Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  “Terrible,” Shelby said, shaking her head.

  Blake stood and slipped his wallet out of his back pocket, but Luanne waved away his attempt to pay. “Your first meal back in town is on me,” she said with a smile and patted his cheek. “It’s so good to see you again. I thought maybe you’d show up when your father passed, but I understood when you didn’t. Maybe now you can find a reason to stick around.”

  Blake cleared his throat. “Thanks, Luanne. We’ll definitely stop in again before we leave town.” He took Shelby’s arm and hurried her out the door.

  <<>>

  They took a scenic drive along the lake and despite blustery wind and cooling temperatures, they stopped to feed the seagulls bits of cheese crackers Shelby shared from Blake’s stash of snacks in the truck. When the sun was setting low in the sky, they turned back toward Port Scuttlebutt and slowly wound through the streets one by one as Blake reminisced about his childhood.

  He slowed and pulled to the curb, pointing out an old house that no longer looked inhabited. A rotting picket fence leaned haphazardly around a tiny plot of weeds. Broken wood shingles and a crumbling stone chimney completed the picture of dilapidation. “That’s where I lived after my mom died.”

  “Just you and your father?” She saw his expression harden.

  “He was never there. The neighbor women kept an eye on me and made sure I had a lunch to take to school every day. My father worked for the railroad up near Houghton. He’d usually show up on the weekend with a twelve pack of beer and a case of cigarettes and spend the day in his easy chair with the TV on. Late Sunday afternoon, he’d climb back in his truck, hand me a ten-dollar bill in case of an emergency, and drive off again. If I whimpered or cried, he’d yell at me to buck up and be a man.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight. He said I was old enough to learn responsibility.” He shrugged and looked down at his hands on the steering wheel.

  Shelby ached inside for the little boy who had grown up without a parent’s love. How could a man leave an eight-year-old to fend for himself? What kind of father did that? Her father was an alcoholic and sometimes more of a child than her, but he stuck around. She was beginning to think having children might be a terrible mistake. Neither of them had any idea how to be a good parent. They both came from completely dysfunctional households. “Why didn’t someone report him for neglect?”

  “It’s a tiny berg. There’s no social services or even a formal police station for miles. People around here like to take care of their own problems. They didn’t make a big deal of it or make me feel indebted; they just stepped in to help when it was needed. One neighbor lady stopped by and showed me how to use the washing machine and dryer so I’d have clean clothes. Luanne taught me to cook simple things on the stove like an omelet or cheese sandwich. And an old fisherman taught me to catch, scale, and filet a white fish with the best of them.” He breathed out a laugh. “I probably should have been afraid, but living in this town, I knew I wasn’t alone.”

  “Your childhood sounds as crazy as Mowgli’s.”

  “What?”

  “In The Jungle Book, Mowgli is an abandoned man-cub, raised by wolves. You were raised by a whole slew of odd characters in a place called Port Scuttlebutt.”

  He grinned. “When you put it like that, it does sound crazy.”

  <<>>

  Shelby waited until they were back in their room at the B&B before bringing up the topic of his father’s funeral. He’d never mentioned the fact that his father died, let alone, that he chose to miss the funeral. Granted, her husband was a typical man when it came to sharing emotions, but really? She was his wife, after all.

  Night had settled in outside the windows, turning the glass into a blackened mirror. The brightly lit room reflected back at her as she sat on the edge of the bed watching Blake pace the floor. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere at this moment than Port Scuttlebutt. He knew her well and was probably expecting questions, even if he didn’t invite them.

  “So… when did your father die, Blake?”

  “I don’t know. A year or so ago.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me?” she asked, keeping her voice soft. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t share your pain with me. If anyone could understand, I think I could.”

  He stopped at the window and stared blindly toward the lake, arms crossed. She heard him sigh. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t think it mattered. You’d never met him, and I’d never known him. It was like a stranger had died and I read his obituary in the newspaper. I didn’t feel anything.”

  “Really?” She moved across the room and slid her arms around him, meeting his eyes in the glass. “He was still your father. You must have felt something.”

  His back stiffened but he nodded. “Angry. Frustrated. Impotent.”

  “Impotent?”

  “That I would never be able to confront him man to man and tell him what a crummy father he was. Make him see the damage he…”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He turned, flashing her that quick smile she loved so much. “No need to be. I’ll shake it off.”

  “Is that why you really came back? To confront old ghosts?”

  He looked surprised. “No, of course not. Why would you say that?”

  “You said you wanted a complete change; that Port Scuttlebutt would give us the security of a small knit community where our future children might grow up without the crime of the city, and where we could relax and smell the lakeshore. Which, by the way, is kind of stinky.” She flashed him a soft smile. “But maybe this community is a little too familiar. I’m afraid it may be hard letting go of the past when it’s staring you in the face day after day.”

  He raised his hands and gently cupped her face. “The past is like a bowl of spaghetti, babe. You might like noodles and not care for sauce, but once it’s mixed up there’s really no separating it, is there? It’s who we are. Where we came from. What we’re made of. Life is messy just like spaghetti.”

  She lifted a brow. “Life is a bowl of spaghetti?”

