Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  After a beat, her eyelids fluttered, and understanding spread over her face. She jerked the phone from her pocket and jumped to her feet. Her barstool hit the wall. “I need to take this.”

  By the time Nathan heard the slam of her office door, he had no doubt reading Kate Landers would be the career challenge of his life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Halfway down the long hall connecting the kitchen to my office, I slowed enough to catch my breath. I vowed the next time I was forced to converse with Marshal Parsi—weather only. Not even a debate on a rose versus a gardenia was safe. I shut and locked my office door and read Ben’s text.

  —Go 2: chat-avenue.com, adult, nn-snooker—

  I considered a glass of wine to calm my nerves but imbibing before breakfast wasn’t likely to help me decode this cryptic message. I sat behind my desk and opened my laptop. I entered the chat room and clicked on the button marked adult. Figuring out nn was an acronym for nickname; I retrieved a two-line message addressed to Snooker.

  —Go 2: hideyourass.com, msg brd; nn Clara—

  I accessed the website featuring a donkey’s behind logo with a mantra plastered across the top of the screen—Messages sent from this site will bounce your ass from Bangkok to Dubai. I really wanted that glass of wine.

  I found Clara’s name and her one-line message consisted of a link to another chat room. This time the primary language appeared to be Middle Eastern. I couldn’t read squat, but I clicked the blinking green tab, and a list popped up. Scrolling down, Ben’s name was the third option from the bottom. I clicked on the adjacent button.

  —Today, Shorty’s n Midpoint Bluff. 11 AM. DON’T BE FOLLOWED!!!—

  Ben must’ve found Calvin. Relief slid up my spine with a ration of trepidation hard on its heels. I’d never been to Shorty’s, and my only view of Midpoint Bluff had been from a boat on the Chantilly River. Finding the restaurant shouldn’t be difficult, but not being followed meant evading a marshal, a DEA superstar, and the six-ninja entourage.

  I weighed the risk of texting Cedar, but if Nathan had satellite surveillance on Spartina a text message would blow any chance of sneaking away. If Cedar joined us in Midpoint Bluff we could return to Spartina, meet with Nathan, and put this whole nightmare to rest by tonight. I said a please-keep-me-out-of-jail prayer and sent Cedar a text.

  I debated going to the office, but there were only two roads from Savannah to Midpoint Bluff and both were busy highways. Slipping away from Spartina seemed the easier choice.

  I played spot the lawman out of the back window and waited for Cedar’s callback.

  I tried to call Owen, but Uncle Stanley said he’d already left for his riding lesson.

  I searched a couple of sites online, found a photo of a beautiful white stallion with red ribbons braided into his mane, and texted the picture to Owen.

  —My dream horse! What’s yours? Miss you! Call me!!!—

  At ten o’clock I gave up on Cedar texting me back, grabbed my wallet and a burner phone, and hightailed it to the garage. Just in case Nathan’s men were around, I killed a few minutes searching for an elusive something in my Hummer. I worked my way around to the garage’s man door and peeked outside. No bodies milling around. A hedge of twelve-foot oleanders ran the length of the building. I stepped through the door, slid behind the hedge, and beelined for the barn.

  The old red farm truck, a rattletrap parked in one of the bays, turned over on the first try. I gave thanks my caretaker was a maintenance hound, and that Granddad had never bothered to install security cameras in the barn. Patting the dash, I gave her gas. Used the cow pens as a buffer, drove over a cattle grid and down a one-lane path that led to a back road. I made it off Spartina land, drove twenty miles of back roads, and blew past the sign welcoming me to Midpoint Bluff.

  The tiny fishing village located halfway between Savannah and Brunswick touted a population of two hundred fifty and consisted of ramshackle doublewides and fishing shacks along the riverbank. I parked beside an empty boat trailer at the Midpoint Bluff Marina and walked a block to the restaurant, dodging potholes. Since I hoped to meet with the bank later this afternoon, I was still in business attire, including three inch heels.

