I pulled the heavy cover off. The cage was a giant brass and iron antique that could've housed three birds comfortably. Gram added little toys and decorations to keep Smitty entertained, but the bird rarely played with any of them. He preferred to fly around the house, cursing at us.
"How's my Smitty?" I asked in a baby voice.
"Bloody hell!" he squawked.
"Well, hello to you too," I said with a laugh.
He paced back and forth on his perch. His feathers were in worse shape than I remembered. He had never been what you'd call an attractive bird, but over the last couple of years his feathers had stopped growing back, leaving bald patches in several spots. The feathers he did have were scraggly and faded.
I opened the cage door, and he stepped out onto my arm. I reached around and stroked his head.
He seemed to enjoy this, but crowed, "Stupid wench, stupid wench."
I was used to his inappropriate use of the English language. "What has you so upset today, boy?" I carried him over to the couch and set him on the armrest. He rocked back and forth, watching me intently.
I reached into the basket on the end table and pulled out a handful of seeds. "Is this what you're looking for?"
He walked over to my hand, murmured, "Bloody hell," and picked out a mouthful of seeds. Gram and I had tried to teach him new words over the years or at least to use words more appropriately. Nothing had worked. He'd only seemed to pick up more bad words along the way. I'd made the mistake of leaving the TV on one day while he was in his cage. We were called "dumb asses" for the next month. Gotta love cable TV.
I flipped on the local news and caught a glimpse of Marlton House. I turned up the volume and cringed as the reporter recounted the story of the body in the bathtub. A dead body definitely wasn't going to be a selling feature. As he described how the body had been found, photos of George and me from our business websites appeared on the screen. "An inside source has confirmed that Ms. Jordan just purchased the house at auction today. This source also indicated some irregularities with the purchase. I'm sure authorities will be looking into this as part of the murder investigation."
What! Irregularities with the purchase. My head spun. Jack Condor was behind this—guaranteed. I yelled a few choice words at the TV and then clapped my hand over my mouth. Smitty!
He looked over at me quizzically. He bobbed his head and chortled in his throat as if preparing to practice his new words. "Don't you dare." I pointed my finger at him.
He flapped his wings at me and chortled some more.
He let out a loud squawk and then said clearly, "Murder."
I shivered and stared at him.
"Murder, murder, murder," he chanted, flapping his wings.
CHAPTER FOUR
I awoke with a start. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked. I settled back on my pillow and stared at the top of my canopy bed. My childhood room had become my adult room when I'd moved back in with Gram after college. We'd tried to give it a more mature vibe. Creamy walls with walnut trim and warm cinnamon accents throughout. New bedding and pictures, but it still looked the same to me, and that was just fine. Gram had fussed a little about moving me into the larger room at the end of the hall. But this room suited me better.
I yawned and stretched. Time to get this day started. I was officially declaring this a no-drama day. No bodies, no police, no problems. I had some touch-up work to finish on the Victorian I'd just sold. We were scheduled for closing in a couple of weeks. After that, finances would loosen up, and I'd be able to breathe again. That was, if I could keep Marlton House on schedule.
As I dressed, I thought about last night. Smitty's squawks of "murder, murder" had really rattled me. In the light of day I realized that the bird had just been repeating what the newscaster had said. But still, the timing couldn't have been worse. I'd scurried back to my room, taken a shower, and jumped between the sheets, my head covered with the blanket just like when I was kid. It seemed silly now, but last night had been no joke.
I brushed my teeth in my en suite (one of my favorite upgrades) and pulled my long brown hair into a ponytail. Contrary to what Gram said, I did use some makeup. Lip gloss, a swipe of mascara, and a dusting of bronzer. I wanted to present a professional image even if I was in a nontraditional field for women.
I decided to walk to the house I called "Sticks and Stones" because of its stone and wood facade. The house was about a half mile if I walked along the rocky beach that hugged the Danger Cove inlet, or three miles if I took the road. I said hello to Dolly in the kitchen and grabbed a piece of homemade banana bread. Gram wouldn't be receiving any company until at least ten o'clock. She ate breakfast in bed, read mail, and piddled around her room like Lady of the Manor. I pulled my backpack of tools off the pegboard near the back door and started toward the cliffs.
