’s practically an antique. It’s probably on somebody’s historical preservation list.” She moved back, waving a hand to include the entire dust-covered, cobweb-laced, creaking-floored room. “I’ll chain myself to that anchor in the corner if you try,” she threatened, raising her voice to get a feel for the way sound carried in the old building.

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her close, kissing her before she could argue anymore. Their kiss was cut short when he drew back, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “What is that smell?” He bent and sniffed the sleeve of her sweater. “Yuck! You smell like rotten fish guts and…” he stopped abruptly and turned around. Crouching down, he lifted the edge of the pile of moth eaten blankets she had recently fallen into.

  Shelby peered over his shoulder as he rummaged around. He pulled a hardback book out from under the pile and flipped open the front cover. There was a slip of white paper inside with one word printed in blue ink: ENJOY. The book title was, The Greatest Story Ever Told. The worn cover matched the covers of the books Blake had borrowed from Alice’s library. “What’s that doing out here?” she asked.

  “I think I might have an idea,” he said. He replaced the book under the blanket and stood up. “Let’s get out of here and get some fresh air and I’ll tell you all about homeless Jack.”

  <<>>

  Outside, the air was indeed fresher and much cooler. Shelby took Blake’s hand as they climbed the steps up to the house. She pointed out the broken or rotting boards that needed replacing and he made a noncommittal grunt each time as though he wasn’t really listening.

  “Who is Jack?” she finally asked, as they crunched across the gravel. She stopped beside Blake’s truck and placed her hands on her hips. “Is he really homeless or is that a nickname for another guy you went to high school with?”

  “He’s as homeless as Port Scuttlebutt allows him to be,” he said, a smile in his voice. “And no, I didn’t go to school with him. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably somewhere in his late seventies. But I can’t be sure. When I was a kid I asked him straight out. He told me age didn’t really matter because he’d always be younger than the forest and the lake.”

  “And you think this old homeless guy is living in the boathouse?”

  “Not living per se.” He pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Probably just using it for a little vacay. It is a B&B, after all,” he said, pointing at the sign.

  The front door of the house opened and Alice stepped out onto the porch. She waved them over. “Farley called. He said you set up a meeting.” Her eyes held a question but she didn’t voice it outright.

  Shelby looked at Blake. “You did?”

  “Yep. Thought we might as well get a deal on the table.”

  “Really?” She couldn’t keep eager excitement from her voice or a smile from her lips. Showing the owner how much she wanted the old place was probably not the best deal making technique, but she didn’t care. She grabbed Blake’s arms and hopped up and down, squealing with joy.

  Alice leaned against the porch banister. “Watching you two is like watching a newlywed reality show. How long did you say you’ve been married?”

  “Long enough to see the error of my ways,” Blake teased, holding Shelby close so she couldn’t jump anymore. “Someone has to watch out for her. It was either this or have her committed.”

  Shelby grinned. “Instead, we were both committed… till death do us part.”

  “Okay then,” Alice laughed. “Farley said he’d be here around three. He had a couple of showings this morning.”

  “In Port Scuttlebutt?” Blake asked.

  “No, I think they were down near Eagle Harbor. Why?”

  “Just wondering. I hadn’t noticed any For Sale signs around town.”

  “Not much point in putting up a sign if no one is going to see it.”

  “True. This isn’t exactly a booming metropolis, but you do still have a few tourists through here on occasion, don’t you?”

  Shelby wondered if he was more worried about the B&B paying for itself than he’d let on. She loved the place but if he weren’t going to be comfortable with the debt and management then she would let the dream dissipate. No point setting her hopes on something that would make them both miserable in the end.

  A gust of wind blew, sending the Drunken Sailor sign swinging and creaking. Alice pulled open the screen door. “As a matter of fact, we do. Just had two this week,” she said, and went back inside.

  “Did she just call us tourists?”

  Blake had a frown between his eyes. “I believe she did.”

  Chapter Eight

  Farley Jones wasn’t just a real estate agent; he was a salesman, heart and soul. Blake learned the man organized a campaign and ran for mayor the year before. In the history of Port Scuttlebutt, there had never been a mayor. It wasn’t big enough to need a mayor. There was a council that met once a month if there was anything to discuss, but there was no money in the budget for salaries and no expectations. The members were volunteers, mostly business owners, who cared about the town and gave up an hour of their time now and then to make sure everything ran smoothly.

  Farley was well liked by the locals, mostly because he’d donated the money needed to repair the port dock two years before, but also because he was one of those guys with the gift of gab. He could start a conversation with William “Billy the killer” Miller, the Michigan depression-era outlaw, and end up at the local bar, drinking beers and watching the game together.

  Blake wasn’t impressed. He’d seen too many guys like him in the city. Throw a little family money around, kiss a few babies, shake a few hands, grease a few palms, and they’re in. A sucker was born every minute, but a politician took years to evolve. From slime to slimier. As far as he could see, whenever politics came into play, the game of life got a whole lot more complicated and dangerous. He’d seen it happen in the police force, and he didn’t want to see Port Scuttlebutt torn apart because of one man’s desire for power and a title.

  “Mr. Jones,” Shelby said, managing to arrest Farley’s attention in the middle of his welcome to Port Scuttlebutt speech, “are you the only real estate agent in town?”

  “Yes, I am, young lady. Makes sales go much smoother when there’s no competition.”

  He leaned forward, turning the sales papers around for them to read across the table. Wavy brown hair sat on his head like an animal pelt, and reminded Blake of rich New Yorker, Donald Trump. “It’s all pretty straight forward, except for the business with the beach,” he said, glancing toward the kitchen where the Booths waited to hear their of
fer.

  “The beach?” Shelby crossed her arms, a frown between her brows.

  Farley lowered his voice. “The property lines have been somewhat eroded since the house was built. A hundred years can make people lose track of the truth. The Booths have always believed their property line extended to the water, but new documents have come to light that refute that claim and place the property line closer to the top of the hill.”

  “What about the boathouse? They wouldn’t have been allowed to build there if it wasn’t their property, right?”

  He lifted his hands in a shrug. “Before I accepted the position of Mayor,” he said, as though the town had begged him to run, “there was really no one keeping track of such things. The library has a small historical document section but it’s a complete jumbled mess. The current librarian, Miss Roper, is a volunteer, as her predecessor was, and clearly doesn’t take her job seriously. I offered to help her sort things out, but she refused. Said it did not fall under the jurisdiction of the Mayor’s office.” He gave an oily, thin-lipped smile. “Not that I have an official office. Just the one in my home.”

  “What are you saying exactly?” Blake asked. “Do you or don’t you have legal documents that prove ownership of the beach area?”

  “A document was brought forward, but it seems to have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared, my arse!” Mr. Booth bellowed from the now open kitchen door. “You are a lying, cheating, dirty rotten…”

  “Dad, please.” Alice put a hand on her father’s arm and tried to steer him back into the kitchen before he finished his diatribe, but he wouldn’t be deterred.

  He shrugged her hand away, a grim look of determination pulling his mouth down at the corners. “I will not be silenced! Your mother fought this lie and put it to rest, and I won’t let this scoundrel stir it up again.”

  Farley Jones leapt to his feet, puffing out his double-breasted chest. “How dare you call me a scoundrel, you old sea scum!”

  A dry laugh burst out of Mr. Booth, foreign and unexpected. Alice stared at him, mouth agape, as he shuffled closer to his nemesis. “Your true colors are flying now, Farty!”