A few hundred yards in front of her, the gray ocean spread across the horizon, almost melting into the low, gray sky. She thought Kipper might be headed out into the surf. From her limited experience with dogs, chasing waves seemed to be among their favorite pastimes. She was surprised, then, to see that his footprints wove back into the dunes. The pounding rain had begun to erase Kipper’s tracks from the beach. She jogged more quickly, calling his name, her voice sounding thin and feeble in the wind. Finally, she spotted him. He circled what appeared to be a disused fishing shack that lay almost hidden in high beach grass. Years of accumulated sand was banked up to a height of three or four feet on the windward side, breaking against the building like a slow-cresting wave.
Although Lindsay was a regular jogger, she found herself bent in half, panting. Running a mile in wet sand wearing a pair of ill-fitting rain boots was a very different proposition from her usual form of exercise. As she approached the shack, Kipper bore down on her. For a moment, she braced herself, thinking he was going to lunge at her again. Instead, he wheeled to a stop next to her, waiting obediently while she clipped his leash on his collar. As soon as it was secure, the dog began to drag Lindsay forward toward the shed. Lindsay’s first instinct was to pull him away, but his determination to lead her ahead piqued her curiosity.
Kipper slowed and cautiously rounded the building. On the far side, a wooden door hung half off of its hinges, banging against the side of the building with each fresh gust of wind. The wood had weathered to a soft beige that almost matched the surrounding aggregations of sand. Large gaps in the side boards and corrugated metal roof allowed dim shafts of light to penetrate the gloom of the shed.
Kipper froze in the doorway. Lindsay, too, stood paralyzed. On the wide wooden floorboards lay the still form of Patricia Harding. Blood had soaked through her bottle green sweater and seeped out onto the floor beneath her. A large dried brown patch covered her midsection. Lindsay dropped Kipper’s leash and rushed to her aunt’s side. Her arms encircled her aunt’s torso, clutching her lifeless form, trying in vain to shake the death out of her. Aunt Harding’s body was stiff and unyielding. Her eyes were fixed open in wide Os of surprise. Lindsay felt detached, as if the arms she saw in front of her were someone else’s, as if this body wasn’t her aunt, but a wax figure.
Kipper came alongside Lindsay and nuzzled her cheek. Water dripped steadily through the gaps in the ceiling; a drop splashed on Lindsay’s face and mingled with her tears. She gently lowered Aunt Harding’s body back to the ground. Her small, shaking hands stroked her aunt’s gray hair. Growing up, Lindsay had always thought of Aunt Harding’s hair as steel gray—cold and sleek. Now the color looked softer, like the ashes of an extinguished fire.
Lindsay’s perception gradually expanded to take in the rest of the shed. The room was no more than eight feet square. It was empty, save for a set of old oars that stood in one corner. Near the door, though, lay an object that made Lindsay rise quickly and back out of the shed—a gun. She had seen it many times. It was an antique German revolver from Aunt Harding’s collection. Lindsay called to Kipper, but he refused to budge from her aunt’s side. Lindsay was too terrified to try to persuade him. She ran back to the house, feeling all the while as if she were in the kind of recurring dream where the dreamer is unable to get to their destination no matter how fast they run.
After what seemed like an eternity, she reached the house. She walked straight to the kitchen and dialed 9-1-1 on the old, black wall phone next to the fridge. After she relayed her gruesome discovery to the dispatcher and hung up, she slumped down and sat huddled on the floor.
“You doing yoga or something?”
Lindsay’s head snapped to attention at the sound of a human voice in close proximity. Sarabelle stood before her wearing fuzzy slippers and a flannel robe. Her day-old eyeliner had formed little lines and eddies in the creases around her eyes. In the shocking aftermath of her discovery, Lindsay had entirely forgotten that Sarabelle was asleep inside the house.
“Where’s Kipper?” Sarabelle said, looking idly around the kitchen. She retrieved a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her robe and placed one between her lips. “Want one? I can’t remember if you still smoke...” she paused and looked more closely at Lindsay. “You been drinkin’? Sorry to say it, honey, but you look like you been rode hard and hung up wet.”
