Anchors Away and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  It didn’t help I was left without anything resembling evidence against Lester for my troubles. From what I could tell, the contents of his desk amounted to a couple of legal pads with doodles on them, a stapler empty of staples, some chewed ends of pencils and a giant calculator that an elderly person might need if they had vision problems. It wasn’t even that his desk was locked. It was just empty.

  Leaving me to believe either Robert had cleared everything out or Lester was about the most incompetent yacht club president in the history of such a position. Mind you, the man was blackmailing everyone he could get his hands on, so I was as inclined to believe my second guess as much as my first one. Not that it made me feel any better, though. But my brain had a funny way of winding through observations at the least opportune moments when I really should have been focusing on keeping myself from getting arrested.

  Because I could be absolutely, 100% certain if Robert caught me in Lester’s office, he’d throw me in the local lockup just for the satisfaction of doing it. So why was I here, then? Frustration bit deep into my curiosity and finally made me admit I was wasting my time.

  I hesitated in the hall outside his door, Doreen’s keys in my hand. Maybe he wasn’t in possession any longer of anything of help, but she was the treasurer, right? Hadn’t she said she knew the books intimately? I almost kicked myself for being so slow, crossing to her door with renewed waves of giddy excitement mixed with what the hell are you doing, Fiona. Her key was a match to his, marked carefully with a strip of white plastic from some kind of label maker. Bless her for making my life easier. Unlike Lester’s office, hers was full of goodies and I found myself quickly rooting through piles of neatly stacked paperwork, rifling the filing cabinet thanks to yet another nicely labeled key, and even sorting through her trash can just in case something might have been missed. Her computer was on, at least, and a quick glance at her desktop finally gave me the gleeful moment of “Yes!” I’d been hoping for. My butt hit her seat and, with a quick glance toward her closed door, I wiggled her mouse to life and clicked the file folder marked “Accounts.”

  Now, I was no accountant or anything, but I ran my own business and I figured I knew what to look for if someone was embezzling. Never mind Doreen’s bookkeeping was leaps and bounds ahead of my own apparently feeble attempts to track the financial comings and goings through Petunia’s and the annex. It was quickly obvious I was sadly lacking in the skills required to make any sense of the numbers and categories I scrolled through.

  Well, wasn’t that craptastic? Here was the information I’d been seeking and I couldn’t even figure out what it said. More frustration, this time audible, as I sighed deeply and sat back, fingers drumming on the arms of Doreen’s chair, my right knee bouncing up and down in a rapid fire protest of failure.

  I did a half-hearted rifle through her top drawer and, with shock burning away my self-judgment, I found myself in possession of a new key. This one labeled “Lester’s Boat.” Even as my heart leaped. Because where, oh where would he keep his most important secrets if not his floating palace?

  Refusing to look a gift horse in the mouth, I leaped to my feet and headed for the scene of the crime. As I passed under the camera over the door, whispering a soft curse at my clumsiness, I hesitated, key in hand. Well, I could always just go back inside the club and erase the tape, right? That decision made, I hurried to the end of the dock and trotted up the steps to the side of Lester’s boat, surprised to find not a scrap of police tape or even a barricade of any kind preventing me from entering. Robert’s spectacular police work, no doubt. Still, at least it gave me free access and, as I slipped the key into the lock keeping me from entering the main cabin, I thanked him with a grin for his incompetence.

  The wood panel door slipped silently shut behind me while I breathed into the dark interior of the boat, the slapping sound of soft waves against the hull outside muted but audible, the gentle rocking triggering the slight bend of my knees to keep my balance. I’d never really liked boats, tended toward sea sickness and thoughts of sinking, sharks and watery graves, but this particular boat was docked, firmly tied to the pier and I had evidence to dig for.

  The scent of Lester’s particular brand of aftershave still hung in the air, permeating everything. I resisted the urge to sneeze, skirting the coffee table bolted to the floor, admiring the beautiful décor even as I realized the only reason the man had possession of this vessel was because of Heather. That soured my appreciation pretty quickly.

