Murder Comes Ashore

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “Thanks for stopping,” I called as she retreated down my steps to the sidewalk. Why’d I let her get under my skin?

  “You shouldn’t say your parents are crazy.” She called up the steps from the curb.

  I gasped. Three passersby stopped to gape.

  “I didn’t say that!” I said she thought they were nuts. Jeez.

  I shut the door and counted to 100 before moving another muscle. My head roared with discontent. Adrian was in the thread that sewed me together. How could I walk away completely when we shared so much history and lived five minutes apart?

  In related love-life crises, I needed clarification on my status with Sebastian, but he had too much on his plate for girlfriend drama. I dialed Claire’s new office number and cut off her FBI phone answering spiel.

  “I have girlfriend drama.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “First Friday is tonight. Do you want to come see me? Maybe have a drink? I’ll buy the milkshakes in exchange for a sounding board. My life is an out-of-control, circus-style, free-for-all. I need order and predictability.” My eager tone slipped into a whine. “What happened to my life?”

  “How many milkshakes are we talking?”

  “Infinite.”

  First Friday was an island tradition. On the first Friday of each month from May through November, shop owners dragged merchandise onto the curb, propped open their doors and socialized. Restaurants set up refreshment stands. Kids twirled sparklers and ran wild. Parents had a few umbrella drinks and didn’t care. It was the best night of the month. The night when a fierce sense of community beat out everything else.

  “Deal,” Claire agreed. “I saw Sebastian in his office this morning. He’s a mess. Between the inquisition here and body parts washing up over there, your man needs a vacation. Have you heard anything else?”

  “No. He’s shut me out. I don’t think there’s a serial killer on the island. I’m asking around, but those pieces probably washed up from somewhere else. Adrian’s asking around to see if anyone’s gone unseen for too long—like took a vacation and never came back. We’re trying to make sure the victims weren’t from Chincoteague. If they were, we need to know.”

  Something niggled at me. What did Claire say? My thoughts raced backward, sorting through her words. “What do you mean an inquisition?”

  “The bureau’s still looking into the bust from July. Internal Affairs is all over him. Those mob families have money in their pockets and crooked lawyers on speed dial. They want retribution for the lives lost and a formal apology from the bureau, which is ridiculous. Sebastian won’t budge on his story. He’s standing his ground and he’s got serious stress.”

  “I knew he needed my help.”

  “I didn’t say he needed help. Patience? Don’t get involved this time. I agree with Sebastian. What if those body parts are calling cards meant for him? Jimmy the Judge might know Sebastian’s on the island. Those parts could be messages. Warnings. For him. Scary ones.”

  “I’m not convinced the parts are gifts from Jimmy the Judge. Maybe, but I don’t know. If I’m right, then Sebastian could focus on wrapping up the mob mess at the bureau. I want him safe, and these body parts are breaking his concentration. What if he’s so distracted by them he becomes an easy target? I couldn’t live with that scenario.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll tell,” she warned.

  “You wouldn’t!” I dropped the phone. My heart raced. I grabbed it off the shaggy carpet and checked she wasn’t disconnected. “Claire!”

  “Fine. I wouldn’t, but I don’t condone you messing around in this either. If you want to solve crimes, come apply as an agent. You’d ace the exam. How many times have you administered the same test to new hires?”

  “I don’t want to be an agent. I want to help Sebastian. Can we talk later, when you get here?”

  “Sure. See you tonight. You better have my milkshake waiting.”

  I disconnected with Claire. My thumbs danced over the phone’s face.

  “Chincoteague Police Station, how can I direct your call?”

  “Hi, Frankie. It’s Patience. Has any new information come in on the body part case?”

  “Please hold.” The phone thumped, but hold music never arrived. Background noise filtered through the receiver.

  “We need to quarantine the beach and get some nets out there. I know Trent’s giving the fishermen a hard time, but I’ll have a talk with him. The shark stuff can wait. This is a murder investigation.” Sebastian’s voice. Gah! He was everywhere I didn’t want him and never where I did want him.

