by Kathi Daley
“It was.” Garrett nodded. “The land that was identified for use was out near the recreation complex on the south end of the island. It was a large piece of property, and almost everyone agreed it was the perfect location. The problem was that there was a statue of the four founding fathers on the beach near where the ball fields were going to be. Zane was concerned that a foul baseball or a stray kick of a soccer ball would damage the statue, which had been erected to memorialize the exact spot it was believed the four men landed when they first came to settle the island. Zane actually went so far as to retain an attorney to block the project. Members of the community tried to offer reasonable alternatives—moving the statue to another location or building a fence around it—but Zane wouldn’t hear of it.”
“So what happened?”
“Eventually, the committee in charge gave up. An alternate location was found, although the land we ended up using wasn’t as large, nor was it near the recreation complex, making it harder for the summer kids’ leagues to use. A lot of folks are still grumbling about it. Zane didn’t own that first piece of land, and a lot of folks didn’t think he should have had a say in the whole thing.”
“Who does own that land?” I asked.
“The town. It’s still sitting empty. Personally, I didn’t care about the ball fields one way or another. It wasn’t like I was going to play sports after I’d reached a certain age. But I didn’t think the wishes of one man should prevail over the needs of the many.”
“Has the spot been deemed a historical site?” Jack asked.
Garrett shook his head. “Although the statue was erected as a memorial of sorts, there’s no proof that stretch of beach is even the actual place where the founding fathers landed.”
I could understand how one might want to preserve a piece of history, but if the site hadn’t even been authenticated, I didn’t see the harm in moving the statue.
“How did Billy feel about the statue?” I asked.
“He supported moving it up to the museum,” Garrett answered.
“You don’t think Zane ran him off the road, do you?” I asked.
Garrett raised a brow. “Over a statue? No, I don’t think even Zane would stoop that low. Besides, the issue was resolved when the fields were built elsewhere. I just used this as an example of Zane being difficult at times. I can’t think of a single person who would have intentionally run Billy off the road.”
“Maybe not, but it appears that’s what someone did.”
******
Later that evening, Jack, Kizzy, and I went back to his cabin. The wind had stilled and the rain was nothing more than a drizzle, though the waves outside were still quite a bit larger than normal. I was willing to bet they’d be gently rolling onto the shore by morning.
The cabin Jack had built was both roomy and cozy, a two-story structure with a large living space including a gourmet kitchen and a seating area on the first floor, and three bedrooms and two baths upstairs. A bedroom and attached bath at the back of the cabin that overlooked the sea was his master suite, while he’d turned the middle bedroom into an office, and the extra room at the front of the cabin was currently unfurnished but would become a guest room.
Jack built a fire in the brick fireplace while I poured us each a glass of wine. I was still a little shaky after our attempted water rescue in the middle of an intense lightning storm. Leaving the truck hadn’t been a good idea, but really, what else were we to do? We didn’t know Billy was already dead, so we had no choice but to try to help him out of the vehicle. I couldn’t help but shudder when I considered the many ways our attempted rescue could have ended up even more tragic than it already was.
“This is nice,” I said after he sat down next to me on the sofa. I sipped my wine and watched the flames as they reflected off the shiny wood floor. Every now and then, a crash from the waves outside the large picture window penetrated the room, which Jack had left dark except for the fire and a few candles scattered about.
“It’s hard to relax, but I have to agree, this is nice.”
Kizzy jumped up onto the sofa and cuddled next to Jack. She put her head in his lap, and Jack ran his hand through her fur as we both let our tension drift away. I’d never had a pet before Kizzy. Not that she was mine, though Jack and I were supposed to be sharing her, so I considered her part mine, though she spent most of her time with him. Before Kizzy came into our lives, I’d never considered how much a pet can add to your mental health. Spending time with Kizzy was the greatest stress reliever I’d ever known. Well, almost.
“You know,” Jack said, “if you moved in with me, we could end every evening this way.”
“Even when it’s so God-awful hot you feel like your skin is going to melt right off your body?”
“Well, no, I guess we wouldn’t have a fire on nights like that. But I plan to build a deck in the back, overlooking the sea. It would be nice to sit out there on the hot nights.”
I did love Jack, and this was very nice, and now that he had a cabin mere steps away from the house I currently called home, I didn’t suppose I had a huge reason to say no. Yet I found myself hesitating.
“If you aren’t careful, you’re going to overwhelm Kizzy with your enthusiasm,” he teased.
I smiled. “I’m sorry. I feel as if I need some time to think about your suggestion. You know I love you, and this house is great. And the way things are going between Garrett and Clara, I can see them wanting to have the big house to themselves at some point. But I also feel living together is a big step. We already work together, which means we’re together most of the time as it is. What if we get sick of each other?”
Jack ran a finger down my arm. “I’m not going to get sick of you. Are you worried you’re going to get sick of me?”
I sighed. “No. Probably not. But maybe. I think it would be remiss of us not to consider there could be a maybe.”
