Molten Mud Murder

by Sara E. Johnson

  I could live here forever.

  She had switched to running shoes, the left one blotched with yolk, and dodged puddles.

  When the sounds of the river intensified to standing ovation behind a curtain of vegetation, Alexa knew the falls were close. The cave Horne had told her about must be nearby, and she was tempted to search for it until she dropped the egg basket. Her thoughts jumped to the women and children who once hid from rival tribes, paralyzed. Imagine hiding in the dark, mothers clutching and hushing little ones.

  Scooping up the basket, Alexa picked up her pace. A scrabble from behind made her turn. Another walker? Except for Egg Boy, she had not met a single person on the path. The thick, tall flax stalks quivered, opposite sides leaning toward each other in shadowy conspiracy.

  But no one emerged.

  Shortly after passing the falls, she came to the side path and veered onto it. In five minutes, she had climbed a small rise. Below, about fifty yards away, a clapboard gray house, weathered and homey, nestled near an outbuilding. Alexa started toward it when a commotion made her whip around. A flash of fur and teeth encircled her.

  “Stop,” she screamed. “No!”

  A rumble of a fast-approaching four-wheel ATV drowned the barking. The Egg Boy was at the wheel.

  “Back. Back down,” Stevie commanded the dogs. “Sorry about that,” he said, cutting the engine. “They won’t hurt you.”

  Famous last words.

  The two dogs jumped on the back of the four-wheeler and grinned at her, tongues lolling.

  “We meet again,” she said, her heart hammering. Even when dogs didn’t ambush, she was nervous around them. “I want to meet your mother, thank her. I’m guessing the welcoming committee belongs to you?”

  “Eh. They’re friendly, I promise. This is Iris, with one blue eye.” Stevie leaned back and patted her. The border collie returned the affection with a lick to Stevie’s cheek, melting Alexa’s heart a tad. “And this is Echo.” Brown and scrawny, Echo barked.

  “They look ready for action. How many animals do you have on your farm?” Alexa was thinking Flying Fish Farm might be larger than she thought.

  “Six sheep. Three lambs. I was checking on them. And chooks. Look. There’s my mum.” He pointed toward a car pulling up the drive. “Wanna lift?”

  “How could I resist?” The dogs hopped off as Alexa hopped on. “Sorry, guys,” she laughed.

  They took off with a jerk, the dogs barking and nipping the wheels. In a jiff, they were on the driveway next to a green compact car. A woman was emerging. Her sandy blond hair was swept into a topknot, adding inches to her frame, and her dangling greenstone whale-tail earrings caught the waning light and matched her eyes.

  “Hello,” she said, sending a questioning look at her son. “Who have you found?” A tween-aged girl got out of the passenger side and stared.

  “Hi.” Alexa waved. “I’m renting your cottage.” She climbed off the ATV. “I wanted to introduce myself and return your basket. That was so kind of you to have Stevie deliver fresh eggs.” Alexa wondered how much of the egg debacle Stevie had shared. “And I wanted to apologize for the phone call from the police yesterday. Just routine, I assure you.”

  “It’s all good. Maybe you can fill me in sometime. I’m Sarah Ingall. This is my daughter, Lucy. Why don’t you come in? I’ll fix tea. Lucy—will you get the groceries into the house?”

  Lucy glared.

  “No thank you,” Alexa said. “I have rice cooking and need to get back. But I’d love to come another time.”

  “Right-o. You’re here for another week, eh? Maybe for a glass of wine instead of tea. Do you have everything you need at the cottage?”

  “Yes. Yes to both. The fresh lavender in the vase is lovely.”

  “There’s more growing alongside the cottage. If you have trouble sleeping, put some next to the bed.”

  “I will. Thank you again for the eggs.” She handed Sarah the basket.

  “You’re welcome. You walked over?”

  Alexa nodded and looked down at Iris, who had plopped on her sneakers.

  “Why doesn’t Stevie run you home? It’s almost dark, and it would just take a second on the quad. You don’t mind, do you, Son?”

