Murder in the Mist

by Loretta C. Rogers

  Now it was her time to shrug. “Running the Harbor Gazette seemed like a prime opportunity. Not getting any younger…planning for the future. You know, logical reasoning.”

  He scoffed. “C’mon, Friday. What are you? Twenty-eight? Thirty, at the most? Surely you can come up with a better line. That day at the docks, you said you were an investigative reporter from New York. Though when I Googled Laura Friday, she didn’t come up, but a Laura Schofield did. Odd, the striking resemblance between the two of you.”

  She inwardly cringed. As much as she wanted to tell Mitch about Elio Casper, she didn’t trust him to keep her confidence. The last thing she needed was Louise posting gossip on some social media site that would point Casper’s boss to Cole Harbor.

  “Coincidence. They say everyone has a twin. I guess you found mine.” She grabbed a note pad and pencil. “Let’s change the subject. Anything new on Dr. McMahon’s cause of death? He was wearing a life jacket when his boat flipped.”

  “The eyes are the windows to the soul, Laura. Yours hold a secret that frightens you. Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

  She laughed. “A cowboy, a lawman, and a psychic. You are full of surprises, Mitch Carter. Now, about Dr. McMahon?”

  He stood and placed his hat on his head. “No mystery. Medical records show Dr. McMahon had a weak heart and had suffered several heart attacks. When the boat flipped, apparently the combination of stress and frigid water was too great. Official cause of death—acute myocardial infarction. See you later, Friday. I need to make rounds. Someone’s cat may need rescuing.”

  She laughed. “I’ll make sure it’s front page news. Thanks for the chat, and the Danish.”

  She took a second to think about the upcoming headlines for the paper’s next issue. Opening her laptop, she typed: Garlic Lands Bride in the Soup. For the next few hours she concentrated on writing her articles.

  At noon, her aunt entered. “All work and no play makes for a dull reporter. Let’s walk over to the Silly Lobstah for lunch.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice. I’m starved.”

  Engrossed in conversation, it was yelps that drew their attention in time to see Benjamin Noone flail a dog with a shovel before he yelled and gave chase. “I catch you digging in my flowers again, and the next time it’ll be more than a whack with a shovel.”

  Phyllis’s voice was stern and commanding. “Stop it. Don’t hurt that poor animal.”

  Benjamin stood still, the shovel held in mid-air. He glowered at her. “Dog can find someplace else to bury its bones. So mind your business, ’cause keeping this square beautiful is my business.”

  Phyllis linked arms with her niece, and gave a tug. “C’mon, Laura.”

  “Aunt Philly, did you see the expression on his face? He looked almost…demented.”

  “I told you he was a strange duck. By the way, I don’t recognize the dog. Maybe it belongs to one of the campers visiting the national park. I’ll put in a call to Bryan Cole, the park ranger, to ask if anyone is missing a pet.”

  Over a dish of baked sea scallops marinated in garlic butter, Phyllis made a suggestion. “I can’t believe how fast time has flown. You’ve been here almost a month. I say, let’s have an adventure.”

  Laura dabbed a piece of crusty bread in the savory sauce and plopped it into her mouth. Between chews, she said, “What do you have in mind?”

  “Pine Island is one of my favorite spots. I’ll make sure Harmon Taylor has the skiff in good running order. What about a day of exploration, with a picnic, next Saturday?”

  “Sounds like fun, but won’t the owner get upset if strangers tromp all over the island without permission?”

  Phyllis smiled over the rim of her iced tea glass. “Since I’m personal friends with the owner, I don’t think she’ll mind.”

  “Who? Maudie? Nadia? One of your other friends?”

  “You’re looking at her. Me. Several years ago, I got wind of a speculator interested in developing the island. The last thing I wanted to see was those beautiful trees and the wildlife displaced by a hotel and a bunch of littering tourists. I pulled a few strings to buy it out from under him. I’ve willed it to the government to become a sanctuary when I die, so the island will remain a natural habitat permanently, for all to enjoy.”

  “Aunt Philly, you are one in a million. I’m sorry I’ve stayed away for such a long time. I have a feeling I’ve missed out on many special times with you. And, yes to Saturday. It’s a date.”