  Shorty’s was a dive, a run-down fishing shack with their proximity to the river being the only salvaging point. There were two clunkers parked by the back door and no other vehicles in the lot. Either Ben was late, or he’d arrived by boat. A flats skiff was moored to the adjacent dock, but the dinghy didn’t look capable of maneuvering out of the river without sinking.

  I opened Shorty’s screened door, crossed a sagging porch, and walked to the bar. One whiff of stale cigarette smoke and rancid fried food, and I backtracked to the screened porch. I had my pick of tables and chose one against the wall to give myself a clear view of the dock, and the front door.

  “What can I get you?” The waitress wore a pink t-shirt and Daisy Duke shorts that barely covered her privates, but did a great job showing off her killer legs.

  “I’ll take anything diet.”

  “We’ve got Bud Light.”

  “Something soft.”

  Her forehead creased.

  “A Diet Coke or Pepsi.”

  She laughed, “Sure.” She put down a beverage napkin.

  “What time does your kitchen open?”

  “It’s open. We only have appetizers, but everything’s made fresh.” She handed me a piece of paper with a handwritten list of options, all priced at ten dollars. “Our specialty’s the fried pickles.”

  “I’m expecting friends.” I set the menu aside. “I’ll wait for them before ordering.”

  She stuck a pencil behind her ear. “You just come from a funeral or something?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your suit.”

  I started to explain I had a business appointment, then reconsidered. “Yes.”

  “Sorry for your loss. Let me know if you change your mind about the fried pickles. Name’s Tori.”

  By twenty past noon, I’d shredded my napkin, and my drinking straw had chew holes running down the side. I shot no-show Ben a text and ordered another Diet Coke. By one-fifteen, I’d finished off a heaping plate of fried dills, and a dull ache trod across my forehead like ants building a new sand bed. I texted Cedar, postponed our meeting for two hours. At one-forty, I called Ben a wash, along with a few other names.

  I trudged back down the road nursing a new blister. My Manolo Blahnik’s weren’t exactly walking shoes. I spotted Ben’s yellow sports car nestled between my farm truck and the empty boat trailer. No one was in the Corvette, so I limped to the marina’s front door in search of Ben.

  The marina office consisted of a cash register, two coolers, and an ice maker. A brunette, with a braid hanging to the top of her jeans, sat on a barstool in the corner. She threaded yellow and brown beads onto a string and hummed along with Bonnie Raitt’s Something to Talk About.

  “Excuse me. Have you seen the owner of that car?” I pointed to the Corvette.

  “Nope.” She rifled through the bead box and didn’t bother to look up.

  “You didn’t see him park? Notice which way he went?”

  “Nope.”

  Kind of hard to believe she’d missed a bright yellow roadster. I kept my voice light and conversational. “How long’s the car been parked in your lot?”

  She inhaled a long breath and dropped a bead back into the box. Her gaze moved over the length of my body, hesitated on my three-inch heels, and raised her eyes back to mine. She was clearly unimpressed with my fishing attire. “About an hour and a half ago, I put a boat in the water. When I got back inside, a clunker and a shiny little two-seater had made themselves at home in my lot.” Her eyes squinted into thin slits. “This here’s a private establishment, and my lot’s for paying customers.”

  I glanced through the window at her fifteen unused spaces, mumbled a disingenuous apology, and left the marina lady to her love beads.

  I peered through the Corvette
windows. The door locks weren’t engaged, and a white envelope with my name printed in bold black ink was on the passenger seat. A foreboding tingling slid down my spine and lit up every cell in my body.

  I opened the passenger door, and a smell rivaling rotting mackerel kicked me back a step. I cupped my hand over my nose and grabbed the envelope, then slammed the door and backed up ten feet. I raised the flap and pulled out a picture of Owen and me on Barry Island. My heart skipped its own beat, ground to a stop, then kicked into triple time.

  There was no plausible reason Ben would have a picture of Owen and me standing in the middle of the cow path staring down the airboat. The scream in my head silenced mid-howl as if someone pushed my pause button. I couldn’t make sense of the photograph.

  A cold slice of fear ripped through me, and I had an overwhelming need to leave for Florida. I stuck my hand inside the envelope searching for something to give a reasonable explanation for Ben’s absence and pulled out a piece of paper.

