“Why not get the experts out here and let them do their job?” I asked. “You’ve already trampled the drag marks, and what might also be part of a footprint the killer didn’t completely obliterate. See?” I pointed at the ground where he stood. When he’d charged past us earlier, we’d remained up the slope away from those marks, but the deputy had lumbered onto them. “You don’t want it to get back to the County that you destroyed evidence at a crime scene, do you?”
“Who knows if that’s what they were—uh, are?” The deputy sputtered.
“The crime lab guys will, that’s who! If the killer dragged her body down to the water that could explain how she ended up on Blue Haven’s beach an hour or so later,” I added. I was done mincing words with this guy who Midge had described as dense as a brick. Dense and stubborn.
“Yikes. If you’re right, that body must have gone into the water almost as soon as we left,” Marty said. The pitch of her voice rose as she realized what that meant.
A creepy pause settled upon us as we scanned the area near where we stood. The trail wound out of sight behind us, and the dunes were piled up high enough on either side of the trail that someone could have hidden nearby. Domino twisted in my grip. Emily woofed.
“You’re right, Marty. The killer must have been hiding not far from here to move the body that fast,” I said.
“That makes sense,” Joe bellowed from behind us. Charly and I both yelped at the sudden sound of a voice coming from a space that had appeared to be devoid of people moments earlier. “Whoa, ladies, I know you’re glad to see me, but there’s no need to scream like I’m a Rockstar.”
“That’s twice in one day you’ve sneaked up on us yelling at the top of your lungs. Two strikes, buddy—three and you’re out!” Emily added an exclamation point to Charly’s comment with a vertical leap into the air followed by a terse yip.
Joe blinked at Charly without speaking, probably wondering what would happen to him if he struck out. I know I did. When he opened his mouth to ask, Charly’s eyes flashed. The petite septuagenarian had her fists balled up and pawed at the ground like a feisty bantam rooster.
“Don’t push her. She knows Brazilian jiu-jitsu,” Midge warned. Could that be true or was she kidding? Sometimes, Midge was as hard to read as Carl and Joe were. “You two must have shoveled your food down faster than usual,” she added.
“We got it to go,” Carl said, holding up a takeout bag. He had what looked like a half-eaten fried egg sandwich in his other hand.
“A little bit of Alyssa Gardener goes a long way,” Joe added before popping the last bite of a sandwich into his mouth.
“You’ve got admit that a little bit of us goes a long way, too, Joe. The Gardeners invited us to leave when I told Alyssa what you said, Midge. I thought you made a good case that the dead woman was too young to be one of us.”
“Why would that upset her?” Midge asked.
“Because he also added a point of his own which I considered to be sound even though it didn’t go over well,” Joe replied. “Just because the dead woman was young, doesn’t take residents off the hook as her killer. Alyssa lost it when Carl said the murderer could be in the Dunes Club right now. I’ve never seen anyone alive turn that white before.”
“We left while Alf was trying to bring her around.” Carl pulled a napkin from his takeout bag and wiped his mouth and hands. Then he reached into the bag again and pulled out a huge glazed donut. My stomach growled. I’d fed Domino before we left for our walk, but I still hadn’t had breakfast.
“I bet whoever killed that woman dumped her body in the ocean hoping she’d disappear altogether rather than wash ashore a few miles down the coast,” Carl suggested.
“You’re right!” Joe exclaimed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the police find a phony note or text message to a friend or family member. Something with a fabricated story saying that she’s gone off to Vegas or Baja like in Raymond Chandler’s story, Lady in the Lake,” Joe added.
As the owner of the Chandler Cottage, Joe’s a huge fan of the noir detective story writer. It was an enthusiasm that Devers apparently didn’t share. I guess a little bit of Carl and Joe goes a long way with the deputy, too.
“Will you two just stop! No more pointless speculation. It doesn’t matter anyway. No one’s going to wonder where she is, note or no note, with her body lying on the beach in Blue Haven,” he shouted as he called the dispatcher again. His concession that their body was our body came with no apology for accusing us of making up a story about finding a body in the first place. Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Maybe you all killed her and dragged her into the ocean since you seem to know so much about what went on here.”
“Well, thanks, guys. We’ve gone from pranksters to perps. I guess that’s progress in Deputy Dervish’s whacky world of crime scene investigations. He’s no Philip Marlowe, is he?” Midge asked. She didn’t wait for a response before asking another question. “If you’re right, why would we call you, Devers?”
With that, we were invited to vacate the area. On our way back up the trail, we passed a uniformed officer carrying another of those enormous glazed donuts. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry even though he’d been summoned by Deputy Devers to help secure the scene until the crime lab could get a team to the location. Maybe the officer hadn’t heard the “make it snappy” part of Devers’ order. Midge must have concluded he was lost.
“Down and around to the right,” Midge said, pointing the way we had come. “No rush. Enjoy your donut. Deputy Devers has everything under control.” With his mouth full, the officer didn’t say a word. Instead, he acknowledged Midge with a nod as he sauntered on down the trail.
