Murder Comes Ashore

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “I’m sure Sheriff Fargas will get things straightened out soon.”

  She turned her weary gaze on me. “We moved here from the mainland so he could work. He loved this place so much as a child. We planned to retire here.” She blew her nose and grabbed a fresh tissue from the box at her feet. “He was diagnosed with early onset of Parkinson’s in the spring. It’s a secret. He didn’t want the questioning looks or pity any sooner than was completely unavoidable. It’s awful, this thing he was handed. He’s only thirty. Can you even imagine learning this is your fate? You’re going to die a slow death and you can’t do anything but go along with it?”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Parkinson’s explained the tremors. He kneaded his hands together when we talked, hiding it well. I thought he was nervous. Keeping a secret like this from your employer might look shady too. No wonder Mrs. Flick thought he was up to something. I breathed a sigh of relief then bit it back. He didn’t cut up those people, but he was dying.

  “He lost his position as county coroner a short time after his diagnosis. He thought he’d never work again, not do what he loved. Then the position opened at Flick’s and he applied. He can’t do it forever, but for now the job doesn’t require as much precision as his old job. It felt like a good compromise.” She grabbed another tissue and wiped her eyes. “He can work at Flick’s until this job becomes too much. We’re completely broke with the move and medical bills. I’ve never worked outside our home. Now he’s gone and I don’t know what to do. I suppose it was coming to this anyway. Mark said it’s so expensive to be buried on the island these days due to lack of space. Spots go at a premium and no one wants to be cremated. They haven’t used the crematorium in ages. People go over to the mainland for burial and have the funeral there while they’re at it. Eventually this job would’ve ended one way or another.”

  Island capacity I understood. Finding an apartment was a nightmare. The only thing available in my price range was decorated in bugs, shag and paneling. If Adrian hadn’t started a rumor it was haunted back in high school, it would’ve been renovated by now and sold for top dollar. Lucky me, the ghost is only Adrian and his secret staircase. Also, islanders were heavy duty on the fear of anything haunted. I grew up on tales of the Ghost Pony. A shiver crept down my spine.

  Mary shook with fresh tears in the chair across from me, and I hated how proud everyone was. Why did people hide things? What was wrong with transparency? Mark didn’t have to live with Parkinson’s under a cloak of shame or secrets. This was his life and people supported each other on our island. No matter what.

  My cheeks burned as I passed judgment on Mark. How quick was I to point out someone threatened to kill me? I had my own secrets.

  Stupid pride.

  “I’ll see myself out.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun dropped low over the water as I headed for the police station. I didn’t know a ton about Parkinson’s, but from what Mary described, Mark’s hands were weak. Surely cutting people limb from limb required a certain amount of hand strength. My mind surged with ideas and fell with lack of knowledge to support them. Mostly, I was tired of my folks sitting in jail because they wouldn’t tell Sheriff Fargas the whole story. These were murder charges, for crying out loud.

  I parked the Pony cart in front of Sebastian’s Range Rover. Two SUVs like the one on the Mathers’ street graced the curb. Looked like Sebastian had returned from the mainland with his team, not that I had another way of knowing he was in town. Contacting me wasn’t an obligation. Who was I? I rubbed the evening chill off my hands and tugged open the police station door.

  “Hi, Patience.” Frankie’s lips hovered over a steaming mug. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “No thanks.” I wasn’t sure how well this conversation would go, but I had my expectation gauge set at not-very.

  “Patience?” Sebastian ushered me into Fargas’s old office. “What are you doing here?”

  I stood tall, wishing I’d chosen heels over flats. Shoulders squared, I pressed on. “I have some new information on the case.”

  He shut the door and rubbed his face with both palms. I accepted the gesture as my go ahead and spilled all I knew. Jennie faking her credentials and Mark’s Parkinson’s. Those two weren’t viable suspects, in my professional opinion.

  “Are you going to say something?” I asked when he didn’t respond. Good grief. He ignored me when I stood right in front of him.

  He peeked through his fingers. “You want me to say something?”

