The Boathouse (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 14)

by Vickie McKeehan

  “You are worked up about this.”

  He took a seat at the table. “Damn straight, I am. I look at my kids and worry about the future. Their future. We both know the guy we’re looking for is still walking around out there. If we believe he’s the one who murdered your sister, then he’s capable of killing a child. How do you think that makes me feel? I get the impression this guy will take out anybody who gets in his way and not think twice about it. And what about you? How do you feel knowing that you’ve probably bumped into him a time or two since you’ve been back? What if he’s come into the hardware store a dozen times over the years and talked to you personally while picking up his nuts and bolts?”

  The idea of that had Tucker’s hands shaking as he slid the eggs out of the pan onto a plate. “I considered the possibility once I got back from Florida. The killer has to still live here. Why else would Dad move Mom away from everything she knew?”

  “Here I’ve been ranting about how this is affecting me. I can’t imagine how you feel. Ever want a bunch of kids of your own?”

  Tucker sucked in a breath and realized he hadn’t given it much thought. Glancing down at the eggs, he realized he’d lost his appetite. No longer hungry, he held his plate out to Brent, who grinned. “Thanks. So, have you ever wanted to carry on the Ferguson name?”

  “Probably not a good time to ask me that.”

  “Neither had I until it happened. Meeting the right woman has a way of changing your perspective.”

  “Maybe. But right now, I’m too focused on finding out who killed Tessie to worry much about the Ferguson line.”

  “Let’s hope the Gaylords have answers. Got any jam for the toast?”

  It was Tucker’s turn to grin. “Sure. Let me get that for you, Chief.”

  “A guy’s gotta eat. While you’re in the fridge, I could use some ketchup for the eggs.”

  Half an hour later, the two men walked next door to the Gaylord house. But it was Brent who stopped short of the front door. “I forgot to mention, we got the DNA back from the lab. The DNA from Mrs. King is a familial match to the female in the concrete pillar. The male’s DNA was a close match to his older brother. Our victims have names now—Britta King and Tate Burrows.”

  “You sound confident. What about dental records?”

  “Two Seattle dentists are faxing the kids’ records to Crossley. We should have definitive ID soon. But as far as I’m concerned, we’ve ID’d our victims. Tate’s brother sent us some photos he got from film left in Tate’s car. He developed it thirty years ago. It seems the girl took pictures of several landmarks around town, which proves the kids were on that beach in August. Now we just need to find their killer.”

  “Two more families devastated by this guy. The list goes on,” Tucker muttered as he rang the doorbell.

  Astor answered in a housedress with big orange flowers in the pattern. “Why hello there. What brings you two out and about this early?”

  Her face contorted into a frown. “Has something happened? Did we miss an emergency alert? Brush fire? Earthquake? We’re not evacuating, are we?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Tucker began. “We just want to talk, reminisce. I wanted to ask you and Arthur about something that happened a long time ago, right here in the neighborhood, something I’ve never asked about before. I brought Brent along to cover my bases.”

  “Talk? Well, sure, come on in. I’ve got fresh coffee made and just took a batch of my cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”

  “I couldn’t eat a thing,” Brent said, rubbing his stomach as he walked into the living room.

  Tucker sent the cop a sidelong glance before turning to Astor. “I could eat one of pastries since I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “Then let’s move into the kitchen. Get comfortable, and I’ll make you a plate, bring over the coffee.” Astor went to the sliding glass door and tapped lightly on the glass, motioning for her husband to come inside. “Arthur’s out there with his binoculars looking at the pelicans. We’re both serious birdwatchers, you know, keep detailed records of what we see and how the birds progress. We keep it all in our log. Right now, we’re devoted to the nesting family of brown pelicans we have in that low-lying marsh section of our backyard. You should go down there, take a look. Great way to spend a morning. The pelicans are so adorable with their baby chicks.”

  Tucker wandered over and waved to Arthur through the glass. In return, Arthur had draped his field glasses around his neck, allowing his free hand to pick up his cane. Tucker watched as the elderly man made his way back to the house. “Does he need help?”

  Astor busied herself with lifting out the cinnamon rolls from the pan and pouring coffee. “No, he’s fine. He likes to do things on his own. We have a bench out there a good forty feet from the nest where we sit and observe the birds in their natural habitat. It’s fascinating to watch. Better than any of the trash on TV these days.”

  Brent grinned at that as Astor delivered the tray to the table. “How long have you guys been birdwatchers?”

  “All our lives. That’s how we met at UC San Diego. Birding. During our years in college, we’d go out and birdwatch. Obviously, we’d do more than that,” Astor chuckled to herself. “But we’re the ones who documented the nesting habits of the least terns living down in the Batiquitos Lagoon near Encinitas. We wrote a paper about it. And then we came up here for the snowy plovers. That’s when we decided to stay and make Pelican Pointe our home.”

  Arthur came in as excited as a boy at Christmas. “Oh, Astor, you missed it. Mr. Big got all territorial and defended the castle against a lone loon that dared come too close to the nest.”

