Murder in Real Time

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Dawn dug into the messenger bag on her hip. “I have something for you.” She handed me a small circle covered in string. “It’s a dream catcher. I make them. They’ll filter the bad things from your dreams.”

  The little object didn’t seem to help her much, but I smiled anyway. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and this.” She handed me a gift card to download music to my phone or computer. “Everyone was right about you.” She turned on her toes and headed away from me.

  I dropped the dream catcher into my purse and tried not to think about what people were saying behind my back. Getting paid in American Indian talismans and digital music tokens was a new one. If only my landlord accepted those as payment. Then again, Adrian had better not ask for rent after I saved his behind last week. Maybe he could show me how to use the gift card. My tummy growled.

  I counted to ten and shuffled to the Tasty Cream for a healthy, low-calorie, ice-cream-gut-busting breakfast and coffee to go. A horn honked as I pulled open the heavy glass door. Honked. At six-thirty in the morning.

  “Good morning, Patience.” Mrs. Tucker waved from behind the counter. Mrs. Tucker had run the Tasty Cream for as long as I could remember. Her skin was white and freckled, despite fifty years of island life, because she preferred serving ice cream indoors to the myriad of outdoor activities Chincoteague was known for.

  I slid between two teenage girls in black shirts with large luminous eyes drawn across their chests. They propped signs against their legs with the same logo. Underneath the eyes, block letters proclaimed We Like to Watch.

  Oh boy.

  Forget the healthy breakfast. I needed sugar.

  “Coffee?” Mrs. Tucker pushed a to-go cup across the counter. “We’re out of clean mugs.” She looked over my shoulder. “We’re going to be out of disposable cups if the local police don’t buy their own cappuccino machine soon.”

  I followed her gaze to a smiling Frankie.

  I smiled back. “How’d you get away?”

  Frankie was the receptionist at the police station. I scanned the area for Fargas or Sebastian. The only other face I recognized was Mr. Glazer, the town mailman, wheezing at a table in the back corner.

  Frankie tapped one finger against a new star on her chest. “I passed the civil service exam. Fargas swore me in last night. I’m officially a Chincoteague police officer.”

  “Wow. Look at the uniform on you. Nice.” I nodded in appreciation.

  She beamed. “Melinda Crown and her little girl are manning the phones while I get more cappuccinos. She promised to stay until three when her boys get home from school, then Missy will come by for the afternoon shift until we hire a new receptionist.”

  “On the house.” Mrs. Tucker waded through the crowd with a carrier full of lidded drinks. “You tell those two I can use more of their pastries. Those Sugar and Spice numbers went like hotcakes this morning. Literally. I was out of both by six.”

  My chest puffed with pride for Melinda and Missy. When they decided to start Sugar and Spice Catering I’d worried. Most new businesses around here failed or morphed into something utterly bizarre, like my counseling practice. If Mrs. Tucker was buying their pastries, and selling out of them at six in the morning, their business was off to a great start.

  “Wait.” I peered between tightly packed bodies at the counter, angling for a better view of the display case. “You still have fritters, right?”

  Mrs. Tucker shook her head.

  My shoulders drooped. “Crullers?”

  “Sorry, sweetie. How about a muffin?”

  “Chocolate chip?”

  “Raisin and Bran.”

  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  Frankie pressed through the crowd, balancing the cappuccinos in one hand and tapping customers on the back with the other. “Excuse me. Coming through. I’m right behind you. Hot coffee. See ya, Patience.”

  I took my coffee and looked for an empty seat. Mr. Glazer’s face went from crimson to white and his shoulders rolled forward.

  “Mr. Glazer!” I dashed to his side, burning my fingers with sprays of coffee popping through the drink hole in my lid.

  I set the coffee beside his glass on the speckled Formica tabletop and dropped to my knees. His cheeks scorched my palms as I gripped his face. “Mr. Glazer. You’re having another panic attack.”

