My stomach knotted. “I need to get going.” I tugged on my water shoes and strolled toward the path leading to the other side of the island and Joyce’s house. The sight of the marine patrol flying past brought too many memories. None of them good.
Chapter 4
Nana followed me as I strolled toward Joyce’s end of the island. The crushed-shell path meandered down the center of the island through a thick maritime forest filled with chirping birds. This feathered population, both in the forest and near the water, kept my mother busy. She’d had several permanent bird-watching blinds constructed here, though she had several portable blinds.
Joyce shared my mother’s passion and the two of them had become close friends over the years, often taking birding cruises together. I’d never found their hobby particularly interesting, as the only birds I enjoyed were fried chicken, Thanksgiving turkey, and now apparently a rescued goose. I hadn’t spent much time with Joyce Mueller. Strange that she would want to talk to me.
In keeping with Mother’s environmental philosophy, Mildred had placed eco-friendly, nonpoisonous traps along the path to live capture any lizards, geckos, or snakes. Once a trap had captured a critter, Mildred would show it to Mother, who would determine if it was indigenous to the island or needed to be taken back to the mainland. I thought of it as their own form of Four Paws Rescue, though none of their critters had paws.
Joyce’s winter home sat on the highest point of the island and overlooked the ocean on three sides. A wide porch circled the small dwelling, and a Kowa spotting scope was aimed at the shoreline. An open birding journal, field guide, and camera sat on a nearby table.
“Joyce? It’s me, Piper. Joyce?”
Except for Nana’s loud panting beside me, the house was silent. I tapped on the screen door. “Joyce? Hello?” The door beyond was open, and I could see the living room and kitchen. “Joyce?”
She’s probably birding. I stepped over to the table and peered at the journal. It was filled with handwritten notes, colored-pencil sketches, and references to the field guide.
Glancing around one last time, I turned to head home. I stopped. If Joyce is birding, why doesn’t she have her camera and journal with her?
“Joyce? Are you okay? Joyce?” Maybe she fell. I entered the house and checked it out. The simple layout had a combined living-dining-kitchen area, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The air smelled of lemon furniture wax. The bedroom had thick cement walls and ceiling and resembled a nun’s cell at a convent, albeit a spacious convent with designer furniture. Rumor had it that this original structure had been part of a Civil War–era coastal defense bunker. A journal my father owned claimed a shipwreck occurred here. I’d researched both stories but hadn’t been able to find any record of either claim. My sisters, brother, and I had spent some of our youth climbing to Joyce’s roof and watching the ocean. Indoors, the thick walls provided a welcome relief from the hot and humid summer heat.
No Joyce.
Back outside, I strolled around the house, looking for any sign of the woman. Nana contented himself by investigating an interesting thicket of shrubs.
“Joyce? Jooyyyyce!” A well-used trail took me to a slight bluff overlooking the ocean. Below was the small dock where Joyce usually tied up her boat. The boat was missing. “Well, that explains it,” I muttered. “As Mildred mentioned, she headed into town.”
To my left, on the leeward side of the island, was a small spit of rock and sand extending into the ocean. A stone cairn marked the edge of the natural seawall. Some driftwood had caught on the edge of the monument, knocking a few stones down. I’ll need to fix that.
As I returned to Joyce’s house, I rubbed at the prickling I felt at the base of my neck. Maybe she’d called to tell me about the damage, and Mildred was mistaken about the fear in her voice. No. Joyce would just leave a message.
Once again I went to the porch and looked at the open journal. If Joyce suddenly needed to head to the mainland, would she leave her journal open and out? Wouldn’t she have put it in the house so an unexpected squall wouldn’t ruin it?
My unease grew. I entered the house, this time staring around the room for any sign of . . . something. Nana pushed in behind me. “Nana, no, out.” The dog ignored me and aimed for the kitchen. I followed. The Newfie sat in front of a wall of shelves holding books and seashells. “Nana, come.”
