Saving Sindia (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 10)

by Peggy A. Edelheit

  My Journal

  I had been swimming for what felt like hours. The sun that day was scorching and I kept cool by playing in the surf and hunting for creatures and treasures of the deep in the shallow beach breakers. I had practiced at home in our backyard pool for weeks on end beforehand, holding my breath under water with my new mask and snorkel, getting ready for our yearly beach vacation.

  Well, I paid a price for my never-ending water activities. The throbbing that had begun in my ear a few weeks earlier intensified so badly that by dinner time I was screaming in pain. My father quickly drove me to the doctor near the beach. He took us immediately. (He probably couldn’t handle my screaming in his waiting room) I was seven, frightened, and in terrible pain.

  My father comforted me with patience, gently rubbing my back, and whispering calming words as this new doctor examined and probed my ear while I cried in agony.

  The doctor cleaned and flushed out my ear (a very bad infection), which then affected my equilibrium and I threw up. I was prescribed medication and told I should have let my parents know as soon as my earache started (three weeks earlier) because it could’ve affected my hearing with such a bad infection. Truth be told, to this day, I do have a slight hearing loss.

  The memory of that episode never left me. So, instead of swimming with water, I was swimming in pain. In time, it finally eased up.

  But that incident left emotional scars. Forget snorkeling, forget swimming. I shunned the water from then on and became a non-swimming water warrior as a result of it.

  I tucked my journal and pen back into my pocket and dusted myself off to continue walking north again. Two seagulls swooped down, eying me with interest, not sure if my journal and pen were edible or not.

  I heard a derisive laugh and turned to see who made it. A woman stood nearby, wearing cut-off shorts and a skinny t-shirt. Glossy sun-streaked brown hair trailed her shoulders. Fair-skinned, she was lightly tanned, which explained that delicate dusting of freckles sprinkled here and there over her pretty face, slender neck, and arms.

  “They aren’t as harmless as they look,” she warned me, sardonically. “Don’t ever eat a slice of pizza on the boardwalk without another plate for cover between bites. Those predators work in pairs: one to distract while the other swoops in to steal what they want.”

  Taken aback by her acerbic tone, I nodded at her expert words of warning. You know how sometimes you meet someone and they seem ageless? I was one of them, so I recognized a kindred spirit. And without wearing makeup, like now, she looked about twenty but could be thirty-five.

  She’d make a perfect character for a future mystery. I also noted she had a slight Jersey accent. I liked that. It made her all the more interesting, that and her unexpected dazzling smile that greeted me after she spoke.

  She was barefoot like me, holding a pair of flip flops in her right hand. But then she caught me staring at one of her legs and the ugly scar that trailed it, like a thorny vine.

  Was that from a shark attack? It sure appeared like it was, being jagged in nature, but I wasn’t certain. Not really knowing her, I didn’t feel comfortable confirming it by asking her outright.

  I glanced back up to her face quickly, masking shock.

  “Also be careful who you swim with,” she said. Then she turned and walked off with a backhanded wave. “Bye.”

  I turned to the ocean with thoughts of sharks lurking.

  Journal lesson learned?

  Danger lurks everywhere, figuratively and literally.

  Chapter 9

  A Ride Down Memory Lane

  I was a little wobbly at first, but quickly got the hang of it once I got going. I made my turn out the courtyard and up the ramp, picking up speed to compensate for the elevation. Once I got to the top of the ramp, I looked both ways for other bike riders, then hung a quick left to the commercial end of the boardwalk for my bike ride the next morning.

  Not yet eight o’clock. It was a breezy, seventy-two degrees and sunny, perfect for a quick ride before the boardwalk became crowded.

  Since bikes were allowed on the boardwalk until twelve noon, I was avoiding more riders speeding passed, by about thirty minutes, which I knew would increase as the morning wore on. The wind blowing my hair prompted a memory, a warning, one I’d learned at an early age about taking chances and what I should avoid when riding on a bike.

  I pulled over, leaned my bike against the railing, sat on a bench and quickly pulled out my journal and pen.

  My Journal

  I was about eight years old and now a pro on my bicycle. I’d become quite the daredevil of late, riding down the slope of our street without holding onto my handlebars. I would make a right from our driveway, go to the top of the road before taking a wide U-turn then head downhill after making sure our road was clear. It was all residential.

  I peddled as fast as I could, then let go of my handlebars as the wind whipped my hair behind me. And when I threw my arms straight out, I felt like I was flying. Then I would usually slow down near the end where our street teed at the bottom with another street, turn around, and do it again, laughing. I loved the freedom of how it felt.

  This one incident stood out among the others. I’d made an error in judgment. For some reason, I was going faster than normal when I suddenly realized I wouldn’t be able to stop at the bottom. It was too late to try without skidding out of control on the graveled blacktop and crashing badly.

  But then I realized I could use a neighbor’s property dead ahead as my breakpoint and jump off onto their lush lawn if necessary to cushion what would otherwise be a bad fall.

  Well, as I was about to cross the intersection, something caught my eye to the left. A car. We were both going too fast to stop. I sped up to evade being hit, glancing at the driver, who angrily blasted his horn, barely missing me.