“Mama, it’s Aunt Harding.”
“What about her, baby?” Sarabelle asked, tapping her cigarette on the side of the pack and putting it back in her mouth.
“She’s dead. She was shot. I think she was killed with one of her own guns. I found her out on the dunes.”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Sarabelle threw her hands over her mouth, sending the unlit cigarette skittering across the kitchen. “Oh, this can’t be happening to me.”
Lindsay stared at her mother, incredulous. “This didn’t happen to you. This happened to her.”
“But don’t you see?” Sarabelle began to pace nervously. “Have you called the police? Maybe there’s still something we can do.”
“What are you talking about?” Lindsay was suddenly furious. For the first time, she was experiencing something that she had seen so many times in the people she ministered to at the hospital. The fuse of their shock or their grief would suddenly catch fire and their emotions would ignite into rage. Her familiarity with such reactions in others did nothing to calm her. “She’s dead! There are lots of things we need to do. Call Dad and tell him his aunt died. Go over and tell Simmy that her best friend has been killed. Plan a funeral. Find out how she died. Some officers from Duck will be here in a few minutes, so we can at least start that part.”
“You already called the police?” Sarabelle said, with fear creeping into her voice. “I gotta get out of here. You can’t tell them I was here, okay?” Sarabelle rushed to her bedroom, with Lindsay trailing her. The room looked like it belonged to a teenage girl. Clothes were strewn all over the floor. Nail polish bottles and makeup tubes covered the dresser. Sarabelle yanked a suitcase out from under the bed and began frantically packing. Still wearing her pajamas and robe, she kicked her slippers into the suitcase and pulled on a pair of high-heeled leather boots. Zipping the case shut, she said, “Take care of Kipper for me, okay?”
“You can’t leave now! Where are you even going?”
“Baby, I don’t have time to make you understand. It’s not safe for me here. You either. You call that policeman boyfriend of yours, okay? Make sure he takes care of you. But don’t tell them nothing about me being here.”
Sarabelle’s footsteps receded, the front door slammed, and Lindsay was left alone in the house. Her breathing felt unnatural; she had to force air in and out of her lungs like a bellows. The events of that morning replayed in her mind, despite her attempts to shut them out. She sat on the floor again and hugged her knees in to her shivering body. Minutes oozed slowly past.
At last, she heard the sound of tires rolling on sand. She hurriedly opened the front door and saw two cars—an SUV emblazoned with the Currituck County Sherriff logo and a black Ford Explorer owned by the New Albany Police—pulling up in front of the house. Warren emerged from his car and walked towards Lindsay.
“How did you know I called?” Lindsay asked him.
“Called who?” Warren asked. As he stepped onto the porch, Lindsay suddenly remembered that Warren had already arranged to come to talk to her aunt that morning. In her confusion, she had thought that her 9-1-1 call had summoned him.
When Warren caught sight of her dazed expression, he asked, “Are you okay?”
She took a few wobbly steps forward and collapsed into his outstretched arms. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and even she couldn’t be sure if she was coughing or sobbing. She couldn’t remember the last time she was so happy to see Warren. His warmth and movement provided an antidote to the cold, unyielding body of her aunt. She tried to turn back toward the house, but instead she collapsed against him. Warren half-lifted her acr
oss the porch, where she leaned heavily on the wall next to the door.
A round-faced female officer with short-cropped, gray-streaked hair emerged from the County Sheriff’s vehicle and approached them. “You must be Lindsay Harding,” she said. Her friendly smile quickly dropped into a frown of concern when she saw Lindsay’s countenance.
As they stood together on the porch, Lindsay numbly related how she found Aunt Harding’s body—Kipper, the shed, the gun. She stuttered over the words; they were like solid objects in her mouth.
“Lins, we need to go out there,” Warren said. “This is Claire Burke. She’s from the sheriff's office. They’re helping us out on the Sikes case.”
