ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  Rudy didn’t look up from where he squatted over the carcass until I was standing over him. He seemed unsurprised to see me and merely tilted his head to eye me. I realized with revulsion that he was gutting the rabbit where it lay. The red and purple-blue entrails steamed in the frosty air.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, Rudy?” I gasped.

  “Gotta gut ’em right away if yer gonna eat ’em.”

  His nonchalance galled me and disgust turned to indignation. “Do you think it’s a good idea to be shooting a gun so close to the house? Someone could get hurt.”

  He squinted from under the limp brim of his weathered hat, considering, then resumed his work undeterred.

  “I s’pose you’d be a might gun-shy after what happened down by the river,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Didn’t know you was around this mornin’ or I’d-a held off.” He flipped the carcass over, laid his knife to one side and reached into the bloody cavity to scoop out the remaining entrails. “This fella’s been helpin’ himself to the crop. I’ve been tryin’ t’ nail him for weeks.”

  I frowned. Rudy was so used to having free rein he wouldn’t be swayed easily. I watched with distaste as he shoveled up the leavings with a small trowel slung from a loop in his overalls. He carried them to the edge of the garden, where he dug a hole and buried them. He half-smiled at my grimace.

  “‘S mighty good fer th’ garden, Miss Suzanna. The good Lord don’t look kindly on wastin’ any part of His critters.”

  I wondered at the sick logic that made it all right to slaughter an innocent creature as long as it was put to good use. It gave me a slightly uncomfortable feeling that perhaps Rudy Coleman was more complex than I suspected.

  “How long have you had that gun?” I asked.

  He straightened, slipping the trowel back into its place and the knife into its sheath. His gaze was openly insolent. “Can’t say,” he said. “But I’ve had it long ’fore you was born.”

  “Well, I don’t want it to be used on my property anymore,” I said in my most officious tone. “Not only is it dangerous but I’d guess it’s illegal as well.”

  He knotted a bit of rope around the rabbit’s hind feet and slung it over his shoulder, then picked up the offending weapon and cradled it protectively. When he looked at me again, he was sullen and his watery blue eyes were stubborn.

  “Hate t’ have t’ use poison, miss,” he said. “Takes ’em hours t’ die— lotta pain and sufferin’… But you’re th’ boss,” he added, pleased by my look of horror.

  He turned and limped briskly away, leaving me fuming. He may have won this time but it was imperative he recognize I was the boss now Leo was gone. Still, I must tread carefully. Rudy had been with us for many years and despite his simple, unassuming demeanor, his pride was fragile and must be handled with care. My father had allowed him total freedom. It would take a good dose of diplomacy on my part to change that.

  I was suddenly aware the sun’s warm rays were already shooting over the treetops and most of the frost was gone. I glanced at my watch and cursed. Giles would think I wasn’t coming!

  Half-walking, half-running, I made my way over the remaining grounds to the rear fence and followed it along to the gate. It was partially open and I wondered if we latched it properly the previous night, or if Rudy was down this way and left it ajar. I didn’t give it another thought as I flew nimbly down the steps.

  The wind was even cooler on the beach, whistling across the water in long, mournful sighs, kicking up sand that stung my eyes and pricked my skin. There was no sign of Giles and I struck off toward Spindrift, certain he’d have gone there to wait for me. I passed the boathouse and noted the speedboat was tied to the outer pier. I must scold Colin for not putting it inside. He was hopeless when it came to returning things to their rightful spots.

  Some twenty minutes later, I was clambering up the well-worn path to Spindrift. The sun, after its initial attempt to break through, bowed to defeat as a thick, threatening blanket of cloud rolled in.

  David met me at the door, pleased to see me but unhelpful as to his father’s whereabouts.

  “He usually goes for a swim early on but it was pretty cold for that this morning. Have you checked the beach? Of course, you have. Well, sorry but I don’t think I can help. Maybe he went for a walk on the dunes. You wouldn’t have seen him there.”

  He gave me a curious look. “Was it something important? Why don’t you sit down and have a cup of coffee? He’s bound to be back soon.”

  I shook my head. “You may be right but all the same, I’d like to go back and wait for him on the beach. He seemed pretty anxious to talk to me.”

  David seemed disappointed. He appeared to have recently showered and wore only a navy velour robe emblazoned with red initials on the lapel. Despite myself, I hesitated. Even with his blond hair wet and uncombed and his face unshaven, he was good-looking. It was one of the few times he appeared less than perfectly groomed and I liked it. I offered to meet him for lunch at the marina and left before he could coax me to stay.

