Sins of the Past

by Dee Henderson

  The sheriff strode in and moved to join the mayor at the table behind him.

  “Gus,” the sheriff greeted the man.

  “Jim.” The mayor set his coffee cup aside. “Is he back yet?”

  “No?”

  “He should have been back by now. That’s why I called the coast guard this morning. Greg and Nat said they’d head out to Tingit to check on him.”

  “And the lady,” the sheriff added.

  “Lady?” Gus asked.

  “Greg said a woman radioed in from Ben’s boat about the body.”

  Gooseflesh straightened on his neck, and he set his mug down.

  The sheriff continued, “When Ben called back in he mentioned he had a female tourist on board. Seemed concerned about protecting her from the body. It’s why he wanted the coast guard to bring her in.”

  He swallowed, put on his most sincere expression and best English accent, and turned to face the two men—both in their thirties. The mayor had brown hair and eyes, while the sheriff was blond with blue. “Please excuse my interruption, but I couldn’t help but overhear. Did you say a body was found?”

  The sheriff nodded, his expression grim. “Afraid so.”

  “How awful. Any idea who it is?”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “No. Of course not. I understand. I only ask because I’m here to watch a relative compete in the swim tournament, and I’d hate to think . . .”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t comment. Not until an official ID has been made.”

  “Of course.” Which meant they’d be bringing the body back in. He swallowed. What were the chances it was someone else?

  After waiting a reasonable amount of time, he exited the diner and moved to the pay phone at the end of the street, placing a call.

  “I think we may have a serious problem,” he began. “They are bringing a body found off the coast of Tingit back to the marina.”

  “When?”

  “Shortly, I anticipate.”

  “Get over there. Figure out who found her and what they know.”

  FIVE

  Ben piloted his ship into the marina. Two men stood at his slip, waiting. The rain had ceased and the sun shone, but to Libby it felt wrong—devoid of warmth.

  Winds and the tsunami’s surge had left their imprint on the busted pier boards and frayed sails, but the damage looked nowhere near what Tingit’s terrain had suffered.

  Libby’s gaze shifted beyond the pier to the top of the marina where a crowd buzzed. Her and Kat’s fellow competitors and most of the coaches angled to see what was happening, along with a throng of locals—or who Libby assumed to be locals, as she didn’t recognize any of them. Her coach’s eyes shifted from being tight with concern to softening with relief. No doubt he’d worried it might have been her—understandable considering she’d missed morning practice. She never missed practice. Neither did Kat.

  An ambulance had reversed up to the top edge of the pier and the sheriff had the pier between Ben’s slip and the vehicle cordoned off, but she doubted it would be long before they figured out whose body it was.

  She wondered how Kat’s stoic coach would respond, whether he’d even show any emotion.

  Pulling into the slip, Ben hopped down and tossed the mooring line to a man she could only assume by the brown uniform was the sheriff. Blue eyes, blond hair, hair swept to the side. A handsome man, but not nearly as breathtaking as Ben McKenna.

  “Ben,” the sheriff greeted him.

  “Jim. Looks like the storm didn’t hit Yancey too hard.”

  “Tingit shielded us. Just some high winds and rough seas.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He turned to Libby. “Jim Dalton, this is Libby Jennings. She was with me when . . . we discovered the body.”

  Jim extended his hand as he climbed on board and Libby shook it.

  “Ben radioed this morning. Said you knew the victim?”

  Her gaze instinctually shifted to Kat’s coach. He had to know, had to have guessed.

  “Miss Jennings?” Jim said softly. “I know this is difficult.”

  Libby rubbed her arms. “Sorry. I was . . .”

  “No apologies required. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Her loss? She’d lost Kat years ago. “Her name was Kat. Katarina Stanic. She is . . . was an open-water swimmer from Russia.”

  Jim noted the information. “Do you know how I can get in contact with her family?”