  His eyelids pinched into a tight series of wrinkles. His chest rose and fell in rapid little gasps.

  “It’s okay. Listen to my voice and shut everything else out.” I grabbed a wad of napkins from the silver dispenser on the table and dunked them in his ice water. “I want you to pretend it’s just the two of us here. We’re having a nice cup of coffee and getting ready for a very boring day at work. Can you hear the geese honking at your mail truck to get out of the way?” I pressed the wet napkins to the back of his neck and he sucked air.

  He cleared his throat. “The birders just left. The tourists were here before them. Now this.”

  I handed him his water and overlooked the bits of napkin lint floating on top. “I know.”

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

  “Two people were murdered last night at Mrs. Moore’s bed-and-breakfast.” I flipped his wrist in my grip and counted his pulse.

  His eyes sprung wide. “Murdered?”

  I nodded, keeping count in my head. “Your pulse is flying. Have some more water. Sip it slowly and focus on one thing at a time.”

  “Who?” His voice was a whisper.

  “Rick Fitzgerald and Anna Copeland. They were part of a television show planning to tape a special on the island. I think all these people are fans or reporters. They won’t stay long now the show won’t go on.”

  He pulled in a deeper breath and color returned to his face. “I hate the crowds. They’re impossible. You can’t get anywhere. All the mailboxes are blocked and it’s so loud outside. I can’t hear the tugboats anymore.” A whimper escaped him.

  “They won’t stay long.”

  My words merited a smile. He straightened in his seat. A bead of sweat clung to his brow. He smoothed his navy striped uniform top over his round belly and took several more deep breaths. “You said focus on one thing?’

  “Yes. My voice.”

  “Can I focus on her?”

  I followed his gaze to a familiar head bobbing through the room. “Sure.” I chuckled. Whatever prevents a panic attack. I patted his shoulder. Kind of ironic having more pretty faces to focus on would get him through his attack brought on by the crowds.

  Claire’s voice pierced the hubbub around us. “There you are! I hope you didn’t start without me.”

  I popped up from my squat and stretched burning thighs. Claire got every man’s attention. It was her curse. I smiled at Mr. Glazer mopping sweat from his brow with paper napkins.

  “What are you doing here?” I hugged her.

  She squeezed me. “I took the day off. I’m sick.”

  “Liar.”

  “Hey. You didn’t let me finish. I’m sick of missing all the excitement.”

  “Did you clarify your sickness to the FBI or did you lie to the government?”

  She jutted her bottom lip forward. “All they let me do at the bureau is file papers, answer phones and deal with embezzlement cases and internet fraud. You know, last week I had to track down someone illegally copying movies. It was like arresting one blade of grass for being part of the field.”

  I frowned. “Is that some kind of southern expression?”

  “It’s poetic.”

  Mr. Glazer’s head swung back and forth with the conversation. His water glass was empty, napkin lint and all.

  Claire bumped my arm. “Look at Adrian.”

  I scanned the crowded room. Bingo. Adrian stood in the center of a circle o
f pretty women whose dresses, heels and two-hundred-dollar haircuts screamed mainland. The wide white press badges on their jackets and purses turned my stomach. He was surrounded by a school of piranhas in push-up bras. Those ladies would eat him alive for an inside scoop on the biggest celebrity story in Virginia’s history.

  Claire giggled. “Relax. He’s a politician. He’s in his element with all those reporters.”

  He pressed one hand to the shoulder of a little brunette and steered her away from the pack, winking over one shoulder to the others. He and the brunette exchanged phones for a moment then parted ways.

  “Adrian,” Claire called.

  He wove through the tables and wrapped his arms around her. “Hello, princess.” Adrian had seen her listed as Princess in my phone’s contacts, where I gave everyone nicknames for privacy. I never used real names in case anyone got nosy with my phone history.

  She shot eye daggers my way and I smiled.