  No more than ten minutes had passed by the time I retraced my steps to the water’s edge but already the sky was blacker and streaks of rain were rapidly approaching from the northwest. I decided to jog, enjoying the brisk exercise and the wind on my face. I hadn’t gone far before I slowed to a walk. Up ahead, a large chunk of driftwood rocked back and forth with the lapping waves and I eyed it curiously.

  There was something about it that seemed odd and I approached with caution, remembering the occasional dead salmon that washed ashore and their gruesome appearance after having been feasted on by scavenging crabs and birds. Already, a swarm of seagulls were circling, screeching like ghouls against the mournful sough of the wind.

  I stopped abruptly and my throat constricted. What lay on the beach wasn’t driftwood or a large fish. I could see from where I stood that it was a body, a dead body and there was no doubt in my mind who it was.

  Chapter Ten

  Render an honest and a perfect man

  Commands all light, all influence, all fate.

  Nothing to him falls early, or too late.

  Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,

  Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

  John Fletcher, Upon an “Honest Man’s Fortune”

  It was probably some instinctive sense of self-preservation that kept me from inspecting the body too closely, though now I regret not having done so. Despite assurances Giles would most certainly have been beyond help, I can’t help think he might still be alive today if I’d only thought to check for a pulse or attempted to resuscitate him. Instead, like a coward, I turned and ran blindly back to Spindrift for help. David paused only long enough to call 9-1-1 before returning with me to the scene. He did all the things I should’ve done earlier—listened for a heartbeat and administered CPR until the Coast Guard arrived to take over.

  I stood well back, my hands clasped so tightly the knuckles stood out. I watched the men squat around the prone figure, working methodically, lifting the eyelids and feeling the bloodless wrists. Eventually, one of them stood up and turned to David, his face grave. I knew before he spoke that there was no hope.

  The other men lifted Giles onto a stretcher and zipped him into thick plastic. It began to drizzle, lightly at first, then with intensity, turning the sand to pea soup, the plop of the drops like bursting bubbles in a boiling pot. I remained frozen to the spot until I saw Grant approaching, then crept closer to David for support. Sadly he was much too caught up in his own grief to notice.

  Grant spoke in low tones to the rescue team and inspected the body before they closed the bag completely, giving a grim nod of verification. He helped put the gruesome bundle into the boat, spoke again to the man in charge and finally pushed them off. Only then, after the Coast Guard was gone, did he turn and peer through the blinding rain toward David and me, still rooted like statues in the gloom.

  He spoke to David sympathetically, shouting to be
heard over the thunder of the surf and spatter of rain. “Come on, Dave, you’d better get in out of this weather.” I noticed for the first time that David was still dressed only in his robe. His feet were bare.

  Dazed, we followed Grant back to Spindrift. No one spoke as we went but I glanced up at David and saw he was sobbing. I took his hand. It was cold and unresponsive. My own tears followed the path of the raindrops down my face.

  Grant organized everything with the help of Darla, whom he called the minute we reached Spindrift. After being coaxed into dry clothes, David retired to his room, preferring to deal with his grief in private. When Darla arrived, she took immediate charge, phoning Lottie and organizing some chicken soup to be sent over and agreeing to stay at Spindrift to look after David. I was still too bewildered to care. I was wrapped in something dry and driven back to Beacon, where Grant ushered me up to my room, ran a hot bath and commanded me to soak for at least a half-hour because my lips were blue.

  The horror of what had happened took some time to sink in. I bombarded myself with recriminations. If only I hadn’t paused to speak to Rudy! If only I was on time! If only… Even my logical voice couldn’t lessen the guilt and I cried until there were no tears left and my face was blotched and swollen.

  When at last I regained enough control to join the others downstairs, I was acutely conscious of all eyes on me. I was certain everyone must blame me as I blamed myself.

  Martha appeared briefly, her face drawn and white and I remembered how close she was to Giles. She made an apology for not feeling up to staying and disappeared to her room. Colin and Grant sat at the long dining table with Alicia, still wan and fragile, while Lottie served up steaming bowls of soup. Grant rose and pulled out a chair for me.

  “You’d better have some of this,” he said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  I looked up at him but he avoided my eyes and wandered to the far end of the room, a cigarette clamped between his lips, fists thrust deep into his pockets. I picked up my spoon, gazed at the broth, then put it down again. Alicia began to sob and Colin turned to her, placing an arm around her shoulders.

  Grant cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Suzie, I’m afraid the police will want to speak to you. I understand you were supposed to be meeting Giles?”

  I looked at him dumbly. “The police?”

  He nodded. “I’m sure it’s just routine but you’re the one who found him and there’s always the possibility of foul play.”

