by Grey, S. R.
Adam steps into the café, and I run to him, pleading with him to get me out of there. He leans down to kiss me, telling me everything will be fine. But as our lips move together, I suddenly feel the air being sucked out of my lungs. Gasping, I open my eyes. And I’m not kissing Adam. I’m kissing Chelsea. And she’s pale, cold, and dead.
Monday morning was cold and dreary, a light drizzle ushering in November. Jeans, layers of long-sleeved tees, a beige wool sweater, and my trusty hiking boots, and I was ready to face the day. Ready to go to Billy’s—hopefully for the last time—and get the picture from Jimmy. My heart raced with the anticipation of finally discovering who was in the Polaroid with Chelsea.
Nervous, but resolute, I locked up the cottage and headed down to the dock, scanning the area to see who was around. The café nightmare had made me especially uneasy at the prospect of having to deal with Jennifer or, God forbid, J.T. this early in the morning. But to my relief, J.T. and Jennifer were not around.
Instead it was Brody who waited for me to board the ferry. Always a gentleman, he smiled and helped my aboard, and then we were off. I was uncharacteristically chatty, surely due to nervousness, but Brody seemed preoccupied and tired, yawning almost incessantly. I got the hint, so I buried my head in a magazine I’d brought along to pass the time.
Once we reached the mainland, I quickly surveyed things. No sign of J.T., no Jennifer. Excellent. I hurriedly got the BMW out of the garage and raced toward Harbourtown. This excursion needed to be quick and anonymous, and so far, so good.
Paranoid that Adam had somehow discovered what I was up to, I kept a check on the traffic behind me, periodically glancing up to the rearview mirror. But there was no Max trailing me. In fact, I had the road mostly to myself, unlike the last time I’d traveled this route. Or the first time. With such light traffic, I reached Billy’s in no time at all. I parked along the side of the building, got out, and locked my car doors. It was always lonely down here, but today seemed exceptionally desolate, with no other cars or people in sight in the area around the bar. I guessed Halloween had been quite the party night down here by the docks, and now the revelers were all home recovering.
I hustled to the entrance. As I shouldered the door open and stepped inside, an unexpected chill ran down my spine. Breathing in the smell of stale beer and sweat I’d come to associate with Billy’s, I detected an unusual, underlying scent. Something so pungent I skidded to a stop just as the door slammed shut behind me. What I smelled was the scent of fear and…something else, something metallic.
I glanced around, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The string of Halloween lights Jimmy had strung up behind the bar was on, giving everything an eerie orange and purple cast. But otherwise everything looked normal. Well, as normal as Billy’s could look. A half-empty mug of beer rested on the bar, but not a soul was in sight. It was quiet, too quiet. Jimmy always played music, but today the only sound was a steady drip of water coming from somewhere in the back room.
“Jimmy,” I called out, taking a tentative step forward. “Is anybody here?”
My hollow voice echoed, and I sensed there was something terribly wrong. My heart raced, but I continued to take small, shuffling steps, forcing myself to keep walking toward the bar. Closer, closer, but then I slipped, quickly grabbing hold of a bar stool to steady myself.
I glanced down to the dusty, wooden floor. A piece of white paper or something was stuck to the heel of my hiking boot. Reaching down, I peeled it away. It wasn’t a piece of paper after all. It was an envelope. A shaky, childlike “M,” printed on the front in black marker, the only marking on it. A lump rose in my throat, because I knew in my heart that the “M” was for Maddy, and Jimmy had been the one who’d written it.
This was it—the picture! I turned the envelope over and lifted the flap, all the while my hands trembling. But the envelope was empty. There was no photo, nothing.
Had Jimmy dropped the envelope before having a chance to put the photo in it? No, that wasn’t right. Panic set in. Why was the envelope even on the floor? Had someone removed the photo and dropped the envelope? That was looking like the most likely scenario. But if so, who?
“Jimmy?” I called out once more.
Nothing.
Dizziness overtook me, so I closed my eyes. Count to ten...breathe slowly. I slid my hands from one bar stool to the next, letting them be my guide to the end of the bar. When I reached the final stool, I opened my eyes. Coming here was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I felt it with every fiber of my being. And when I leaned around the edge to look behind the bar, my fears were confirmed.
Lying on the floor, in a widening pool of blood, was Jimmy—a single bullet hole marring the pale skin of his forehead.
Chapter 23
The shock of it all knocked the wind out of me, I truly couldn’t breathe. I dropped to my knees, my heart hammering in my chest. My gaze swept over Jimmy’s still form. Nobody could lose this much blood and be alive. My mind refused to accept it though. I placed a shaky hand along the cool skin of his neck, feeling for a pulse. Please, even a weak one, I prayed.
But nothing, nothing. Jimmy was dead.
I yanked my hand back and watched helplessly as the pool of blood beneath his head slowly widened. Sickened, I scooted away and fumbled in my bag for my cell. Once in my shaky grasp—with Jimmy’s blood on my hands, literally and figuratively—I dialed 911. And then I dropped the phone back into my bag and waited.