  I didn’t appreciate the attitude, so I gave it right back to him. “Yeah. Say something, like ‘thank you’ or ‘good job, Patience. Atta girl.’”

  “Atta girl?” He dropped his hands to his sides. “You want an atta girl for continuing to put yourself in the center of my murder investigation? Do you have any idea what it was like for me the last time you got mixed up in a Chincoteague crime spree?” His voice was so low and scary calm I assumed he missed what a selfish statement he’d just made. The eerie voice contrasted sharply with his expression. He looked ready to turn green and Hulk out any second. The vein in his neck thumped beneath his skin.

  “I nearly lost you once and I have to be honest, I can’t deal with that again. You’re killing me slowly here.” He pounded a fist against his chest in true Hulk fashion and I softened. “I’m trying to protect you.”

  Ruined it.

  “Protect me how? Protect me by avoiding me and never contacting me? I never know where you are or what you’re doing. I’m trying to help you with this case, but you keep getting mad and telling me to stay out of it. You force me to go looking.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “This is my job. Not yours.” He patted his chest and pushed a hand out between us in a childish “Me Tarzan, you Jane” maneuver. “You need to go counsel someone and stay out of my investigation before you get hurt. I can’t possibly keep you safe if you continue intentionally putting yourself in harm’s way. You don’t think we know about Jennie’s fake credentials or Mark’s Parkinson’s? I’m the freaking FBI, Patience. Remember them?”

  I threw my arms up and waved my hands wildly. “I. Am. Trying. To. Help. You!”

  I stormed back through the front door. If he followed me, I’d kick his shins in public. If he didn’t...

  I slowed as my feet hit concrete. He didn’t follow. I glanced at the closed door. What did it mean if he didn’t follow me?

  The Pony cart crept along the streets to my apartment. I checked my rearview a million times. For a guy so worried I was in danger, he could’ve driven me home. How stupid was I to think I knew things he didn’t? I recommended the FBI hire him because he was amazing.

  I climbed the steps to my place one at a time, in case he appeared on the street with an apology. He didn’t.

  “Mew.” Freud rolled on a package at my doorstep. He licked his paws and patted them against the cardboard.

  My heart stopped. “What’s in the box, Freud?”

  “Mew.” He stretched down to meet me and curled around my ankles. The box where he’d sat was unsealed.

  I lifted the package with unsteady hands and bated breath. It didn’t move, but it was heavy. I opened one flap and counted to three, bracing for whatever was inside.

  “There she is! There’s the Godwit killer!” I turned sharply, barely catching the railing before I toppled over. A cluster of birders pointed at me.

  I turned back to the box’s contents. Multiple dead eyes looked back at me. Birds. All sorts of birds. Big. Small. Gray. Black. Brown. I couldn’t let the birders know. I carried the death box inside and locked my door. Totally normal delivery. I peeked through the curtains and most of the gawkers filed away.

  I gagged and ran for the trash. I couldn’t put them in the trash. What if they had ticks? Bird lice? Bird flu? I ran in a circle around my living
room unsure what to do with a box of dead birds and a hoard of birders roaming the streets. Bedroom!

  I ran to the bedroom and pressed my back to the mirrored dresser blocking my window. I shoved with my legs and slid it away. Five seconds later wind blew in through the open glass and I tossed the box onto the lawn below. My knees buckled and I sat on my floor sucking in breath and shaking off bird cooties.

  “Hey!”

  I spun onto my knees and looked through the open window. A man in baggy jeans, a flannel shirt and binoculars stared at the box, which had landed two inches from him. He crouched and flipped open the lid.

  “The bird killer’s at it again!” he shouted.

  People rushed to his side. A group gathered under my window and pressed binoculars at their eyes.

  I hid my face and cried. I never should’ve pried the nails out of my window after Sebastian worked so hard to secure it shut this summer. The unnailing had seemed symbolic. I had overcome. I wouldn’t live in fear of another killer climbing in through the window. Now, the prospect of a torch-toting Frankenstein-style mob chanting me to sleep at night beneath this window brought quiet sobs from my chest.