Jack nodded slightly. “Okay. How about this: we’ll experiment and see how it goes. Bring some clothes over, as well as anything else you feel you might need, and stay with me here for two weeks. That means coming home to this house with me, spending the night here, and planning a life in this house with me. For two weeks. At the end of that, we can see how it went and maybe talk about a permanent arrangement.”
“What if we get into a fight?”
“Couples do fight from time to time. I think we’ll survive. And if we don’t, for the two-week trial at least, you still have your room in the big house to go back to.”
I’m not sure why it is I’m not a fan of big decisions, big changes, or big commitments, but for some reason, I was finding all three terrified me. At least they did when it came to Jack. Maybe I began to cower in fear whenever he talked about taking our relationship and shaking things up a bit because it meant so much to me.
“I guess I could spend the next two weeks here with you, but we aren’t living together.”
“Got it. We’ll be overnight pals, but we aren’t living together.”
“And if Garrett has a relapse and needs me, or things get too intense and one or both of us needs some space, I’ll go back to the big house with no hurt feelings and no regrets.”
“There are bound to be regrets,” Jack pointed out. “But I can agree that if it doesn’t work out, we’ll continue on as we are now and not let it destroy what we already have.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. I’ll live with you here for two weeks beginning tomorrow.”
Jack’s face fell just a bit. “Tomorrow?”
“I need time to pack before I can move in for the trial, but I wouldn’t be averse to staying over tonight as a guest, not a roommate.”
Jack set down his wine. He took mine and set it down as well. Then he nudged Kizzy aside a bit as he pulled me into his arms.
Chapter 4
Wednesday, October 24
It took us most of the morning to get the paper printed and distributed to the vendors who stocked it for distribution to their customers
. We also had an online edition with a much larger readership than the hard copy, which was purchased by locals who made the trip to the newspaper rack most Wednesday afternoons. The paper no longer offered home delivery, which I was afraid was a quickly dying concept, but we continued to print it for those who liked to hold the paper and smell the ink.
The rain that had tapered off the previous evening was back. I’d hoped the storm would have blown over completely, but no such luck. The last thing I wanted to do was spend any more time outdoors in the rain than was necessary, but we did have a mystery to solve, and I’d just as soon do that sooner rather than later. Rick had called to let us know our meeting with him and George had been moved to the museum so Meg could join the discussion as well. With all the rain, no one was thinking about touring the facility, so there was very little chance we’d be disturbed.
“It’s really coming down,” I said to Jack as we drove through the little town toward the museum. Even with the rain, I was enjoying the seasonal decorations that had either survived yesterday’s wind or been repaired and rehung.
“According to the weather report, the precipitation should lighten by midafternoon and be gone by tomorrow morning,” Jack assured me.
“At least the wind and lightning are gone.”
“There is that,” Jack agreed. “If it does let up as predicted, I thought we’d head back to the church for a few hours after we finish with Rick, George, and Meg. That November date I discovered has really grabbed hold of me. I’d like the opportunity to dig a little deeper.”
“It occurred to me that what caused all those deaths might be related to the death of the last lighthouse keeper,” I said. “I don’t remember anyone specifying when he died, but I do remember it was in 1924.”
Jack tilted his head slightly, though he continued to focus on the road. “I hadn’t put that together. Maybe the mysterious circumstances under which the man died are related to a whole lot of deaths and not just the one. We should be able to find out more about the last lighthouse keeper’s death if we take the time to do some digging. There are not only records going back that far but there seems to be a certain amount of legend associated with it.”
“Do you think Billy’s death is related to whatever happened to Bosley?” I asked.
Jack shrugged. “Maybe, though it seems like a long shot.”
When we arrived at the museum, George, Rick, and Meg were already deep into a conversation about information George had received from the writer he’d visited. Meg offered us orange tea and pumpkin muffins, which we both accepted, then Rick caught us up on what we’d missed.
“Bosley not only had been sharing his notes and ideas with George,” Rick informed us, “but with his friend Tom as well. Tom lives in Savannah, which is where George was yesterday. Most of what Tom received from Bosley was the same thing he told George, but he also mailed a package to Tom on Friday, which he received yesterday. Both Tom and George believe Bosley planned to provide that material to George when they met on Saturday.”
“What was in the package?” I asked.
“A file with notes and photos,” George said. “The photos are old, at least fifty or sixty years or even more. The notes are copies of a document that was originally created using some type of shorthand. I haven’t had the opportunity to try to decode it yet.”
“Why would Bosley send his friend a file he couldn’t read?” Jack asked.
George shook his head. “I’m not sure, unless he intended to provide a key and never got around to it, or he sent it to Tom for safekeeping but planned to be the one to read it at some point in the future. I suppose he might have intended to give me the key to decode the document when we met on Saturday. Bosley was a good friend and an excellent writer, but he had a paranoid streak. Everything he’s ever shared with me of any import has either been delivered personally or encoded with a key. The good news is, I knew him long enough that I’m fairly sure I can figure out how to read the notes he sent to Tom.”
“Did you make a copy?” I asked.
“I brought the envelope here with me. Tom was intrigued by the idea of a mystery, but after what happened to Bosley, he decided he wanted to stay well out of whatever was going on.”