So much blood, there was so much blood. In my left hand, I was still clenching the envelope I’d stepped on. Loosening my grip, I glanced down. The “M” on the front, now smudged with Jimmy’s spilled blood, taunted me. Though the envelope was empty, I was sure it had once contained the photograph I’d come to pick up. But now that picture was gone. And Jimmy was dead.
Was he dead because he’d been trying to help me with the case? God, I prayed not, but my instincts told me that was the case. I felt numb. Someone had taken a drastic step to ensure the picture remained hidden. Who would murder someone over a picture? The person responsible for Chelsea’s disappearance, my mind whispered.
Yeah, that—or someone close to the individual responsible. The fact that a person would go to these lengths strengthened my conviction that the picture somehow held the key to Chelsea’s disappearance. That blonde mystery woman knew something.
I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but hope Jimmy had remembered to make a copy of the photo and mailed it to me. Because now it was my only chance of ever finding out who was in that picture with Chelsea Hannigan.
The wailing of the sirens grew closer and closer, until the cacophony was joined by the flashing of red and blue lights as they pulsed through the single glass block window cut into the front of Billy’s. Several officers of the Harbourtown police department burst through the front door, but I was unable to move. So I stayed where I was—kneeling on the dusty, wooden floor, next to a kid lying dead in his own blood. My left hand twitched, and I realized I was still holding onto the potentially incriminating envelope. Only it wasn’t just an envelope, it was Jimmy’s death warrant. And it had been signed, so to speak, with my initial. It had to go. I scanned the area for a place to dispose of it.
The police were approaching, and I panicked. Fearing that I’d be implicated in Jimmy’s murder, I crumpled the envelope— inadvertently smearing more blood along the front and back—and quickly tossed it into a trash container tucked beneath the bar.
When I glanced back up, a young officer was before me, offering his hand. I searched his face to see if he had seen what I’d done, but there was nothing to indicate he’d caught me throwing the envelope into the trash can. In fact, he graciously helped me to my feet and then told me his name, asked if I was OK.
Did I look like I was OK? The name went in one ear and out the other, but I did have the wherewithal to nod that I was—at least
physically—unharmed. He led me away from Jimmy’s lifeless body to a table in the back room. He wanted me out of the way, but in a place so small, I still had a pretty good view of the Harbourtown PD as they moved around the body like bees around a hive, processing the crime scene.
I sank into a wood chair at the table, and the young officer told me to remain where I was. He said a detective would be over to speak with me shortly. I nodded absently, but I don’t think he even took notice. He was too busy staring at my bloody hands. He pulled several napkins from a metal dispenser atop the table, handed them to me with a shake of his head, and then left me alone.
The blood on my hands—so sticky, still wet—made my stomach roil. Disgusted, I scrubbed at the gloppy, red mess as best as I could. I wanted it off, off, off. But even as my hands grew sore from the intense rubbing I employed, they still retained a faint pink tint. I choked down the lump rising in my throat and tossed the soiled napkins into a pile on the edge of the table. I surveyed the rest of my body. Besides a long, diagonal streak of blood smeared across the front of my beige sweater—I must have wiped my hand without realizing it—there was no more evidence of Jimmy’s demise marking me.
Now that I was as cleaned up as I was going to be until I could take a shower, I resumed watching the flurry of activity surrounding Jimmy’s body. More importantly I listened carefully to what was being said…
Jimmy Kingston—,whose last name I’d never taken the time to learn—was pronounced dead at 12:48 p.m., though the coroner who had arrived on the scene a few minutes before, and was now barking this information out, estimated the actual time of death to have occurred roughly an hour prior.
That meant I had just missed the killer. A chill ran down my spine at the thought.
Cause of death: a single bullet wound to the head. Ballistics: Jimmy was shot with a .38 caliber weapon, at close range.
The gun I’d come across in Adam’s desk drawer flashed through my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. After all, lots of people owned that particular type of firearm.
No sign of a struggle.
Jimmy had either known the individual who’d shot him, or he hadn’t seen the individual as a threat. Someone pretending to be a customer, most likely. Or had it been someone he recognized?
An officer with a portable fingerprinting kit was lifting prints from the half-full glass of beer still perched on the bar. He was telling another officer that the only prints found, so far, belonged to the victim—Jimmy.
Maybe the killer had worn gloves? Or maybe Jimmy had poured the beer for himself?
Another officer chimed in that the surveillance video that would have captured the perp’s entrance and exit from the bar was missing. It was becoming apparent that the person responsible for Jimmy’s death had been smart and thorough.
No money was missing. So a robbery-gone-wrong was ruled out. It was clear from the snippets of conversation I picked up that the police were coming to the conclusion that Jimmy had been the intended target. Something I already knew.
And I was damned sure I knew the reason why, but I couldn’t exactly tell the police. Hell, I’d been snooping around in an unsolved mystery, illegally obtaining case files from my dad, and paying cash for potential evidence in the cold case. Yeah, probably best to keep quiet.
I looked away, and when I turned back, a handsome, rugged-looking man with tousled brown hair was making his way toward me. A second later he was at the table. “I’m Detective Mitchell, homicide division,” he said, introducing himself with a somber nod. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.”
