Murder in the Mist

by Loretta C. Rogers

  “Ayuh. By Godfrey, me and my big mouth. Suggesting a séance. From now on, I’m keeping my fat trap shut.”

  Laura laughed. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the deputy.”

  Phyllis gave her a mutinous stare. “Not funny. Not funny in the least. Don’t forget to lock the door before you come up.”

  Laura reached into her pocket for the key chain. In less than a minute she stood at the back door of her office. She shoved the key into the lock and turned the knob. Darkness and silence greeted her. Standing on the top step, she reached inside and groped the wall for the light switch. Her eyes swept the room before entering. Grumbling aloud, she said, “This is ridiculous. A grown woman, jumping at shadows, and all because of a stupid séance.”

  Nonetheless, she turned the deadbolt in place, then hurried to the closet where she had stored the morgue books. Not wanting to worry her aunt, she lifted the top eight volumes and almost buckled under the weight. She returned three neatly to their stack. Taking comfort in her own voice, she said aloud, “These will do for now.”

  The oversized scrapbooks fit awkwardly in her arms. After locking the door, she shifted the weight to keep the books from sliding, placed her chin on the top book to stabilize it, and wondered how, with a bum hip, she would manage the steep stairs to her aunt’s upstairs living quarters carrying this load. She smiled when she spotted Phyllis standing on the library’s stoop, holding the door ajar. “Figured you might need some help.”

  Once upstairs, with the apartment door secured, Laura said, “It’s a beautiful evening. Let’s spread out in the summer room.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll whip up our snack.”

  The glassed-in porch ran the length of the upstairs suite. Phyllis and Laura’s bedrooms were separated by the living-dining area and kitchen. Sliding glass doors from the bedrooms and from the living room provided private entries to the porch, where a cooling breeze filtered through the open screened windows. Laura set the morgue books on a long coffee table. Before switching on a lamp, she looked out across the main part of the town and thought it picturesque enough to be a Thomas Kinkade painting. She remained silent, considering the evening’s events and the wisdom of believing the ghost of a young woman had actually appeared during the séance.

  She switched on the lamp between the two glider rockers and propped her feet on an ottoman. The scrapbook in her lap was labeled with dates from the current year to five years past. As messy and unorganized as Dan had left the office, she gave him credit for the neatly clipped articles and the orderly way he’d adhered them to the pages.

  She’d lost track of time when her aunt said, “Anything?”

  Setting the book aside, Laura accepted the offering of a tuna sandwich, chips, and a bottle of beer. “Nothing of importance. Andrew Grubber ticketed for disorderly conduct, Edward Harvey for driving with an expired license. Limon pie wins contest for most unusual taste.”

  Phyllis heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe our spirit is an old spirit. Cole Harbor has a history that dates way before the American Revolution, after all. There’s even a little bit of history about witchcraft, though I don’t think anyone was ever hanged or burned at the stake.”

  The next hour was spent with exclamations over various articles, or with Phyllis filling in details. It was when she huffed out, “Oh, my!” that hope sparked in Laura.

  “What is it…what did you find?”

  Phyllis’ face puckered in a sad expression. “Not what we’re looking for. Oh, I’ll never forget the day Ardelia Stovall stood along the beach calling and calling for her son, Lydel. He was only six years old.” Phyllis pulled the shawl a little closer around her shoulders as she stood to look out across the bay. “All my life I swam in the cove and never once feared sharks. It wasn’t natural for them to come into the inlet. Days later, Amos Gilman was searching along the island banks when he found what was left of little Lydel. Just like it says in the article, every fisherman for miles around went on a shark hunt. I can’t remember how many sharks or what kind were brought in and gutted. Not one held evidence of having fed on a child, or a human for that matter. The town almost died for lack of tourism. I don’t think I’ve ever felt comfortable swimming since, and that happened ten years ago. You know what’s odd? There’s never been another attack or a shark spotted in the cove since.”

  Laura commiserated about the child. She closed the book she held and set it on the stack, then stood and stretched. “Let’s call it a night, Aunt Philly. Maybe tomorrow something will turn up in one of the other volumes.”