  What Laura really wanted after the meal was a nap, but work called. In the office, she wrote her next Tidings article and then turned her attention to the morgue books stacked on the end of her desk.

  The first two books held nothing she felt related to the spirit that had visited her. By six o’clock, she had decided to leave the next volume for the morning, but curiosity won out, and she opened it. On page five, a headline caught her attention, an article about a teenage girl named Brenda Alligood, whose neck had been broken. The boy who killed her, Bennie Weiner, had been sent to a mental institution. She searched her memory. Neither Brenda’s nor Bennie’s name came up.

  Laura grabbed another morgue book from the closet. She locked the office and walked to the private entrance that led to the living quarters above the library. A familiar excitement filled her. The kind of excitement that happened before a big story broke. She wondered if there was a connection between the spirit and the murdered girl.

  Chapter Nine

  After supper, Laura plumped two pillows and used the headboard as support, a cup of tea in her hand, the scrapbook propped against her knees. Before long, her eyes growing heavy with sleep, she yawned and almost—almost—overlooked the article about a young nurse who had gone missing from Cole Harbor.

  After reading it, and with a moment’s hesitation, she opened her door and peered across the living room. A light shone from beneath her aunt’s bedroom door. She padded across the area and lightly rapped. “Aunt Philly?”

  “Come in.” Phyllis looked up from the mystery novel she was reading for the next Friday Sisters Book Club discussion. “You found something interesting?”

  Laura sat on the edge of the bed. She opened the morgue book. “This is dated ten years ago. It says Lynnette Braswell disappeared. No evidence of foul play suspected in her disappearance. Do you remember when this happened?”

  Phyllis rubbed her forehead. “Let me see. Lynnette came into the library a few times to do research during her nursing courses. Pretty little thing. Quiet. In fact, no one actually missed her until a friend, who lived in Bangor, called the hospital to see if Lynnette had left yet. She was supposed to spend her days off with the friend, but she never showed up. Someone from the hospital went to her apartment. Her car was gone. Sheriff Amos Gilman was called. He got the landlord to open Lynnette’s apartment. Neat as a pin. No signs of a struggle or a robbery. Nothing seemed amiss. That was about the time Sheriff Gilman took ill. I guess he didn’t have the physical or mental wherewithal to give the case the attention it deserved. He hired his daughter as a deputy, but she was fresh out of the academy, trying to learn the ropes and cover for her dad at the same time. Apparently, he didn’t want anyone to know how sick he was. A couple of months after Lynnette’s disappearance, her car was found by some hikers, at the bottom of the stone cliffs out by Frenchman’s Bay. A body was never found. When Amos died, I guess the case slipped through the cracks. Like the article states, it was assumed the girl had accidently lost control of her car. It went over the cliffs. What happened to her body remains a mystery.”

  Laura placed a fingernail under the first two letters of the young woman’s name. “Ly, Aunt Philly. I’ll bet you a Nobel prize in journalism that our spirit is Lynnette, and her death was no accident.”

  “Hmmm. What do you suggest we do? Tell Mitch, see if he’s interested in digging into a cold case?”

  “And have him laugh us under the table? No way. If we have to hold another séance to contact Lynnette, we will. My guess is
she’ll contact us first.”

  Laura reached down to rub her aching leg. “Is it too late for a cup of your special amaretto hot chocolate? I’m so wired, I need something to help me relax.”

  Phyllis swung her legs over the side of the bed. “You don’t have to ask twice.”

  ****

  The following morning, dressed in a pair of white slacks and an emerald green silk blouse, Laura dropped her keys as she bent to unlock the door to the newspaper. It was when she stooped to pick them up that she spotted the white rose lying on top of a piece of paper. She lifted the rose to her nose and inhaled the sweet aroma. It didn’t miss her attention that the stem had no thorns. She opened the note. The words, written in an almost illegible scrawl, caused her to gasp.

  “You gotta let it go, you know.”

  She frowned as she looked into Mitch’s smiling face. “Let what go?”

  “Whatever’s putting lines on that pretty face.”