  “What was that about?” I inclined my head toward the women.

  He sighed. “I love the media. Freedom of the press. Freedom of speech.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I circled a wrist between us. “What happened to Becky, the EMT?”

  “Becky was lovely, but she didn’t challenge me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And the reporter you met five seconds ago does?”

  He hugged me. “Don’t be jealous.”

  “Stop.” I swatted his ridiculous chest. “I’m immune to you. Too many years of exposure.”

  “Impossible. So, where’s your secret agent man?”

  “At the station.”

  Claire said, “At the bureau.”

  I shoved free of Adrian, forcing the smile off my face. He was too playful for his own good. “You can’t go around grabbing women whenever you feel like it.”

  He lifted both palms and released a killer smile.

  “Stop.” I avoided eye contact.

  Claire took my wrist and turned toward the door. “See you later, Adrian.”

  I waved to Mr. Glazer, who no longer looked in danger of collapse. He waved back and Adrian dropped into the seat in front of him.

  When we reached the parking lot, Claire stopped.

  A moment later, my thoughts caught up with me. “I didn’t know Sebastian went to the office. I thought he was at the station with Fargas all night.”

  She shrugged. “He looked busy, so I didn’t ask. Your turn. Tell me the latest news. What else have you heard?”

  I squinted into the morning sun. An enormous orange globe rested on the harbor, shining on the water and reflecting into my eyes. Nothing was as beautiful as a sunrise on the harbor. “I just woke up. I haven’t heard anything.”

  She pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and first finger. “Have you seen any of the other cast members?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t recognize them. I went to bed last night after you left. Adrian watched season one by himself.”

  Claire gasped and swatted me with her clutch. “How can you investigate this if you don’t know what any of the suspects look like?”

  I batted my eyes. “I’m not investigating anything. I don’t want to know anything. I want life to get back to normal. This—” I lifted my arms wide, emphasizing the scene around us, “—is not normal.”

  Cars jammed intersections, with drivers honking and waving finger-messages at one another. Vendors had set up carts on corners with inflatable glasses and telescopes. Half the people in my line of sight wore black shirts with The Watchers logo or a press badge or both. Lines stretched from food trucks and blocked the traffic up and down Main Street.

  “This is like a street fair or a celebration of some kind. Two people were killed.”

  She nodded, a somber expression over her pretty face. “Hey, I know it’s bad timing, but I wanted to talk with you, remember. It’s hard to get you alone these days.”

  “Sure. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “The other night after your birthday party, Wyatt and I weren’t really connecting. I was disappointed, but there’s someone else in the picture, too. I meant to talk to you about this when it started, but this island is nonstop chaos and murders. You’re usually in the center of it, and you have your own problems.”

  I nodded, encouraging her to go on. Did I have problems? Half of me thought that was an understatement. The other half thought life was pretty great.

  A man stopped in front of us. His crisp white shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows. The hem disappeared into the waistband of crumpled khaki pants. He looked like a younger version of Adrian.

  “Anything good to eat in there?” he asked.

  Claire batted her eyes. “Everything’s good at the Tasty Cream.”

  “Thanks.” He nodded appreciatively. “Are you two from around here?”

  Claire pointed to my apartment across the street. “She lives right there, and I’m visiting from Norfolk.”

  I fought the urge to smack my forehead. She listened to nothing at the monthly FBI seminars on common sense and self-defense.

  “Nice.” He smiled at Claire and took a baby step closer to her. “Have you been visiting her long?”

  “I come over a lot. This is Patience Price. She’s my best friend and this place is much more fun than Norfolk.”

  “I bet.” He winked. “I’m wondering what’s fun to do here after dark.”

  Nightlife? Seriously. “I’m sorry. Are you a reporter?” The question earned me a little shove from Claire.

  “What?” Nightlife? Come on.

  The man extended a hand between us. “It’s okay. She’s right. I am a reporter.”