Saying I didn’t feel up to it wasn’t really an option, I knew this. Detective Mitchell was just being nice. He was going to make sure he got his answers, and he was going to do it before I had a chance to think too much about my responses. So I nodded and exhaled slowly. “Sure, that’ll be fine.”
The detective sat down and took out a small, tattered, spiral-bound notepad and a pen. The questioning then began.
“What’s your full name? Miss…?” he asked.
“Fitch,” I replied. “Madeleine Fitch.”
He paused, looking up from where he jotted down my name in the tattered notebook, and met my eyes. “You related to Mayor Fitch over in Harbour Falls?”
“Yes.” I choked on the word, wincing. “I’m his daughter.” My dad was going to be hurt and disappointed that I’d hardly stayed “out of trouble.”
“Mayor Fitch is a good man,” Detective Mitchell declared, his light brown eyes softening. “So where do you live? Harbour Falls?”
I shook my head. “No, I live on Fade Island.”
The detective’s face grew troubled. “That your permanent residence?” He sounded doubtful.
“No,” I answered, “my permanent home is in Los Angeles.”
He scribbled something down in his notebook. “Occupation?” he continued without looking up.
“I’m a writer.”
Detective Mitchell lifted his gaze, eyeing me with a sudden sense of recognition. He then asked quietly, “Mystery novels, right?”
I just nodded, noticing he didn’t write anything down about that. He just continued to watch me, tapping his pen a couple of times on the table. Tap, tap, tap. I shifted in my seat nervously.
“Fade Island is a rather, uh, mysterious place in its own right.” He paused, one sharper tap. “Isn’t it, Miss Fitch?”
“I guess,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t sound as shaky to him as it did to me.
Detective Mitchell’s eyes didn’t waver. “And what brought you to an establishment like Billy’s today?”
“Ummm…” I faltered and then offered timidly, “A drink.”
Detective Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Were you acquainted with the victim, Jimmy Kingston?”
I glanced down at my blood-tinged hands, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me. “Only from being in here twice before,” I said, my voice soft, unconvincing.
Two more taps of the pen from the good detective. “And why were you here those other times, Miss Fitch?” He hesitated and then added dryly, “For a drink, no doubt?”
“Yes,” I lied.
A stretch of uncomfortable silence filled the air between us. “Tell me, Madeleine… May I call you Madeleine?” I nodded, and he continued, “Billy’s is a little off the beaten path and really quite a hike from Fade Island. Do you always travel so far from home for a drink?”
I bristled, knowing Detective Mitchell was trying to trap me up. He surely suspected there was more to my visit, and he was right. But it wasn’t like I could tell him the truth.
Mustering all the indignation I could—because really I needed to in order to sound convincing—I retorted, “Yes, Detective, I do when I’m meeting a friend for lunch here in Harbourtown.”
I hated to drag Helena into my mess, but I couldn’t see any way around it with this turn in the questioning.
Detective Mitchell snapped, “Does this friend have a name?”
“Helena Jackson.”
A flicker of something—recognition, a memory?—crossed his face. Detective Mitchell was no rookie, and I suspected he’d seen all the evidence related to the Harbour Falls Mystery. Hell, he’d probably worked it.
“And you were meeting this Helena Jackson for lunch today?”
“Yes.”
“When and where?” he asked curtly, his pen poised over his notebook.
I pulled nervously at the sleeves of my sweater. I hated the thought of Helena finding out I was not here in Harbourtown to pick something up for Adam. I hated that I’d lied to her, and I felt even worse for breaking my promise to Adam. In fact, I didn’t care to even imagine his reaction when he found out what had happened. He’d repeatedly warned me to stay away from Billy’s. If only I had listened.
Detective Mitchell was still waiting, so I said, “We were supposed to meet at two o’clock at Peppio’s.”
He raised his arm, glanced at his watch. When he lowered his wrist, I caught the time—1:40. Mitchell called over the young officer who’d helped me to the table earlier and gave him instructions to go to the restaurant to see if there really was a Helena Jackson waiting there for me.
The detective asked a few more questions and then, with a flip of his tattered notebook, informed me he’d like for me to accompany him to the station to enter a more official statement. Official statement, the police station, I knew those things didn’t bode well for me. I needed an attorney and probably a very competent one at that. I asked Detective Mitchell if he was arresting me. He said no.
After he tucked his notebook and pen back into his pocket, he stood up and told me to meet him outside in five minutes. I was to leave my car here; he’d drive me to the station. OK, I wasn’t being arrested, but there was no question the detective was making damn sure I’d be entering that formal statement today.
When he left, I pulled out my cell phone. I was much too humiliated to call my dad, so I pulled up Adam’s number instead. My finger hovered over the keys. Was I really going to ask for Adam’s help? Did I have a choice?
Taking a deep breath, I pressed send.
Several hours later I found myself, once more, seated across from Detective Mitchell. Only this time we sat in metal chairs, a rectangular table made of wood between us. We were at the Harbourtown police station in one of the bland interrogation rooms. Scuffed, eggshell-colored walls surrounded us, and a darkened mirror—two-way glass, no doubt—reflected my troubled visage back to me.