  Later, in the bathroom, Laura turned off the shower with a rusty clank. She reached to towel the mist from the mirror. Instead, she used her finger to write the letters: ly. “Who are you?”

  Settled against the pillow, the last thing she remembered was looking at the clock. As she slept, her usual anxiety dream visited. Herself running, running, running down a long endless alley, dark. A small, bobbing light at the end, beckoning her. Explosions, deafening. All around. Her labored breathing. No matter how fast she ran, the distance between her and the light lengthened, making it impossible to reach the light.

  Like most nights, she awoke biting back weary screams, drenched in sweat, the sheet tangled around her legs. On other nights, she simply lay there and tried to will away the painful throbs in her right hip.

  The doctor had called it post traumatic stress disorder.

  She climbed from the bed and limped to the bathroom, where she used the moon’s light to guide her to the medicine cabinet. This time, she didn’t silence the scream.

  To control her trembling, she leaned forward to clutch the sides of the sink. The cold porcelain felt good to her warm hands. She gulped deep breaths to control the retch rolling up her throat.

  Phyllis fairly skidded into the room, her voice in a high crescendo saying, “By Godfrey, Laura, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I did. I mean, I think I did. See a ghost, that is. She…um…It was staring over my shoulder. I saw her in the mirror.” Laura lifted her hands to her face. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. “Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe I am suffering from PTSD, or maybe I’m ready for a stint in the loony bin.”

  Phyllis wet a washcloth, wrung out the excess water, and handed it to her niece. “Or maybe you really did see a ghost. Remember, what Nadia said—sometimes, after a séance, the spirit will attach itself to a person.”

  Aggravation laced Laura’s voice. “Yeah, well, the séance was in Maudie’s house. So how would the spirit know to find me here, and why me?”

  “I don’t know. Unless—” Phyllis’s face scrunched into a thoughtful frown. “Was the woman young or old?”

  “Young. Maybe in her twenties. What’s your point?”

  “Can the sarcasm. I’m merely trying to help. You are the only one at the séance younger than sixty. That’s my point. The spirit is reaching out to you because she can relate to you. What else do you remember about her?”

  “I don’t know, Aunt Philly. It all happened in a split second. Maybe I imagined it. I awoke from a bad dream. Maybe I was still a little shaken, and the only thing I saw in the mirror was my own reflection.”

  “I’m certain you saw what you saw. A spirit is trying to reach out to you. The question is who, and why?”

  “Oh, great. Maybe I need to wear a sachet of garlic or wolf bane around my neck for protection.”

  Phyllis laughed as she hugged her niece. “That’s for vampires and werewolves, which is the one thing Cole Harbor doesn’t have. Let’s go back to bed. I don’t think your ghost will visit again tonight.”

  Chapter Seven

  Other than a flowering garden, the setting sun was his favorite sight. Tonight the sky fired the horizon and reminded him of a campfire’s glowing embers. Benjamin wished he’d inherited his mother’s artistic skills, for only an artist could wash the sky in iridescent hues of purple and pink. The feathery clouds reminded him of lace. He remained on the porch until the red
globe slid behind the horizon, erasing the colors and replacing them with pitch black.

  He liked sunsets. He had vague memories of standing with his mother on a porch every evening before bedtime. They would lean against the railing and watch the sun sink. No words were ever spoken between him and his mother. It was the only time he felt close to her. Sometimes she would lightly ruffle the top of his hair. It was the only time he ever saw the tenseness in her shoulders relax. When the sun had disappeared and turned out the lights of the world, she would sigh, deep and forlorn, as if she carried the weight of the world, but first, for brief moments, he got to see the worry lines in her face disappear. She was beautiful.

  His last remembrance of her had been the ear-piercing screaming. His mother’s screams. He remembered hiding behind the old floral sofa, crouched in a ball, hands over his ears to shut out the never-ending shrieks. Her name was Florence, but she had called herself Rose. It was her favorite flower.