Nana’s attention was riveted on the shelves. I moved closer. The backing on the shelving unit was vertical beadboard, painted white. A thin black line ran up one side. I pushed slightly on the paneling and it sprang open, revealing a small pantry with a washer and dryer, cleaning tools, and a box of dog biscuits on the top shelf.
“It would appear that you visit here often.”
A long rope of saliva dangled from Nana’s jowls. He stared at the dog cookies as if he could get one by sheer force of will. A Newfoundland mind-meld. Feed the dog. Feed the dog.
I grabbed a biscuit, handed it to the dog, then closed the panel. Nana took his treasure outside, opening the screen door with practiced ease.
The kitchen table held apples in a copper colander. A couple of dishes were drying on the dish rack next to the sink.
The closet in the bedroom held the fuse box for the house and Joyce’s neatly hung clothing—mostly cotton plaid blouses and khaki slacks. A dark-green field vest hung next to a windbreaker jacket. Her shoes were lined up underneath—a pair of water shoes, black pumps, and brown hiking boots. I didn’t even know what I was looking for at this point.
The phone rang.
I jumped.
The phone jangled again.
Racing to the living room, I hesitated over the small black handset resting on the desk next to an old oil lamp. Like the Boone residence, Joyce had a satellite phone.
It stopped ringing. I turned to leave, and the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Oh, I think I got the wrong number,” a youngish female voice answered. “I’m sorry—”
“Who were you calling?”
“Joyce Mueller.”
“This is Joyce’s phone—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a neighbor . . . well, technically I should use a definite article and say I’m the neighbor, as she only has one set. My name is Piper Boone. I came over to talk to her but can’t find her. Now it’s your turn. Who are you?”
“Hannah. Hannah Mueller. Joyce is my grandmother.”
Wow. I hadn’t even known she was married, let alone had children and grandchildren. “I’m not sure where she is right now, but I can take a message.”
“Strange. Grandma wanted me to call about now so we could finalize my visit.”
“Her boat is missing, as is her purse and car keys. Maybe she forgot the call and went to town on some errands.” The comment sounded lame even to me.
“Maybe. I guess if you just leave a note that I called.”
I found a piece of paper and a pencil and jotted the message. “What’s your phone number in case I hear anything?” I wrote down Hannah’s number, then disconnected. After one last look around the house, I started walking home. The sun was setting, and inky-blue shadows covered the path. Katydids crackled from the overhead palms and palmettos. Every few steps I’d stop and listen for footsteps, then check the dense foliage around me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad had happened to Joyce. And that I was being watched.
* * *
Tucker needed to call his boss. He had to check in daily to give his progress reports. Getting the job at Clan Firinn had been a lifesaver. Literally. He didn’t want to mess this one up. He waited until the endless parade of nurses left him alone, then pulled out his cell, which he’d hidden under his blanket. He dialed.
A smooth male voice answered. “Clan Firinn. How may I direct your call?”
“Tucker Landry checking in.”
The phone clicked and a second male voice answered. “Tucker. This is Scott. What’s your status?”
“I was involved in
a shooting incident unrelated to my work. I’m in the hospital.”
“I heard about the shooting. Do you need a caraid?”
“A counselor? Negative. I’ll stay in touch.” He disconnected, placed his phone out of sight behind his pillow, and finally let the drugs whisk him off to sleep.
* * *
A screened-in porch on the side of the house led directly to my bedroom, and I was able to slip into the house unnoticed. Voices from the living room told me my family had gathered. I locked the door leading to the rest of the house, retrieved my journal, and opened it to today’s entry. My last line was, There’s a man I need to find and thank for his kindness today.
I continued to write.
I found out today Joyce Mueller has a granddaughter. And Joyce is missing. At least I think she’s missing. See? I don’t even know enough about her to know how often she leaves for the mainland.
Someone knocked on my door. The house had a room-to-room intercom system, but we never used it. Voices always came out weird sounding and echoey.
Reluctantly I closed my journal and answered. Mildred had one hand raised to knock again. I couldn’t decipher her expression. “What’s wrong?”