“I’ll drive,” Claire offered. “I think I know where she means.”
“On second thought, I don’t know if Lindsay is in a fit state to come out with us,” Warren said frowning.
The two of them looked closely at Lindsay. She was soaked and shivering, as pale and clammy as the underbelly of a trout. Usually, her natural curiosity and desire to help would have spurred her to insist that she accompany them. Now, however, it was all she could do to keep herself standing upright. All of the fast-spinning gears that normally propelled her body and brain had ground to a stop.
“You’re right. Let’s get her settled in here.” Claire turned to face Lindsay. “Ms. Harding, I’m going to call this in now,” Claire said.
“I already called 9-1-1, but they’re not here yet.”
“How long ago did you call them?” Warren asked her.
Lindsay just stared at him vaguely.
Claire frowned. “It would take them a good 15 minutes to get out here, even if they were hustling. We’d better get her inside. The uniforms from Duck can stay with her while we go out to the dunes.”
While Claire contacted the local agencies to coordinate their plans, Warren helped Lindsay into the house. She directed him to the spare bedroom and he guided her gently to the bed. “Lins, are you okay?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said through chattering teeth. She felt like her brain had solidified into a large, wooden block. No coherent thoughts could form.
Warren helped her remove her boots and outer garments, and she slid between the covers. He stood in a corner of the room, looking at her with a worried frown, seeming unsure what to do. Lindsay sensed that he was torn between wanting to help her and wanting to take action on the new developments in his case. She willed him to just cross the room and hold her close, stroke her hair, and tell her it was all going to be okay. But he’d never been an emotionally expressive person. He usually saved even the most innocent demonstrations of affection for times when they were totally alone. He began to pace around the small room, chewing hard on his gum.
After a few moments, Claire knocked on the open door and came in carrying a cup of tea. “I saw some whiskey on the counter and put a swig of that in. I know it’s a little early, but I figured it would do you some good, given the circumstances.” Claire set the cup on the bedside table and squatted down, bringing her face level with Lindsay’s. “Try to drink this.” She squeezed Lindsay’s frigid hand in her warm one. She used her other hand to stroke Lindsay’s clammy forehead, smoothing her hair away from her face. The human touch soothed Lindsay’s raw nerves. Why hadn’t Warren done that? Why hadn’t he just reached out and held her hand?
Claire gave Lindsay’s hand a hard squeeze. “We’d better get going,” she said to Warren, looking back over her shoulder. “The Duck guys will be here in about five minutes.”
Warren stepped out into the hall and gestured for Claire to follow him. “I’m not sure we should leave her alone, even for five minutes. She’s in shock. And what if there’s still somebody dangerous prowling around out there?” Warren said in a barely audible voice.
“She’s safe. The house is secure. Besides, we don’t even know if this was a murder yet,” Claire whispered. “And even if it was, how many times have you known a killer to hang around and wait to be caught? The Duck officers will take care of her. We can’t wait. The most important thing now is to secure that crime scene ASAP. Every minute we wait, evidence is disappearing in the rain. And Lindsay said there’s some kind of ferocious Doberman out there with the body. Who knows what that dog might do to the crime scene or to the body…” she trailed off, suddenly aware that Lindsay’s eyes were on them. Claire gently closed the bedroom door so they could continue their conversation out of earshot, but it was already too late to take away the terrible image that their words had conjured in Lindsay’s already-tortured mind.
###
In the end, Claire’s point of view prevailed, and she and Warren headed off. Alone again, Lindsay stared wide-eyed at the bedroom ceiling. Every creak and bump in the house ignited a new explosion of adrenaline. Lindsay huddled on her bed, trying to concentrate once again on her breath.
