Girl Under Water: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller

by L. T. Vargus

  “But it can wait,” he said. “We don’t have to do this now.”

  “No, it’s OK.” Charlie pushed to her feet. “I’ll come.”

  “Are you sure?” Brandon asked, eying her up and down. “Because—and I mean this in the nicest way possible—you look like hell.”

  Charlie laughed for the first time in what felt like forever.

  “Point taken. I’ll take a quick shower and change.”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Should I wait for you?”

  “You can go ahead,” Charlie said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Brandon left through the front door, and Charlie made sure to lock up behind him. As she turned out the lights and headed through the office to the back exit, Allie piped up.

  “I think he likes you.”

  “Oh sure.” Charlie laid on the sarcasm. “What gave it away for you? When he told me I looked like hell?”

  Upstairs, Charlie made a beeline for the bathroom. She couldn’t wait to get out of her clothes, which still felt vaguely damp. Not to mention the blood. She studied the stained shirt in the mirror. The pale blue and white plaid fabric was now a deep red from her sternum to her shoulder.

  “It looks kinda cool, actually,” Allie said.

  Charlie hurried to unbutton the shirt and get it off.

  “Don’t be morbid.”

  Rolling it into a wad, she tossed it into the trash bin next to the sink.

  “Fine,” Allie said. “But I have a question.”

  “What is it?” Charlie asked, struggling out of her ever-so-slightly moist jeans.

  “Why did you agree to go talk to Gloria’s family tonight when Brandon said it could wait?”

  The shower came to life with a hiss as Charlie turned the faucet handle, running her fingers under the spray to check the temperature.

  “Because I want to be the one who tells them Gloria was murdered.” Charlie caught her reflection in the mirror and stared into it. Her jaw tensed as she gritted her teeth. “I need to see their faces when they find out.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  There were two cars parked out front of Dutch Carmichael’s house when Charlie arrived: Wesley’s Cadillac and Brandon’s BMW. It was only when Charlie climbed out that she realized Brandon was still in his car.

  She approached the driver’s side and peered in through the window. Phone pressed to his ear, Brandon held up a finger to indicate he was almost finished.

  Charlie thrust her hands in her pockets and moseyed around the large fountain in the center of the driveway. It towered over her, a shapeless mass of stone lit up in the night.

  “Who do you think he’s talking to?” Allie asked. “I’ll bet it’s his girlfriend.”

  “How do you know he has a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t.” Allie cackled. “But now I know that you’re interested.”

  “I am not.”

  “Deny it all you want, Charles. I’m sure someone will believe you.”

  Behind her, Charlie heard Brandon’s car door open and shut.

  “That was Marjory,” he said, tucking the phone into his leather jacket.

  Charlie couldn’t help but feel a tiny surge of vindication at Allie’s wrongness.

  “She’ll be another half hour or so. She and a friend spent the afternoon driving up to her cabin, only to have to turn around and head back almost as soon as they’d arrived.”

  “How far away is it?” Charlie asked, following Brandon up the front steps.

  He paused and held the door open for her.

  “About two and a half hours. Right at the tip of the thumb,” he said, referring to the tendency of Michiganders to describe locations in the state as a place on a large, imaginary mitten. “Bad Axe is the nearest town, but the cabin itself is really out in the boonies. No neighbors for miles. No Wi-Fi, if you can believe it.”

  “Sounds remote.”

  “Completely. When the weather’s nice, it can be a very pleasant drive, especially in a convertible. I like to put Sadie’s top down and take the M-25 along the coast all the way up.”

  “Sadie?” Charlie repeated. “You named your car?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s because you drive a Focus,” Brandon said. “If you drove a car with character, you’d have no choice but to give it a name.”

  “Ah, but I’m a private investigator. Driving a car with no character is the whole point, especially if I’m tailing someone.”

  Brandon stuck his head into the dining room and then the parlor, searching for Wesley. He paused to squint at her.