  I took my time going through the space, pulling at cushions, lifting bench seats to test for hideaways. I even rummaged through the fridge and freezer, just in case, though stumbling over a new bottle of coffee flavored tequila in the icebox made me thirsty. But it was a search of the cupboards that finally gave me what I was looking for. When I opened the last door, pushing at the box of cereal he’d tucked into the corner, the unusual weight of it sent it toppling to its side with a soft thud. Huh. Curiosity now at full burn, I tugged it loose and flipped open the top flap, peeking within.

  Tucked inside, between the plastic sleeve holding the remains of the sugary breakfast treat and the cardboard container, was a large yellow envelope. Fingers trembling, I pulled free the contents and flipped through the pages of documents, photos and news articles, the stack about as damning as any police file. I recognized a few names, faces, but knew if I stood there too long trying to sort out all the truths Lester dug up I would likely get caught. Instead, vibrating with the need to take his treasure home and catalogue every single scrap of information, I stopped at the final photo.

  I recognized David Campbell, younger then, but still himself. And, beside him, an man who looked enough like Heather he had to be her father. Here was the evidence of his wrongdoing Lester held. The news article clipped to it mentioned both men, though their names were different. Still thinking about how to help Heather—this discovery might just make things worse for her, after all—I turned over to the last few pages.

  Bank statements, four of them, a list of deposits. My mind stuttered over the details as I read them over, eyes widening while my heart actually skipped a beat before hammering back to life in one huge, painful thud.

  Even as I realized we’d all been looking in the wrong place. I had to get this evidence to my dad.

  Hurrying had always been my downfall and tonight was no different. I took the time to bag the evidence in a zipper freezer bag I found in the cupboard, the thumb drive at the bottom of the envelope surely holding even more blackmail information. I knew my fingers all over the envelope and pages likely negated any evidence that might have been helpful, but I had to at least try to preserve whatever trace might linger.

  Job done, I dodged out onto the deck and headed for the steps and the pier, realizing at the last moment I’d exited the opposite door I’d come in. Cursing softly at my own lack of attention, hands tucking the envelope into my back pocket, I spun to go back inside rather than circle the deck.

  Only to feel something impact between my shoulder blades hard enough to send me over the rail.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  I grasped for the rail as I hit it, fingers sliding over the slippery wood, my equilibrium already a mess thanks to my dislike of the rocking motion. I caught at the thin metal under railing and hung on, whoofing out a breath as my full body weight impacted the side of the boat. Sneaker rubber squeaked on fiberglass as I fought for purchase, panting and staring up at my assailant who peeked over the edge.

  Doreen’s curly head looked oddly innocuous, her glasses catching the light. As I drew a breath to scream for help, one of her small, wrinkled hands dropped a long string of decorative lights over me, the end landing with a splash in the water. At the exact moment her foot stepped against my fingers and the pain made me reflexively release my grasp, sending me over into the water.

  But not before, in a final desperate grab, I latched onto her ankle and, with my body weight behind my momentum, jerked her in
to the water after me.

  I plunged under the surface, feeling something tingle against my leg, terror seizing me as I realized I was about to die from electrocution. It didn’t happen, though, the light string blinking out the same moment I passed beneath the surface, Doreen’s weight on top of me more of a concern in that instant than my heart stopping. While I might have been spared the fate Lester suffered, when the old woman’s feet struck me full in the chest and drove me further under the water, I not only lost my hold on her, I lost all of the air keeping me buoyant and, frankly, without enough oxygen in my system to survive returning to the surface.

  My hands lunged outward, caught for something, anything to save me, tangling in the line of lights now anchored to an extension cord, sinking slowly down after me, the end no longer plugged into anything. Saved and killed in the same attempt to survive. Doreen’s downward plunge wasn’t nearly as dramatic as mine and, as I felt my body sink, my resistance failing while my brain screamed at me to inhale, inhale, inhale, I watched her bob to the surface.

