by Ink, India
I didn’t say anything. There was nothing really to say. Virginia had died in Iran, where I was born. She had followed my father there, when he was transferred overseas to the GEO Oil Company’s foreign offices.
Passionately in love with the idea of living happily ever after, she’d envisioned life as a long series of days basking in the sunset of the desert, but once she got there he decided that he didn’t want to get married. They moved into a small apartment, she got pregnant with me, and that ended her hopes of matrimony for good. He only took care of her because Virginia threatened to sue him with palimony if he didn’t face up to his responsibilities. After she died, he petitioned his company for a transfer back to the U.S. and dropped me on Aunt Florence’s doorstep on his way to Alaska, signing away his parental rights. Auntie gave me her own last name and formally adopted me.
I was a Vanderbilt, but exactly what that meant, I hadn’t quite fully figured out. I’d met my maternal grandparents, Grandmother Dakota and Grandfather William, but we hadn’t taken to each other. I was too headstrong for them, and they were too stuffy for me. I wasn’t interested in country clubs and debutante balls, and they didn’t approve of Auntie gallivanting me around the planet.
When I was seventeen, I spent a week with them in their home in Virginia. They offered to pay for the rest of my college, but Auntie assured me that she had plenty of money and I knew that her support came with no strings attached. But I did accept the box of trinkets and jewelry that had belonged to my mother. My grandparents had carefully chosen the pieces that they thought would mean the most to me, and now I constantly wore my mother’s sweet-sixteen diamond ring on my right index finger. It made me feel closer to her.
Every Christmas and birthday until I was eighteen, they sent me presents, and then the presents turned into checks. Each year, I wrote them the obligatory yearly update letter, and called them on major holidays, and we were all content to leave it at that.
My father, on the other had, had been a silent shadow since the day he abandoned me. I knew his name but had never gone to the bother of tracking him down. Why should I, when he hadn’t wanted me? I could barely remember him, and whatever love I’d felt for him was buried in the dust of his footsteps. Auntie had done her best to raise me, taught me the difference between right and wrong, and showed me how to make my own way in the world. Everything I’d learned, I owed to her, and I wanted to make her proud.
When dinner was ready, we lit a fire in the fireplace and settled down in front of the crackling flames with our soup and bread and sliced sausage. I told her about the day, going easy on Trevor’s part. She nodded and reached for the remote.
“You handled it fine, Persia. You know that eventually I’m going to get bored of this business, and if you decide to put down roots here in the town, I’ll just sign it over to you. So I’m glad you’re taking the initiative on these matters.” She channel-surfed until she found a rerun of Magnum P.I.
As usual, Hoffman decided to make his move. The twelfth and final member of the Menagerie, the rooster had no qualms about climbing up on the sofa and settling in on my lap to watch television. It had taken me awhile to get used to him, the little bugger liked to peck me when I wasn’t being quick enough in handing out his chicken treats, but over the months he’d clucked his way right into my heart. Aunt Florence had even managed to house-train him, to an extent, and I secretly admired the plucky old cock of the walk. I asked her where he’d come from and she said he’d just shown up in the backyard one day after a big windstorm, and that was that. Hoffman was home.
Auntie flipped the channel to A&E. “Cold Case Files is on tonight.” A murder-mystery buff, she’d turned me into one too and I’d picked up the habit of watching late-night TV with her. After scaring ourselves silly over an episode about a serial killer who specialized in drowning his wives, we headed for bed, carrying flashlights just in case the power went out again. Florence kissed me on the cheek as we reached the second floor and said goodnight.
As I trudged up to the third floor, the wind howled outside, shaking the trees and knocking fir cones and branches onto the roof. It would be the perfect night for the Cap’n to show himself, but by the time I was ready for bed, I decided he was going to remain in whatever shadowy realm he lived in. Suddenly nostalgic, I whispered, “Goodnight, Cap’n. Sleep well,” as I crawled into bed.
The windows rattled and rain lashed the windowsill, but I fell into a deep sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. At some point, I woke to hear the sound of a fog horn from some boat passing by, or perhaps I dreamed it, but after that, my slumber was uneasy, and images of arguing beauty queens and angry young men filled my dreams.
I woke up to find Delilah sitting on the pillow next to me, staring down at my face with a bemused look. As I struggled to sit up, still caught between my dreams and the waking world, I pushed back the hand-sewn Hawaiian quilt that covered the rich walnut sleigh bed and swung my feet over the edge. The cat watched me cautiously, reaching up to pat my face with her claws barely sheathed. I waited until she withdrew her tufted toes from my cheek before stumbling out of bed. Squinting in the dim light that peeked from between the curtains, I reached out to give Delilah a few scritches behind the ears.
“You’re not so tough,” I cooed to her. “Not really.” She started to bite, but then—teeth poised on my finger—stopped, purred, and thwapped her tail against the vanity. Laughing at the smug, self-satisfied look that filled her eyes, I chased her out of the room.
