Murder in Roseville

by Denise McGee

  It was dimmer under the canopy of the trees than I had expected. The silence was the same though. It had a waiting quality to it and gave the area a creepy feeling. Especially when you remembered two people had died there less than 24 hours prior.

  I headed into the scrub ruefully thinking that I should have put on the shoes I'd worn last night. They were already ruined and the ones he had on now were much newer.

  The little clearing where Nathan Edwards had been found was my focus. I was sure Nathan had his neck snapped by the same mysterious figure I'd seen killing Gina Vossen. I just hoped there'd be evidence to prove it.

  I reached the little area past the now scarred tree and began my search. I blew an hour quartering the area and walking in everexpanding spirals. Nothing. Another pair of ruined shoes for nothing.

  As I passed the tree I began searching for the discarded cigarette butt I'd seen in my vision. I got lucky - nature had formed a cavity at the base of the tree. One that an animal probably had used as a lair at one point. The butt nestled among the fallen debris. It was dry, for a wonder, and I realized that it'd been sheltered from the rain. Hello, Mr. DNA.

  I snapped a picture - careful to not touch the butt with my fingers - and collected the used cigarette in an evidence envelope.

  I made my way back to the road and was about to get into my car when the skid pattern on the road caught my eye. Two sets of tires made an intersecting design that ended with one set leading off the road and the other disappearing at that point.

  The road was straight with no bumps, potholes or any other hazard that would cause multiple cars to create skid marks at that location. Evidence that my vision was correct. Not that I doubted but I could hardly go to court without corroboration.

  I took several pictures of the marks from different angles and mapped it out for my notes.

  Walking along the edge of the road, I looked for anything else that might have gotten missed in the dark but came up empty. The cigarette and tire tracks were the only new evidence I'd managed to find.

  On the drive back into town, I stopped by a roadside gas station for a drink. To my surprise, they had a rack of Laurel's new book, so I snagged another copy. For my mom, of course.

  Once back in the car I paused in the motion of tossing the book onto the passenger seat. An oddly familiar odor had caught my attention. One I had smelled recently.

  Carefully arranged on the folder containing the crime scene photos was a sprig of some sort of flowering bush or tree. I wasn't sure, but I thought it might be mountain laurel. Laurel. That’s where I had smelled it. It was the scent she was wearing.

  I got out of the car and looked up and down the deserted road. There wasn't a soul in sight.

  Glancing back at the door of the shop I'd just exited, I spied a faded closed sign on the door.

  My suspicions now aroused, I journeyed back to the door intending to flash my badge at the wayward clerk and get some answers. I peered in the window. No clerk. Wonderful. I banged on the door. I didn’t know what the clerk was playing at but the games were over.

  Dust filtered down in front of the window, dislodged by my fist. I peered through the glass. A thick layer of undisturbed dust lay over everything inside the store. There was no sign that the store had been open anytime in the last year let alone that I had been in there a mere five minutes before.

  I turned around, looking over the deserted lot, the desolate street, the woods on the other side of the road. It was eerily quiet. No hum of insects. No birdsong. The hairs on the back of my neck took on a life of their own and the feeling of being watched crept over me.

  I hurriedly retraced my steps back to my car and jumped in. I stared at the building for a long moment before starting the engine and heading back to town. I tried to ignore the drink chilling in my cup holder and the book I'd just purchased but my gaze kept flickering in their direction. The smell of the blossoms didn’t help. Even Laurel's smiling face on the back cover wasn't enough to soothe my nerves.

  It wasn’t until I pulled into my apartment complex that I managed to convince myself that I'd imagined the dust. It had been the waning sunshine raying across the shop that had given it that dusty hazy look.

  Nothing weird about a little sunlight, I told myself firmly, putting it out of my mind. And if I spent the rest of the evening cleaning my firearms while alone in my threadbare apartment, it was because I was conscientious about maintaining my gear and nothing more.