I supposed I didn’t blame him for that. “So, have you been able to make out any of it?” I asked.
“I haven’t had the time yet. I do know the file refers to something called SIRP. All caps. I think it must be an acronym. I should have more when I can spend some time with Bosley’s notes.”
Jack frowned. “That seems familiar.”
“SIRP sounds familiar to you?” Rick questioned.
“I don’t remember where, but I feel as if I’ve seen it. It’ll come to me.”
Our conversation stalled as Meg offered everyone a refill on the tea. I took advantage of the lull to take a look around at her decorations. In the center of the museum was a miniature rendering of the town of Gull Island: The little shops, as well as the park and the marina, had been created via miniature houses, boats, and props. There were even little benches along the main drag, as well as tiny people. As she did every holiday, Meg had decorated the little town. Because it was October, she’d removed the baskets with brightly colored flowers from the busy downtown street and replaced them with pumpkins and apple carts. The minicarnival in the park had been replaced with a gazebo filled with jack-o’-lanterns, and the wharf, which jutted out into the marina, had orange lights strung along the railing that flashed on and off.
It really was charming. It made me warm and happy and kind of sad all at the same time.
“Any news about Billy’s accident?” I asked, a feeling of melancholy beginning to take over.
Rick frowned. “I have news, but none of it’s good.”
I sat down in the chair I’d vacated and waited for him to go on.
“Okay, what exactly do you know?” Jack asked.
“Based on the damage to the vehicle, it appears Billy was hit from behind and run off the road. We’re assuming, from the autopsy report and physical evidence found at the scene, that he hit his head in the crash. We don’t know whether the blow to the head knocked him out, but it didn’t kill him.”
“What did kill him, then?” I asked.
“A gunshot to the chest.”
Jack and I looked at each other.
“He was shot?” Jack asked.
Rick nodded. “It appears he landed on the beach when he was run off the road. The driver’s side door was opened, and he was shot. The door was closed, and his car was pushed into the surf. The waves were pounding the coast last night, so if you hadn’t come along when you did, there’s a good chance the car would have been swept out to sea.”
“So Billy was definitely murdered,” I said.
“He was,” Rick confirmed. “I assume, because he was still wearing his seat belt and there were no defensive wounds or evidence of any sort that he tried to get out of the car, Billy was knocked out in the crash. He was most likely unconscious when he was shot.”
“I don’t suppose you have a suspect?”
“Not at this point,” Rick answered my question.
“Do you think Billy’s death is related to Bosley’s?” George asked the question Jack and I had been asking ourselves on the ride over.
Rick shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t. At this point, all we can do is investigate both deaths to see if they intersect.”
Meg looked at Rick. “Bosley and Billy didn’t know each other as far as I know, and now both men have been murdered. What can be going on?”
Rick looked at Meg with fatigue in his eyes. “I don’t have a good feeling about any of this.”
“Did your interviews turn up anything?” I wondered.
“I managed to eliminate a couple of people on the list. Trout Kellerman told me that Bosley had spoken to him shortly after he arrived on the island, wanting to know about people who’d lived here around the turn of the twentieth century, as well as any st
ories he might know involving the lighthouse, the hurricane that wiped out Skull Island, and the lighthouse keepers who lived there from 1893 to 1924. Trout told Bosley he wasn’t the sort to be in to history or any sort of book learning, but he thought Sam Castle or Zane Carson might be able to help him.”
“Did you believe him?” I asked Rick.
“I’ve known Trout a long time and have no reason to believe he would torture or kill a man. And he was a marginal student in school, so it fits that he wouldn’t know much about the history of this area.”
I glanced at Jack. He shrugged.
“Who else did you speak to?” I asked.
“I called Sam Castle and tried to speak to him, but he had a campaign dinner to prepare for. Zane Carson was out of town when I called, so I decided to try to speak to the two other fishermen on my list. It seemed like opportune timing because the storm had rolled in and it was unlikely they were out to sea. Buck Johnston was at the bar, drinking with his buddies, and mentioned he’d just returned from a weeklong charter that was cut short by two days by the storm. I figured if he’d been at sea for five days, he would have been away on both Friday and Saturday. I confirmed that with a couple of the other men who were part of the charter and were pouring down a cold one in the bar as well. That left Tizzy Tizdale. It took me several calls to find out he’d headed to Mexico a few weeks ago.”
I took a breath and let it out. “Okay. So where does that leave us?”
“I still have about ten people on my list, including Sam Castle, Ron Remand, and Zane Carson,” Rick said. “I’m hoping George can decipher the notes Bosley sent to Tom. I have a few other ideas I’m going to follow up on as well. Did the two of you find anything at the church yesterday?”
I let Jack explain the ledger he found and the high incidence of deaths on a single date. Meg still hadn’t found anything that would explain the unusual occurrence, but she promised to keep looking. Jack and I wanted to go back to the church, and we needed to stop by the market, so I invited everyone to dinner that night, when we could further discuss the situation, and we left the museum. The rain had begun to let up, and this time I hoped it would stick.