  The phone rattled on Frankie’s end and disconnected.

  I paced my living room. My tummy groaned. I needed food. The Tasty Cream was a good place for gossip. Mrs. Tucker heard everything from behind her counter. I grabbed my bag and keys. Freud sat on the stoop looking sad. His bowl of kitty kibble overflowed.

  “Hello, sweetie.” I stroked his soft fur and rubbed his ears. “Kitty food is yummy. We don’t need tuna. We eat mice and kibble, don’t we?” His little body coiled through my legs and around my feet, vibrating like a tiny engine.

  “I’ll bring you milk from Mrs. Tucker.” I jogged across the street with renewed purpose. Breakfast for me and milk for Freud.

  The restaurant buzzed with energy. Soft scents of butter and pancakes hung in the air, thickened with the rich sugary smell of syrup in every flavor. My tummy flopped from sheer joy.

  Mrs. Tucker waved from the counter, already pouring a mug of coffee. “What can I get you, honey?” Her sweet smile and dash of freckles charmed everyone.

  I loved her. Every memory I had of her was tightly wrapped in sugar highs and comfort food.

  “I’d love a pancake with strawberries and whipped cream. Only one. I’m watching my waistline.”

  “Good choice. Anything for your little friend today?”

  For a moment I pictured Adrian. For several more moments I wondered why.

  “Honey?” Mrs. Tucker tapped a pen against her order pad. “You want a cup of cream for your kitty?”

  “Freud.” Ha! Not Adrian. Goodness. No. Of course she meant Freud.

  She nodded.

  “Yes, please. How did you know?”

  “Adrian comes over here twice a day to get cream for the kitty. He ought to get a mini fridge for his office.”

  Adrian took better care of my kitty than I did. My heart skipped and then faltered. I’d think about why later. After breakfast.

  Chester Reed, the island mailman, squeezed onto the silver bar stool beside mine. His belly pressed against the counter. He had a beard like Santa Claus and wore knee-high navy socks, shorts to match, black orthopedic shoes and a striped button-down shirt. He could walk the few miles around town if he wanted. Judging by his waistline, he preferred the truck.

  “I hate this time of year.” He leaned his forearms on the counter, avoiding eye contact. “A few birders are good for tourism. A hoard of them isn’t good for anything but blocking mail boxes and slowing traffic. Why aren’t they in the national forest? The only birds on my route are cranes and crows. They must’ve seen those by now.”

  “Pancakes. Fresh strawberries. Whipped cream.” Mrs. Tucker slid a plate in front of me with four pancakes in a pile. Strawberry slices formed two eyes and a nose with Reddi-wip eyebrows and a smile. The entire island saw me in pigtails and diapers, but I didn’t hate the smiley breakfast. It was too hard to work up frustration with someone smiling at me.

  “Thanks.”

  Chester rubbed his chest and sucked in a long ragged breath.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. The question was rhetorical. His face matched my berries. “Chester? What’s happening?” I grabbed his arm.

  “Should I call 911?” Mrs. Tucker pressed a giant handset to her ear.


  “I don’t think so.” His chest rose and fell in shallow dips. I spun his stool, dragging his belly against the counter’s edge and popping a button. He grabbed his shirt with both hands and I shoved his head forward, nearly sending him onto the floor. “Sorry!”

  I pressed palms against his shoulders to steady him and crouched to eye level. “Chester, I think you’re having a panic attack. Keep your head down and breathe as deeply as possible. In through your mouth, out through your nose.”

  He wheezed and hacked. His torso bobbed and weaved on the little stool.

  “No. Oops. Nope. Try the other way. I got mixed up. In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

  A pair of birders in bright blue Birders Do It on the Beach shirts stared at me from the register.

  Mrs. Tucker hung up the phone and took their money.

  I needed to talk to Dad about his shirt business. I didn’t like the thought of those guys doing it anywhere.

  They took a picture and left.

  “Mrs. Tucker? Can I have a glass of water for Chester?”

