Last Chance Harbor

by Vickie McKeehan

  “I saw your van pull up.”

  “Come on in.”

  “I can only stay for a minute. I baked a chicken enchilada casserole tonight. As usual made way too much for two people, thought you might like some.”

  “You’re an angel, Mrs. Cody. How did you know I’m starving?”

  “Thought so. You didn’t take the time to eat supper again, did you? I worry about you. And you’re always so late getting home.”

  “I drove over to Pelican Pointe after school to check out the progress. You should see what they’ve done so far, gutted the front half of the rooms already.”

  “Girl, you’ll make many trips over there before that place is ready. The renovation couldn’t be in better hands. And just wait until they ask for volunteers to paint, do touch-up work. The whole town will turn out.”

  “Logan said the same thing.”

  “Do you like the town?”

  “Oh, I love it.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I’m just wondering if I’m really ready for this. It’s such a big step.”

  “Nonsense. Has that Nicole Cannon been chipping away at your confidence again? Filling your head with doubt? Don’t you dare let that small-minded woman zap your excitement about this, she isn’t worth it.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Cody. You never fail to say the right thing to pick up my spirits. I’ll miss living down the street from you.”

  “That’s the truth of it. I’ll miss you, too. But you have to do what’s best for you. Moving to Pelican Pointe is the right thing for your career. By the way, you know that ugly buffet you found on Craigslist and fixed up. I’ve reconsidered. I love the oak color stain you used. I’m thinking it’ll be the perfect addition to my guest room.”

  “Are you sure? I’m asking two-hundred dollars.”

  “Since it’s solid wood and since they don’t make that kind of buffet anymore, the piece is a steal at that price and we both know it. Besides, I talked Marcus into a spring painting project. Give me three weeks and I’ll be ready to take it off your hands.”

  “Perfect.”

  About that time another knock sounded at the door. Julianne looked through the glass, recognized her father’s well-worn, steel-toed, work boots before anything else.

  John Dickinson was a gentle giant of a man with a crop of dark brown hair turning gray at the temples. He had wide eyes that matched his daughter’s with a spread of crow’s feet at the corners. He possessed an easy laugh and sweet disposition that made him an asset to any job he started. He rarely got upset with his customers no matter how many times they changed their minds about the design of a kitchen or the color of paint or which wood stain might look better. The only time he showed a temper was if it concerned Julianne.

  “Well, hello,” his daughter said, greeting him with a hug. “What brings you here?”

  “Just finished a job three streets over. Was in your neck of the woods so I decided to stop in, check on my little girl,” John explained kissing his daughter on the cheek. “Hi there, Lindeen. How’s Marcus?”

  “Doing fine, John. He fell asleep on the couch after dinner,” Lindeen returned. “I brought over a Mexican casserole. There’s plenty for both of you. Now you two sit right down and eat the supper I brought. I’ll get out of your way so you can enjoy it. Your girl here needs a little cheering up. Nicole’s been chinking away at her armor again.”

  “I’m okay,” Julianne said as Lindeen started to leave.

  “I know you are,” Lindeen remarked, patting her hand. “But a girl needs her dad to talk to now and then anyway.”

  When Lindeen had gone, John took the time to study his daughter. “What’s this about a chink in your armor? Nicole’s jealous, is all. She’s always been ever since you bested her in the spelling bee. You know better than to pay any attention to her pettiness. That girl’s never going to be happy for you no matter what you do.”

  “I know. Look, sit down while I heat up the casserole and I’ll tell you about the house I found in Pelican Pointe.”

  While the dish reheated, Julianne got down glasses for iced tea. For the first time all day, she dumped everything on the man who had always taken the time to listen to her problems. That included what she hoped to accomplish in her new home. When she was done, she sucked in a breath waiting for him to say something.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” John said, placing an arm around her shoulder.

  “Pop, it’s just fifty miles north. You’ll see me on weekends.”

  “I know, but I won’t be able to stop by on my way home from work to check up on my only child like I do now or have supper with her whenever I want. But you know what? I want you reaching for the stars because this is a fantastic opportunity for you. And this house sounds perfect for a first-time home. You were looking for a fixer-upper you could make your own. Why don’t I come by Saturday and we take a look at it together?”

  “Pop, Mr. Jennings hasn’t even agreed to sell it to me yet.”

  “I’ve no doubt he will. If I know you, and I do, you’ll see to it you wear him down until he says yes.”

  Alone, she tossed in a load of laundry then started working on her lesson plans for March and April. Halfway done, she allowed herself one glass of cabernet from the bottle it had taken her several days to drink. Sipping the vino, she decided she had to get out of the rut she’d been living in for the past couple years. Since Danny’s death she’d needed a change of scenery. She hoped starting over in Pelican Pointe would allow her to do something different, get to know new people.

  Making notes along the way, she thought of the three kids in her class who were still struggling to read. Not exactly a glowing reflection of her teaching skills. She needed to work on getting them to sound out their words in class more often. Maybe give a little more one-on-one time with each student.