  Stevie revved the engine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was a dead bird in the cottage, right in the entry, its wings spread in a feathered fan behind its little body, arranged just so.

  What the hell?

  Alexa step-hopped to avoid squishing it. She had just waved Stevie off, the quad bike barely pausing, and walked into the unlocked cottage.

  There had been no bird in the cottage before she left. How had it gotten here? How had it died? Flown in through the door and crashed into a wall? Alexa reached down and touched its brownish-red breast with her pointer finger.

  Cold.

  She pushed.

  Stiff.

  This bird—her mind fluttered to the three similar ones that had burst through the trees on Pirongia—had been dead more than a couple of hours. Rigor mortis was close to maximum. Someone had put it here, had come into the cottage while she was gone. Immediately, Alexa straightened and eyed the room.

  Was that someone still here?

  She backed toward the front door and pressed against it. Stood statue still and listened, her eyes scouring the living area and adjoining kitchen. Only the bathroom and bedroom were out of sight. Silence, except for the sound of her heartbeat, amplified against her eardrum.

  “Hello,” she shouted. “Come out.”

  Alexa counted to ten. Wished for a Glock. She crossed to the bedroom in four strides and threw open the door.

  Empty.

  Bed made, book on nightstand, wet Keds tossed in the corner. She peeked into the bathroom, still humid from her shower, soggy clothes piled on the washer, shower curtain closed. In a burst of courage, she whipped the curtain open.

  Empty.

  No psycho in the shower. No bird man. Heart jackhammering, she retrieved her phone from her pocket and tried to think of who to call. The police? Bruce Horne? Terrance? Jeb? She was a castaway on this remote island so far from home.

  Home. Right. She didn’t have a home.

  What should I do?

  She stepped into the bedroom and sank onto the bed, forcing herself to calm down, breathe. It was just a bird. She dialed Horne’s number. “It’s me, Alexa,” she said when he answered. Shrill voices were in the background. Probably his girls.

  “What’s up?”

  “After you left, I went for a walk, and when I got back, someone had entered the cottage and left a dead bird. In the entrance.”

  “Come again?”

  “A bird. With its wings spread. It’s been dead for hours, so I know either you or I would have noticed it earlier. Someone broke in.” She could imagine one of his eyebrows rising.

  “Okay—let me recount. After I left, you went out? How long were you gone?”

  “Forty minutes.”

  “And when you returned, there was a dead bird on the porch?”

  “No.” Why wasn’t Mr. Calm and Collected listening? “In the cottage. In the little entryway.”

  Pause.

  “Bruce?”

  “I’ll send a patrol officer to check things out. Was the door locked?”

  Relief. “No. My bad. New Zealand feels so safe, I didn’t bother. Ironic, huh? Here I am working a murder case, Jenny is attacked in the police station, and I’m still under the illusion that Rotorua is safe.” She forced herself to stop rambling. “I did a quick search, and no one is in the cottage, and it doesn’t look as if anything has been disturbed.”

  “I’ll see who is closest, and we’ll get things checked out. You okay?”

  “Yes.” No. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  After s
ome deep breaths, Alexa felt fortified enough to check the rice. The cooker had kept it steamy and moist, the scent soothing. Chopping onions and garlic, glad for the knife in her hand, however dull, Alexa’s mind jumped to the dead bird holding court in the little entryway. She wanted to scoop it up and throw it in the river but knew she needed to show whomever the DI lassoed into checking it out. “Whomever” would probably bag it.

  Can you lift fingerprints from a dead bird?

  Alexa put the knife down and went into the living area to take a couple of photos with her iPhone. For her own records. The wait for a police officer was interminable. Eggs could be laid and hatched while waiting for “Whomever.” She locked the door (finally) and went back to fixing dinner, though her appetite was gone.

  Rare, losing her appetite.

  Garlic and onions sizzling, she wrestled open a can of black beans with a cheap opener and began rinsing them. Popping one in her mouth, she noted car lights in the driveway. When had it gotten dark? She dumped the beans in with the onions and garlic, gave a quick stir, turned the heat to low, and, avoiding the carcass, unlocked the door.