  “They’re everywhere.” He lifted his face. One arm reached overhead. “They don’t watch where they’re going. They look at the sky. I can’t work like this.”

  “Has this happened to you before?”

  Chester nodded then straightened when Mrs. Tucker appeared with his water. A patch of black and gray hairs crawled out from the hole where his button had popped loose. His breathing deepened and steadied with each inhale. He sipped and sighed.

  “Only in crowds. Usually I can avoid crowds. Now, there are crowds everywhere. On every street.” The words caught in his throat.

  “Shh. Keep breathing.” I patted his arm.

  “I’m fine.” His color returned to normal. He blew out a long breath, getting himself back together. “Neither rain nor snow nor fear of crowds can stop the mail, you know?” He breathed deeper and nodded. He seemed okay.

  “If it makes you feel any better, the birders are helping the economy. They’re renting rooms, buying food and a ton of goofy T-shirts. Have you seen the birders in Team Adrian shirts? Like they have the first clue who he is or what office he’s running for.” I stopped short. I made a mental note to ask Adrian about the shirts. Better to ask than speculate.

  Mrs. Tucker rocked back on her heels and disappeared around the counter.

  “What office indeed.” Chester cleared his throat. A broad smile spread over his face. He teetered off the stool with a chuckle. “Nice seeing you again, Patience. Mrs. Tucker.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. Chester left the cash on the counter and wobbled away, leaving a trail of hearty giggles behind him.

  It occurred to me the Team Adrian shirts might not be supporting his run for mayor.

  “You’re good.” Mrs. Tucker pushed the money my way and winked. “Pancakes are on the house. Here’s your cream.” She set a lidded container beside my plate.

  “This is silly.” The complaint died with my first bite of pancakes. They’d cooled while I talked Chester down, but the flavors still burst in my mouth like fireworks of joy.

  When I was halfway to a carbohydrate coma, Sebastian sauntered into the Tasty Cream and altered my fantasy. One minute I slept on a giant pancake, the next minute I had new plans for the syrup. Figurative plans, since syrup ruined sheets and Sebastian seemed unreasonably content with first base.

  “Thought I’d find you here.” He leaned against the counter like an ad for testosterone, biceps and sex. His voice lingered on the air between us, slow and thick.

  “You are a special agent.” I turned to face him, hoping I didn’t have whipped cream on my mouth or clothes. All four of the happy pancakes had disappeared somehow.

  “I wondered if you’re free for First Friday tonight? I owe you about a dozen dates. Maybe this can be the first of my make-up attempts.”

  “And if you vanish to the mainland again?” I locked my ankles around his calf.

  “Not tonight. I’m needed here, and there isn’t much I can do at the shoreline after dark. I consider that a legitimate excuse for a night out.”

  “Seeing the good folks of Chincoteague mingle is a good place to catch up on gossip.” I smiled. His date came with a dash of work. Understandable. Disappointing.

  “Maybe.” He leaned in close. “It’d be more fun if you were with me.”

  I considered those words his permission. He needed my help.

  Shoot. I pressed two fingers against my temple. “I invited Claire.”

  “So? I like Claire.” He brushed a swatch of hair off my shoulder and I shivered.

  Darn body language. I couldn’t hide from Sebastian. What he wasn’t trained to discern, he picked up on instinct. He’d probably known I was attracted to him during the interview when I hired him. My face heated. Sebastian revealed nothing. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes kept me guessing. His straight lips and strong, square jawline unnerved and delighted me.

  “Okay.” I swallowed and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “So, we’re good?”

  I’d been mad the last time I saw him, but the problem with Sebastian was his face. I couldn’t stay mad at that face. “Yep.”

  “Good. See you tonight.” Sebastian pressed his lips to my red-hot cheek and dragged a thumb over my jaw. My toes curled so tight I almost lost a sandal.

  Mrs. Tucker leaned against the register, watching him leave. Sebastian looked as good from behind as he did from the front, dressed for combat in black boots under cargo khakis, a fitted gray shirt and a clearly visible sidearm. She fanned her face with a dishtowel. I agreed. When she looked to me for an explanation, I grabbed the cream for Freud and ran away.