  When I turned back to brake, a huge tree was looming dead ahead. I slammed on my breaks, leapt off the bike, and roughly rolled onto the grass. I landed face up, staring up at sun streaked treetops, laughing hysterically, grateful I was alive. But my bloody knee was imbedded with pebbles from the rough hit. I limped home with my bike. My upset mother treated me and lectured about errors in judgment.

  I now stared down at that knee. The scar had faded over the years, but was still there, along with probably a pebble or two that never quite resurfaced. I tucked my journal away and continued on, but was a little more cautious after recalling that incident. The boardwalk had designated painted lanes: walking, jogging, bikes, and covered surrey bikes.

  I made sure I stayed in my lane.

  I passed bicycles for two, three, and families of four. Baby carriers mounted in front and in the rear. There were also peddle go-carts every once in a while. After passing the commercial end, the boardwalk veered toward the left, following the coastline and narrowed to half its width, just like the southern end. I biked by residential areas and some condo buildings until I reached the northern end.

  There were two more restaurants just before the end of the boardwalk, both busy. I smelled fresh-baked donuts at Oves Beach Grill and Brown’s and, as I peddled by each, was tempted to stop, but the lines waiting for the donuts and food served there were, as usual, much too long.

  When I came to the end of the boardwalk, I stopped before turning around to gaze at the skyline of Atlantic City just across the water to the north.

  ‘Faster as the seagull flies than by car,’ Martha always joked. And she was right. By the time you drove over the bridge through Margate, Longport, and got to Atlantic City to go to a restaurant or casino, depending on the traffic, you could spend thirty minutes in the car. Seagulls had it made.

  “This is not for the fainthearted. I nearly got taken out by a four-year-old,” said an out-of-breath female bicyclist.

  “A crowded boardwalk isn’t for the fainthearted,” I agreed.

  She laughed lightly. “Or the ill-prepared and naïve.”

  I laughed. “It’s all about dodging, weaving, and timi
ng.”

  She grinned. “Don’t forget intent. Be wary of misplaced dialogue, too, Sam. Both could trip you up.”

  My mouth fell open. I couldn’t have been camouflaged any better. Bulky clothes, baseball hat, sunglasses...

  She peddled off. She was no huffing amateur. She took off, speeding like a pro, and was out of sight in a flash.

  What an odd encounter and slightly disturbing. After moving off to the side to a bench, I whipped out my journal while it was still fresh in my mind.

  My Journal

  She seemed fiftyish or more. But the glare of the sun threw me. I wasn’t sure if wisps of reddish or brown hair were straggling from her baseball hat. Most of it was tucked underneath. It could be long or short. Large sunglasses disguised her eye color. Her jacket and biking pants were too loose to determine her weight or build. The only thing that stood out was her oval jade stone ring on her right hand.

  All in all, I don’t know why I’m even bothering to write any of this stuff down other than it bothered me how she knew who I was, even all covered up like that. Which might mean she’d been watching me at my house, going in and out, or spotted me out on the deck, sunning myself.

  And then followed me...

  I laughed. She could be nothing more than an avid fan of mine, spotted me on my deck, but didn’t want to be too intrusive in public, letting me enjoy the ride by the beach.

  But then why say anything to me at all?

  And why that warning?

  Was it a warning?

  I doubted whether I would recognize her again under different circumstances and with different clothing on.

  I went on staring after the woman who was no longer there, thinking. But I just might recognize her voice if I engaged her in conversation again, which, when I thought about it, might be a stretch. There was nothing memorable about her speech at all. But I’d recognize that unusual oval-shaped jade ring, at least two carats. It was set in a gold band with a small diamond on each side.

  Who knows? Maybe she’ll show up again.

  Was I dealing with a fan?

  Was I overreacting?

  Journal lesson learned?

  Stay watchful for the unexpected.

  Chapter 10

  Digging Up Dirt

  As I swung down the ramp and rode my bike to a halt in the courtyard before opening the garage to stow it, I noticed a man in the front gardens by the boardwalk ramp.

  Instead of entering the house from the garage, I headed for the gate to the gardens. I was curious about why he was there, and decided to enter through the front door that was located on the ramp side of the house so I could check him out.

  The gardener. He was holding a weed-filled pail and turned when he heard the clank of the gate close behind me. He smiled when he saw me and waved. “Hi there.”

  I waved in return and approached him. “I must tell you how much I admire the beautiful gardens you’ve cultivated here on the property. They are stunning.”

  I took in the beautiful, wispy purple butterfly bushes, the roses, lilies, blue hydrangeas, hibiscus, several types of tall grasses rustling in the sea breeze, and several evergreens acting as the backbones of the whole garden. It was lush and green, surrounded by a thick carpet of grass that curved in and out, mimicking the surf ebbing and flowing.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “This garden reminds me of Italy and France.”

  He grinned at my lavish compliment. “I think it fits this seaside retreat,” he said.

  I nodded. “I agree. Are you around here often?”

  “Yes, I do several other properties in the area,” he said. He had longish, dark wavy hair, a slim build, and a tanned complexion. No noticeable scars that I could detect and no accent when he spoke. His teeth were perfectly white: commercial-worthy. His jeans were slung low and snug.

