Adrift

by Micki Browning

  The connection between a souvenir shop and theology was lost on Mer. “What did you sell?”

  “Why, we sold hope. Or at least that’s how Edgar phrased it.” She winked a watery eye, and Mer caught a glimpse of the woman’s younger self. “Mostly trinkets. Candles, amulets, crystals, and the like. Ouija boards were always a big seller. Crystal balls—you’d be amazed how expensive a glass ball could be, even then. The occasional scrying bowl. Always plain so as not to distract.”

  Not the inventory Mer expected. Her excitement grew. “Where did you say your shop was located?”

  “It was in Salem.”

  Exactly where Rob said he and Ishmael went to college together. Which prompted another question. “Ma’am, does the name Rob Price mean anything to you?”

  “Of course, he’s that nice young man from Styx Insurance. He comes every month with a check to cover my expenses here at the Banyan House. Hand-delivered.” Mrs. Wimpleton lowered her voice. “I think he’s sweet on Sarah.”

  Styx Insurance. Too much of a coincidence for it to be anything other than Ishmael, Mer thought. The only thing that made a modicum of sense to her was that Ishmael was supporting his mother and that woman was indeed Mrs. Wimpleton. Unable to do it personally, he’d enlisted his buddy Rob. Perhaps he really did have a heart.

  “Mr. Price visited a couple days ago. Usually comes alone. Sometimes he brings along a friend.”

  “Did he bring his friend this last visit?”

  “No, but the time before he did. Charming man, booming voice, had all the ladies in a dither. Now, what was his name? Cantrell? Caldwell?” Mer held her breath. “Ah, it’s gone. Memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  Ishmael. In the flesh. Mer swallowed to keep the eagerness from her voice. “Mrs. Wimpleton, what color were your son’s eyes?”

  “Ah, the most beautiful shade of green. Mossy, like a cat, they were.”

  Mer sat up straighter in her chair. If Ishmael had been sending money to support his mother every month, one person certainly knew about it. His business partner.

  Mer’s mind jumped between possibilities. Lindsey had a documentary to finish. She might lie low for a while, but it seemed a statistical possibility—if not a probability—that she was still in the Keys.

  And Mer was going to find her.

  —

  The return trip from Key West had already stretched into a multihour odyssey and she was still only halfway home. She’d driven through the parking lots of every hotel, motel, and whistle-stop along Overseas Highway looking for Lindsey’s Hummer. The time gave her plenty of opportunity to chew on the information she’d gleaned from talking to Mrs. Wimpleton.

  She’d tried to update Detective Talbot, but he never answered his phone. She left messages on both his cell and his office voicemail. It was up to him now. If he wanted information, he’d have to call her.

  Ishmael and Edgar. It was too coincidental; they had to be the same person, but, like every other clue she’d unraveled, the knowing of it only led to more questions. She needed someone to talk to, bounce theories off, consider the unthinkable with—like the irony of a dead person running a paranormal dive team.

  She dialed Selkie’s mobile and then disconnected before it rang through. Truth was, she thought he’d have called her by now. She’d never been the kind of girl to wait by the phone. But this was different, and it left her conflicted. The note he’d left notwithstanding, this had an eerie similarity to that long-ago morning—and it was hard not to think the worst. On the other hand, she wanted to reassure him that nothing had changed between them. But that was a lie. Things had changed. She’d felt close to him last night. They’d been more intimate than if they’d been naked. And she liked it. Which, for some reason she couldn’t identify, left her feeling peevish.

  Weeds encroached on the broken asphalt of the next motel driveway and, lost in thoughts of Selkie, she almost missed the turn. Twilight Lodge—probably got its name from its one-star rating. Not the kind of place Lindsey would frequent. All the more reason to check it out.

  The driveway meandered back to the motel. A thick hammock of tropical hardwoods bordered the ramshackle building, screening a lackluster view of the Atlantic. Calcified coral rose like bones from plots of sparse gravel. Three cars and two motorcycles were parked in front of a row of rooms, but it was the black Hummer that made Mer jam the brakes.

