Mom lifted an eyebrow. “Have you heard of any more bodies washing up on the shoreline?”
Thank goodness for the subject change. My lip hurt. “No. Not in a few days. Why?”
“Human waste is toxic to the sea life.”
I blinked. Yes. Because that was the real tragedy here.
She waved a hand toward the counter. “We need more flyers for your counseling services when you have time. We’re out again.” She whirled around and grabbed a stack of shirts from the counter behind Dad. “I’ll drop these in back.” Her tone was suddenly odd.
Dad looked quizzically at his steaming press.
The flickering bulb of my brain struggled a few seconds before clicking on. “Dad, no,” I gasped. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Well.”
I bumped him aside and unhinged the shirt press. The machine opened and there it was.
“Dad.” The word hung on my lips for several beats. I peeled the shirt loose and held it over my chest. “Team Adrian?” A shopper in the racks snapped a picture.
Ugh!
“I never planned on selling them. It was a joke. I made one for Adrian when he’d had a bad day and he handed it out as a campaign shirt. I thought it was funny. Then someone asked about the shirt, so I made them one. Then that nice girl from the police station stopped by and asked for one with Sebastian on it. She misunderstood the whole thing. I told her it was a campaign shirt, but we decided it was funnier her way, so I made a few more and they’re going like hotcakes.”
“Daddy.” I rested my forearms on the counter and banged my head between my elbows.
“These shirts are a big deal. People get all bent out of shape over them.” His eyes widened. His voice lowered. “It’s getting really intense. Coach Peters is taking money on the whole thing. It’s like West Side Story around here.”
Coach Peters was a client of mine with a gambling problem. I groaned into my sleeve.
“Which do you prefer?”
I lifted my head.
Dad had one shirt on each arm. He threaded his hand through the sleeves and made like a human display rack. Team Adrian on his right arm. Team Sebastian on his left.
I needed a crisis intervention.
My phone vibrated in my pocket and I dug it out, half afraid of what catastrophe was coming next. Missy. Good grief. I could only imagine. That mammoth dog of hers had probably tied them both around a tree with his crazy leash.
“This is Patience.”
“Oh thank goodness.” She wheezed. “Thor and I took a walk on the beach. I threw a stick into the waves a few times. He loved it.” Wheeze. Wheeze. Whimper.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? In danger?”
“I saw a shark. It came right past Thor in the waves. So close. A good wind would blow it on shore.” Wheeze. Gasp. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Should I call an ambulance?” Wheeze.
Aarf!
Silence.
“Missy?” I kissed Dad’s forehead and called into the back room where Mom was hiding. “I need to check on a friend. I’ll be back.”
I cursed the slow-moving Pony cart all the way through town, dialing and redialing Missy’s number. Panic attacks were scary things. I careened around a bunch of birders on the marsh bridge and nearly took a trip into the grasses and swampland getting past them. I honked and shook my fist like a crazy old cartoon lady.
“Hello?” A breathy voice answered as I waved my pass at the national forest’s guard gate. Thank goodness. I was ten seconds away from calling 911 in case Missy had passed out and Thor dragged her into the shark-infested waters.
“Missy! What happened?”
“I think I hyperventilated and passed out. I’m fine now. Don’t worry.”
Sure. Sure. I smiled. “Stay where you are. I’m on the forest road. I’ll be at the shoreline in five minutes.”
* * *
I laughed as patches of gold and yellow sunlight blinked across the road. Some days my life was silly.
Missy sat in the sand petting Thor. Her hair clung to her cheeks and her clothes stuck to her skin. Thor flopped his tail hard against the sand when I approached, but didn’t get up. They looked exhausted. Missy’s placid expression worried me a bit. She’d never told me about her panic attacks. Freaking out to the point of collapse was a big deal, yet she behaved as if it was a common occurrence.