  “Would you rather I said, life is a box of chocolates? That’s so cliché.”

  “This conversation is making me hungry again,” she said, knowing the serious topic was over for the moment. Blake didn’t open up all at once. He liked to share snack-sized pieces of himself over time. Luckily, she planned to spend many more years with the man.

  He grinned and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll run down to the car and get that box of crackers for you. How’s that?”

  “Bring the chocolate bar I left in the glove box too, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  As soon as Blake went out the door, Shelby hurried into the bathroom for a quick shower. She was surprised that she still hadn’t heard him return when she stepped out and toweled herself dry. It shouldn’t take ten minutes to run out to the truck and back. Maybe he’d stopped to talk with their hosts. Mr. Booth didn’t seem like the chatting type – more like the grumpy old man type – but Alice seemed friendly enough.

  Wrapped in a fluffy blue towel, and humming a show tune, she danced her way across the floor, spinning around and around until she came up short at the darkened window. Hands out to catch herself, she saw that it was raining now, heavy drops turning into rivulets sliding down the glass. Lightening flashed over the lake, lighting up waves crashing against the nearby rocky shoreline. She automatically counted. One, two… BOOM! Thunder reverberated against the glass and she jumped in spite of knowing it was coming. Another flash of light caught her eye, down by the old boathouse. That wasn’t lightening. Who would be down there in this storm?

  She squinted into the night, but the backlight from the room made it impossible to see a thing. If someone were out there, they’d be drenched to the skin in this weather. Mr. Booth couldn’t possibly walk down that path alone in his weakened condition, and she couldn’t imagine why his daughter would make a nocturnal visit to the building in the pouring rain. A
s far as she knew, she and Blake were the only guests staying at the Drunken Sailor. She hurried to flip off the light when there was a knock on the door. Expecting her husband, she threw it open.

  Alice stood outside in the hallway holding a tray with a small coffee pot, two cups, and a plate of cookies. She managed to keep her expression neutral as Shelby quickly snatched up her robe, pulled it on over the towel, and tied it together in one smooth motion.

  “Sorry to interrupt your shower. I thought maybe you’d like a snack and some decaf.” Alice glanced toward the window. The wind whined around the B&B like a siren song and rain continued to pelt the glass without letup. “Storms can be a bit frightening here at times, but don’t worry, this old house has weathered at least a thousand and still stands firm.”

  Shelby stepped back and let her hostess set the tray on the little corner table. “Thank you. This is very thoughtful of you, Alice.” She frowned. “You didn’t happen to see my husband downstairs, did you? He went out to our truck a little bit ago and hasn’t returned.”

  “Oh, he probably got sidetracked. He said he was interested in the library books. Asked if he could borrow one. I didn’t notice when I came up the stairs, but he must still be in the sitting room browsing. I’m afraid the books are very unorganized. I planned to alphabetize and catalogue them when I got the chance but…” She shook her head. “As you already know, we’re getting the place ready to sell. My father is no longer able to help around here and I can’t do it all myself. It’s been in our family for a hundred years, and I feel terrible about letting it go.”

  Shelby felt terrible for not divulging the fact that they had come to town for the express purpose of buying the B&B if everything worked out. If she told her now, Alice might feel that she’d been duped but if she didn’t and found out later, the whole town would probably think they’d been duped. She certainly didn’t want to alienate the entire town in one fell swoop.

  “Alice, there’s something I’d like to…” she began.

  “Coffee and cookies. Perfect,” Blake said, stepping through the door. His shirt was damp and his hair was plastered to his scalp. He carried three, thick, hardback books and the box of crackers. He smiled at Alice and dipped his chin toward the books. “Thanks again for letting me borrow these.”

  “No problem. As I was about to tell your wife, if something catches your eye, let me know.” She waved a hand in an all-inclusive sweep. “Everything’s got to go!”

  “About that,” Blake said, setting the books and crackers on the end of the bed. He turned to face her and offered the chair in the corner. “Would you care to sit?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “I did bring Shelby to Port Scuttlebutt so she could see where I grew up but also because I saw the real estate listing for The Drunken Sailor. I remembered this place and your parents. I don’t know if you recall the summer I worked here?” he asked, and she nodded. “Your father had me cut the grass and shrubs and paint that old boathouse down by the water. It was one of the best summers I can remember from that time.”

  Alice smiled. “I’m glad. I guess this place holds memories for a lot of people. Good and bad. All my summers were spent here, so I never knew anything else. I didn’t realize how lucky I was until after everything started falling apart, and then Dad had his stroke.”

  “Falling apart?” Blake asked, crossing his arms and taking his cop stance. “What exactly…”

  “We’re truly sorry for your troubles, Alice,” Shelby intervened, hoping to keep Blake from reading the poor woman her rights and badgering her with questions. She might not wish to share personal problems with strangers, and if she knew they were interested in purchasing her childhood home…

  “Thank you.” Alice sighed and fingered a rose shaped pendant hanging from a gold chain around her neck. “It really started a year and a half ago when my mother died. She’d been cancer free for two whole years. That’s why the suddenness was so…”

  “What happened?” Shelby asked.