  “Now that you mention it, I always thought there was something off about Tom Selleck driving that red Ferrari in Magnum, P.I.”

  They finally found Wesley in the solarium. He was slumped over on a bamboo daybed, a tumbler clutched in one hand. A crystal decanter of booze from the basement bar kept him company nearby.

  As they entered, Wesley finished off what was left of his drink and poured another.

  “How can she be gone?” he asked, as if continuing some prior conversation.

  Tears choked his voice, and Charlie thought that he was more than a little drunk.

  “Our Glori. She used to set up these tea parties when we were kids. Of course, I was never interested in that kind of thing, but she had a way of always getting what she wanted. She’d bribe me with candy and sweets. And I’d sit there with her and the dog and her dolls, and we’d make believe we were royalty.” His words devolved into a heavy sob. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Hey, Wes. It’s alright, buddy. What do you say we go make some coffee before everyone else gets here?” Brandon suggested.

  He went to take the glass from Wesley’s hand, but in a move like a child shoving a stolen cookie in his mouth, Wesley snatched his arm away and tossed back the remainder of the alcohol before Brandon could stop him. It might have been comical if not for the gloomy circumstances.

  Charlie helped Brandon corral Wesley into the kitchen. His weepy monologue continued as they dug through the cabinets to find the coffee-making implements.

  “She always knew what to do when things were falling apart. When Mom died, Gloria was the one who held everything together. Kept the family forging ahead. No man left behind.”

  When they’d finally unearthed the necessary components and had a pot brewing, Brandon turned to Charlie.

  “Wait here with him for a minute, will you?” He kept his voice low enough that Wesley wouldn’t hear. “If I don’t hide the Scotch while Wes is out of the room, any sobering effect the coffee has on him will be short-lived.”

  Charlie nodded.

  At the other end of the kitchen, Wesley had gone unusually quiet. He braced himself on the countertop with both hands and seemed to be staring into his reflection on the marble top. Brandon had only been gone a few seconds when he whirled around to face her.

  “You were there.” His tone was almost accusing. “You saw it all.”

  “Yes.” Charlie swallowed. “I was there.”

  “I know you won’t want to tell me, but I need the truth. The raw truth.” He gripped her arms, leaning in so close that she could smell the peaty scent of Scotch on his breath. “Did she suffer? Was she in pain when she died?”

  Images of Gloria’s broken body flashed in Charlie’s mind. She’d had a pulse for only a brief time after she’d been hit, and she definitely hadn’t been conscious. Still, Charlie couldn’t imagine that Gloria had felt none of it.

  And she’d seen it coming. The memory played in slow motion: Gloria’s head turning toward the car in the last milliseconds before it all came undone. She’d known, even if only for a flash, what was about to happen. If that didn’t constitute suffering, what did?

  “It was quick,” Charlie finally said, not wanting to lie outright.

  “Hey.” Brandon stepped back into the kitchen. “What’d I miss?”

  Charlie thought Wesley would release her
then, change the subject. But his fingers only clamped down on her tighter.

  “Are you sure?” he hissed. “Because the police told me the paramedics worked on her for almost an hour.”

  Jesus, was that right? Almost an hour? To Charlie, the whole ordeal was a blur that might as well have taken place in ten minutes.

  Brandon edged in and gently removed Wesley’s grip on Charlie.

  “Give her some space, Wes,” Brandon said, guiding his brother to a spot several feet away from her. “She’s had a rough night too.”

  Wesley glanced from one to the other, eyes slightly wild. And then he brought his hands to his face.

  “Oh God. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  The coffee machine belched out the last dregs of brew into the pot, and Brandon set about pouring three mugs. He handed one to Wesley, who’d lapsed into another round of staring into the shine of the marble counter. With a nod of his head, Brandon directed Charlie to the far end of the room, passing her a cup.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  When Charlie nodded, Brandon’s hand disappeared inside his jacket and came back with a flask.