  “Last I heard they lived in Vladivostok.” But that was before Kat had left Berkeley. She’d track them down, though. See that Kat’s cap and watch were returned to them. Who knew what her coach would do with them. “You could check with her coach,” she said. Though again she highly doubted how helpful he’d be.

  The other man, who’d been standing silent through the conversation cleared his throat. “You mentioned the woman’s neck may have sustained an injury?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Libby, this is Doctor Graham.”

  The young man, probably a few years younger than her, extended his hand. Average height and build with brushed-back light brown hair and subtle green eyes, he wore a light blue turtleneck sweater and tan trousers. “I’m also sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded, feeling awkward accepting sympathies when she’d let Kat down all those years ago. Or perhaps hadn’t. She needed to know for sure. Needed to know if Kat’s death tied to her actions in any way. “You were inquiring about Kat’s neck?” she prompted.

  “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Ben?”

  “Follow me. I have her below deck.”

  The men followed Ben down the narrow steps through the tiny galley and down the second shorter set of steps to the lowest deck. Libby brought up the rear. She was a part of this whether they’d welcome her or not. Kat had been her friend or at least she’d been Kat’s at one point in time. She needed to know what happened, needed for her own peace of mind and out of respect for Kat’s memory.

  Ben knelt by Kat’s body, gripping the tarp. As if sensing her presence at the edge of the stairs, he glanced over his shoulder, making direct eye contact with her. “You may want to look away.”

  Swallowing, she did so, though she highly doubted she’d ever be able to forget the memory of Kat’s face when he’d rolled her dead body off of her.

  “The bruising on her neck looks like finger marks, and her head flails unsupported—plus, run your hand over her throat,” Ben said. “Feel that?”

  “Feels like a transected tear between C4 and C5, but I’ll need to confirm at the morgue.”

  Libby swung around at the doctor’s words, instantly regretting it. Death had taken further toll on Kat’s body overnight. She looked away. “So her neck was snapped?” she asked. Kat had been murdered?

  “I’ll need to confirm with an autopsy, but she definitely suffered damage to her cervical spinal cord.” Doc Graham stood. “Let’s get her out to the stretcher and back to the morgue so I can make a substantiated finding.”

  Ben lifted Kat’s shoulders while Doc Graham took hold of her feet. Jim led the way back topside. They placed her on the stretcher and covered her with an additional layer—a grey wool blanket.

  The lone deputy at the top of the ramp struggled to hold back the crowd. They pressed forward as Ben and Doc Graham wheeled the stretcher to the waiting ambulance.

  “Who is it, Libby?” Ashley, one of her fellow swimmers called from the crowd.

  “Is it a swimmer?” one of the townsfolk asked. “Or one of our own? Steve didn’t come home last night.”

  “I heard it’s a woman,” another townsperson said. “Steve’s probably sleeping one off somewhere, as usual.”

  “Don’t talk about my Stevie like that,” the woman snapped.

  The mass of people surged forward as they neared the ambulance.

  “Kat and you weren’t at practice this morning,” Ashley said. “But you’re here now. Where’s Kat?”

  “Is it Kat?” Sasha, one of Kat’s younger compatriots asked,
urgency flooding her tone.

  Ben and Doc Graham hefted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, and the doc climbed in with Kat’s body.

  “See you at the morgue,” Jim said before shutting the ambulance doors.

  The ambulance sirens wailed, and people slowly cleared a path allowing it to pull out of the marina lot.

  “Can I give you a lift back to your hotel?” Ben asked.

  “Hotel? I’m not going to the hotel,” Libby said. “I’m going to the morgue.”

  His brows dipped. “What?”

  Sasha pushed her way through the crowd and grasped Libby’s arm. “Is it Kat?”

  Libby swallowed. “I can’t say.”

  Sasha’s jaw tightened, her eyes squinting. “I’d say you just did. What . . . you decide you were tired of getting beat so you killed her?”