“An officer from the marine patrol is here and wants to see everyone. She’s in the living room.”
My stomach knotted. “Did she say why she’s here? Is it about the shooting today? I’m supposed to see—”
“No.” Without explaining any further, Mildred turned and left.
The voices in the living room ceased as I entered. Seated around the room were Ashlee, my mother, and Tern. Mildred and Joel were standing near the kitchen with a young brown-haired woman. I hadn’t seen her before, but Mildred routinely hired extra help for the annual meeting. A female police officer with Asian features stood in the center of the room. Her gleaming black hair was pulled back off her flawless tawny skin. She wore dark olive-green slacks, a white polo shirt, and a holstered pistol. I vaguely recognized her from seeing her around Marion Inlet.
“Miss Piper,” the officer said, “hey, I’m Officer Chou, marine patrol. How y’all doin’?”
I nodded a greeting.
“Yeah, I know.” She smiled at my expression. “Lookin’ like I do, it just dudden add up I’d talk like this. Anyhow, we found an empty boat a couple hours ago and towed it into the marina at Marion Inlet. It’s registered to a Dr. Joyce Mueller from over here on Curlew Island.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Dear Lord, not again.
“We tried callin’ Dr. Mueller but haven’t been able to get ahold of her. We called here and spoke with your housekeeper, Miss Mildred, who said you were at Joyce’s house earlier this evenin’.”
“I was. I couldn’t find her.”
“There’s a chance her boat could’ve simply gotten loose from her dock, but since no one’s been able to locate her, I’m followin’ up with a welfare check. I’ve spoken with all but you.”
All eyes shifted to me. I really wanted to bolt from the room. “Joyce called and left a message that she wanted to talk to me. When I got there, I noticed the missing boat and assumed she’d gone to the mainland.”
“Why’d you assume that?”
“I didn’t see her purse or car keys.”
“Did you notice anythin’ . . . out of place or . . . ?”
I shrugged. “I’ve seldom visited her, but to me the house looked fine. She did leave her birding journal open on the porch.”
“Joyce is an avid bird-watcher, as am I.” My mother folded her hands in her lap. She appeared relaxed, but her lips were pressed together in a thin line. “That’s just not like her.”
“I’m wonderin’ if you’d go with me to Dr. Mueller’s place,” the officer said to me.
“I can take you.” Joel stepped forward. “Piper’s had a rough day. If anything has happened to Joyce, I can help. She was always a good neighbor.”
“I should go.” My mother stood and smoothed her cream linen slacks. “Joyce is my friend and I’ve been to her home many times. I’d notice anything missing.”
“I’ll go.” Tern stood also. “As Joel said, Piper’s had a long and terrifying day. She was at the restaurant when the shooter opened fire. It’s a miracle she wasn’t killed.”
Officer Chou looked at each of them as they spoke, then back at me. “Thank y’all, but Miss Piper here was the last one at the house. I’d like for her to take me over.”
I nodded. “I’ll get my jacket.” I headed for the line of coats hung on the porch and tried not to think, but Joel’s words echoed in my brain. “She was always a good neighbor.” Why did he refer to Joyce in the past tense?
Chapter 5
With me driving, Detective Chou and I took one of the electric carts. The headlights provided the only illumination on the white crushed-shell path. The night was moonless and still, the island strangely quiet.
“Why did you want me to go with you?” I asked after a few moments.
“I just had a feelin’.”
“A feeling?” I glanced at the officer.
Chou pursed her lips, then gave a brief nod as if coming to a conclusion. “Have ya ever heard the words ‘separation of church and state’?”
I lifted one shoulder. “Of course. It’s paraphrased from Thomas Jefferson referring to the First Amendment, which requires the government’s neutrality on religion.”
Chou glanced at me. “Ya must have a thing for history.”
“That too.”
“Well, the boss thinks it ain’t fittin’ to talk ’bout what I believe, so I wouldn’t be able to tell ya that the Holy Spirit gives me a nudge now and again.”
“I’d like to think that’s true.”
“But?”