  Since the following day was Saturday, I spent it with my mother at her assisted living facility after dropping off the cigarette butt with the crime lab. While I couldn’t put Laurel completely from my mind, I was reading her new book to my mother after all; I was able to spend several hours not thinking about her dead husband.

  I returned home that night to find the media had gotten hold of the story and were in a positive frenzy of speculation and character assassination. Poor Laurel. I hoped she'd found someone to help her through it all.

  The tabloid news was reporting that the funeral for Nathan Edward Wentworth would be held Sunday. I had to laugh. They couldn't even bother to get the victim’s name right.

  Sunday was a quiet day spent going over the evidence I had gathered and planning my next move. I sat at my cheap dinette and spread out the pictures Hausner had taken. Looking for anything to help my case and hoping the coroner's report would corroborate my visions. I needed something more than a cigarette butt and some skid marks to convince the Captain that the runaway celebrity couple had been murdered

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Coat Conundrum

  LAUREL

  That's odd, I thought as I stood by the water's edge with my hands in the pockets of my shorts. The doors open on the outhouse.

  I'd been watching the sun set on the lake, letting a pleasant breeze blow tendrils of golden-brown hair across my face when a banging on the hill behind the house caught my attention.

  I had just arrived at the private lake set among gently rolling hills and had paused to enjoy the view before unpacking my car. I had hoped I could be undisturbed there. I glowered up at the thwacking silhouette perched on the rise behind the low log home. Not much chance of that with that door banging away and disturbing my much-needed calm.

  I had fled to the family cabin in North Carolina to escape the minor media frenzy surrounding my husband's death. The isolation of the lake was what I had thought I wanted but the steady whack of the door was a desolate sound, making me feel very alone and somewhat vulnerable. Not what I had been looking for at all.

  The old latch must have come loose, I thought as I rounded the cabin and started up the incline to refasten it. It was unlikely anyone had been there. The closest neighbor was a couple of miles away.

  Once I gained the summit I checked the latch, which was nothing more than a small piece of wood board that turned on a nail. Not broken or even loose. I guess an enterprising teen or two could have made it there and, drawn by curiosity, could have opened the door to see what the tiny building could possibly be. If that was the case, then I really needed to pull it down and fill in the pit. It was a liability in its current state and I wasn't at the lake often enough to properly supervise an open outhouse.

  I scrutinized the interior, making sure it wasn't vandalized or that an animal hadn't made the smelly closet its home. It was surprising at what appeared in outhouses. Last year, I and Nathan had found a laurel sapling growing in the tiny hut. It had amused us that my namesake would be flourishing in a toilet.

  The top board - sporting a couple of vaguely circular holes - was loose and had pulled away from the back wall. I held my nose and tried to peer into the redolent gap but all I could see were spider webs. Good, no vermin. I nudged the board back into place with a shod foot and seeing nothing else, left. I would come up there later with a hammer and nail the door shut properly.

  I wandered back down to the one-story home and looked at it in pleasure. It was a cozy log cabin, hand built by my grandfather nearly
70 years before. Two bedrooms, a decent sized kitchen, and a big family room. Summer vacations there had seemed perfect to my child-self. A lake to fall into, trees to climb, never-ending sunshine and a warm cozy bed at night. Not to mention the laurels planted by my father when I was born.

  A stay at the cabin then meant there was no option but to use the outhouse. A modern bathroom was the first thing I'd installed when I'd inherited the place. The room had been there already, my grandfather had just never seen the need to complete it. I much preferred not having to trek up the hill through the cold or dark to use the "facilities". Indoor plumbing was so much nicer.

  Now that the banging of the door had stopped, I walked out to the beach to take one last look at the serene lake before grabbing my bag and heading inside. The bullfrogs were in full chorus and I could hear the soft plop of them leaping into the water at my approach. So peaceful. So, unlike the last week at home.