  “As I recall, you wanted your thermos filled with fresh coffee,” Astor pointed out mildly. “I came up here to make it. Good thing, though, we have a couple of guests who want to talk to us about something important.”

  Arthur plopped his weight down into a chair. “Something important? Does it have anything to do with that fella we spotted running through the bushes last night?”

  Brent sat up in his chair. “You saw someone?”

  “An older guy, late fifties, maybe sixty, out walking in the woods a little too close to the pelicans. I shooed him away myself,” Arthur claimed.

  “What did he look like?” Tucker asked.

  “Too dark to see much. But I did notice he had gray hair and wore a heavy mackinaw. Seemed out of place to wear a jacket like that in summer.”

  Astor took a seat next to her husband. “Okay, what is this you want to know? Is it about that guy or something else?”

  Tucker cleared his throat. “I’d like to know whatever you can remember about the day Tessie was murdered?”

  “Murdered? Oh, my stars,” Astor said, almost losing her grip on the coffee cup. “Your parents told us she fell out of the treehouse.”

  Arthur traded looks with his wife. “Told you something was fishy about that whole story.”

  Astor nodded and looked over at Tucker. “He did. Back then, he thought the entire thing was odd. And the scene that day along the street proved it was odd. Police cars everywhere. So many deputies showed up for a fall. Must’ve been half the County who turned out that Sunday morning. It seemed strange, so many showing up for an accident. But we thought because it involved a child, the authorities put a call out to everyone.”

  Arthur shook his head at the memory. “You see, by the time all the cops showed up, the little girl was already deceased. The coroner came, carried her body right past us. So, you see it’s confusing. If anybody thought she died from taking a tumble, why so many cops at the scene? It didn’t add up for me.”

  “What time was it when you began to see the police cars?”

  “I’d say around nine, nine-thirty. I remember because Astor and I were headed up the coast to Point Reyes to backpack and take photos of the hooded merganser and the green-backed heron. But we couldn’t even get out of our driveway. There were that many police cars lining the street.”

&nbs
p; “We postponed the trip,” Astor added. “But around ten-thirty, we were standing outside, gawking, I suppose like everybody else when this deputy came up to us and said that there’d been an accident. It involved Tessie. We didn’t find out until later from your father that she’d fallen down by the ravine and hit her head. Died right there on the spot.”

  Tucker put down his fork. “That’s just it. Tessie didn’t fall. She didn’t hit her head. She didn’t drown. I recently got hold of her autopsy report and discovered she’d been strangled, smothered slash asphyxiated. When I got home from my scouting trip that afternoon, they told me a different story—Tessie drowned. So somewhere between 10:30 that morning and the afternoon when I got home, they backtracked. And that’s pretty much the way my parents left things for more than three decades.”

  “But why lie like that?” Arthur wanted to know. “If somebody murdered her, why lie? Wouldn’t your parents want to find the guilty party?”

  “You’d think so,” Tucker lamented. “You see why this is so troubling, so confusing for me this many years after the fact.”

  “Absolutely,” Astor noted. “I’d be furious to know they lied to me about such a horrible thing.”

  “That’s why we’re trying to find out now what you remember,” Brent tossed out. “If you think of anything else that might be significant, call me or call Tucker. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “There is one thing,” Astor began. “It might be nothing. But we found it odd. After it happened, after that day, your father had this very strange habit of sitting out on the back patio at night with a shotgun across his lap.”

  “Very troublesome behavior for us,” Arthur admitted. “We weren’t sure who he wanted to shoot.”

  “I remember him doing that,” Tucker confirmed. “He did that for probably three years afterward. He’d stay out there staring into the woods. He’d still be there when my mom made me go to bed. You couldn’t talk to him or disturb him. He was like one of those queen’s guards, just stayed still as a statue, never moving, never talking, never saying goodnight or putting me to bed.”

  When Tucker realized what he’d said, his cheeks turned crimson. “Sorry. But I do still remember him sitting out there with the gun.”

  “It sounds to me like your father was afraid the killer might come back,” Astor pointed out.

  “Could be. But since he’d claimed Tessie drowned, I would’ve had no idea his guarding the house in the evenings had anything to do with what happened to Tessie.”

  “No one would have,” Brent concluded. “But it’s fascinating knowing how on edge he must’ve been.”

  “Astor’s right. Dad thought the killer would come back. And this time, he wanted to be prepared.”

  Twenty

  By two-thirty that afternoon, the June gloom had broken and given way to clear skies.

  Bodie showed up at the store with sodas and sandwiches in her picnic basket. This time, they stayed put and huddled in the breakroom to eat the food.

  He told her about his conversation with the Gaylords.

  “So they were told a completely different version of events,” Bodie concluded. “Why?”

  “Look, I can only assume that my parents didn’t want anyone knowing Tessie had been murdered. They didn’t want it out there in the general public. I mean, who acts that way with a murdered child? To me, it means they both knew that the possibility existed that her death had something to do with my dad’s past activities.”

  “But you’ve found nothing to prove that.” She held up a hand. “I’m not disputing it. But I am convinced your parents knew Tessie’s killer.”