  The cord of lights pulled tight, the other end snared in her clothing. I jerked on it with all my might, panic bursting inside me, clawing and thrashing for safety above me, light reflecting on the shimmering surface above while I felt my need for air overwhelm my knowledge breathing would kill me.

  Blackness closing in around the edges of my vision, my last memory in that moment was of the faint image of a compass etched into the rock of the pier, an image I knew well, one I’d seen before, many times, in a book in my kitchen, on a scrap of paper in my music box. The same image I’d spotted when I’d rescued Petunia and one that tied me to Crew Turner in ways I had as yet to understand.

  And would never get a chance to, it seemed. Because darkness, the black, thick, heaviness of the end of everything, washed over my consciousness as agony seared through my chest, water filling my lungs while my body betrayed me with a spasmodic inhale of dirty lake water.

  Then I was spluttering, choking, coughing out water onto the dock while Dad pounded on my back, shouting for an ambulance while Jill wrestled Doreen into handcuffs and I gasped for air, my father’s strong arms around me.

  “Fee,” he whispered. “Damn it, Fiona Fleming. I didn’t make you part of my work to lose you.”

  I gaped up at him, unable to speak, while Doreen, her guilt now obvious, screamed at me.

  “Lester’s death was an accident!” She jerked at the cuffs on her wrists.

  Dad spun and snarled at her. “And my daughter?”

  Doreen stilled then, head dropping, shoulders rounding forward as the fight went out of her. Jill’s grim expression was nothing on Dad’s flicker of rage and, I think if he’d had the woman in cuffs in that moment she’d be back in the water with the extension cord she’d tried to kill me with wrapped around her neck.

  “He was going to turn me in,” she sobbed then, like I cared. I struggled to sit up, Dad supporting me, lungs burning and my head light but needing to hear what she had to say. After everything I’d been through? Yeah, I was getting the end of the story, thanks. “At least, I thought so. Turned out he just wanted to blackmail me for a cut of the money.”

  “Why, Doreen?” Dad’s cold tone was nothing like the usual stoic one he used with most suspects. “Why were you stealing?”

  She grunted, shrugged, tears suddenly forgotten. “Because I could,” she whispered. Giggled. Met his eyes with her own full of a sort of giddy madness that made me cringe, sobs long vanished, like a crazy switch got flipped. “It was fun.”

  Holy crap. How had no one noticed she’d fallen off her rocker and into la-la-nutsoland?

  “Lester’s blackmail evidence. He had bank statements.” I coughed, voice hoarse, barely able to speak as I fished out the envelope—still safe in the plastic baggie I’d used to protect it—from my back pocket, handing it to Dad. “You were taking from more than the yacht club.”

  Doreen’s flash of a smile cracked at the edges. “Of course,” she said. “I don’t just do the books for this rat hole, do I?” Yikes. “Cottagers, the White Valley Lodge, the equestrian center.” She giggled again, sighed. “I had a great scam going.”

  “And the money?” Jill sounded disgusted and more than a little surprised. I only then noted the gathering of people standing back, watching, whispering. Word would be out in no time. And from the scowl on David’s face, the way Wanda huffed, they used Doreen’s services themselves. “What were you going to do with it?”

  Doreen tossed her head, water droplets flying from her heavy, short curls. “Nothing,” she said. “It wasn’t about the money.”

  Yup, cracked.

  “So Lester found out and tried to extort it from you.” Dad didn’t sound even a bit sorry for her.