  Let sleeping dogs lie or your son will pay the price.

  You came close to losing him once.

  Will you chance it again?

  This time for good.

  Sending him to Florida won’t protect him.

  Proof in the trunk.

  A tsunami wave of panic slammed my body and forced air from my lungs.

  Owen.

  I keeled over as if someone had thrust a battering ram into my solar plexus. My baby. Someone was threatening to hurt Owen. I didn’t understand anything that was happening.

  Let sleeping dogs lie or your son will pay.

  I called my mother on my cell. Didn’t breathe until I heard her voice. “Are you all right?” My tone was harsh, and I forced myself to swallow. Blood rushed in my ears as loud as waves breaking on a stormy day. “Is Owen okay?”

  “You’re worse than a mother hen with a new brood.” My mother’s laughter assuaged my deepest fear. “He’s fine.”

  I stared at the note I couldn’t tell her about over the phone.

  “Can I talk to Owen?” I had to hear his voice, satisfy myself he was really okay.

  “Sure.” She called Owen to the phone.

  “Hey, Mom. When are you coming?”

  I glanced at the note in my hand. “Tonight. I’ll be there right after dinner.” I listened as he described his morning. I murmured and made all the “I’m interested” sounds, relieved to hear about the nothingness of his day. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” I said. “I promise.”

  Proof in the trunk.

  I disconnected and fumbled with the car door and located the trunk release. The lid popped open. The stench rolled out thick and foul.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Five police cruisers surrounded the Midpoint Bluff Marina’s parking lot, lights blazing, sirens muted. Nathan clipped on his badge and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. He scanned the lot and spotted Kate, still dressed in the same business suit as this morning, sitting on the tailgate of an old red Ford truck he recognized from Spartina’s barn. Willie stood by her side, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  A tall lanky woman with braided hair stepped from a door marked office. She hailed the first cop in her path, which happened to be Erica.

  Nathan kept walking. Ten feet from the Corvette, he instinctively switched to mouth breathing. A uniformed officer handed him a container of Vicks, and he smeared salve on his upper lip.

  He assessed Calvin Thompson. Fetal position, hands tied, no cuts, no abrasions. No visible marks to the face or neck. A single bullet hole pierced the forehead. Clean shot. Close range.

  Erica strode across the lot angling for Kate and wearing the burr-up-her-butt expression she donned when they’d received Willie’s call.

  He sprinted to catch up.

  Erica planted her feet in front of Kate and jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the Corvette. “I want to talk to your private dick.”

  Kate’s gaze skimmed past Erica and locked on Nathan. “Me, too.” A light sheen of perspiration covered her face and neck.

  Erica leaned in. “Where is he?”

  Kate raised her palms five inches and dropped them to her thighs as if she held twenty-pound weights in each hand. “I don’t know.”

  Nathan nudged Erica aside and stood in front of Kate. “Sorry for your loss.”

  Kate’s eyes filled. Phony tears were as easy as wiping on a mentholated rub under the bottom lashes. But Kate wore no sunglasses, and with a cloudless sky, the afternoon sun bore down in full force. A pupil the size of an eraser’s tip was impossible to fake in bright sunlight.

  “Were you supposed to meet your cousin here?” Nathan asked.

  Kate hesitated, shook her head. “I came to meet Ben.” The cadence of her voice was off, whether it was the irregular breathing or from fatigue he couldn’t be sure. But either was symptomatic of shock.

  “Ben Snider?”

  She crossed her arms over her waist and rocked in place. “Yes.”

  Rocking was a natural self-soothing response. “He’s the private investigator you hired?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Yes.” She continued to sway.

  A dark blue Chevrolet with sirens blaring cruised to a stop. A man wearing jeans and Western boots stepped from the car. He possessed a lawman’s swagger and Nathan pegged him as Sheriff Jim Nelson. The sheriff, six-two by Nathan’s estimation, could easily tip the scales over the two-hundred mark. He surveyed the surroundings, zeroed in on Willie, then Nathan. Nathan needed no special training to ascertain the sheriff wasn’t pleased to have federal officers on his turf, usurping his power.