“I used to be a believer. At least I thought I believed. Now? I guess I can’t figure out why a loving God would allow suffering.” Or let an innocent child die.
“Lots of folks have trouble with that, yes indeed. Well, the boss would not be happy with me if I said I’d pray for ya, so I won’t say that, but if ya need to talk sometime, here.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Sometimes talkin’ can help.”
“Thanks.” I took it and stuck it into my jacket pocket.
“So now on to business. How well do you know Dr. Mueller?”
“Not well. She’s my mother’s age and close to her. She spends time in Wisconsin somewhere when she’s not on the island. Um, I just found out today that she has a granddaughter. I didn’t even know she was married, let alone had children or grandchildren.”
“How did ya find out?”
I told her about the phone call as we pulled up in front of the dark house. The windows reflected the headlights’ harsh glare. I stopped the cart and turned it off. Darkness enveloped us. The air smelled of fresh earth. Chou pulled a flashlight from her duty belt.
“So what are we looking for?” I stepped reluctantly from the cart.
“Ideas.” The detective flashed the light across the house’s facade, stepped up on the porch, and shone the light through the screen door into the living room. “Inspiration. Clues. Evidence. All I have is an empty boat, which isn’t against the law, and a missin’ woman, again not against the law. This could be nothin’. But that’s a big ocean and a small boat, so we’re followin’ through.” She tapped on the door. “Hey, Dr. Mueller? Hello? Officer Chou, marine patrol. Are you in there?” After waiting a moment, she reached into a pocket, pulled out some thin rubber gloves, and pulled them on. She handed a second pair to me. I held the gloves, rubbing them between my fingers before pulling them on. They somehow made Joyce’s disappearance ominous and horribly real. Chou opened the door and fumbled for a switch. The room sprang to light.
Nothing had changed since my earlier visit, but the space seemed emptier. Chou stood in the center of the room and slowly turned in a circle, her gaze finally coming to rest on a set of shelves next to a built-in window seat. She strolled over and picked up a framed photograph. “Who’s
this?”
I moved next to her. “That’s Joyce. Dr. Mueller.”
The image showed Joyce a number of years ago when her short-cropped gray hair was more of a ginger color. She had a lean, rather horsey face and was wearing shorts, a green plaid shirt, a photographer’s khaki vest, hiking boots, and a pair of binoculars. She was wearing the expensive watch Mother gave her one year for Christmas. A second photo in a smaller frame showed Joyce sitting in her bathrobe and slippers at a table covered in breakfast dishes in some tropical location.
“I think my mother took those photographs on a birding trip to Costa Rica. Maybe nineteen or so years ago. Her hair is gray now and she has her share of wrinkles.”
Chou returned the frames to their exact place on the shelf. “No other family photos?”
I walked around the room, searching. “No. Funny. I never noticed that.”
“But ya said a granddaughter called. Are ya sure it was her granddaughter?”
“That’s what she said. She left a phone number.”
The officer moved to the kitchen, repeating her slow circle. The colander of apples was still on the table. Without thinking I placed the apples in the refrigerator.
When Officer Chou looked at me, I shrugged. “Keeps them from going bad.”
A bowl and coffee cup rested in a bamboo dish rack, but otherwise the room appeared immaculate. After completing her examination, she opened the cabinet under the sink and took out the trash container. “So Dr. Mueller woke up this mornin’, probably had her bowl of oatmeal, drank two cups of coffee, and finished the crossword puzzle in last week’s paper.”
I stared at her. “You sound like Sherlock Holmes. The one played by Basil Rathbone, not Robert Downey Jr. How did you do that?”
Chou grinned, exposing perfect teeth. “Elementary, my dear Watson. Oatmeal.” She held up the wrapper for a serving of instant oatmeal. “Coffee.” She lifted two Keurig containers.
“And the crossword? How did you know she finished it this morning?”
“Paper—last week’s—was on top of the breakfast items. Ya know, ya pay attention to detail. Ya mentioned the open journal. Tell me what you see.”
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