  He’d been four years old when his mother went away. His grandfather said she was never coming back.

  “Why isn’t she coming back, Grandpa?”

  “She couldn’t quiet the screams inside her head, and I couldn’t quiet the screams from her mouth. You don’t like screaming. That’s why you hide behind the couch.”

  Ben hadn’t fully understood what his grandfather had meant about quieting his mother’s untimely and uncontrollable shrieks.

  “Where did she go?”

  “She’s sleeping with the sharks. Don’t ever scream, Benjamin. We don’t like screaming.”

  As punishment when Benjamin committed the least infraction, his grandfather would yell and accuse him of being just like his mother, slapping Benjamin’s hands when he tried to cover his ears.

  Tonight, like every night, he watched the sun tuck itself away and silenced the world from the sounds that often made his brain hurt. Gulls with their incessant cries reminded him of his mother’s ear-piercing wails. Chattering in the park, down at the docks, in the bars. Chattering, chattering until the noises roiled inside his head, until he wanted to…to what? He knew, and the thought frightened him.

  Medicine. He must not forget to take his medication. The thing inside him was growing. It’d been ten years since he’d killed anyone, but he knew when the urge had started—when she came to town.

  He was shivering with the need of it. Even the cool breeze against his skin aroused him. This energy had him pacing the length of the porch and back. It wasn’t time. He needed to plan. To think.

  Like an unshackled animal, he bounded down the steps. Walking soundless through the woods, he envisioned himself a hunter, stalking his prey. Not just any prey, like a deer. No, something more dangerous. He was the great white hunter ready to take down a charging rhino. And then he smiled. There was nothing more dangerous than—man. He was far more intelligent, more cunning, than any predatory jungle animal.

  He remembered every detail of her face. He remembered her scream—and her death. He’d held her, feeling the life drain from her body. It was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The compulsion built inside him. Like a fire that needed cooling.

  He stood at the edge of the national park campground. A shadow among shadows, he watched a young woman sitting by the campfire. She used a long stick to poke the embers. He imagined her smiling as she looked up to watch the glittering ash float into nothingness.

  He, too, watched the glowing cinders, twisting in a spiraling dance with winking red eyes. Evil eyes. He drew in a somber breath and touched a hand to his heart.

  His grandfather had told him about the twin that had died at birth. Grandfather said the twin died because it was evil.

  “Where does the twin live, Grandpa?” Benjamin had asked.

  Grandfather had touched an index finger against Benjamin’s heart. “His spirit lives in here.”

  Sometimes, Benjamin imagined the twin was inside him. He tried hard to control the malevolence. Tonight he felt that dark, hungry spirit awakening. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was Benjamin. He needed to keep Bennie asleep. Bennie enjoyed hurting women. Bennie was evil.

  A man’s voice called, “Amber?”

  She answered, “Coming,” and rose from the log, brushed the back of her jeans, and walked into the RV.

  Benjamin stepped back deeper into the shadows.

  The voice inside his head said, It’s been ten years. You’ve missed me, Benjamin. Admit it.

  No! Go away, Bennie. Leave me alone.

  By the time he returned to the cabin, his heart was pumping, his breathing labored, his sweat-soaked shirt clung to him like a second skin, and he trembled. He needed to control himself.

  Bennie whispered in his ear. We need to plan, to get the time and place of meeting just right.

  Benjamin had learned from his mistakes. This time, he would woo her. She would love him; she wouldn’t scream.

  His clothes bound him. He stripped down naked and stepped into the shower, allowing cold water to slowly, cell by cell, cool his brain.

  Chapter Eight

  The bell over the entry door alerted Laura. She stepped from the back room, her arms loaded with morgue books. “Good morning, Deputy Carter.” She gave a nod toward the coffeepot. “Fresh coffee. Help yourself.”

  He held a bag forward. “Peace offering. I didn’t exactly exude good manners the second time we met.”

  Laura set the large books on the desk. She accepted the sack, opened it, and smiled. “How does a deputy from Texas know that a certain girl reporter is nuts for cream cheese Danish?” She used a napkin to lift one out, then offered the bag back to Mitch.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “If I guess, will you be breaking the law or anything like that to tell me?”