“It’s a beautiful day.” I stopped a few yards away, unsure how long Thor’s leash was and unwilling to find out. Sailboats peppered the horizon, graceful silhouettes on the sea. A few fishing boats grew larger as they made their way in from a long day of work. The beach was deserted around us.
“I’m sorry I called you like that. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m fine.” She waved a hand over herself and Thor. “I don’t know what I expected you to do about a shark. Catch the thing?” She chuckled and her cheeks reddened.
“Well, I can’t catch it, but I did contact the park ranger station. Someone’s coming to pull down the Swim at Your Own Risk signs. The ranger I spoke with decided to post No Swimming signs until this mess is resolved.” I shrugged, though regret bit at my tummy. No swimming at the national shore seemed wrong. Every fiber in me wanted to protest, but what options were left? “The whole beach is practically a crime scene and the water’s cold anyway.”
Missy looked at the waves coming in. “Have you ever seen a shark? Not on television, I mean? They’re big. I wasn’t sure what it was at first.” Her voice cracked. “It was a really big shadow, you know. Bigger than I thought sharks were, but there aren’t any clouds today. No shadows. When Thor turned back with the stick, a fin broke the water’s surface about thirty yards away. In hindsight, the shark wasn’t as close as I thought, but it was definitely too close for safety. I can’t lose Thor like I lost Mr. Tiptoes.” Her expression turned grave. “What if that’s what happened? What if a shark ate Mr. Tiptoes?” She whimpered and scratched Thor’s head.
“Oh. No. That’s not what happened.” I moved to Missy’s side and eased onto the sand beside her. “Mr. Tiptoes was probably taken home by some greedy tourist family with a big house on a farm and lots of money to spoil him. When they saw him, they scooped him up and never looked back.”
She sniffled into her jacket sleeve. “Yeah? I hate greedy tourists.”
“Me too. I bet Mr. Tiptoes sits on his new silk pillow bed all day looking over his fancy farm and telling the animals about his amazing life on an island, with a wonderful mom and her giant heart.”
Missy smiled. “I bet those rich animals are jealous.”
“You bet they are.” Connecting with islanders on a personal level warmed me. Not everyone needed therapy. Sometimes people needed to hear the impossible. Grief is tough, no matter what was lost.
“My mom told me the farm story in third grade when our cat died.” She chuckled beside me. “It’s silly. Even then, I knew it was hooey, but it’s nice to think they’re okay somewhere and not hurt or scared or alone.”
“My dad told me the same thing about my grandma,” I teased.
Missy laughed. She wiped her face against her sleeve. “Thank you for telling your friend Claire about Melinda. She called Melinda to arrange a celebration dinner for Adrian Davis and Melinda contacted me for help. I knew Melinda before, but the dinner gave us a reason to put dates on the calendar and get together. It’s nice having a girlfriend. I didn’t realize how much I missed girlfriends. No offense, Thor.” He rolled onto his other side and looked at her with one big eye. She patted his wet, sandy chest.
A park ranger patrol truck rolled into the distance and a man climbed out. He unloaded things from the back and headed for the nearest post. Time to change the signs. No more swimming. Sad times.
“I guess we’re finished here.” Missy stood and brushed sand from her legs and backside. Th
or followed her example, shaking wet hunks of sand all over me. “You staying a while?”
I wiped my face with both hands. Wet dog smell was everywhere. Maybe the doggy sand went up my nose. “I think I’m headed to the lighthouse.” Anywhere but with that big, wet sand trap. The lighthouse peeked over the trees in the forest, inviting me in.
We parted ways at the sand’s edge. Missy took Thor to her car, and I followed a well-trodden path into the woods. My feet moved on auto-pilot over the familiar course. I’d jogged to the lighthouse and back hundreds of times in high school as part of Coach Peters’ fitness regimen for our track team. I hadn’t explored the entire national forest, but I knew some parts well enough to get around blindfolded. The lighthouse path was one of them.