  I looked at Claire. She shook his hand first.

  “I’m Todd Ramone. I write for Hollywood Watcher, and I’m looking into the rumors about Rick and Anna. Are they true?” He lifted a weasely eyebrow.

  “Yes.” The word was a whisper on Claire’s lips.

  “So they were sleeping together.” He pulled out a notepad.

  Good grief. They were dead, and he was looking for gossip to slander them. Awful.

  “Goodbye, Todd Ramone.” I tugged Claire with me into the street of motionless, honking cars.

  “He was from Hollywood Watcher.” Claire craned her neck for another look behind us. “Can you believe it?”

  “No.”

  “You were a little rude. All he wanted was our perspective on this story.”

  “Yeah, well, all I wanted was some time to talk with my best friend and maybe a donut. Today isn’t that day.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The only place to go in times of crisis. Let’s visit the local holistic healers.”

  AKA: My parents.

  Chapter Four

  Food trucks lined Main Street. I’d never seen a food truck on the island before today. Suddenly, there were at least two dozen, maybe more. I slowed every few steps to watch workers with bright smiles deliver paper boats of fancy food over metal counters. A heady mixture of deliciousness hung in the air. Salt and grease from bacon and eggs drifted around the Gravy Train truck where fishermen in waders hovered coffee cups to their lips. A few steps later I bathed in the syrupy scents of blueberries, whipped cream and pancakes surrounding the Baby Cakes truck. On and on it went—new truck, new name, new smells.

  The scene was surreal. Chincoteague existed on predictable routines and capitalized on gentle historic charm. Giant, multi-colored tour busses of food with little chalkboard menu easels and coordinating tables on the sidewalk didn’t fit the bill. Sunlight glinted off their unspotted windshields and glass tabletops. Children sat at the tables, swinging booted feet and facing off with short stacks that smiled back through strawberry lips. Cups of chocolate milk waited in parental hands as dads examined The Watchers maps.
There were maps? I was a tourist on my own island. I squeezed my eyelids shut and reopened them. Nope. Everyone was still there.

  Chincoteague had lots of events. The Seafood Festival, Blueberry Festival and Pony Swim were all big tourist draws. The Pony Swim, held in July, was the biggest event of the year. Cowboys herded the wild ponies then swam them across the marsh and auctioned them off to the highest bidder. Monies raised went to support the local volunteer fire department. A few street vendors brought hotdog carts and little fair trucks from out of state for the swim and auction, but nothing like the chaos before me.

  Near the mainland bridge, a crowd was gathered beside a news truck. A cameraman followed a pretty lady in a pantsuit from person to person, thrusting her microphone in random faces.

  “I wonder what she’s asking them.” I squinted into the distance. The sun moved higher every minute, changing from orange to amber to blinding white on the water.

  Claire shielded her eyes with one hand. “I don’t know, but they won’t end up on the news. That crowd looks good. The news only puts people on the air who look like they just woke up and can’t operate a comb.”

  “Mean.” I chuckled. Mean, but not wrong. I finger brushed my hair.

  Claire pulled the door to my parents’ shop open and braced it with one hip. The Purple Pony was packed. She let out a long, slow whistle. “I bet your dad’s in heaven with all these people to talk to.”

  I worked my way into the store, picking a path through shoppers crouched at moccasin bins and knots of teens trying on sunglasses around a mirror. Claire followed, singing softly to new age music that danced from hidden speakers overhead. My parents had opened the store before I was born. They stocked an eclectic blend of ingredients for a holistic lifestyle, mixed with scads of Chincoteague-themed novelties. Island shopping at its finest. Halfway through the recycled sneakers portion of the store, we ran out of places to step.

  Claire tapped on the shoulder of a woman wearing a blue muumuu and white crocks. “Is this a line?”

  The lady turned on Claire. “Yes. No cutting.”

  Claire elbowed me and tapped the lady again. “What’s the line for?”