  Distracted, her mind drifted to the man who’d shown up at the house in Pelican Pointe. Why had he appeared at the exact moment that he had? And where had he gone? If not for him, she would never have known about the owner. Eventually she could have used the address to look up the info in public tax records. But it would’ve taken her several days to come up with the name. Knowing Jennings owned the property had saved her a good deal of time.

  Who was the guy and why had he been dressed in khaki shorts in February? Whoever he was he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to introduce himself.

  It wasn’t until she was getting ready for bed that she remembered she hadn’t gone through the box Troy had given her. In bare feet, she padded out to the tiny vestibule, retrieved it to take back to the bedroom.

  Sitting cross-legged on the blankets, she got comfortable, flipped up the latch. Selecting one of the photos on top, she held it up to the light and stared at the color photo of a young boy about seven with a gap-toothed grin on his face.

  Troy had been right. She sifted through group photographs labeled with the teachers’ names. Starting with Miss Anderson’s first-grade class right through Mrs. Paul’s third. She skimmed the collection of old school pictures someone had exchanged with classmates twenty years in the past. Shuffling through the various images, she scrutinized the faces, lined them up on the bed until she counted fifteen in all. These kids were probably her age by now, she decided.

  A few old baseball cards—Roy Campanella, Ted Williams, Mike Schmitt, and Ken Griffey—were tucked inside. She recognized the legendary names. Even though old, each one looked in mint condition. Who wouldn’t know those superstars from another era? She read a few lines of statistics on back before picking up a small cloth bag, gray in color, complete with drawstrings. Pulling apart the opening, she looked inside, dumped an assortment of seashells and pretty stones, agates and quartz, into her palm.

  She spied three well-used matchbox cars, one red, one blue, and one white. It told her the owner of the box had more than likely been a boy.

  But that theory evaporated when she spotted the class ring, obviously belonging to someone much old
er. The silver, square-cut, dark-blue stone said male—and it belonged to someone who’d graduated college at the University of California Santa Barbara in 1984. There were no initials or other markings on either side panel and no engraving on the underside to indicate the owner.

  Sorting through the papers she discovered an old deed to a property on Main Street, dated October 29, 1957. The name on the paperwork read Andrew Richmond.

  Once she’d emptied out the contents, she sunk back in the pillows, considered the mystery. There was something logical about it when she’d thought the box belonged to a child. After all, a student could easily have brought it to school for show-and-tell, left it there and forgotten it. But how had it gone overlooked for years? That made no sense.

  The college ring and the deed—two things a child normally wouldn’t have as part of their belongings—added to the puzzle. Under what circumstances had someone hidden the box inside the school in the first place? Why hide a bunch of trinkets for two decades?

  One glance at the clock told her she needed to call it a night. She was about to dump everything back in and snap the lid shut when she took a closer look at the satiny, turquoise lining glued to the bottom and sides. How had she missed the huge reddish streak marring the colorful blue liner at the bottom?

  Inspecting it closer, she noticed a slice of shiny fabric that didn’t quite meet the wood. The gap created a pocket opening. Curious, she poked a finger into the hole, ran it around the sides loosening the old lining even more. Feeling as though she was invading someone’s personal effects, she gingerly explored the fissure-like space with two fingers, then three.

  There, halfway around the edge, she felt another piece of…something hiding beneath the lining. Whatever it was felt thick and rigid to the touch. The discovery had her gently tugging at the liner until she’d removed what looked like a stained piece of cloth measuring an eight-inch, ragged-cut square. It had been folded over so that it could fit. Whoever put it there had glued the lining back in place so that it would hide what was underneath. Whatever caused the discoloration to the cotton, the years had long since made the material stick together and impossible to pull apart.

  Understanding hit her about the same time she realized what she held between her fingers—a bloodstained part of what had once been a blue and white striped shirt. She knew it had to be a shirt because on closer inspection she could make out the buttonhole and placket with topstitching.

  Dropping it back into the box, Julianne didn’t want to panic. But the longer she stared at it the more her mind raced toward dark and devious. Could this box somehow be connected to the serial killer, Carl Knudsen? After all, Pelican Pointe had been his old stomping ground for years. Carl’s capture had been all over the news. Even now the man was locked up for his crimes. But could Carl have kept souvenirs from his victims? With that in mind, she reached for the phone to call the only person who might know—Chief of Police Brent Cody.

  “You’re sure of what you think it is,” Brent asked over the phone. “It could be some kind of juice stain, maybe grape or cherry.”

  “I don’t think so. You have to see it for yourself.” She told him about her theory and how it might relate to the serial killer.

  But Brent did his best to keep her from getting worked up and jumping to conclusions. “Maybe it came from a nosebleed.”

  “There’s too much blood for that. But if it was that simple, then why would someone hide a piece of clothing from a nosebleed under the lining in a box? Why would anyone do that?”

  “Ah. Good question. And you said Troy found this box at the school?”

  “Yes. I stopped by there this afternoon. But no one actually bothered going through it until I opened it just now. I was told Logan had perused the contents but he wouldn’t have seen anything out of the ordinary. When I first looked through it there was nothing that jumped out at me, certainly nothing like this. But that was before I saw the stain on the lining and then dug into the sides.” And now she wished she hadn’t brought it home at all.