  “Are you on this property more than once a week?”

  “Only at the beginning of the season to get the gardens up and running. Also I make sure the irrigation system is working in the gardens, window boxes, and those clay flower pots out on both decks.”

  I know it was a wild shot on my part, but figured, what the heck, maybe he might have seen something or someone lurking around the property or my mailbox.

  After bending down to smell a rose, I turned to him. “By the way, have you noticed anyone unusual hanging near the property lately?”

  His eyes flitted to mine, then back to the garden bed he was tending. “Why are you asking?”

  I thought that a tad unusual for an initial response.

  “I received an envelope in the mailbox. It wasn’t mailed, but placed inside by someone. I was hoping to figure out who that thank-you note was from. I guess they just forgot to sign it and return address it.”

  I knew it was a lame excuse, but used it anyway.

  I held my breath. Even I didn’t believe half the stuff that came out of my mouth when winging it. Being an author, you’d think I could come up with something better than that one. It’s obvious I need work in the BS area.

  He stood there, eying me.

  I eyed him back, smiling innocently, and not adding one more word in case I screwed up further.

  He threw a weed he had just plucked into his bucket.

  “I noticed a man lingering on the ramp. I figured he was admiring the property and house. I get that a lot, along with comments from passersby. But this particular person caught my eye, no beach attire. Rolex and suit instead.”

  A male? I had been half-expecting him to say a female on a bike.

  “Notice anything else about him?” I asked.

  “He drove off in a Mercedes Maybach sedan.”

  “Anything stick in your mind about it?”

  He smiled. “It was two-tone silver and looked new.”

  I stood there thinking, while he gathered his things and loaded his truck to leave.

  He turned back to me. “By the way, my name’s Santos.”

  I nodded. “Mine is Samantha. I’m renting here.”

  He nodded back. “I know.” With that he jumped into his old truck, backed up, waved, and drove off down the street.

  Uneasiness swept through me.

  He knew?

  Knew what?

  That my name was Sam, I was a renter, or both?

  His Mercedes Maybach info caught me off guard. And it’s not every day you met a gardener who’s clued-up as he was about who was renting a particular house either.

  I watched as his truck turned right and disappeared.

  The landscaping logo that should’ve been on the side of his truck wasn’t there. New Jersey law requires that. All I saw was a bucket and cutting sheers in his hand and a large bag of dirt.

  Could they be props to case the house?

  Because his fingernails were manicured and clean.

  Was he the gardener? If not, what was he doing here?

  I stared up at the three-story stucco and clay-barreled beach house, then surveyed the gardens.

  I should question the realtor about the gardener, and maybe get a description of him while I’m at it. In the meantime, I had more interesting observances for my journal.

  Journal lesson learned?

  Don’t make superficial assumptions. Always dig deeper.

  Chapter 11

  Paranoia Vs. Perspective

  After storing my bike in the garage and stepping into the foyer, I threw my sunglasses and baseball hat on the table by the front door. It was then I noticed I’d forgotten to set the alarm, and the deadbolt on the front door was unlocked.

  I had entered from the garage entry after all, not the front door or I would have noticed it the minute I put the key in the lock. The large garage door had a keypad to enter a code then it opens, making entering by the front door with the key less convenient when going out for a bike ride.

  Had I been too rushed and forgotten both?

  I wouldn’t be surprised lately, with my mind wandering and all my journal writing distracting me.


  I stood in the center of the foyer and glanced into the cabana room that led to the back patio. All seemed fine. I then peered upward, staring up the open spiral staircase that led up to the bedroom level then the living room/kitchen level. After hesitating for just a moment, I kicked off my sandals to do some investigating.

  I tip-toed up the wooden spiral staircase to the second level and peered down the hallway. All was quiet. To my left was the master, straight ahead was my small office with a sofa sleeper, and down the hall to my right were two guest bedrooms with their own bathrooms and the laundry area.

  My office looked fine, so I quickly checked the two bedrooms and their bathrooms. They were okay too. Then I walked back down the hallway and entered the master where I slept and peeked into the bathroom. Nothing.

  Then I proceeded further up the spiral staircase to the living room and kitchen/dining area. When I got to the top, I scanned the open area, walked over to the kitchen and checked that out. Then it dawned on me to check behind the drapes of the two sets of sliding glass doors.

  One was in the dining area overlooking the boardwalk ramp and the other open to the back deck, overlooking the boardwalk itself. Both were locked. That was when I figured it would be prudent to check the deck off the master too. The drapes were closed when I was down there, but I never thought to check the door itself behind them.

  I quickly slipped down the staircase and walked through the master and pulled on the cord to open the drapes that led to the deck, which was almost level with the boardwalk, but about thirty feet from it. The lawn and patio below it.

  I froze on the spot.

  The slider was closed, but not locked.

  Had I rushed out and not locked that too?

  I opened it and walked out onto the deck. People were going back and forth on the boardwalk. A few smiled at me as they passed. I was disturbed by either my stupidity, or worse yet, the possibility of someone getting into the house while I was gone on my bike ride. I headed back inside.