  “I didn’t kill Kat.” How could Sasha even suggest something like that, especially if she knew the brutal way that Kat had died?

  Ashley gasped. “So it was Kat?” And the crowd erupted.

  “Time to go.” Ben protectively wrapped his arm around Libby’s shoulder, and sheltering her as much as possible, moved her through the questioning and hollering crowd. Reaching a grey Jeep, he opened the driver’s-side door, scooted her over to the passenger seat, and climbed in beside her.

  He reversed out of the lot, Kat’s coach staring her down the entire way.

  Ben turned the wheel forty-five degrees and shifted into drive, pulling out onto the dirt road leading from the marina. “That was intense.”

  “I can’t believe anyone would think I’d kill Kat.”

  “Usually the ones casting blame and making such accusations are the ones responsible or at least capable of doing it.”

  Sasha kill Kat? How could one woman snap another’s neck? The entire situation was surreal.

  He turned right, taking the small road up to Main Street.

  “Where are you going?” Was this the way to the morgue?

  “To the Yancey Bed-and-Breakfast.”

  “How do you know that’s where I’m staying?”

  “There are only two places to stay in town. I took a guess. Heard most of the swimmers are staying at Milli’s. She makes the better breakfast.”

  “Milli?”

  “The B&B’s owner.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Most of the swimmers are staying there.”

  He glanced over. “But not Kat?”

  “No. The swimmers from communist countries always stay somewhere else.”

  Ben shifted gears, banking right onto Main Street. “The Cold War is alive and well right in our small town, even over hotel choices.”

  “Please. Yancey’s, what, fifty-some miles from Russia’s coast? Living that close to the enemy must keep the Cold War very real for you all.”

  “Trust me.” He downshifted as they approached the only stop sign on Main Street. “It got extremely real for me a few years back.”

  That piqued her curiosity but not enough to dissuade her from her task. “Where’s the morgue?”

  “In the hospital basement.” He pulled to a full stop. “But Doc Graham certainly isn’t going to let you—”

  She hopped out of the Jeep and raced across the street.

  “Hey,” he hollered. “What are you doing?”

  “Thanks for the lift.” She’d find the hospital and hopefully some essential answers.

  He watched her climb from the vehicle. Watched her striding with purpose toward the cross street, which led where?

  She was the one who’d found Kat.

  Knew Kat. Though he doubted anyone truly knew Kat.

  She was going to be a problem. Again.

  SIX

  Libby paced the cold cinderblock-lined hall on the lowest level of the newly built Yancey Regional Medical Center.

  From what she had seen, the floor was mostly used for storage and laundry facilities, but when she’d stopped at the door labeled Morgue, through the small glass window she saw what she assumed was Kat’s covered body on the exam table. She was in the right place, but where was Doctor Graham?

  It’d been nearly a half hour and he had yet to appear.

  The hall was silent save for the chugging of the washing machines. She’d never felt quite so alone. The stairwell door opened at the far end of the hall, a shadow appearing across the freshly scrubbed linoleum.

  “Doc Graham?”

  A man stepped out dressed in a dark hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Definitely not Doc Graham.

  She stilled. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so.” His voice was oddly familiar, tugging at something in her memory.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open across from her. Ben McKenna stepped out.

  She looked back to the stairwell, but the man was gone.

  “What are you looking at?” Ben asked.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. What are you doing here?”

  He held up two paper vending machine cups, pop-out handles and all. “Thought you could use something warm.”

  She ignored how his presence alone provided that.

  “Seriously, what are you doing here?” As thoughtful as his attention was, she didn’t need it, and she certainly didn’t want to grow dependent on it. That would be the worst possible thing.

  “I’m making sure you’re safe,” he said, stepping in front of her.

  “Thanks, but I told you, I can take care of myself.”

  “And also to keep you out of trouble.” He winked.

  “Trouble? Not like I’m breaking any laws.”

  “Laws, no. Hospital policy . . . ummm.” He shrugged.