  “Okay, do you mind if I come pick it up tonight?”

  “There’s no need to make a trip over here, Brent. I’ll bring it to you after school tomorrow. It isn’t like it’s going anywhere.”

  “Ordinarily I’d say that’s a plan but I think it best to get it under lock and key as soon as possible so I can get it to the lab tomorrow. If it does test positive for human blood that means someone hid it for a reason. Maybe hid evidence, to what I don’t know. You can bet there’s a reason it was concealed for so long.”

  After what had turned out to be a very long day, she waited for Brent to make the jaunt from Pelican Pointe to Santa Cruz. When the knock on the door came just after eleven, she spotted the hulk of a guy and let him in.

  “Julianne.”

  “Brent.” Tilting her head, she grinned at the former sheriff. “How’s married life treating you? Not to mention immediate fatherhood?”

  A smile spread across his face. “Like fifty things coming at me all at once. But I wouldn’t change a thing. How’ve you been? Bet you can’t wait for next fall.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “There’s a lot to do before next fall. It’s a big change for me. I’m starting to look for houses there. I just might end up as one of your neighbors.” She told him about the Jennings’ house.

  He frowned. “Did Landon Jennings agree to sell it to you?”

  “Not yet, but I figure I could work on him until he does.”

  Brent pulled on his ear. “I should tell you it has a bit of a history.”

  “Any home that old that sits along that particular row of houses has to have a colorful past, right? Please don’t tell me it’s haunted or something equally disturbing.”

  “Eleanor Jennings lived there with her kids. It wasn’t a happy home.”

  “What do you mean? I just assumed she died of old age after living a long and full life where she raised her brood of three kids there by herself.” She noted the deliberate long look Brent sent her. “What?”

  “Did someone in town lead you to believe that? Because it was a little more than that.”

  “No, I just… I imagined a happy ending, that’s all.”

  “What’s the first rule of assuming? Eleanor took her own life.”

  “In the house?”

  She watched as Brent took a seat on the sofa. “No, no, it wasn’t in the house.”

  “That’s something, I guess. If not in the house, then where?”

  “From what I remember about the woman from my grandmother, Eleanor was always acting out, doing things over the top.”

  “You mean she was a drama queen?”

  “Big time.”

  “I’d say taking your own life counts as drama times three.”

  “And then some. Soon after her husband left her, Eleanor began to act even more erratic than she had before. One night she woke her kids up after they’d gone to bed, took them across the street, loaded them into a boat and then rowed all four of them out to the middle of the harbor. The kids sat there and watched as she jumped overboard into the water.”

  Julianne realized her mouth had fallen open. “That’s horrific! What happened to the children?”

  “It was Cooper, her oldest, who told the authorities what happened. He was able to attract the attention of a fisherman about four o’clock the next morning to get them back to shore.”

  “Eleanor was obviously a sick woman.”

  “I’d say that’s the prevailing theory. Her body was never found.”

  “How terrifying for the kids to see her jump into the water like that and then disappear and not be able to do anything. Can you imagine what that must’ve been like for them? What awful memories they must remember about their mother?”

  “When it happened the whole town knew Eleanor wasn’t right in the head. But this was back during a time when few people ever got involved in domestic issues at all let alone wading into the world of mental illness.”

  “W
hat became of the three children?”

  “Cooper, Drea, and Caleb went to live with their aunt and uncle, Shelby and Landon Jennings, who adopted the kids the next year. They own the Plant Habitat.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s kind of weird. I found Mr. Jennings there among his lilies and tulips this evening. That’s probably why the man was so reluctant to talk about selling the house. Maybe he’s afraid the kids will object to putting it up for sale.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. Give Landon some time and I think he’ll gladly unload it at a price you’ll be able to afford.”

  She groaned in realization. “Unload it on some unsuspecting out-of-town buyer? Brent, that’s me. And I thought I’d found the perfect property.”

  “You shouldn’t let what happened to Eleanor or the kids affect your decision about the place. Whether or not you choose to move forward is up to you though. Look, I hate to close this subject down but I need to pick up this box Troy found and get back home. See for myself what’s inside.”

  She retrieved the box from the side table and handed it off, immediately pointing to the material. “See why I thought you should take a look. The placket, the buttonhole, this was once someone’s shirt. ”

  “I agree with you.” Brent inspected the cutout swath and said, “I came over here tonight intending to downplay this whole thing for you. But now that I’ve seen it…”

  She shook her head. “There’s no point in doing that for my benefit. I can see for myself that if anyone lost that amount of blood, they wouldn’t be around for long. Am I right?”

  He chewed his bottom lip, not wanting to answer. “Why would anyone bother to keep it or hide it in such a way by putting it with a bunch of keepsakes like this?”

  She took him through the contents of the box. “All these things are the reason I decided it belonged to a child, the toys, the photos, the baseball cards, the pretty rocks and shells. That is, until I found the deed and the ring. Then I pulled the lining apart and found that icky, stiff piece of cloth. Who did it belong to? Because… Serial killers often take mementoes.” When she saw Brent’s sidelong glance, she grinned. “I watch my share of crime shows.”