  “She was killed by a hit-and-run driver while out walking our German Shepard, Buddy. Mrs. Arnold happened by and spotted them both in the ditch. She tends to wander around the countryside a lot, looking for wild mushrooms or herbs or something.”

  “You mean someone just left her there?” Blake said, stepping forward, an uneaten cookie in his hand. “Did they ever find the driver?”

  “No. The sheriff from Copper Springs came out and investigated. He picked up pieces of broken headlight and took pictures of some skid marks but there was no other evidence to help find the vehicle and no witnesses to the accident. He said it was probably someone from out of state – maybe a hunter or fisherman – but it would be nearly impossible to find such a person if they never reported the accident and then paid cash to have their car repaired.”

  Shelby shook her head. “You poor thing. How devastating.”

  Alice tucked the necklace inside her shirt. “It’s been a long road. My father thought he and I could run this place, but we didn’t realize how much Mom did around here. Dad is a seaman at heart. He usually found jobs on barges or fishing boats when he was younger. For him, staying on land is sort of like trying to keep shoes on Huckleberry Finn.

  “What else happened?” Shelby asked, intuitively knowing there was more.

  “Six months after mom and Buddy were killed, a middle-aged couple booked a room here, and the man managed to fall down the stairs. They accused us of having unsafe facilities and that the loose carpet at the top of the stairs caused his fall. That was a total fabrication! There was no loose carpet before they came to stay. I had just vacuumed the stairs by hand and would have noticed. Someone took a utility knife to it, made a five inch slit and lifted it up enough to get a toe under.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I knew he was putting on an act, but it’s impossible to prove. The court decided in his favor, our insurance skyrocketed, and my father had a stroke when he heard what we were required to pay that man. He said they might as well put him in a pine box and toss him overboard, because he’d rather drown in Lake Superior than be bled to death on shore.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Blake murmured, shaking his head.

  “As much as I hate to lose the old place, at this point, it will be a blessing to find a buyer and get out from under the load.” She moved toward the door. “You two enjoy that coffee while it’s still hot now.”

  “Alice,” Blake said before she could make her escape. “Before you go we’d like to confess something.”

  When she met his eyes, she looked a bit sheepish. “I already know. You want to buy the Drunken Sailor, right?”

  “How did you…?”

  “This is Port Scuttlebutt, remember? Need I say more?”

  “But you’re not…”

  “Angry?” She shook her head. “I’d much rather it went to a hometown boy coming back to roost than a complete stranger who doesn’t appreciate our history.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Save your thanks. We haven’t made a deal yet,” she said and pulled the door closed behind her.

  Shelby blew out a relieved laugh. “I guess she told you.”

  “I guess she did.”

  Chapter Six

  When they came downstairs for breakfast Saturday morning, Mr. Booth was already at the dining room table, nursing a cup of coffee. He was leafing through a newspaper, muttering to himself, but managed to glance up and acknowledge them with a gruff, “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Booth.” Shelby took the seat to his left.

  Blake glanced at the paper over the old man’s shoulder as he moved behind him to the other side of the table. The U.P. Banner was a thin paper, with a bit of local news and lots of ads for used cars and Real Estate. If prices were anything to go by, the economy in this neck of the woods was still at rock bottom.

  The table was cheerfully set with bright yellow stoneware dishes and a small clear vase of pink and white carnations. He sat
and within seconds Alice hurried out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee in hand.

  “Good morning, you two! I hope you slept well,” she said, pouring them each a cup of steaming dark roast. “The storm didn’t keep you awake, did it?”

  “No.” Blake shook his head and tried not to yawn. “The storm didn’t bother me at all.” Worrying about the future, thinking about Mrs. Booth’s unsolved murder, and the chronic pain in his leg; those things kept him awake.

  “Honestly, that bed was much more comfortable than I anticipated. I slept wonderfully.” Shelby reached over and ran a hand over Blake’s forearm. “This one, not so much. I’m afraid his inner policeman kept him tossing and turning.”

  Mr. Booth looked up, his watery eyes suddenly sharp and alert. “You’re a cop?”

  “Yes, Dad. Blake was a homicide detective. He solved murders in the big city,” Alice said helpfully. Apparently, news traveled at the speed of light in Port Scuttlebutt these days.

  “Cops round here are worthless,” Mr. Booth stated in his slurred voice. “My wife’ll ne’er rest in peace ’cause they can’t be bothered to find her killer.” He held Blake’s gaze, fury burning in the dark depths. “You wanna buy this place? You find Clara’s murderer.”

  “Dad!” Alice looked appalled at the turn of conversation. “You need to stop this. Blake and Shelby have nothing to do with our troubles. If anything, they’ll be helping us out if they buy the Drunken Sailor. You have no business making ultimatums.”

  “It’s okay,” Blake said, putting up a hand. “I understand. You and your father need closure. I wish I could help you. I really do. But I’m not a detective anymore.”

  “Did ya forget the summer I gave you a job?” The old man asked slyly. “When you needed money and no one was hiring? I didn’t really need help around here, ya know. But now I do.” He was not giving up. The stubborn set of his jaw made that crystal clear.