  “Then we’re going to need this,” he said, pouring a liberal dash of mystery booze into each mug. “Trust me.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The whiskey in the coffee slowly suffused Charlie with a warmth that chipped away at the chill she’d had from being barefoot out in the rain. Little by little, she felt the tension she’d been holding in her neck and shoulders loosen.

  The front door opened and closed, footsteps echoing in the entryway.

  “Hello?”

  Charlie recognized Dara’s meek voice.

  “In the kitchen,” Brandon called.

  A moment later, Dara came in looking remarkably fresh-faced. Her long hair was tied back in a French braid.

  “I think she’s a robot,” Allie commented.

  “Dara,” Wesley said, setting his cup aside and moving forward to embrace her. “Sweet Dara.”

  And then he started to sob again.

  Dara stiffened in his arms, a look of distinct discomfort on her face.

  “It’s… OK, Wesley,” she said.

  “But it’s not OK. It will never be OK.” His voice broke. “She’s gone. Our Glori is gone.”

  After several moments of standing there like a statue, Dara lifted her arm and began patting Wesley’s back.

  “There, there,” she muttered mechanically.

  “See?” Allie said. “Robot.”

  “Should we… do something?” Charlie whispered to Brandon.

  He smirked from his position in the corner.

  “We are doing something.”

  He took a meaningful drink of his whiskey-laced coffee.

  Charlie rolled her eyes and stepped closer to where Wesley still clung to Dara.

  “There’s coffee if you’d like some.”

  “Yes,” Dara said, sensing this as an opportunity to disentangle herself from her brother. “I would.”

  Over her shoulder, she heard Brandon sigh.

  “Wesley, why don’t you pour Dara a cup of coffee?” he suggested.

  “Hm?” Wesley released Dara. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  He pulled a mug from one of the cabinets and moved closer to the coffee machine.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Just sugar,” Dara answered, looking relieved to be out of his grasp.

  While Wesley was distracted with his task of acting the host, Dara sidled up to Brandon.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Well, what do you think, Dara? He’s upset.”

  She frowned.

  “I know that. But he wasn’t like this when Dad died.”

  “That’s because Gloria had the foresight to hide all the booze that day.” Brandon gulped at his cup. “She could be a bit of a dictator, but she had a knack for circumventing family drama.”

  “He’s drunk?” Dara sounded as if this hadn’t occurred to her before now.

  “Obviously.” Brandon scoffed. “I got rid of the Scotch when he wasn’t looking, so hopefully between that and the coffee, he’ll start to sober up soon.”

  Wesley came over, bearing a full cup of black liquid. He passed it to Dara, who raised it to her lips and drank.

  “Thank you.”

  Brandon held his mug in the air.

  “I propose a toast to Gloria,” he said. “Where’s your cup, Wes?”

  Wesley blinked and patted his vest, as if he might have tucked the coffee into a pocket. Finally, he spotted where he’d left his mug on the counter and snatched it up.

  “To Gloria,” he said, and they drank.

  Wesley polished off his cup, prompting Brandon to suggest he refill it. That must have been the goal of instigating the toast. Anything to get more caffeine pumping into Wesley’s veins.

  They moved to the solarium, and Wesley lapsed into reminiscing.

  “I remember when you were about five, you were always wanting to dress up in Gloria’s clothes,” he said, facing Dara. “Usually it annoyed her, but one time you came shuffling out with your feet stuck in a pair of her heels, and she just thought it was the funniest thing.”

  “I don’t think that was me,” Dara said. “By the time I was that age, Gloria was off at college.”

  The frown lines around Wesley’s mouth deepened.

  “No, you’re right. It was Marjory in the high heels. And she was wearing this sequined headband Gloria had as a top.”

  Despite his confusion, Wesley sounded less unhinged than before. Maybe the caffeine was finally starting to take effect. Charlie hoped so.