  Laura inhaled. She exhaled. “Funny the things that can rock your world.” She glanced up and down the sidewalk and across the town square. Except for a few tourists walking into local eateries, and Benjamin sitting in his usual place inside the gazebo, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  Merry blue eyes immediately turned dark. Mitch’s expression went from teasing to all business. “You’re trembling. Let’s go inside so you can tell me what’s upset you.”

  Opening the door and flipping on the lights, she dropped the large scrapbook on the desk. She held up the rose, and handed him the note. He read it aloud. “‘No one loves you.’ Not exactly the way you’d want to start your morning.” He picked up the rose and twirled the stem between his fingers. “Is there a significance to the flower with the note?”

  She went through the rote motions of making coffee. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m a cop, Laura. You may have bested me with the garlic-arsenic evidence, but I’m savvy enough to know when people are hiding from something. If you’re in trouble, the only way I can help is for you to give me details.”

  Everything inside her tightened until she thought she was going to break. She opened her laptop. “Give me a sec. Before I get too tightly wound, I want to research the meaning of a white rose.”

  Her fingers flew over the keys. The frown on her face and her silence prompted Mitch to ask, “What does it say?”

  “Suited to reverent occasions, the white rose is a fitting way to honor a friend or loved one in recognition of a new beginning”—her voice broke—“or…a farewell. White roses are often displayed at funerals.”

  She watched him watching her. He studied her intently, his eyes dark, expression somber. “Just breathe, Friday. It’s going to be all right.”

  She closed her eyes, and felt as if her world had turned upside down. “Better pour a cup of coffee. If you have time, I’ll give you the long version. If not, you’ll have to settle for a quick sketch.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “Promise, not a hint of this to Louise. If you do, I’m as good as dead. And if they’ve found me, it’s only a matter of time.”

  He listened intently as Laura filled him in on the details of the night she was shot and her camera man killed. “That’s why I changed my name and left New York. Even though I’m the legal owner, the Gazette was purchased under the ownership of a dummy corporation, for my protection. Writing tame articles isn’t my style. I’ve been careful not to post my picture on social media sites or to write articles that would draw a flurry of outside reporters. Other than you and Aunt Philly, no one else knows. She’s as close-mouthed as a clam when it comes to keeping confidences.”

  Laura propped her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her hands. “How could Elio Casper track me down? He’s in prison.”

  “The Internet is the eyes and ears of the world. Nothing’s private. I pulled up some of your articles, Laura. You’ve been responsible for ratting out a lot of dangerous thugs. With your permission, I’ll do some snooping, on my personal computer, after hours. Louise won’t know. If necessary, I can call in a few favors.

  “In the meantime, go about your daily business. My guess is we’ve got a local who thinks pulling crank jokes on the new lady in town is funny. Whoever he or she is, they’re probably waiting to see how much they’ve rattled your chain. You’re a pro at these games. Don’t give them what they want.”

  She had that feeling, that creeping pins-and-needles feeling in her spine, that told her something bad was about to happen. She blinked. “I have a permit to carry a concealed weapon. It’s issued in the name of Laura Schofield.”

  “What’s your weapon choice?”

  “A Ruger LCR.”

  Mitch blew out a whistle. “Sweet. Small, compact, deadly. If it makes you feel safe, go for it.”

  Responding to the vibration at his waist, he looked down at his beeper. “It’s Louise.” He smiled. “Maybe she needs me to get a cat out of a tree, or a squirrel from an attic.”

  Laura’s limp smile let him know the joke had fallen short. He added, “I still think it’s a sick prank, but as a precaution be cognizant of any out-of-the-ordinary strangers. You have enough street smarts to detect them.”

  She gave a little wave and watched him walk out the door. She opened a desk drawer and drew out a large manila envelope and labeled it “Prank.” A good reporter always kept evidence. She closed her eyes as her head leaned against the office chair.

  Chapter Ten

  To Laura, Cole Harbor always smelled like a freshly mowed lawn, green, sunny, and bright. This morning was no exception. Dressed in a pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt, with orthopedic lift sneakers, sunglasses, and a ball cap, she followed her aunt down the wooden dock to where a man stood holding the rope to an aluminum boat.