  She snarled, lunged, almost got free of Jill who caught at her with a shocked expression, like she was caught off guard. “I underestimated him, imagine.” She seemed surprised by that. “He was going to ruin everything,” she said. “How he found out about my secret bank account, I have no idea. But he made it plain that he planned to use it against me. I tried to talk him out of blackmailing me, but he wouldn’t listen.” The singsong tone of her voice made my skin crawl. “So I came to see him that night, to reason with him.” Sure she did. “And when he wouldn’t listen, well.” Her grin reminded me of the flash of a skeleton’s creepy remains. “I had no choice, did I?” She shook Jill’s hard hold off, squared her old shoulders inside her dripping cardigan. “I meant to strangle him with the lights,” she said. “The electrocution was rather anti-climactic when I really wanted to watch him die in my hands.”

  Wow. Just wow.

  “You just had to show up and find the body.” She glared at me like this was all my fault. “Before I could locate the bank statements he stole from me. The only evidence against me.” She wrinkled her nose. “Smart girl,” she said. “I had you fooled. Did you like my acting job?” In an instant, a flicker of emotion, she was sobbing, wracked with grief before a hideous laugh won through and she winked at me. “I almost had you, too. Dropped that hint that got you down here to snoop on my behalf. Even left you my keys so you’d have a way to do my dirty work.” Her appearance at Petunia’s tonight was a setup? My intuition clearly failed me, my nosiness almost paying off in her favor. “Owed you, I figure.” She grew still, glaring before bursting into another peal of laughter. “She does, too, and was happy to supply me everything I needed to continue our little operation in her absence.” Before I could ask Doreen who she was talking about, she stilled and stared, creep factor upping by about a million. “Peggy says hello, Fiona Fleming.”

  Chill that had nothing to do with the water or my near death experience made me shudder as Jill pushed Doreen forward, dragging her away, my dad’s arms tightening around me while memory flashed to the photo in Doreen’s office, the image I’d seen of four smiling young women. One of whom was Doreen, another my Grandmother Iris and the third, the familiar one on the left I’d failed to place? None other than Peggy herself. As for the forth, I had no idea, though I needed to find out. Because I couldn’t help but wonder if Peggy Munroe, the first person to try to kill me, could reach me from inside her prison cell.

  I wasn’t getting an answer for that tonight. But I was going to see the resolution of another issue pending. I huddled in Dad’s arms, waiting for the paramedics to check me over, when a dark sedan beat a deputy’s car into the parking lot and two men hurried our way.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Crew looked good, too good for someone who should at least have suffered somewhat for the agony he put me through. I couldn’t bring myself to be angry with him, though, not when his long, fast strides carried him toward me. A third car ground to a halt as Robert tried to catch up with his boss, my cousin’s expression one of utter loathing, aimed at Crew’s back. I needed to warn the handsome sheriff what he was getting himself into, but I couldn’t seem to breathe properly just then.

  The water in my lungs or the
sight of tall, dark and handsome home again? I’ll let you decide what made talking impossible.

  Crew didn’t reach me before Olivia’s strident voice broke his pace. “Sheriff Turner!” He spun abruptly, cowboy boots digging into the asphalt, expression grim, shoulders set. I half expected Dad to leave me, to go back up Crew, but instead he stayed put, holding me close, watching in silence as I did, while the drama of the Reading Sheriff’s Department unfolded in front of everyone.

  “Mayor Walker.” Crew sounded pissed. “I’ll be right with you.” She spluttered before he turned his back on her, on the glaring Robert, on the not-so-subtly smiling Geoffrey Jenkins, and finished his journey all the way to me. He crouched beside me, eyes meeting mine, then Dad’s, before his gaze fell to me again. “Fee,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please stop almost dying, okay?”

  I managed to smile, if faintly, unable to be angry with him in that moment. “You came back.”

  He flinched, like what I said actually hurt. Crew didn’t comment on his return, but one big hand settled over mine, squeezed just enough. “John, she needs to go to the hospital.”

  No way was I leaving now. But Dad nodded agreement while Crew stood, turning back to face the music. Alone. I fought against my father, the two paramedics who lifted me onto a gurney, slipping off a heartbeat later, legs shaky from my ordeal but refusing to abandon Crew when he needed my support.