  * * *

  I woke up on the floor during the night and climbed into bed. I’d fallen asleep leaning against the dresser I’d shoved back in front of my window. Too soon, sunlight danced in the hallway outside my room, changing gentle pink shades of sunrise to the bright yellow signs of midday. I pulled the covers over my eyes and played dead.

  “Time for lunch, you sexy beast.” Adrian shook my feet.

  “Go away.”

  “Nope. I brought Mrs. Tucker’s burgers, fries, malts and onion rings. Comfort food. I heard you had another run-in last night.”

  “Who told?” I lowered the blanket to reveal one eye. Adrian stuffed an onion ring in his mouth and dusted his palms together.

  “Come on. Help me eat this. Mmm. Your life can’t be that bad. I’m here.” He pulled a chair to the bedside to provide a makeshift table for his feast.

  I covered my head and rolled my eyes under the blanket. “My parents are in jail. Sebastian’s mad at me. The town’s taking sides about my love life. No one takes me seriously as a counselor. You saw the Franks. My office is kablooey. Everything I own smells like smoke. Someone wants me dead. The birders want me arrested.” I squeezed my eyelids shut to stave off another crying jag.

  “In the birders’ defense, they think you killed the only Black-Tailed Godwit to appear on this continent in like a zillion years.”

  I yanked the covers down. “It hasn’t been a zillion years and don’t defend them.” I grabbed a fry and ducked under the blanket again.

  “You’re going to need your malt to wash that down.”

  “I didn’t kill any birds. Someone keeps leaving them on my doorstep.” The whine in my voice annoyed me.

  “Look. Is this one of the birds you didn’t kill?”

  “If you have a dead bird in my room near this food I will vomit.”

  “Come on. Look.”

  I really wanted the malt, so I sat up and removed the blanket from my head. Adrian turned his phone toward me. “Ever seen one of those?”

  “No. Is that the Godwit? That wasn’t one of the birds in the box.” I heaved a sigh of relief. The Godwit lived.

  He dropped the phone on my bed and nodded with a mouth full of burger. “See. All’s good.”

  There was a lot of food here.

  “You’re disgusting. Wipe your mouth.” I shoved a napkin against his chest, and he held my hand there. Unsure about the sensations zinging up my fingertips, I dragged a fry through ketchup with my free hand and dotted his nose.

  He smiled. I did it again. He leaned toward me, pressing my palm to his thundering heart.

  I had five seconds at the most. My brain screamed. Make a decision! “Adrian.”

  His chin fell to his chest and he released my hand. He frowned through dark inviting lashes. “Is it your morning breath?”

  I grabbed an onion ring and went to the kitchen for coffee, thankful for stinky onion rings and morning breath. Out of Adrian’s sight, I pulled in shaky lungs full of air. Why did I want to kiss him? Was it all those years of intimacy? Forbidden fruit? Backlash at Sebastian for avoiding me? Adrian’s sculpted pecks and washboard abs didn’t exactly deter a girl. I spent every minute with Adrian deciding if I wanted to launch myself at him or shove an ice cream in his nose. I drummed my nails on the countertop as my Keurig kicked to life. I wanted the chocolate malt Adrian brought me, but I needed coffee.

  He thought I had morning breath? I breathed on my open palm. It wasn’t awesome.

  I sipped the fresh coffee and reveled in its rich scents and flavors. My mind would clear up any minute and I’d remember Adrian was my past. Sebastian was my future. I deserved a fresh start, a new chance, a life not yet lived. But where was the man of my future these days?

  “Your phone buzzed. You got a text.” Adrian’s voice carried through my apartment. “From Camo. Who’s Camo? Claire?”

  “Camo is Sebastian. What does the text say? Bring it here.”

  Adrian appeared in the living room with my phone. “Oh, oh, oh. Who’s your man?”

  I swallowed a mouthful of scalding coffee. “What?” I fanned my mouth with one hand.

  “I am the man. That’s who. I bet it was my lawyer who busted your folks out. They are free at last. Free at last.” Adrian threw his arms up in a wide V and dropped his head back.