  The Subaru ground to a halt and the dust from the parking lot overtook her car from behind. The rooms were numbered one to eight, and the Hummer blocked her view of Rooms 6 and 7. The door to Room 5 opened and a man wearing motorcycle leathers stepped outside. He stared at her until she pulled into a space and parked. He straddled a Harley, and it roared to life with a rumble to raise the dead.

  Mer tapped Detective Talbot’s number again on her cellphone. The call immediately went to voicemail. He was on another call, the phone was off, or the bastard was screening her.

  “Detective, it’s Mer. I found Lindsey, or, more precisely, I’ve found her Hummer at the Twilight Lodge. I’m still looking for the elusive Ms. Hatchet. You’re welcome.”

  Time to have a little chitchat with Lindsey. First on the agenda: Why the hell did she strand a kayaker four miles from shore without a paddle? Mer stepped out of her Subaru and slammed the door. The air smelled of coral dust and the sweet decay of rot puddled in the bedrock.

  She considered her options. Judging by Mr. Motorcycle Man, Lindsey probably wasn’t staying in Room 5. She stomped up to Room 6 and knocked.

  “Ain’t no one there.” A thickset woman stood in the doorway of the last room. She wore a tight T-shirt that displayed three rolls of fat and the absence of a bra. A soap opera played in the background and melodramatic wailing spilled out of the room.

  “I’m looking for Lindsey Hatchet. Do you know which room she’s in?”

  “Yup.” The woman started to close the door.

  “Wait, will you please tell me?”

  “Nope.” The door clicked shut.

  Dumbfounded, Mer stared at the closed door until she realized that it wasn’t going to reopen. Hell, there weren’t that many rooms. She marched to the first room and knocked. No answer. Room 2 held a Cuban couple who didn’t speak English. No one answered at the third or fourth rooms. Marijuana poured out from under the door of Room 5, and Mer wondered how many people Motorcycle Man had left behind. She rapped on door no. 7, but there was no answer there, either. Finally, she knocked on Room 8 again.

  “Pesky bugger, ain’tcha?” the woman said when she saw Mer on her doorstep.

  “Is there a manager around?”

  “Yup. You’re looking at her.”

  Wonderful. “I’ve urgent business with Ms. Hatchet. I really need—”

  “Don’t care what you need. Law says I can’t help you. Privacy rights, and all.”

  “But—”

  “Look. You need to leave before I call the cops on you.”

  “Great idea. I’ll wait.”

  “Not on my property you won’t. Get out.” The manager reached for something propped behind the door.

  Her heart pounding, Mer didn’t wait to see what was hidden. She retreated to her car and retraced her path along the winding driveway until she reached the street. Traffic whizzed past her in both directions. Out of habit, she turned on her blinker, then deliberately turned it off. Lindsey had almost killed her. Mer couldn’t let her disappear into the vapor again before Talbot had a crack at her.

  She inched the car along the bike path until the road widened enough to park. She raised the hood as if she had broken down and walked back to the motel. Using the foliage for cover, she cut across the property, avoiding the front of the building, and crept around to the back. Each room had a sliding door that opened onto dirty concrete slabs.

  Once she stepped onto the first slab, there would be nowhere to hide—no dividers, no patio furniture, nothing. She’d be a moving target. With any luck, the manager hadn’t reached for a shotgun and this wasn�
�t open season on Mer.

  She thumbed the pendant around her neck. She needed to check the first room, bypass the second room with the Cuban couple, then check the third and fourth. Motorcycle Man had no. 5. If the manager could be believed, she lived in Room 8 and Room 6 was vacant.

  Based on the location of the Hummer, Lindsey was probably in Room 7. Lucky, provided one believed in such nonsense.

  Problems abounded. If Mer started with the first patio and progressed methodically along the rooms, she risked being seen by a guest—who probably wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger poking around behind his room. That would not end well.