  “We meet again.” Senior Officer Rangiora, her cafeteria liberator, stood on the porch. “Detective Inspector Horne sent me to check out a possible intruder and, ah, a dead bird.”

  “Yes. I know.” She stood back and gave him the lowdown as they stared down at the bird. She had forgotten how tall he was. Six three or four.

  “A fantail. So you’re certain it wasn’t in the house before your walk?” Rangiora had on his uniform minus the hat.

  “I’m positive.” She didn’t know whether to mention his senior had been there earlier. “I left the house around six to walk to the cottage owner’s house. I returned at 6:45.” A thought stabbed her. Someone had been watching the house. She wrapped her arms around her torso.

  Officer Rangiora was thorough. After checking the cottage, he searched the property perimeter and rain-dampened driveway. His flashlight, which he held with his right hand, swayed back and forth near her car as she watched from the porch.

  “Lucky for the rain. I can see tire treads,” he called. “Looks like an ATV. Your own. Another set.”

  “Yes.” Alexa went down to join him. “The ATV belongs to the cottage owner’s son. He drove me home. The other set belongs to Bruce.” Jeez. “I mean, Detective Inspector Horne. We had a meeting here this afternoon, to review my trip to the island.”

  And for me to imagine him in my shower.

  Rangiora looked surprised. “DI Horne came here?”

  “Yes. For a debriefing about Pirongia,” Alexa said, her face flushing. “Do you see any other tire tracks?” It would be reassuring to know the intruder drove here and then drove away.

  “No others that I can detect. Your bloke probably walked up the drive after parking on the road. I’ll check for footprints on my way out.” Rangiora surveyed the property. “No neighbors?”

  “The cottage owner lives farther down Trout River Road, about a half mile. No one else lives between here and Highway 33.”

  “Isolated, eh?” He stared at her. “I’ll stop by and see them. The owners. Maybe they noticed someone mucking about. Senior said to bag the bird and bring it in.”

  “I’ll be glad to get rid of it.”

  They entered the small living area, now garlic and onion- scented, and looked down on the wee carcass. The protruding black eyes of the fantail beneath white eyebrows stared defiantly at them.

  “Pīwakawaka,” said Rangiora, slipping on a pair of gloves. He knelt and started to scoop the bird into a plastic evidence bag.

  “No. Stop.” Pīwakawaka, whatever that meant, had distracted her for only a millisecond. “It’s biological. You need a paper evidence bag.”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Rangiora said.

  “It does,” Alexa insisted. Anyone with an iota of forensics training knew “wet” needed paper to maintain integrity. Plastic caused sweating.

  Was Rangiora trying to contaminate the evidence?

  The officer stood and left the cottage. In two minutes, he was back with a manila envelope. He knelt again. “Or tгwaiwaka,” he continued as if he hadn’t left. “Maori have lots of different names for fantail.” He slipped the bird into the envelope, leaving a lone gray and white feather. He went silent but did not rise, the fabric of his uniform taut against his long thighs. The top of his head was a swirl of glossy black. “You know,” he said, looking up at her, “in Maori culture, a fantail in a house is an omen of death.”

  Alexa’s mouth dropped, but she quickly closed it.

  “This might be the work of locals angry that you visited Pirongia. Word travels quickly. We’ll have a patrol car drive by a few times tonight.” He stood in a fluid motion and held the packaged bird out, looking at the envelope. “If someone had wanted to hurt you, they would have. This is a message.”

  The man sounded older than his years. Police work did that.

  The evening stretched before her, long in tooth, full of Maori warriors and angry birds. She forced down a few bites of rice and beans, feeling uneasy sitting at the tiny kitchen table by herself. Solo dining was tricky after a few years of sitting across from Jeb. And when someone has left a dead bird in your living area.

  The accompanying glass of leftover Shiraz went down easier than rice and beans and tamped her fear. After washing up, Alexa poured another half glass, moved to the living area, and stopped abruptly.

  The duct tape.