  “They’re out? Like out-out?” Excitement coursed through me.

  Adrian slunk across the living room in my direction with an ornery gleam in his eye. His crisp white T-shirt accented his tan. “You could thank me.”

  “Pass.”

  “Later’s fine. Whatever.” He shrugged. “Can I drive you over to see them? By the time you pull yourself together and they get settled back in, we can drop by their place for dinner.”

  Never mind the bag of food he devoured on my bed five minutes ago. “Yes.” I smiled until my cheeks hurt. Finally, some good news.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emotion fizzed and bubbled in my chest on the ride to my parents’ house. Bouncing along beside Adrian in his open-top Jeep was a nostalgic kick in the head. Cooling September breezes whipped hair into my eyes. Muted shades of gray and violet dressed the sky like a healing bruise. The absence of Indian summer’s humidity changed the salty air in pleasant ways, reminding me of football games and letterman jackets. I closed my eyes a moment and embraced the new association happening in my brain. Forevermore this sky would represent freedom. My parents were home.

  Adrian slapped the steering wheel, keeping rhythm with a song I didn’t recognize on the radio. By the time I’d gotten ready to see my parents, Adrian had called and arranged dinner plans. He claimed they wanted a few hours alone to make up for time spent in a public jail cell. Then he winked. Gross.

  I gave them several hours of berth, pushing the idea out of my head. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I jumped in his passenger seat. Adrian piloted the vehicle down the noisy gravel drive to my childhood home. Relief flooded through me with the knowledge my parents were there. Puffs of smoke from the charcoal grill on the back deck rolled over the roof, meeting us halfway.

  “I love when your dad grills.” Adrian rubbed his abs.

  “Me too.”

  I hopped down from the Jeep by way of a non-existent door and met Adrian at the headlights.

  He lifted an elbow in my direction. “Ready?”

  I wound my arms through his and pulled his chest against my cheek. “Thank you.”

  He froze under my touch. Admittedly, I wasn’t the most affectionate woman, and I gave him no warning, but he’d earned a hug. Without his attorney, my parents would be eating takeout in a jail cell instead of gril
ling at their home. A few heartbeats later I dropped my arms as he squeezed me back.

  I avoided eye contact. Why was I so awkward?

  Adrian lagged behind by a step or two as I walked between the enormous poles holding our home six feet off the ground. My palms grazed each one as I passed. Those poles had protected us from more storms than I could recall. Summer storms were the best. Mom lit candles and Dad made blanket forts in the living room when I couldn’t sleep through them. Waves flooded our lawn, bringing sand and sea crabs with it. We made s’mores in the oven and waited for the sun.

  “Some of my favorite childhood memories happened under this house,” Adrian said.

  I looked over my shoulder. In a rare moment of emotional honesty, Adrian traced our initials carved into one pole, his bright, I’m-the-man smile replaced by something more pensive. I picked up my pace.

  The grill sizzled on the deck above as I entered the backyard. Fresh cut grass mingled with scents of melted butter and herbs. Seagulls lined the roof in anticipation of dinner. When you lived on the harbor, grilling seafood was an adventure. Local wildlife fought you for it.

  “Peepee!” Dad’s voice boomed.

  My feet responded, taking the deck steps two at a time.

  He hugged me to his Kiss the Cook apron and planted one on my head. “Thanks for mowing the grass and picking up the mail.”

  “I didn’t...”

  Adrian cut me off. “No problem, Mr. P.”

  Dang it. I never thought of what I could do for them while they were trapped in jail. I only opened the store after they asked me. Adrian was a good man.

  “I raised mine right.”

  My tummy clenched. I turned slowly in the direction of Mrs. Davis’s voice.

  “Hey, Mom.” Adrian passed me on the weathered gray deck planks. He stood behind his mother, already seated at my parents’ deck table. Mai tai in hand. Snide comments at the ready. Evil look in her eyes. The usual. It was just like old times, except not at all because Mrs. Davis never liked my parents. After all, they’d raised a flake.