  He poured his coffee, then sat across the desk from Laura. “Maybe.”

  Laura took a bite of the still-warm confection. Although she knew the conspirator, she took her time before answering. “The person who makes the best ever desserts of any kind is Maudie Perry, and her best friend since childhood is Phyllis Friday, and since Aunt Philly has always been a sucker for a guy in uniform, I’ll lay my money on her being the inside informant.”

  Mitch chuckled. “Like I said before, I’m not a betting man. But you win.”

  They passed the next few minutes with pleasantries before Mitch grew serious. “I wanted to let you know that the medical examiner’s report came in last night. Official cause of Victor Forgione’s death—arsenic poisoning. Had it not been for you detecting the garlic odor, his beautiful bride of six months would be living on some exotic island and spending his billions instead of standing trial for murder. In a few months, she’ll trade her bikini for prison coveralls. Good call, Friday.”

  Laura exaggerated the fluttering of her eyelids. “Why, shucks, deputy, I was just doing my job.” She offered her hand across the desk. “Truce?”

  He accepted it. “You stepped on my ego, Friday. That’s pretty dang tough on a Texan.”

  Setting her mug aside, she leaned forward, arms crossed on the desk. “Sorry. Hope we can be friends, especially since we’ll be working together.”

  Mitch looked around, then back at Laura. “Did I miss something? Working together?”

  “Yeah, you know, sheriff’s office, newspaper office, exchanging facts, clues. I scratch your back, you scratch mine.” She hastened to correct the last bit. “Well, scratch the scratching. I didn’t mean that literally. By the way, you have a mole in your office.”

  Mitch scrunched his brows together. “Mole…as in…snitch?”

  “Yes. Louise Highland is the biggest gossip in town. She couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. The woman thrives on telling tales, and with embellishment. Not to knock a dent in your ego armor, but I already knew about the medical examiner’s report. I thought it professional courtesy to wait until you told me.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Friday. Thing is, Louise worked for She
riff Gilman’s father. After he died and Roberta filled his position, she kept Louise on, saying she didn’t know how to fire a woman who had worked for her dad for over twenty years. I’m not in charge of personnel; I’m just the deputy.”

  Laura washed down the remaining bit of pastry with the last of her coffee. She was on a roll and decided to go for broke. “So, what’s your story, Mitch? What brings a Texas cowboy lawman to a small seaside community like Cole Harbor? We’ve got no night life, the sidewalks roll up at dark-thirty, and except for the fireworks on Fourth of July, the most exciting thing that might happen is you climbing up a tree to rescue Nadia Cruex’s cat.”

  She watched his hesitation. The agitated way his jaw worked. Everyone was entitled to their secrets. Lord knows, she had her own. “I’d rather hear it from you than from Louise.”

  His eyes narrowed. She thought she saw a hint of anger. He banked it fast. “After a stint in the Army, I got my old job back with the border patrol at Fort Stockton Station. Sometimes it wasn’t much different than being on patrol when I was deployed in Iraq or Afghanistan. Pulling the trigger was getting too easy. I didn’t like the person I was becoming, so I asked for a transfer as far away from crime as possible. Cole Harbor seemed like a good fit.”

  “Aw, disappointing. I expected a love-gone-wrong story.” Though subtle, she didn’t miss the flinch, or the tic under his eye. She knew emotional pain when she saw it. Now wasn’t the time to push. “Is it a good fit?”

  Mitch shrugged one broad shoulder. “Six months on the job, and all is well. Okay, since we’re playing twenty questions, it’s your turn. What’s your story?”

  Laura looped her fingers through the handle of her coffee cup as she stood to replenish it. “Like you, nothing newsworthy. Although I was born in Cole Harbor, my parents moved to New York when I was five. My mother and Aunt Philly were sisters. We visited a few times. Not often enough. After my father’s death, ten years ago, my mom returned. The last time I came was for her funeral, about five years ago.”