  Suddenly, she remembered the extra duct tape stashed in the trunk of the Vitz. Had the intruder known about it? Impossible. Only Horne and Jenny even knew it existed. And no one knew she had it in the car. She set the wine down and peered through the side panel windows flanking the door. Sliver of moon, scudding clouds, swaying trees. Unwilling to stand like a target, she grabbed keys and rushed into the yard. In under sixty seconds, she was back, heart thumping, with the duct tape evidence bag.

  Get a grip.

  She hid the bag in her mostly empty suitcase under the bed and returned to the living room, surveying it for home security. She pulled the curtains tight over the two side wall windows, but the door panels exposed her to anyone in the front yard or driveway. Should she cover them with towels? That seemed too much effort, so she double-checked the door was locked and sank onto the couch.

  Alexa’s wine-bleary frazzled thoughts turned to her mother, who surely had comforted her when she was little, held her tight and soothed away tears streaking her baby face. Only the vaguest of mommy memories remained: being on her lap, listening to Curious George, The Very Busy Spider, The Pokey Little Puppy. The tattered books had been lovingly stored in a closet in Raleigh. What would her mother think of her life? Would she be proud? Or sad her daughter never married, had her own children? She wrapped up in the afghan, wondering how different her life would have been…

  * * *

  Blinding light jerked her awake.

  Alexa sprang from the couch, tripping on the afghan, and searched for protection. The bright light dimmed, then only a single beacon shone, the table lamp a lonely lighthouse.

  Gravel crunch of tires.

  Alexa dashed to the door to see vanishing taillights. She turned the porch light on, angry that she hadn’t done this earlier, and wanted to yell “Come back.” Her watch showed two hours had passed. Neck pain from unplanned slumber made her wince, and the day’s events flashed through her head: disappointing fingerprint results, Fantasy Island, Horne in the shower, the dead bird. Rangiora had kept his word, sending a cruiser to patrol the property. Checking a third time that the door was locked and turning off the lamp, she headed for the bathroom. Sleep would be elusive, but her teeth could be clean.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As soon as Alexa arrived at the station Saturday, DI Horne ushered her away. “Rawiri Wright is the curator of the Maori collection at the museum. He
knows war clubs and their significance, and he’s expecting you to arrive before the museum opens at nine.” Pausing, he looked straight into her green-flecked eyes. “Anything else happen last night?”

  “I finished our bottle of wine and…” Why had she said “our” bottle of wine?

  “And what?” Eyebrow wag.

  “Nothing. Never mind. Officer Rangiora thinks the bird is a warning from the locals.”

  “He could be right. Let’s talk about it over lunch. Give me a buzz around noon. I’ll treat you to a Georgie Pie.”

  She didn’t know what Rotorua Museum would look like, maybe all glass and modern like the police station or a brick warehouse like many buildings on NC State’s campus, but nothing prepared her for the timber-and-stucco mansion before her.

  “Yowzah.”

  The flower-lined path leading to the entrance was wide. She had the forensics lab camera and was tempted to take touristy pictures. Post them on Facebook. Brag about spring in October to her twenty-seven “friends” from Raleigh.

  She tore her eyes from the building to the surrounding green lawn and gardens: purple tulips, bluebells, and blooming rhododendron, a pond guarded by funky mop-top trees, gingerbread gazebos, quarreling ducks, and, as a reminder that molten lava lurked beneath the grassy surface, a venting fissure. Alexa vowed to come back as a tourist.

  The main entrance was locked. A plaque next to the door explained that the Elizabethan building built in 1902 had originally served as a government bath house offering therapeutic treatment using thermal waters.

  Alexa spotted an Employees Only door and found it unlocked. She ventured in—thinking once more how trusting New Zealanders were compared with Americans—and was not surprised to find a vacant lobby. She crossed a mosaic floor to a directory, mindful of the stillness, and found directions to Te Arawa Gallery. She glanced through a large picture window toward Lake Rotorua—gray and distant—and then climbed a curving staircase, formulating questions for Mr. Wright.