  Freud met me at the steps mewing. I scooped him into one hand and carried him to the stoop outside my door. He sniffed and pawed at the container in my free hand until I set them both on the mat outside my door.

  “Told you I’d bring you something.”

  He didn’t look up as he lapped cream into his tiny pink mouth, whiskers and nose. My contented smile fell when I reached for my doorknob. Someone had tucked a piece of paper into one corner of my ancient front door’s window. Key in one hand, I peeled the note from my window.

  Leave this alone, or you’re next.

  My heartbeat hammered. Panic constricted everything. I scanned the area before ducking inside and sliding the chain. I twisted the dead bolt and struggled for breath. My butt hit the floor and I leaned forward, forcing images of the man who tried to kill me in July out of my mind. He was in jail. He couldn’t hurt me again. Using the same method I prescribed for Chester, I slowed my breathing. I needed a grip on my life.

  Something else was going on here. What?

  I straightened and rolled my head against the door. My fingers relaxed their grip on the offensive strip of paper. Hard pencil scratches dug into plain white copy paper. They didn’t waste words. Someone knew I had questions. They didn’t want me finding answers.

  I fell over, inhaling fifty-year-old shag and a vat of Febreze. Someone was watching me. I needed to know who. And why.

  Stupid curiosity.

  Chapter Seven

  When I was growing up, only a handful of shops participated in First Fridays. Back then, shops closed at five. Later, the island counsel decided opening business doors after hours would be a good way to make our small community more like a family. Of course, the added revenue wouldn’t hurt, either. Fast forward a couple decades and most shops stayed open until nine. The owners dragged displays onto the sidewalk first thing in the morning and celebrated the first Friday of the month all day long. Every store in town had a “First Friday Special,” a raffle or some other gimmick to draw customer attention. Local churches and Girl Scouts sold baked goods from folding tables in parking lots. Crafters hung crocheted t
oaster cozies from limbo sticks. The whole island had a hand in the celebration.

  I had a hand in Sebastian’s. Our fingers laced together in a perfect fit. His palm pressed against mine when he saw something new or outrageous by mainland standards. Seeing my world through his eyes was exciting. I took so much for granted. He shook his head at the world’s worst balloon animal artist and chuckled at the disappointed children carrying giraffes with stubby legs and no face. Nostalgia washed over me.

  “Hey, those giraffes double as wiener dogs if you set them on their sides.” I stopped at the back of the line and inhaled kettle corn on the evening breeze. My tummy growled.

  “Aren’t you a little old for a balloon animal?” Sebastian’s expression turned from a teasing half-smile to annoyance.

  I tracked his fallen look to the front of the line where Adrian was drawing smiles on kids’ balloons with a Sharpie. He had a blue giraffe/wiener dog tucked under one of his arms for later, I chuckled. What a dork. A smile spread over my face. Adrian was ridiculously endearing.

  “There you are.” An exasperated Karen Holsten tromped up to me, hands in the air. “Your mother is insufferable. She’s yelling at my florist.” The evening breeze flipped her floral maxi dress against her legs.

  “What?” I scanned the crowd for my parents.

  “Your mother.” She stretched the words into syllables.

  I narrowed my eyes and braced my free hand over one hip. Sebastian released my fingers and caught me at the waist.

  “She’s scaring Minnie and I need her at her best for my celebration dinner. Make her stop.” Karen pointed to the corner of Main and Front Street.

  I stepped around her and kept going. Crossing the street, a line of purple flags came in to view. Mom and Dad set up a booth with Purple Pony gear every month. Mom did palm readings and Dad distributed his magic elixir.

  A vendor stepped into my path. “Popcorn! Get your popcorn right here! I’ve got buttered corn, salty corn, kettle corn and the best darn caramel corn on the East Coast.” A box filled with red-and-white-striped popcorn bags hung over the vendor’s shoulders. He looked like one of the cigarette girls from Prohibition clubs.