  She lifted the camera and clicked. In college her secondary major had been photo journalism. Perhaps one day she would publish some of her pictures.

  Phyllis called out, “Morning, Harmon. Got ’er ready?”

  “Ayuh. She’s got a full tank of gas. Put a new spark plug in this mornin’. Motor purrs like a kitten. The tide’s runnin’ low. Stay in the channel, and you’ll do fine.”

  Phyllis set the cooler of food and drinks on the dock. She accepted the old boatman’s hand to help steady her as she stepped into the skiff. Once in, she looked up at the sky. “Fair weather. We plan to stay on the island all day. Should return before nightfall.”

  Laura grasped the man’s hand. He was an old salt, for sure—weather-wrinkled skin, and ripcord tough. His strength surprised her. “Don’t worry ’bout fallin’, missy. You just take your time to get your footin’, ’cause I got yah.”

  She found it awkward, reaching down with her shorter leg. Phyllis gripped her by the hips. Laura hoped she wasn’t blushing for all the help. A grown woman who couldn’t master getting into a boat was embarrassing.

  “Got it. Thanks to both of you. I guess you can tell how much of a rookie I am.”

  “Don’t you worry, young missy. I’ve known your auntie for nigh on her entire life. She’s as good a sailor as they come. She’ll teach you a thing or two.”

  “Oh, stop your confabbing, Harmon, and hand me the cooler and the lifejackets so we can get on our way. Laura, you sit on the bow seat.” She pointed. “It swivels. You’ll have a bird’s eye view from all angles.”

  The cooler secured in the center of the boat, Phyllis fastened the buckles on her lifejacket. “Cast off.”

  Harmon handed her the rope. She primed the starter, gave one strong pull on the cord, and the old kicker roared to life. Laura turned and watched her aunt, hand on throttle, guide the little craft into the channel. The woman was full of surprises.

  “How far, Aunt Philly?”

  “About fifteen minutes, if we putz along. Keep an eye out for whales or seals. Sometimes seals will swim so close you can reach out and touch them.”

  “What about whales? Aren’t we in danger of them capsizing our boat?”

  Phyllis l
aughed. “If one does approach us, I’ll shift into neutral gear until it surfaces and then swims clear.” She abruptly stood and pointed, then reached down to idle back the motor. “Port side. Left, Laura. Off to your left. Thar she blows.”

  A whale breached about two hundred yards ahead of them. Laura zoomed the lens and adjusted the camera’s angles as she shot picture after picture. “Oh, man, that was awesome.”

  “Ayuh, awesome.” Phyllis put the boat in gear.

  The skiff sliced through the crystal calm water. Laura lifted her camera to click shots of a group of low-flying brown pelicans, all thoughts of spirits, gangsters, the rose, and its anonymous note forgotten. She felt as free as the wind.

  Phyllis pointed. “We’ll land there.” She aimed the boat toward the shallow waters of the island, cutting the motor, and the boat slid up on the beach. She swung her feet over the side into ankle-deep water and grabbed the bow rope. “You sit while I pull her up a bit further on the shore.” She secured the rope with a sailor’s knot around a tree.

  Laura waited until her aunt gave an “okay” nod. “You make getting in and out look so easy.”

  “Tell you what. Turn around and step out of the boat backwards, with your left leg first. Place your hands on the gunnel to steady yourself.”

  Laura did as she was instructed while Phyllis held the boat firm. Once both feet were on the ground, Laura grabbed the cooler. “How big is the island?”

  “Twelve acres of paradise. It’s populated with mostly pine, white birch, and wild blueberry bushes. Watch your step. The trail is rustic and reaches from one end of the island to the other. The highest point is in the center. We can see Cole Harbor from there.”

  The tunnel of growth opened into a clearing. Wild grasses dotted the winding path, thickly speckled with yellow and white flowers. Ahead of them a vast array of ferns spread out like a thick carpet. Towering oaks and birch trees waved their branches overhead, breaking the sun into a dozen pieces of gold. A Monarch butterfly darted in front of them. Laura sucked in her breath. “Beautiful. Simply beautiful. I can see why you wanted to preserve the island.”