  My stomach tightened in a flash of anger at Nathan as I settled into a sun-worn Adirondack chair and slipped off my shoes. He had run off the road and been flung through the windshield into a tree, breaking his neck. My best friend had been discovered lifelessly strapped into the crumpled passenger seat.

  In the trunk, they found a couple of overnight bags filled with their clothing. The assumption of the rather sweet police Lieutenant who broke the news to me was they were running away together.

  All of this was unremarkable in the normal course of events. Friendships are broken, and spouses leave all the time. But I was a somewhat well-known author, and no one enjoys celebrities in pain more than the media. Even minor celebrities like myself, I thought bitterly.

  And the truly stupid part of it all was that it had been so unnecessary. Nathan and I hadn't been in love for a long time. If he wanted to be with Gina, all he'd had to do was tell me.

  I sighed and dug a bare toe into the sun-kissed sand of the beach. It was doing me no good to get trapped once again on the hamster wheel of humiliation and hate. It was time to start focusing on the future instead. And abruptly that sweet officer's name popped into my head. Aaron March.

  Now, why did I think of that? I wondered before I put it out of my mind and headed to the rental for my bag.

  As I went inside I could easily picture my grandfather sitting in the rocker by the fireplace playing his banjo or telling stories. I smiled, seeing myself lying on the rag rug at his feet listening to him spin a tale as the warmth of the fire, and the exertions of the day's adventures put me into a state of contented lassitude. He'd been an amazing man and I'd loved him dearly.

  I dropped my duffel as a sharp frisson of shock flowed through me. There was a man's brown leather jacket draped across the back of the rocker.

  I recognized it as Nathan’s, but I was pretty sure he'd had it as recently as a week before his death. Which meant he'd come up here and not told me about it.

  DAMN IT! He'd promised me he wouldn't bring women to my cabin. I don't care if it probably was Gina. The cabin belonged to me and he knew it was my sanctuary.

  Well, I wouldn't be able to stay now. If I hadn't come hoping to get away it wouldn't have mattered so much. As it was I'd be constantly reminded. I may as well be at home. My insides roiled again with remembered shame and anger.

  Good thing I hadn't unpacked yet. I’d have to grab the first plane out in the morning. I just hoped I’d get a little sleep.

  I didn’t.

  The next morning - grouchy and headachy - I sat in my rental car, Nathan's jacket on the seat beside me, staring out at the lake and drinking in the fragrant mountain air through the open window. As always, the laurels added a hint of grape Kool-Aid to the air that spoke of childhood.

  I turned on my cell for the first time in 3 days to find my voicemail inbox was full. Ugh. I could feel the bile churning in my stomach. I really wasn't quite ready to face the world just yet. I looked out at the gently-lapping waves and was tempted to exit the vehicle and curl up in the hammock but knew I wouldn't find solace at the cabin now.

  I loathed leaving but ever since I'd found the jacket I'd been uncomfortable. I'd tossed and turned all night and, for the first time in my life, I felt watched at the secluded lake. I didn't like having that feeling here, the place which had always been my haven.

  I tossed my phone onto the jacket and reached for the ignition. The messages could wait until I got home.

  A rhythmic thwack caught my attention. The outhouse door had come open again and was banging once more in the still mountain air.

  How the... I knew I'd latched it securely even if I had forgotten to return and nail it shut.

  I re-entered the house and grabbed a hammer and some large nails from the kitchen junk drawer. That door wasn't coming open again without some major help.

  I made the trek up the hill, the slamming of the door echoing my footsteps. A light breeze stirred the quiet air, bringing with it the scent of grape bubblegum from the laurels.

  It was only when I was standing in front of the outhouse, staring as the door shuddered and slammed in its frame, that I realized that, except for the slight wind that had arisen on my climb up the hill, there hadn't been a hint of breeze that morning.

  The hair on my nape rose and a chill crept down my spine. I could see the door clearly. There was no one and nothing inside or out that could cause the door to move like that.

  It was…disconcerting.