"Tell Gram I'll see her for lunch," I called to Dolly.
Dolly gave me a flour-covered wave, saying, "Making chicken soup and biscuits today."
"Score!" I said with a grin and waved good-bye.
The walk to Sticks and Stones was not as perilous as it looked. Rockgrove sat up on the highest point of the Danger Cove inlet, looking down from the cliffs at the crashing water below. However, there was a well-worn path that twisted and turned along the jagged incline that led to a rocky beach.
I descended the cliff with barely a thought about the dangerous pathway. I kept thinking about the guy in the bathtub. Who was he? Who'd killed him? What the heck was he doing in Marlton House?
I didn't have much faith in the police force. They were more interested in ticketing tourists and requisitioning the latest in law enforcement gadgetry than actually investigating a case. According to the news, most big cases were eventually passed off to the big boys in Seattle. The local guys didn't see enough real crime to know what to do with a murder investigation. Not that they were all incompetent, but I couldn't afford to have the Marlton House renovation held up for months while they figured it out.
I clenched my teeth. As much as it pained me to think it, maybe George had been right. Maybe I needed to take matters into my own hands. I could at least try to prove there was no connection between the dead tourist and the house. It shouldn't be too hard, right? My mind whirled with possibilities. Maybe the tourist was being chased, and he found a way into Marlton House to hide from his pursuer. Or the murderer could've dumped his body in the bathtub after killing him somewhere else, knowing it would be days before the body would be found.
I stopped suddenly and stared at the cropping of rocks that jutted out of water about fifteen feet from shore. During high tide the rocks were completely hidden under the rough surf. But at low tide they were jaggedly visible. Something dark and large had washed up on the rocks. I squinted—it looked like a big pile of clothes.
I shook my head. People were such jerks. Who would dump a bunch of junky clothes in the ocean? I started to walk on when something white against the pile of rags caught my eye. A hand rested against the side of a large rock. A human hand.
I kicked off my boots and pulled off my jacket. I debated calling 9-1-1 first, but the current was fast in the cove, and an unconscious person could easily be swept away. I dove into the ice-cold water and swam smoothly out to the outcropping. I'd been a lifeguard in high school and college. My skills were a little rusty, but I was confident in my ability to pull the victim to safety.
I ignored the numbing cold and cut through the water with smooth, even strokes. As I got closer, I saw another hand grasping a ragged piece of the rock. A head with short blond hair rested unmoving against the hard surface. Gasping and shaking, I scrambled up onto the rocks and grabbed at the cold hand. I felt a pulse. Strong and rhythmic.
"Sir, can you hear me?" I slapped at the man's hand and grabbed a handful of his shirt as I tried to pull him out of the water. No response.
I shouted louder and leaned his head back to check his airway. It lolled to one side. Oh boy. I w
as going to have to rescue-swim this guy back to shore. It had definitely been a while since I'd practiced that maneuver.
Clasping one arm under his arms and around his chest, I pushed off from the rock, floating on my back and pulling him along with me. I panicked for a second as his weight threatened to push me under the waves. Then I took a calming breath and gave a mighty pull with my left arm. We moved a few inches. This was going to take a while.
It felt like it took hours to reach the shoreline. We washed ashore on our backs. I felt a sharp pain as one of the jagged rocks caught my shoulder. Shivering and shaking, I dragged the unconscious man up onto the sandy beach. I threw my jacket over him, pulling my cell phone from the front pocket.
"Yes, I've just pulled a man out of the water. I'm on the beach about a quarter mile from Rockgrove. He's unconscious but breathing." I hung up and seconds later heard the local fire department siren. In situations like this it was good to live in a small town.
I leaned over the man. He was blond with strong features and full lips. There was a gash over one eye, but his skin looked flush and healthy. I felt his pulse again. Still strong and steady.
"Sir," I said, patting his cheek. "Can you hear me?" I said more loudly. "You've been in an accident. Can you tell me your name?"