  On the other hand, if she walked purposefully to the back of Room 7, her confidence might give her the appearance of belonging there, but that put her closer to Room 8 and the mystery item behind the door. Not a great option, either.

  The safest choice was to remain hidden in the foliage and do nothing except wait to hear from Talbot and accrue a thousand mosquito bites. Give or take.

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  Mer stepped out of the sheltering landscape and strode to the seventh slab. The darkness of the room contrasted with the brightness outside, and she had to cup her hands around her eyes to peer through the glass.

  Lindsey lay sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her right arm extended beyond the mattress, her hand reaching for something she’d never hold again.

  Mer gasped and tugged on the sliding door. It slid open. She rushed to Lindsey’s side, but the sallow skin and blued lips told her everything she needed to know before she pressed her fingers to the woman’s throat. She was too late. Lindsey’s eyes stared accusingly at her.

  “I knew you were trouble. Now, have a seat. Nice and slow.”

  Mer saw the shotgun first, the manager second, and the gravity of her predicament a distant third.

  Chapter 29

  The uniforms arrived first, their patrol-car engines clicking with heat and exertion. The manager and her shotgun disappeared out the back door, leaving Mer to face the police on her own. She sat quietly on the carpet. Waiting. The front door was open. She wanted them to see her, but the Hummer blocked their view. The officers called her out. They stood in the corners of their open doors. Pointed handguns at her. Ordered her facedown on the ground. She complied. No sass. Her mother would be proud.

  Well, maybe not.

  One of the deputies told her not to move. Cuffed her. Crushed coral dug into her body as he rolled her onto one side, ran his hands down her sunburned body as he searched her for weapons, then rolled her onto her other side and did the same. The handcuffs hurt where they dug into her wrists.

  More cops arrived. More dust to settle.

  The deputy who arrested her hauled her to her feet. She struggled to keep her legs under her. They seemed suspiciously wobbly. He walked her to his car. Opened the rear door. Her legs gave way halfway in and she crashed down on the hard plastic seat. Tried not to think about who had been in it before her. Wondered why she cared.

  “Lean back,” the deputy said. He didn’t look old enough to carry a real gun.

  Her arms slid into the contours of the molded seat. “I need to speak to Detective Talbot.” Her voice sounded far away, difficult to hear above her racing pulse.

  He passed a seatbelt in front of her and clicked the buckle into the receiver, then closed the door without answering her.

  She felt the vibration of the car engine. The air conditioner worked overtime to cool the back compartment, but she still sweated. Her pulse raced. She couldn’t hear the conversations buzzing around the outside of the car, but the officer had left his radio on. A deputy inside the room called dispatch and requested a detective. She leaned as far forward as the seatbelt allowed and pressed her forehead against the Plexiglas divider. A male voice confirmed that he was en route to the scene. The crackle of the transmission prevented her from recognizing if it was Talbot.

  Please let it be Talbot.

  An officer with stripes on his uniform sleeves approached the motel door and a slew of deputies emptied out of the room. He latched on to one and posted him at the threshold. He spoke to several others, and they started knocking on doors. They all wore hunter green. Not even the Cuban couple answered. The sole female deputy interviewed the manager, who pointed toward the patrol car and nodded.

  Two technicians arrived in a van. They put on coveralls and booties. One carried a large tackle box with the letters “CSI” stenciled on the side. The other carried a camera and started taking establishing shots of the motel, and then of the Hummer.

  Mer watched everything transpiring outside the aquarium she currently inhabited. Cataloged everything so she wouldn’t have to think about the person stretched across the bed inside a dank, second-rate motel. But she couldn’t escape the fact: Lindsey was dead.

  More transmissions came across the radio, and the male detective announced his arrival at the motel. Mer craned her head. A dark blue Chevy Impala with little antennas sprouting from the trunk pulled up beside the patrol car. The tinted windows kept her from seeing the driver until he opened his door and stood. An African-American detective stared back at her and then shifted his gaze across the scene, cataloging his own series of facts and observations. Disappointment washed over her. The one time she actually wanted to see Detective Talbot and he didn’t show. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect karma.