  “I feel like I should apologize,” Brandon said, sliding into the chair next to her.

  “For what?”

  “I should have waited until everyone was gathered before I dragged you over here,” he said. “This is just wasting your time.”

  “I’m glad actually.” Charlie stared into the rippling surface of her coffee. “It would have been a bad night to be alone.”

  He was baffled for a beat, and then realization seemed to dawn on him.

  “That bad? I guess it would be.”

  She opened her mouth, intending on downplaying it the way she had when Wesley had asked about it, but this time she couldn’t hold back the wave of remembered sensations.

  The thundering of the rain on the roof.

  The revving of the engine.

  The look of surprise on Gloria’s face when she spotted the car. Mouth open in a perfect circle. Eyebrows lifted. Hands raised, as if that might ward off the blow.

  The sickening thud as the car struck her.

  Gloria’s body fluttering. Limp.

  And the car unperturbed as it mowed her down. A dead-on hit meant to kill.

  She was startled out of the recollection by a weight settling on her shoulder. Brandon’s hand.

  “Charlie?”

  With a shudder, she shook her head in an attempt to reset her thoughts.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re the last one who owes anyone an apology after what you’ve been through,” he said, his fingers tightening on her shoulder ever so gently.

  She stared into his eyes. They were a deep amber that reminded her of fall. Maple syrup and apple cider and golden-brown donut holes dusted with cinnamon sugar.

  The clip-clop of heels sounded in the hall, and then Marjory burst into the room. She froze just past the threshold, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red as if she’d been crying. Her mouth turned down in a hard frown.

  Brandon jumped up, drawing his hand away from Charlie’s shoulder.

  “Marjory,” he said, crossing the room in four long strides. “You’re here. Good. How was the drive back?”

  “Hellish,” Marjory said, furiously unwrapping one of her Jolly Ranchers and popping it into her mouth.

  “How about some coffee?” Brandon asked, steering her toward the kitchen. “We just made it fresh.”

  “I’m
so glad you were able to keep yourself occupied while you waited for me,” she said, and Charlie thought she detected a note of sarcasm there.

  Marjory’s eyes scanned the room as she passed by.

  “Jude was at dinner with a client when I called to let him know. He said he’d ‘get away when he could.’” Her voice was sharp, almost accusing. “Typical.”

  Between Dara not being the talkative sort to begin with and Wesley lapsing into a pensive silence, the room went quiet for several moments. Through the wall, Charlie could hear the low murmur of Brandon and Marjory talking, which only seemed to amplify the lull in the solarium.

  Wesley muttered something, and both Charlie and Dara swung their heads around to face him.

  “What was that?” Dara asked.

  Lifting his head, Wesley repeated himself, louder this time.

  “I said our family must be cursed.”

  Marjory returned from the kitchen just as the pronouncement left Wesley’s lips, followed by Brandon.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Wesley,” Marjory said, slamming her cup back into the saucer she held in her hand. “No one is cursed.”

  Charlie was getting a distinct air of hostility from her. It radiated out from her body like waves of heat distortion emanating from a sun-baked parking lot in August. She supposed everyone handled their grief in one way or another. Marjory got angry. Wesley morphed into a sobbing, drunken mess. Brandon played peacemaker. And Dara… well, Dara seemed to be mostly the same as before.

  “Then why else do such terrible things keep happening to us? First Dad, now Gloria…”

  He trailed off, shaking his head.

  There was a beat where no one said anything, and then Wesley’s eyes went wide.

  “Good God. You don’t think this has anything to do with, you know… what happened to Dad?”

  Marjory glanced uneasily at Brandon from the corner of her eye. It was the first crack in the furious veneer Charlie had seen. The notion of the two deaths being linked had thrown Marjory off-kilter.

  “Jesus.” Brandon sighed and wiped a hand over his forehead. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

  “But Gloria was in a car accident,” Dara said, her brow furrowed. “Why would that be connected to what happened to Dad?”