Nothing. The sound of sirens was drawing closer. I dug around in the pockets of his leather jacket. No wallet. I opened the jacket wider and felt behind his back, trying to pat down his pants pockets. Zip. During my pat down, I noticed with a flush that his body was hard and lean. I wondered what color his eyes were. Ice blue, I'd bet.
I leaned over him again to listen for his breathing. "Who are you?" I whispered, inches from his lips.
His eyes flashed open, and his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me toward him. In one swooping move he flipped me onto my back and pinned my arms over my head. I shrieked and fought against him. He pressed his body to mine, stilling my movements.
His eyes were ice blue. And they were angry. Or was that fear?
"What did you do to me?" he growled.
"Uh…well, I saved your life for a start. Now get off of me!" I shouted.
"Not until you answer some questions." His eyes flashed. He pressed my arms farther back. "Where am I?"
I stared dumbly at him. "You don't know where you are?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"You're in Danger Cove. I found you unconscious on the rocks in the water. You're lucky it was low tide, or you'd have been washed out to sea." I couldn't believe the guy I'd rescued was roughing me up like I was a pickpocket or something.
He looked confused for a minute. And then he rolled off of me and sat down in the sand, his arms resting on his knees. He stared out at the water. "Do you know who I am?" he asked quietly.
I was standing up now, brushing sand off of myself and grabbing my jacket. The ambulance and police were pulling onto the beach at the far end. "You're an ungrateful ass who just accosted the woman who saved his life."
He glanced up at me. "Yeah, sorry about that." He felt around in his pockets. Looked inside his jacket.
"I didn't find any ID," I said. "I'm Alex. I live in the big house at the top of the cliff." I pointed to Rockgrove. "What's your name?"
He started to say something then stopped. He looked out at the water and said, "I have no idea."
* * *
"How's it possible this dude doesn't know his own name?" Big Ron asked as he expertly nailed a piece of trim around the giant stone fireplace.
I shrugged. "The doctors say it's trauma-induced amnesia." I continued scouring the fireplace hardware with a wire brush.
Big Ron made a face. "I'm tellin' you, there's something fishy about this guy's story." Big Ron always thought there was something fishy going on. He came from a family of watermen. But being six eight wasn't exactly conducive to working in the tight confines of the family fishing boat, so Ron had become a carpenter. We'd gone to high school together, but we hadn't really run in the same circles, with Ron being three years older than me and part of the jock crowd. He'd been my right-hand man since I'd gone into business for myself two years earlier. I believed the key to our symbiotic relationship was that we both took on a project with one focus in mind: to finish on time and on budget. And we weren't distracted by all the entanglements that went along with serious relationships. Nope, we were single-minded and single. A winning team for sure.
I held up the hardware. "Do you think this'll look good if I spray paint it black?"
Big Ron nodded and continued, "Fellows don't just wash up on the shore with amnesia. That happens on TV. Not in real life."
He had a point, but this wasn't the first body to wash up on the shores of Danger Cove. "Gram said back when she was a girl, sailors would wash up on shore every year or so. I guess there were a lot more ships hauling troops and goods. Unfortunately, most of them were dead. It's amazing this guy survived the rocks if he did fall off a ship."
Big Ron pointed his hammer at me. "You're makin' my point. Ain't no way that guy fell off a boat and washed up on the rocks. He'd a died."
"Well, he was alive and well and eating a turkey sandwich when I left the hospital."
Big Ron gave a hrmp! of disbelief and continued nailing.
The hospital staff had started calling the man John. Gram had shown up as I was getting ready to leave. She had phoned her one friend who could still drive to take her to the hospital. Alice Sweeney had raced over in her red convertible and whisked Gram over to see the "mystery man," as she called him. Thankfully, the first responder at the hospital was Detective Ohlsen, a seasoned officer with a calm demeanor and kind eyes. I don't think I could've handled Detective Marshall a second day in a row. I'd stayed long enough to give a statement to Detective Ohlsen, who seemed doubtful as he took down my information, but only said mildly, "You've had yourself a busy twenty-four hours, Miss Jordan."