  The detective spoke to the deputy posted at the door, signed in, donned booties, then disappeared into the gloom. About ten minutes later, he conferred again with the sentry, then hailed the deputy who’d arrested her. They glanced periodically in Mer’s direction as they spoke, then the deputy nodded and reached for his keys.

  Good. Maybe they realized Lindsey had died before Mer got there. She closed her eyes. Waited. Lindsey’s face materialized and Mer’s eyes flew open, but she couldn’t escape the image. Her pulse quickened, and the patrol car seemed to shrink around her with each beat. Suffocating her.

  The car dipped as the deputy settled into the front seat. Despite being imprisoned in the back, Mer drew comfort from his proximity. He represented the law. More important, order. Her breathing slowed.

  “Excuse me.” She cleared her throat. “Where we are going?”

  “Station.” The barrier muffled his response, and it was difficult to hear above the engine. “The detective needs to ask you some questions. Officially.”

  Officially. Her newfound composure shattered.

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “You’ll want to tell that to the detective.”

  —

  The door was locked. She’d checked. Not that she would have left, but, after a couple of hours of captivity, curiosity had won out. She no longer wore handcuffs, but she was every bit a prisoner.

  The interview room measured four by seven strides across scuffed and stained linoleum. Two plastic chairs flanked a small metal table that jutted from the wall. Inside, Mer paced. She had to. Every time she stopped, she saw Lindsey’s pale face, eyes open, seeing nothing.

  The lock snicked open to announce her visitor. Detective Talbot entered the room holding a file. He wore a rumpled suit, and it made him seem more approachable. Mer relaxed a modicum.

  “I didn’t kill her,” she said.

  “I know that,” Detective Talbot answered.

  “Then why am I still in custody?”

  “You’re still under arrest.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” she repeated.

  “I thought we’d already established that I know that, Dr. Cavallo.” He pulled the chair away from the table for Mer. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  Was that a joke? A tiny spark of anger flared in her gut, and she fanned it, preferring the heat over the icy fear that made her lips quiver.

  His hand still rested on the chair. Waiting.

  She paused in front of him and raised her chin. “Dr. Seuss?”

  “Hamlet.” He locked eyes with her. “The story o
f a murder most foul.”

  She looked away first. Readjusted the chair. Sat. “What are you charging me with?”

  “Burglary.” The file made a soft slap on the table, and he sat facing the door. “For now.”

  She crossed her arms. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “That’s not required by statute.”

  His scrutiny unnerved her. She had planned to be generous with information, convince him of her innocence with kindness. Maybe laugh about the mix-up over a cocktail. “Don’t you have to read me my rights?”

  The detective withdrew a tablet from the file. “I haven’t asked you any questions yet.”

  The man seriously grated on her last nerve. “How do you know I didn’t kill Lindsey?”

  He allowed himself a little bit of a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Most people don’t question the investigator when they learn they’re no longer a murder suspect.”

  “Do I pose a danger, Detective Talbot?”

  “That remains to be seen, I suppose.” He rested his arm along the edge of the table.

  “Who killed her?” she asked.

  His pen tapped rhythmically against the top page. “According to Ms. Hatchet’s note, she killed herself.”

  “Lindsey didn’t kill herself.”

  “So now you’re an expert on human behavior?”

  She flushed. “No, that’s never been my forte, but you called me a former murder suspect. That implies she was murdered.”

  The confines of the small room amplified the detective’s cologne. Fresh. A note of mowed grass. An anomaly in an ocean-loving community.

  “I need to advise you of your rights,” Talbot said.

  An ache developed in the back of her throat. “Anyone who watches television knows them,” she said quietly.

  He extracted a piece of paper from the file and read the statement aloud. “You have the right to remain silent.” His deep voice soothed her frayed nerves. Convinced her that everything was going to be okay, but his tone didn’t match his message and the words foretold disaster.