Sunlight flickered through upturned leaves. Rain was on the way. I stretched my arms out at my sides, letting leaves hit my palms as I moved. Their cool surfaces tickled my skin. On the trail all scents of wet dog were covered by better ones, like moist earth and the changing fall colors. A handful of trees stood out in brilliant crimson attire, wearing their season’s best. Those trees gave up at the first sign of frost. Others held on until the very end, only releasing their final leaves when snow fell. I was like the green trees. I peaked late, held onto things and refused to be told what to do, even if history, science or anything else argued against me.
I checked the horizon for horses as I moved. The last time I ran into a horse up close, an arms dealer shot it. Adrenaline coursed through my system as memories of that night resurfaced. Gunmen had chased me with no reservations about shooting. The poor horse discovered this truth the hard way when he showed up in the general vicinity where I hid. For weeks I wondered if his horse family had witnessed the incident and if they mourned him.
As much as I hated those memories, I’d made far too many wonderful ones in the forest to have them ruined in one night. Plus, like the green trees, I wouldn’t let go of my nice thoughts so easily. Arms dealers were an exception, not the rule. In the national forest, the rule was beauty, peace and harmony.
Adrian was like the forest. As mad as he’d made me in the past and as much as he irritated me currently, our history made it impossible to let him go. He was as much a part of me as this island, the forest, the ocean or my parents. I hoped my night with Sebastian wasn’t a mistake, and I hoped Adrian didn’t think less of me. Whatever I was, island sweetheart or something else, I had been influenced by having Adrian in my life for eighteen years. I needed his acceptance. He mattered. I doubted that would change.
I slowed as a pair of birders came into view on my path. They stared into the sky.
“It’s a male.” The older man pointed overhead, speaking to the younger one. “You can tell by the bright feathers on his chest and tail. Look again.”
A smile crossed the younger man’s face. “So that’s him.”
“That’s him.” The older man clapped the younger man on the back.
They looked at me as I crunched over the path to them.
“Hi.”
Meeting a pair of men in the woods was how a fair share of scary movies started, but I didn’t worry. I recognized the expression on the older man’s face. I’d seen it on my dad countless times. Pride.
“Hello.” The older man extended his hand my way. “Mike Jones. This is my son, Craig.”
“Hi.” Craig smiled. “Are you birding?” Craig looked to be in high school, long and stringy, not yet accustomed to his new pubescent framework. Mike looked to be in his middle forties, and was barrel chested and stout.
“No. I’m from Chincoteague. I make a trip to the lighthouse every few weeks.” I looked into the tree where they’d pointed their binoculars a moment before. “You see a bird in that tree?”
“Sure.” Mike directed my attention and offered his binoculars. I followed instructions.
“Cool.”
“Living here must be peaceful. We promised to bring my wife here next summer. She’d love spending time on the seashore.” Mike rocked on his heels.
“Mom loves swimming.” Craig scanned the nearby trees as he spoke.
Well, good thing for Craig’s mom she’d skipped this trip. Swimming was officially cancelled until further notice.
“How do you know where to look for the birds?” I asked.
“We pay attention. Birding takes patience.” Mike’s congenial smile was contagious.
Unfortunately, I was born with a natural deficit for this thing he spoke of.
“There.” Mike spun and pointed his binoculars upward. “Did you hear the wings flutter? He took off, but we saw him.” The men marked something in their notebooks.
“You heard a bird’s wings flutter?” I barely heard the radio until I cranked it up. For the first time, birders took on a new facet to me. Maybe they weren’t the enormous hindrances to my life I always assumed. They might be an asset to my investigation.
“Yep.” They nodded with enthusiasm.
“Have you seen anything unusual since you got to the island?” I asked. My heart hammered a happy tune. Birders were everywhere. There were tons of them blocking roads, filling yards. They saw everything. I stifled the urge to clap and bounce.
“We just got in yesterday. Everyone seems real nice so far.” Craig smiled brightly.
“Thanks. Nice meeting you both.” I ran back the way I came and cut across the beach to the Pony Cart. So many birders. I couldn’t wait to get across the marsh bridge and question them all.