I opened the drapes. The weatherman was right for once. More clouds were on the way in, ponderous and rain-filled. Nothing new for western Washington during the month of May, but after my dreams the heavy sky felt ominous, almost claustrophobic.
Leaning out into the cool air, I inhaled deeply, watching as a patch of mist rolled along the ground, swirling up from a low-lying part of the backyard. The raucous call of a family of Steller’s jays echoed through the morning. The birds made their home in a large fir tree in the backyard and they set up a stink every time it was going to rain.
As the first splatter of drops hit my face, I closed the sash, fastening it tightly. Maybe I should take my chances and stroll along Lighthouse Spit. Sure, it was raining, but I wouldn’t melt, and I could watch the waves cresting in, maybe have breakfast at the Lighthouse Café. But a glance at the clock showed me that I didn’t have time for any of that. I needed to start getting up earlier if I wanted to get in a walk every morning before breakfast.
I dressed quickly. Black jeans that fit my curves, hunter green turtleneck that slipped over my head, masking my tattoos. A brilliant spray of roses embracing my mother’s name adorned my lower back, and, for Christmas, I’d treated myself to an exotic faerie hiding among a spray of bluebells that twined around my left forearm and up to my shoulder. My belly button and left nipple were pierced, but few people knew about those little gems until summer hit and I started wearing crop tops and swimsuits. My body art startled a lot of people when they first noticed it, but I figured that if people were going to stereotype me because of the way I looked, then they could find somebody else to talk to. Blanket generalizations irked me to no end. Some of the most ethical people I knew looked the roughest.
I clattered downstairs, whipped up a quick smoothie, chugged it down, and headed for the shop, keeping within the speed limit all the way. Kyle could go suck a lemon; he wouldn’t be giving me any more tickets.
The drive to Venus Envy wound along Beachcomber’s Drive. I hugged the curves overlooking the ocean for a mile or two until the road headed east, directly into the heart of the town.
Gull Harbor was nestled on Port Samanish Island, one of several little islands making their home in Puget Sound between Seattle and the Kitsap Peninsula. The island was connected on the west side to Kitsap County by a floating bridge, and on the east side, ferry service provided transit across Puget Sound to Seattle.
The town had grown quickly over the past ten years from its roots as a tiny tourist att
raction, housing sight-seeing boats for the summer trade. Now Gull Harbor had a thriving economy thanks to both the high tech and tourism industries. In the early 1960s, a cooperative of artists and writers decided to make their headquarters here. One by one, they moved in, bringing with them their arts and crafts. Then, ten years ago, Sand Bar Software opened up, along with Red Oak Technology Services, which provided computer consultant contracts along the inland peninsula coastline, as well as over in the Seattle-Bellevue-Redmond area. Though still small, new businesses were beginning to look over to Port Samanish Island instead of Seattle proper when they relocated to Washington State.
The locals were an eclectic—if relatively harmless—mix of stubborn Northwest individualism and quirky artistic vision. But along with the growing population and the java-jive mentality, the natural beauty of the area was indisputable, and still pristine.
As I reached the shop, I pulled into my parking space and absently turned off the ignition. Aunt Florence was spending the morning with her accountant, so I’d be in charge till she arrived after lunch. I had three appointments scheduled, and also wanted to get cracking on a new blend—something to inspire energy and vitality.
I hadn’t decided what I was going to call it yet; maybe something along the lines of Juniper Girl or Mountain Maiden. Whatever the name, I wanted to get right to work. Tawny wouldn’t be in for another hour and I worked better when nobody else was around.
As I unlocked the door and entered the shop, I noticed a strange scent. Something almost metallic—sickly sweet and cloying. I flipped on the lights and all thoughts of perfume and bath salts and clients went flying out the door. There, on the floor next to the front counter, lay Lydia Wang, her dark hair matted with blood, a stunned look on her face.
Everything registered in slow motion for a moment until my instincts kicked in and I rushed over to her side, knelt, and even though I knew it was futile, felt for a pulse. Her delicate hand was cool to the touch; she’d been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. Shivering, I gently let go of her wrist and rubbed my hand on my jeans.
From the look of things, her death hadn’t been accidental. Her neck was turned too far to the right. Probably broken. On her forehead, an indigo bruise blossomed like an exotic, beautiful flower that had suddenly taken root on her skin. The back of her head looked misshapen, and her hair was thick with clotted blood. Queasy, I looked up at the counter. The corner was right in line with the way she’d fallen, and it had blood on it. I flinched as I pictured her head hitting the marble as she went down. But something . . . or someone . . . had to have struck her from behind because no way could a blow to her temple have caused the back of her skull to break.
The thought that the killer might still be around crossed my mind. It wasn’t likely, but no use taking any chances. I edged cautiously back to the door. There was nothing I could do for her. Wherever she was, Lydia didn’t need my help—or anybody else’s—now. I stepped outside, making sure that I didn’t touch anything else, and pulled out my cell phone to call my aunt and the police.
Chapter Four
Kyle Laughlin swept in with his men, looking distinctly out of place among the perfumes and lotions. When he saw me he rolled his eyes.