  “So am I. That’s the problem. All I have so far is my gut feeling, a few memories of that day, and then later growing up in a dysfunctional household, remembering how weird my parents acted whenever Tessie’s name came up. That’s not much, is it?”

  “Maybe you need to clear your head. You know, a change of scenery would help.”

  He picked up her hand. “This hasn’t been fair to you, has it? Since we met, I’ve had one distraction after another. Let’s change the dynamic. How about tonight we do something fun? We’ll take Lago with us and go for a drive over to Santa Cruz, walk along the boardwalk. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds fine. But we don’t need Santa Cruz. We have our own patch of coast right here. And to tell you the truth, I prefer staying in town. Less traffic, less hassle for Lago. A nice quiet evening at home sounds like a wonderful thing to me.” She paused before playfully adding, “One reason I really wouldn’t want to move to Los Angeles.”

  He sent her a grin. “No chance of that. But I just thought a change of scenery might do us good. But okay, how about if I arrange to pick up a nice dinner to-go from Perry’s place? That way, neither of us has to cook.”

  “There you go, sounds perfect. We’ll eat outside under the stars and pretend we’re at a fancy restaurant overlooking the water.”

  For their night out, Bodie fussed over what to wear. At the last minute she decided on a cropped, lightweight boxy sweater in soft pink. She paired the off-the-shoulder top with a flowing floral skirt. The outfit looked summery, yet dressy enough to wear on a date.

  Tonight, she wanted an evening where the conversation flowed and didn’t drift to murder or bad memories. That’s why she’d suggested having the date at her house.

  Tucker arrived with bags of takeout and Lago in tow feeling friskier than the day before, the wound getting better every day.

  Unloading the sacks, Bodie gaped at the size of the order. “Looks like you got carried away. We’ll never eat all this.”

  “Perry was insistent we try the seven-course meal. From appetizers to soup to dessert, he gave us the works. That includes his mango ginger bisque, a vegetarian-recommended appetizer with cream cheese and spinach, along with a salad sporting a fancy name which I cannot for the life of me remember.”

  Bodie sniffed the air. “Something smells wonderful.”

  “That’s my steak, lobster, and bake potato.”

  “No way. That delicious smell isn’t beef; it’s the pesto covering my salad.”

  Tucker started rolling up his sleeves but stopped. He leaned over to cover her mouth. “Sorry. Hi there. I forgot to do that when I came in. You look amazing, by the way.”

  “Thank you. I thought you’d never notice.”

  “Oh, I saw you. Right away. But I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  Bodie already had the table set in the little kitchen. Tucker noticed the change. “I thought we were eating outside?”

  “I decided it’s cozier in here.” She poured wine into his glass, a nice light-bodied red in a fat bottle she’d picked up at Murphy’s. “Jordan recommended it.”

  Tucker gave it a taste and a thumbs up. “Fruity, not bitter. I like it.”

  Bodie took a seat and began to talk about whatever popped into her head. “Did you know Keva has completely gotten over Malachi?”

  “Just like that? How did that happen? And how do you know about it?”

  “While you were in Florida, dynamics changed. I was there the night she met this guy, a lawyer named Adam Harkness from San Sebastian. They’ve been seeing each other, going out somewhere different, every night since. I think she’s smitten.”

  The conversation throughout the meal seemed normal for a change. She caught him up on other things that had taken place while he’d been out of town.

  They each tiptoed around the serious topics, skirting any mention of homicides and cold cases. That lasted until they started to dig into the dessert—a dark chocolate mousse piled high with whipped cream—when the doorbell rang.

  Tucker paused with his spoon in midair. “Were you expecting someone?”

  “No. But I doubt a killer would bother ringing the bell.”

  “You never know.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Bodie got up and headed out into the living room with Tucker trailing after her. Staring into the peephole, she let out a low
moan. “What on earth?”

  Tucker’s stomach dropped. “Who is it?”

  “It’s okay. It’s just Ellie but…” Bodie’s voice trailed off as she opened the door to see the adorable puppy Ellie carried that looked exactly like Oliver’s Chewy. “What are you doing here? And why do you have Oliver’s dog?”

  “It’s not Chewy,” Ellie declared, proving it by holding up the pup’s underbelly. “This little girl is from the same litter. She weighs less and is slightly smaller than Chewy. And she needs a place to stay, a permanent place, Bodie.”

  There was an instant when Bodie wanted to say no. Logic told her to murmur the word. But how could she turn down this adorable ball of fur with the huge, dark-brown eyes? It wasn’t in her. She glanced over her shoulder at Tucker, then at Lago. The Goldendoodle had trotted over to sniff out the newcomer.

  “You might as well come on in,” Bodie finally said, taking the dog out of Ellie’s arms. She stroked the puppy’s head. “I don’t suppose she has a name.”

  “Not yet. I’ve been calling her Roxie for a couple of months now because she’s a pistol. But it’s up to you.”

  “Roxie, it is then. Is she the same one you brought by that night?”

  Ellie blushed. “You were so adamant you didn’t want a dog. But Jessica told me how instrumental you were in getting Chewy adopted, so I thought I’d try again.”