Noiselessly, a shadow passed across Lindsay’s bedroom window, and her eyes snapped toward it. At first she thought it might be Sarabelle, returning to the house, or the policemen from Duck. But through the sheer curtains, she saw a monstrous form trying to peer in through the glass. She shot upright, trying to determine if she was hallucinating. The face seemed to be disfigured; horns sprouted from the top of its head. The hideous shadow disappeared but then immediately reappeared. Lindsay’s terrified eyes were unable to make sense of what she was seeing. She wrapped the blanket tight around her as if it had some kind of magical power to protect her, and she crossed the small room wearing it like a cape. Pressing herself against the wall, she steeled her frayed nerves. “1...2...,” she counted in time with her shaky breaths. On the count of three, she flung back the curtain to reveal…Kipper—head tilted sideways, tongue hanging out. She rushed to the front door and opened it. Kipper stood there, looking up at her with his round, chocolate-drop eyes. She lowered herself to the threshold next to him, hugging his rain-soaked body close to her and burying her face in his warm fur. Whether out of shock or pure relief, she began to laugh.
Chapter 11
Warren and Claire returned to the house a few hours later, grim-faced and dripping wet. They found Lindsay drinking coffee on the living room floor with two policemen from Duck, who had arrived shortly after Kipper had returned. Lindsay was still wrapped in her blanket, but she was now wearing dry clothes under it and her winter coat over the top of it; she seemed unable to get warm.
Claire wiped her fogged-up glasses with her sodden shirtsleeve. “How are you doing?” she asked Lindsay. “You look better.”
“I’m a lot better, thanks,” Lindsay said, smiling weakly.
She had already called her father to give him the news of Aunt Harding’s death. Although Jonah Harding wasn’t emotionally close to Aunt Harding, she knew he would mourn her loss deeply. His own parents had been dead for more than 30 years. The old woman had represented his only link to that part of his past. He wanted to come immediately, to comfort Lindsay and help with funeral arrangements, but she assured him that there was nothing to be done. He was better off in bed, resting his injured back.
Claire turned her attention to the two uniformed officers from Duck. They scrambled to standing as she addressed them. “Thanks for coming, guys. This is Detective Satterwhite. He’s the one working the murder in New Albany. You may have heard about him working with the FBI last summer to solve that big murder case with the Civil War re-enactors. For the time being, he’s going to run the show. But I promised him that whatever he needs locally or from the county will be at his disposal.”
Warren played it cool, but Lindsay could tell he was basking in the glow of the authority Claire had publically bestowed on him. Lindsay had always been slightly confused by the complex ways that different law enforcement agencies worked with one another to solve murder cases. From what she’d seen second-hand through Warren’s work, even if a murder took place within a single jurisdiction, personnel from the State and Federal Bureaus of Investigation and neighboring municipalities and counties could all be involved.
When the FBI had come to Mount Moriah the previous summer, Lindsay had assumed that they were the big bosses who would take over the investigation. Instead, Warren had explained that the local authority usually keeps control of the cases it initiates unless it chooses to or is ordered by the courts to hand them over.
“I appreciate that, Sheriff Burke,” he said. He turned to the Duck officers with a knitted brow. “I know this is messing with y’all’s Christmas and I imagine you got things you’d rather be doing. So I expect we’d better get started securing whatever evidence we can find in the house.”
The police officers seemed grateful to have someone definitively take charge. “That’s why we’re sitting down here. We didn’t want to disturb anything until you got back,” the younger officer, who had introduced himself to Lindsay earlier as Officer Short, said. He was so fresh-faced and clear-eyed that, in his uniform, he looked like an Eagle Scout.
“Just let us know what you want us to do,” the older officer said, introducing himself to Warren as Officer Yancey. “Can’t remember the last time we had a murder in Duck. I’ve been here for going on 10 years and I know I’ve never worked a murder case. We usually spend most of the winter protecting empty properties from break-ins, being glorified security guards.”
“The guys from the state crime scene unit are still working out on the dunes,” Warren said. “They’re going to send another couple of people out to look over the house. They should be here shortly. Could I have a moment alone with Reverend Harding, please?” Not waiting for an answer, he helped Lindsay to her feet and guided her outside. The rain had finally stopped, and they tromped out through the wet sand.
A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) Page 9