  The door swung wide open and crashed into the frame again, rattling the small building. Then...nothing. All movement ceased on the hilltop, including my breath.

  I stood there a moment, staring at the door. Not even a twitch.

  Reaching out with the toe of my sandal, I held the door shut with my foot. Using quick movements, I flipped the latch and sunk several nails into the outbuilding, securing the door against anything...and nothing.

  I backed away from the building, watching to see if there was any more motion. It remained stationary. I took a deep shuddering breath and headed back to my car. I'd had enough relaxation at my lake cabin.

  Three hours later I buckled myself in and nearly cheered because it was a short hop to Ohio. I shifted, trying to get comfortable in the cramped plane seat. A stocky man across the aisle watched me with interest, so I quit moving and shrunk back against the window. Crowds made me nervous and being stared at made it worse.

  When we landed I gathered up my bag and slung Nathan's coat over my arm. I wasn't sure why I had brought it home with me - perhaps I couldn't stand knowing it was sitting up there like a grim reminder of his broken promise.

  The same man who'd watched me wiggle was now focused on the jacket. He looked at me and said in a thick British accent, "Oy, that jacket fer sale? I'd like me a jacket like that one, I would."

  I smiled regretfully and shook my head no. He glared at me for a moment, almost dangerous and I took a step back, unsure of what he was going to do. He scowled a bit longer, then shrugged and exited the plane.

  "Can't blame a bloke for trying, eh?"

  I was a little unnerved by the stocky man, but he disappeared into the crowd of the Akron-Canton airport and I soon forgot him as I worked my way through the airport nonsense. I probably should have driven the rental home instead of flying but eight hours is a long time in a car and this way I was relatively refreshed for the evening instead of feeling completely frazzled by traffic.

  As I stepped through the doors to the parking lot I felt a sharp pain in my elbow and my arm went numb. I dropped my bag and the coat and clutched at my funny bone, my eyes watering. A body pushed past me and picked up the jacket from the ground, brushing it off. I turned to thank my Good Samaritan only to find a pair of cheeky eyes grinning at my discomfort.

  "Should 'ave sold it to me, miss. Saved ye a bit o' pain." And with a cheery wave, he scampered into a waiting car - with Nathan's coat - before I could do more than gape at him. I tried to rub away the tears so I could get a good look at the car but they were gone before I could do more than tell the color. Charcoal
gray.

  A male hand reached for my bag and I slapped at it before realizing the arm attached wore a uniform. I felt a hot flush creep up my cheeks as I lifted my gaze to meet the amused blue eyes of Lieutenant Aaron March.

  "Did you think I was gonna swipe it, Ms. Wentworth?"

  "Considering someone just grabbed my husband's jacket and ran off with it, you can understand my trepidation." Good lord, did I just say trepidation out loud? What was wrong with me?

  The amusement faded from his eyes. "When did this happen?"

  "About a minute before you reached for my bag. My arm went numb and I dropped everything." I started to tremble.

  He reached out casually and put his arm around my shoulders, steering me away from the doorway. I looked back and realized we'd started to gather a crowd. My cheeks flamed again.

  We moved to a low wall and he sat next to me, still holding my shoulders. It felt...nice. More than nice. My unsteadiness fell away to be replaced by a very different sensation. It felt safe and warm...and unfamiliar. It'd been a long time since a man had touched me with anything other than a casual hug and I was tempted...oh so tempted...to snuggle into his shoulder, turn my back on the world, and never think twice about it.

  My cheeks colored for a third time as I realized I'd completely lost track of what he was saying, and I looked down at my lap in confusion.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At the Airport

  AARON

  I looked at Laurel's downturned head and realized I still had my arm around her shoulders. No wonder she was intent on her fingers. I had embarrassed her.

  In a motion I hoped was casual, I removed my arm from her body and reached for my clipboard. I was a professional. I needed to start acting like one.

  No matter how much her perfume whispered to me.