“I made that up. If he’s got it all under control, I’m the Queen of England,” Midge said as soon as the officer disappeared. Then she dropped her voice and leaned in to speak. “Am I the only one who’s concerned about the fact that there’s been a murder this close to the place we all call home?”
An uneasy pause resonated in the silence of the dunes. Even the lapping ocean waves were muted as the trail wound up through the sandy bluffs on either side of us that had grown larger as we walked back toward the roadway and the bridge that would lead us up over it to our gated community.
Joe and Carl were long gone. They’d taken off to find more of those donuts, so it was just the five of us “ladies” and our two happy hounds. I was all done in, but Domino and Emily were fresh as daisies. If Domino had her way, we’d stay out among the dunes or on the beach all day every day.
Even before Midge asked her question about a murder practically on our doorstep, I was more than ready to return to my comfy cottage. I wanted to make sure everything was locked up tight, switch on the alarm system, and make myself a stiff cup of tea.
“Maybe a murder,” Marty corrected Midge in an almost hopeful tone. “We don’t know that for sure yet.”
“You may know your high-end fashion accessories, but I know a thing or two about bodies.” Midge is a retired nurse who’d spent part of her career in the military. Not on the frontlines, but in Army hospitals where she claims to have seen it all. I believe her. “Petechiae—red marks around her eyes—are almost a sure sign someone murdered her. Strangled her, if I’m right. There were also bruises forming on her neck. I would have pointed them out to the deputy if the dead woman had stayed put.”
“Stayed put. Ha!” Charly exclaimed. “What you really mean is if the strangler hadn’t sneaked out from a hiding place and dragged her body into the water to get rid of her only moments after we left.”
“Too bad we didn’t get a look at the rat before he or she scurried out of there,” I groused. “At least then we’d have some idea of which diner at the Dunes Club to avoid.”
“A body on the bluff, a killer on the loose, and enough loot lying in the dirt to pay my annual special assessment. This morning sucks,” Neely moaned. “I should have stayed in bed!”
“You did! At least your dilly-dallying means the
killer didn’t get a look at you like he did the rest of us who have now become strangler bait,” Midge snorted.
“Strangler bait with Deputy Devers on the job!” Marty cried. “We’re doomed!”
“Not necessarily,” Charly said, stopping suddenly and placing both hands on her hips as we stopped for a moment and stood on the bridge. “Let’s talk this over at dinner—my house—not the Dunes Club. I’ll make my Queen City Chili and you each bring a dish.”
“If Miriam will make dessert, it’s a deal!” Neely said. When she started walking again, we followed her. I was relieved to be moving again. I’d felt way too exposed standing there on the bridge like that. What if we were being watched?
“Dessert it is!” I exclaimed, trying to muster enthusiasm and tamp down my mounting paranoia. “I love the Cincinnati version of Queen City Chili. Count me in.”
The meat chili, made with a slightly exotic blend of Middle Eastern spices, had been one of Pete’s favorites. Poured over steaming spaghetti, smothered in cheese, and then topped with onions and beans, he loved Queen City Chili served five-way, as they call it in Ohio. My husband enjoyed his life and lived it with great gusto! Food was a big part of that, and I still miss cooking for him.
All those years as the bookkeeper for The Pastry Palace had left me with an almost insatiable urge to bake—even after I lost my job there. The drive only grew stronger after Pete died and the life we’d lived for more than twenty-five years had ended abruptly.
I hadn’t spent all my time in the back office keeping the books. In fact, I’d picked up skills as a baker and had gained access to more than enough heavenly recipes to bake my way into a sugary oblivion. In my effort to fill the void Pete left in my life, I shared the sweet treats I baked with family, friends, and neighbors. They soon began coming to me with requests for their favorite goodies. If I hadn’t been up to my eyeballs in debt, I might have tried to set up a shop. I learned to whip up treats for almost any occasion—special or otherwise. My mind whirred into action flipping through the file of recipe cards stored in my head. The stash I had stored online was much larger.
What would it take to sweeten up this mess? I wondered.
3 Home Sweet Home
As I opened the door for Domino, I sighed, realizing Midge was probably right that we’d have little help from authorities anytime soon. I gave Domino a treat for being such a good girl—a small sliver of the bacon I put on a plate to go with fresh berries, a lemon poppy seed muffin, and a cup of tea.
“Breakfast at last!” I mumbled as I slipped into a comfy seat in the cozy cottage I now call home. My Hemingway Cottage didn’t feel quite as cozy after what we’d been through this morning. Nor was the chair as comfy as it had been before last night when I’d sat in it and pored over the Seaview Cottage Community’s Homeowner Association accounts.
When I moved to Seaview Cottages, members of the “HOA,” as they call it around here, had asked me to join the finance committee. The papers Pete had filled out when he bought the house designated my occupation as a bookkeeper. I didn’t want to be on the committee, but to avoid ruffling any feathers I did as they asked. I hadn’t corrected the misunderstanding about my marital status when the HOA President told me how much he was looking forward to seeing Pete again.
The conversation this morning about extra assessments added to the anxiety I’d felt after reviewing the community’s books. I’m not alone living on the edge of a financial cliff. There’s no doubt in my mind the community needs to raise the extra cash those special assessments would bring in over the next few years. I’d have to find a way to cough up my share since I can’t afford to lose the cottage now that I’ve made it my home.