I pulled up to the curb outside my apartment and ran inside for a notebook and pen. Then I combed the town, stopping anyone and everyone I didn’t recognize with a fanny pack or binocular necklace.
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“Did you see anyone dumping anything into the water off shore?”
“Did you see people arguing?”
“See anyone dragging a red Igloo cooler onto the beach or carrying a box of birds up my steps?”
Some questions earned me weird looks, but mostly each birder had a story to tell. Many of the stories were about me; they just didn’t realize. Other stories sounded suspiciously like me, but I couldn’t confirm it. By sunset I had a notebook full of statements and I needed time to sort them into three categories: 1) Facts I already knew. 2) Facts to check for authenticity, and 3) Crap people made up to screw with me. Since the birders didn’t know anyone’s names, the process would take a while. Sometimes a group disagreed about details, which meant I had to toss the statement, and a couple at the Tasty Cream argued about conflicting details so long I walked away. Mostly, I had a ton of great information in need of sorting.
A few dozen birders had arrived twelve days earlier on a tour bus. I met them near the harbor. Several of them claimed to have seen a woman arguing with a man on a boat near the shoreline. I described the science rig and they confirmed the rig but couldn’t describe either person. One of the older women saw another woman hauling small white containers onto a boat the morning after they arrived. She’d decided to watch the sunrise instead of look for birds that morning.
I spent a solid ten minutes interviewing her over coffee and apple pie. She appeared to be over sixty and not remotely interested in birding. She did, however, like pie. I bought her two pieces. Her name was Sophia. Sophia’s family rode in on the tour bus from Chicago. A cheap trip to the ocean convinced her to tag along. Sophia didn’t get a good look at the woman or the containers, but the boat was small and white. Like the boats owned by every family on the island. Still, it was something, and I had plenty more birders to question.
On my way home, I puzzled over the woman on the rig arguing with Mr. Trent and the woman carrying little containers. Sophia hadn’t seen the woman who fought with Mr. Trent and she couldn’t say much about the coolers, but I wondered if the containers came from the local gas stations. Those little Styrofoam numbers p
robably transported body parts well, and no one would suspect them of their ghastly contents.
I also wondered if Jennie McIntyre, the report-falsifying pathologist, would kill to keep her new job.
Chapter Twenty-One
I drove the Pony cart up and down every road on the island, working through my new information and noting birder hangouts. It was well past dinnertime and the air smelled of bonfires, backyard grills and popcorn. People walked dogs and chased kids. Couples ate ice cream cones and held hands. The evening looked and smelled like summer, but the breathtaking humidity of the summer had gone. Cooler temperatures had moved in, changing the mood and general island tempo. A football game filled bleachers with noise and people. The high school band played in the distance, prompting random cheers. Game food added a new element to the fading summer scents and salty sea air.
On past nights like these, when the town crowded into the stadium, my fellow classmates and I had snuck over to the bronze pony statue by the harbor. The statue represented our famous wild ponies but, more specifically, Misty of Chincoteague, the most famous of Chincoteague ponies. Visiting Misty on game nights was a rite of passage. Each year, seniors came up with an idea unique to their class and dressed Misty accordingly. Pictures and angry adults always followed.
When I was in grade school, rumors circulated about what had happened to Misty. An older brother or sister would retell the tale in true campfire fashion. In the stories, they were always discovered by the cops or a Good Samaritan and chased, escaping under cover of night and by sheer luck plus ninja skills. Back then kids took pictures on film, drove to the mainland and paid a fortune to get the photos developed without their parents seeing. The whole event was very black-ops. My senior class had social media to announce our antics the moment we got home to our giant desktop computers. This year’s class had the option of uploading video footage directly from their phones to YouTube. Kids at the game could know exactly what was happening to poor Misty across town. I still kept my eyes open for new senior class videos. Kids were creative. Always interesting. And sometimes disgusting.
Murder Comes Ashore Page 21