  Nathan turned to Erica. “Give Sheriff Nelson a run down on our case while I talk to Kate.”

  Erica stomped off as if the blacktop under her feet pissed her off.

  A forensic officer called for Willie and saved Nathan from sending him on a nonsense errand.

  Willie patted Kate’s arm and stepped away.

  Her eyes followed her friend like a puppy with separation issues.

  A forensic team of three gathered evidence, bagging and logging and working around a police photographer snapping a continuous stream of pictures aimed at the Corvette’s trunk.

  Nathan caught a fume of vomit by the front tire that he suspected was Kate’s. “You thirsty?”

  Kate looked up with vacant eyes, managed a nod.

  He walked to Willie’s car, removed a bottle of water from a cooler on the backseat. Kate chugged the liquid like a drunk on a binge.

  An ambulance swung into the lot; two attendants piled from the vehicle. Nathan did a quick head count; they were up to twenty-two. He turned his attention back to Kate. “Why’d you hire Mr. Snider?”

  Her gazed flitted from left to right and landed on Erica and Sheriff Nelson.

  Nathan slid sideways and blocked her view. “Is Mr. Snider a friend?”

  “Yes.” She searched the lot and found Willie working with the forensic crew. “No. Not really a friend. He’s done work for me in the past.”

  “Who asked for the meeting?” Nathan kept his voice low and soothing.

  “Ben.” She’d hesitated a few seconds before giving her answer, but he didn’t get the impression it was an evasion tactic, more an inability to focus.

  “How’d he contact you?”

  She ran a hand down her throat. “Text.”

  Snider must’ve called her on a burner, but he’d hold that for later. “Why did Snider ask for a meeting?”

  “I’m not sure.” Kate pointed at the bar on the corner. “He never came.”

  “What made you look in Snider’s trunk?”

  She buried her head in her hands. “I’m dizzy. The smell. “

  Nathan wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to keep it together.

  “Kate.”

  She raised her head; he waited for her eyes to refocus.

  “What made you look in the trunk?”

  She covered her trembling mouth with her hand. “I saw Ben’s car an
d went to look for him.”

  Erica walked across the lot and rejoined them.

  Nathan leaned against the tailgate. “Seems odd you’d look in the trunk.”

  “Car wasn’t locked.” She had the cadence and tone of a sleepwalker.

  He let her answer rest.

  She raised the water bottle as if she wondered where it came from. “The car smelled like dead fish.”

  He caught the hitch in her voice. A normal reaction under the circumstances. He waited.

  Erica stepped forward. “Why’d you hire an investigator?”

  Kate folded her arms and hugged her middle. “To find Calvin. “

  “Did he?” Erica asked.

  “Don’t know.” Kate lifted her shoulder as if it were an afterthought. “Until the text this morning, I hadn’t heard from Ben since yesterday.”

  Her cognitive skills were improving. “Which phone?” Nathan asked.

  “What?”

  “Snider didn’t call your cell.”

  Kate’s forehead creased.

  Nathan stared unblinking into her eyes.

  She cut her eyes left, then right, like a hunted animal looking for an open space to run. “I have more than one phone.”

  Erica pointed her notebook at Kate. “What reason would you have to use a burner if you weren’t hiding your cousin?”

  “I’m not.” Kate looked at the Corvette.” I wasn’t.”

  Nathan didn’t buy it, and based on Erica’s bite-me look, neither did she. He’d let Erica have a go. Maybe she could rile Kate enough to get to the truth.

  “If you weren’t involved in Cal’s disappearance, why’d you need a burner?” Erica asked.

  Kate’s coloring rose, but she made no effort to answer.

  “Two kinds of people use throwaways.” Erica made a show of thumping her notebook on her palm. “People without credit and people who have secret conversations. First option doesn’t fit.” Erica’s cop stare was identical to her bite me gaze.

  “Your man in the gray Explorer follows me everywhere.” Kate rubbed her forehead as if a headache were brewing. “I assumed you’d have a tap on my phone.” She looked at Nathan. “I’m not a criminal. My privacy’s a civil right.”