  “It’s against hospital policy to stand in a hallway?”

  “On this floor it is.”

  “Well, as soon as Doctor Graham can manage to find time to perform Kat’s autopsy”—and give her some answers—“I’ll leave.”

  He handed her a cup of what looked like brown-tinged water.

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. Just cover the taste.” He pulled a handful of creamer and sugar packets out of his jean jacket pocket.

  She arched a brow.

  “Go on. You may be waiting a while.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Doc Graham is stuck in his office being barraged by Kat’s coach to release her body to him.”

  “He’s doing what?”

  “Doc’s sorting it out.”

  “Sorting what out? For all we know it was her coach that murdered her.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “If she was telling the truth all those years ago, Saturday was supposed to be her last race. She probably knew it’d be her last chance to defect while in the States, and he never would allow that.” Exhaling an exasperated huff, she dumped the coffee in the trash and raced for the stairwell.

  “She’s a Russian citizen,” he called, running after her.

  She shoved open the door and took the concrete steps two at a time.

  “She was killed here. If Doc Graham gives up custody, they’ll take her back to Russia and we’ll never know what happened.”

  “Emmanuel is handling it. He has Jim calling the federal office up in Anchorage. They’ll know the right diplomatic agency to handle this.”

  Libby rounded the stairs, took the last four, and crashed through the door, heading for the heightened voices at the end of the hall.

  The door read Doctor E. Graham.

  She burst through and all four men stared at her. Kat’s coach, Yuri Yesnavich, assistant coach Arshavan Barinov, Sheriff Jim Dalton, and Doc Graham—now wearing a white medical coat over pea-soup green scrubs.

  “You,” Coach Yesnavich said. “You couldn’t beat her, so you killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill Kat. I . . . we”—she pointed to Ben—“found her.”

  “Hmph. Likely alibi.” He glanced at his assistant coach, who nodded in agreement. “Now,” Yesnavich said, addressing Doc Graham
, his voice cold and stern as always, “give us our athlete.”

  “That’s all Kat was to you, wasn’t she. Just an athlete,” Libby said. “Someone who brought you glory?”

  He ignored her with a flick of his hand.

  “Someone from the State Department will be here as soon as possible,” Doc Graham said. “I’ve already placed the call. In the meantime Miss Stanic’s body remains with us.”

  Yesnavich’s usually pale complexion reddened, matching the cherry red of his velour tracksuit. “Very well. You can shortly expect a Russian ambassador too. Miss Stanic’s body will be returned to the motherland, where she belongs.”

  He glared at Libby before turning and practically marching from the room, Arshavan, dressed in matching attire, following suit.

  Panic seared inside. If they took Kat, they’d never find answers. She looked to Doc Graham. “You’ll perform the autopsy in the meantime?”

  “I’ve been told to assess what I can without going invasive.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He can’t cut her open,” Jim said.

  “Jim,” Ben scolded, gesturing in Libby’s direction. “A little delicacy.”

  Jim winced. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Will you be able to tell if her neck was snapped noninvasively?”

  Doc Graham nodded. “Imaging will tell us.”

  “Then get to it,” Jim said. “I doubt you have much time.”

  Knowing the Russians, after Kat failed to appear for practice, they’d probably placed the call as soon as word of a body spread. As they walked down to the basement, Libby prayed Doc Graham would work fast. She needed to know if Kat had, in fact, been murdered.

  Forty-five minutes later, Doc Graham entered the dismal hall.

  “Well?” Libby said, setting the journal she’d been scribbling in aside.

  “It’s my conclusion her neck was snapped premortem.”

  “Which means before death?”

  “Yes. Her injury wasn’t sustained after death. Bobbing around the ocean or among the orcas didn’t cause it. It is my professional opinion her neck being snapped occurred at the time of death—and that death was not accidental.”

  “So she was murdered?” Libby tried to process that, but how did one process such a thing?