Thanks a lot, I thought. I like you too.
He motioned for his men to fan out. “Make sure nobody’s here, don’t touch anything—the murderer could have been anywhere in this place.” Turning his attention back to me, he asked, “Have you touched anything?”
I frowned. “I work here, I’ve probably had my hands on everything at one point or another.”
Kyle gave me a disgusted look. “This morning,” he said, enunciating each word precisely. “I mean have you touched anything this morning?”
I raised my eyebrows but pointed to the door. “The handle and probably the door itself, of course. It was locked, by the way. And . . . Lydia. I checked to see if she had a pulse, and I steadied myself on the planter next to the counter when I stood up.”
His eyes flickered. “Who was the last person to leave here last night?”
“I was.” The minute I said it, I knew it sounded bad. Good going, Sherlock. Place yourself at the scene of a crime. All of Aunt Florence’s detective shows came flooding back. “I worked late, till about nine o’clock.”
One of the men tapped him on the shoulder and Kyle motioned to me that he’d be just a moment. He turned to whisper to the officer, then glanced back at me. “Are you sure of the time?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I looked at the clock before I locked the door to make sure that I’d have time to get to the grocery store.”
“And which store did you go to?”
“Shoreline Foods Pavilion.”
He jotted a note in his book. “Okay. Are you positive that you locked up when you left?”
I pressed my lips shut and stared at him. What did he think I was? A ditz? “I lived in Seattle, Kyle. I always lock up. And we don’t have a security alarm system here, so we always double-check the door.”
“Who else has access to the keys for the shop?” He kept one eye on me, one on his notebook.
Something was churning around in that little brain of his. No doubt some new way to make my life miserable. “Auntie can tell you better than I can. She has the complete list.”
“Well, I need to know what time you got to Shoreline Foods, how long you were there, and where you went after that.”
I walked over to my station and sat down, watching as the men snapped pictures of Lydia’s body and the surrounding area. Maybe I should cut Kyle a little slack. He’d just had a murder dropped in his lap, one that would make the papers for sure. I sighed and glanced around the shop. Something felt out of kilter, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
“Okay, give me a minute to collect my thoughts.”
Just then, a roar outside announced the arrival of Aunt Florence in her convertible. She’d owned the Mustang for years, and it desperately needed a new muffler, but she insisted “Baby” was in top notch condition and repeatedly ignored the neighbor’s pleas for her to quiet the beast.
The medical team was in the process of photographing the body but they paused as Auntie entered the shop, her brilliant mu’umu’u swishing against her legs. My aunt acted nothing less than the island’s grandé dame. The officers hesitated as she passed, as if waiting for permission to continue.
She nodded at them, then strode over to Kyle’s side.
“Well, if this doesn’t tear all,” she said, staring at Lydia’s body with a pained look on her face.
“Morning, Miss Florence.” Kyle shifted so that she could sit down on the bench next to him. “I was just asking Persia who has access to the shop.”
Auntie adjusted her mu’umu’u and sat down, still staring at Lydia. “Persia and I both have keys, of course. Tawny has a key, and I gave one to Trevor last week when I asked him to bring down a load of supplies. Other than that—Barbara, next door, in case of emergency.” She sucked on her lip for a moment. “Who did this, Kyle?”
“I don’t know, Miss Florence. That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He turned back to me. “You were going to tell me where you were last night, after you left the shop.”
“I left here at nine o’clock, stopped at Shoreline Foods to pick up some groceries around nine-ten, and pulled into the driveway around forty minutes later.” As much as I wanted to give him a swift kick, I refrained. First biting, then kicking . . . maybe Kyle wasn’t the only one who hadn’t grown up.
He glanced for confirmation at Aunt Florence, who seemed to grasp the situation.
“You can just stop thinking along those lines right now.” She puffed up, the stuffed parakeet on her straw hat jiggling precariously. “Persia got home when she said she did. The power went off right at that moment, and I remember thinking we were going to miss Magnum if it didn’t come back on. Magnum runs every night at ten PM on TV-Nation.”
Kyle held up his hands. “I’m just trying to establish a t
ime frame, Miss Florence. No disrespect intended. I’d better talk to Trevor and Tawny now.”
Aunt Florence glanced over her shoulder at the door. Tawny had just entered and I watched as she glanced around, her eyes lighting on Lydia’s cold body. Tawny gasped and reached for the doorframe.
Auntie waggled her finger at Kyle. “You just make sure you’re polite to her. She’s a good worker. Trevor, too.” With that, she glanced back at Lydia’s body, which they were now lifting into a body bag. “I hate to think of the hell her poor parents are going to go through.” She sighed. “How long will this take? Should I be prepared to close down for several days?”
Kyle scratched his head and squinted. “I think we’ll be done by this afternoon, but I’d like to keep tomorrow free, just in case we have any questions that pop up. Meanwhile, if you and Persia could look around the shop and figure out whether anything is missing, I’d be much obliged.”