Although I'd lost a couple hours of work with the rescue and running home to change into dry clothes, I didn't want to keep Big Ron too late on a Saturday. The settlement walk-through was scheduled for Tuesday, so we'd have time Monday to finish the last few items on the punch list. I also had some errands to run, and I'd missed lunch.
"You want to come with me to Tucker's and see if he's got anything new in?" I asked Big Ron as I pulled on my backpack.
"That boy makes my head spin. Course he's always got good salvage. But I'm gonna pass today. I've got a date tonight. Think I'll get a haircut." He smoothed his unruly curls sheepishly.
I glanced over in surprise. "Anybody I know?"
He blushed. "Naw, just a waitress I met out on the pier."
Huh. "Well, good luck."
I don't know what surprised me more. Finding two bodies in the last day or the fact that Big Ron had a date.
CHAPTER FIVE
I headed into town to grab a bite to eat and nose around the reclaimed materials store. I found most of my doors, windows, period fixtures, and other vintage decor for my flips at One Man's Trash. The ramshackle store was located a few blocks out of town near the industrial area and housed a hoarder's haven of junk. It also had an eclectic collection of antiques, used furniture, off-beat artwork, and other oddities.
Sanford and Son had nothing on Tucker Sloan's store. Tucker was born twenty years too late to be a flower child, but nobody had the heart to tell him.
"Far out, it's Alex," he greeted me.
I waved. "What's the word, Tucker?"
He smiled and shook his dreads. "Word is, you've been bagging bodies all over town. The Man been asking questions about your whereabouts."
"Shouldn't listen to gossip. It ain't cool." We parlayed back and forth like this whenever I stopped by the store. It gave me a chance to practice my hippie-speak.
Tucker made the peace sign. "Got some nice old doors in yesterday," he said, thankfully changing the subject. "Wanna take a look?"
I spent the next hour digging through piles of old doors before finally finding a mahogany
masterpiece. It was scarred but salvageable. I was sure I could use it in Marlton House. If I ever got back in there to do any work, that was.
As I paid for the door, Tucker said, "You know that guy in your bathtub was in here Wednesday."
My jaw dropped. "Are you serious? Did you tell the police?"
Tucker nodded. He squinted with effort to remember the conversation. "Yep. But they didn't seem real interested in what I had to tell them. The guy was only in here for ten minutes, and he paid in cash. Didn't have much rap for me." He shrugged.
"Well, he must've said something," I insisted. "What did he buy?"
Tucker's eyes lit up. "You know the detective didn't even ask me that. It was that new guy. The young one, Officer Faria. He was just worried about the time, and did I see any ID or credit cards."
"And," I prompted. Tucker tended to swerve out into left field.
"He bought a box."
"A box?" I asked. "What kind of box?"
"A small wood one. Six inches by four inches. I know because I had to measure five boxes before I found one the right size."
"Did he say what he needed the box for?"
"Hey, you know I'm a friendly guy. I like to make convo with the customers. So, of course I asked him about it. You know what he said to me?" Tucker paused.
"What?"
"You don't want to know."
I sighed. "Yes, Tucker, I do. What did he need it for?" Jeez, this guy should put the pipe down once in a while.
"No," Tucker said with a laugh. "That's what this cat said. 'You don't want to know.' Like he's a secret agent man or something. Far out, huh?"
I paid Tucker and digested the information in silence. Tucker helped me wrangle the door into the flatbed of my truck. I thanked him and fired up the engine. Time to get something to eat and do some serious thinking. What had the tourist needed a box for? And why all the mystery?
I turned around and headed back to Main Street and found a parking space outside the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. A little sugar and caffeine rush was in order to get my tired brain working. I got lucky and snagged one of the few tables by the window. Sometimes I felt out of place in my construction gear surrounded by the pink walls and lacy curtains, but the amazing food helped me feel right at home. I gave a wave to Riley, the owner, saying, "Any chocolate bottom pie left?"
Secret of the Painted Lady Page 3