In addition to a death benefit I receive as Pete’s widow, I have my own small IRA, but I can’t get to it until I’m fifty-nine and a half. Money’s tight. At least until I can find a job in Duneville Downs or another nearby town.
I’d already begun looking, but so far, I’d spotted only one opening for a bookkeeper. I dread the thought of filling out an application where I’m required to indicate my age and marital status. In a small town, people talk about newcomers. It’s not a good idea to lie on a job application, but telling the truth puts me in a pickle with the HOA.
“Oh, the tangled web we weave…” I chanted quietly. Domino, who’d positioned herself at my feet, raised her sleepy head to check on me. “It’s okay, girl. Your momma’s just pondering the trouble she’s in now that she’s practicing ‘to deceive.’” With a few quick wags of her tail, Domino dropped her head down and resumed her nap.
I hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like day-to-day, living with my silly secrets. Moving to the West Coast hadn’t been my first choice as a solution to my problems. I’d tried to sell the cottage to raise cash and rid myself of debts. After going over the books, I now understand why no one had been eager to purchase my lovely little cottage on a quiet street overlooking the Pacific Ocean and just steps away from a golf course.
Given the community’s aging infrastructure and financial troubles, only a quixotic dreamer like my poor dead husband would have bought a home here. I’m sure he’d seen the place for what it had been or could be rather than what it is. There is a charm about the place and the setting is lovely, but that hadn’t been enough to interest buyers.
Potential buyers must have been smarter than Pete was about the community’s financial challenges. Money was never Pete’s forte. I could have weighed in on the matter if my seemingly straightforward husband had been less secretive.
After Pete died, I tried to recall if I’d missed hints that we were sliding toward financial ruin. Two issues came to mind. When I’d lost my job, Pete had assured me that I’d find another job soon. There had been something in the way he’d said it that I’d missed at the time. I now recognized that his comment might have been meant less as a vote of confidence in my skill and experience as a bookkeeper, and more as an impetus to urge me on in my job search. Especially the “soon” part.
The second issue had been his reluctance to sit down and plan with me as my unemployment money ran out and I still hadn’t found another job. At that point, he hadn’t appeared worried in the least. In fact, he’d been upbeat. In hindsight, I figure he must have been riding high on the prospect that one of his schemes was about to pay off. Why hadn’t I been more insistent or investigated our finances without his participation when he stalled? I trusted him, that’s why.
In any case, it’s clear to me now that I didn’t know the man as well as I thought I did. He’d hidden plenty from me. One of the secrets I carry around with me—one that still hurts a year after Pete’s death—is that he’d signed my name to loan papers, borrowing money against the equity in our house. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone because I’d have to say words like that out loud. I’d hemmed and hawed about it, even when my sister had asked me point blank about my finances.
“What could she or anyone else have done about it at that point?” I asked in a whisper. Domino sat up and scooted close enough to put a paw on my lap, and looked up at me with her dark, soulful puppy eyes. “Ah, you’re a good girl. We’re doing just fine, Domino!”
For now, at least. After trying to sell the Hemingway Cottage for six months, I’d given up. Living here beats paying rent on top of the expenses related to maintaining the cottage. Unfortunately, here I am at fifty, residing in a community for people aged fifty-five and over, and without my older spouse who would have made that okay. So much for keeping a low profile now that I’d been pulled into the brouhaha surrounding a body on the bluff.
Just then, a breeze blew in through the open sliders that lead to a small backyard. The salty air tinged with verbena reminded me, once again, that the place I’d landed in my widowhood isn’t so bad. I stood up and sucked in great gulps of the ocean breeze. Domino followed me as I walked to the open sliding door and peered outside.
The California Bungalow style house, built in the seventies, has a covered por
ch out front that’s great for viewing the ocean. It also has a backyard and a tiny slab patio. Small in comparison to the one behind our house in Ohio, it’s far better than no yard as I learned while living in a rental apartment that had no outdoor space for Domino.
The yard is enclosed by a white picket fence that I’d given a new coat of paint soon after moving in. My DIY paint job had revealed that the fence isn’t very sturdy. It’s also low enough that Domino could jump it and take off if she decided to go for it.
A leap like that would give her access to the well-kept greens of the golf course. As I gazed at the rolling links with their white sand bunkers and scruffy roughs, a golf cart whirred into view. This one wasn’t out on the greens, but on the cart path that wound behind our cottages.
My anxious mind that had finally settled down went back on high alert when the golf cart came to a halt. The man behind the wheel stepped from it, looked around him as if trying to determine if anyone was watching. Then he scanned the cottages and began taking pictures on a cellphone. On any other morning, I might have written off the behavior as that of an avid golfer longing for a cottage on the course. Or maybe a curious “looky-loo” checking out the property. Not today!
“This calls for action, Domino!” I exclaimed, grabbing my phone and calling Midge, who was probably in the cottage closest to the guy in the cart.
“Hello,” she said, answering on the first ring.
A Body on Fitzgerald's Bluff Page 3