  “Foul play?” I knew I sounded like a parrot but my brain seemed to be working in slow motion.

  Grant crushed out his cigarette. “There’ll have to be an autopsy, of course but drowning will probably be the cause of death. Still, there was the gash on his head…”

  This time I stiffened with surprise. “What gash?”

  He frowned. “Surely you saw it? It was pretty severe. But we don’t know if it happened before or after death.”

  Alicia began to sob more loudly. My eyes clouded as thoughts tumbled randomly. Of course, Giles’ death was no accident! He’d planned to tell me something—something that frightened him, something he’d overheard—perhaps something that might identify Leo’s murderer.

  Whoever it was must’ve known Giles was meeting with me and… But who could’ve known? There was only one person who might possibly have overheard our conversation. My throat constricted and I pushed back my chair so abruptly I almost upset it. My head was spinning. I must get away before anyone read the primitive fear in my eyes.

  Grant was saying something but I didn’t listen. I bolted from the room, ran down the hall and back up the stairs to my room. I slammed the door shut and turned the lock. My heart was thumping wildly—stark reality enveloping me. Whoever murdered my father murdered Giles as well and I knew it couldn’t possibly be some faceless stranger. It had to be someone close—someone who knew the workings of Beacon, someone who had access to our intimate lives.

  I remembered Grant’s furtive look when he’d approached us on the beach last night, as if he was looking for someone else. Had he overheard us? I thought of Rudy Coleman casually gutting the dead rabbit and his macabre sense of righteousness. I thought of David, moved to passionate outbursts of jealousy and barely controlled rage over Grant’s callous accusations. Anyone could have followed me to the beach and hidden among the dunes. Voices carried so well in the open air.

  I hugged my arms around myself and sat on the edge of the bed, racking my brain for some clue as to what Giles might have wanted to tell me. Failing at this, I tried to concentrate on what might have happened that fateful morning.

  I’d agreed to meet him at seven. By the time I arrived on the beach, though, it was close to seven twenty-five. His body wasn’t on the beach when I first went to Spindrift. On the way back, when I found him, he was wearing a wetsuit, so he’d obviously decided to get his swim in before I came. Since there was no evidence he brought a change of clothing with him, it was safe to assume he intended to have time to return home to change before our scheduled meeting.

  That meant he died sometime before seven. Tidal currents being what they are, it probably took some time for the body to wash ashore. Someone who knew his habits must’ve waited for him, brutally struck him over the head—just as they struck my father with the iron poker—and left him dead in the water.

  But, no. The beach was empty when I arrived. His body must’ve washed up on shore sometime during my first visit to Spindrift. Perhaps he struck his head on something while swimming? It seemed impossible. There were no rocks near that section of the beach and the idea of another swimmer overpowering him mid-water and battering him didn’t seem plausible. Then I remembered the speedboat. It was tied to the pier as if abandoned in a hurry.

  I rubbed a hand over my face. It all fit. Someone used the speedboat to run him down. It had to be an act of desperation because anyone could have witnessed such an attack. Whoever it was, counted on the early hour and the cold to deter unwelcome spectators.

  There was no point now pretending there was no danger. Whoever was guilty of these murders was obviously close enough to Giles to know his schedule and have access to the keys for the boathouse, the powerboat and Beacon itself. Leo was struck with the poker taken from beside the fireplace in the parlor. This meant the attacker came from inside the house. This same person killed Giles to silence him.

  Could I be sure they knew he was silenced before sharing his secret with me? If not, I’d most certainly be next in line!

  I shuddered. There was no doubt in my mind, now, the shots at the river were meant for me. But what possible reason would someone have for murdering me? Either they hoped to gain something from my death, or I was dealing with a maniac who killed for pleasure and needed no real motives. This was the most frightening scenario of all—that someone close to me, someone I’d known most of my life, someone I trusted, could kill simply for the sake of killing. I longed to go to David. He was the only one who could make me feel safe—the only person I felt I could share my fears with. But now wasn’t the time. Not when his own tragedy was so new.

  I thought of Darla LaTrobe. I didn’t like the idea of her hovering over David when he was so hurt and vulnerable. I must trust he cared for me enough not to be so easily swayed. I seriously doubted Darla’s shabby overtures would have any effect on him but I still wished she’d go back to wherever she came from.

  I needed a friend and my thoughts automatically turned to Jenny. It was a couple of days since I’d visited the hospital. There, at least, I could feel safe. Impulsively, I donned my raincoat and crept down the back stairs. I didn’t want to meet anyone and have to explain where I was going. There was no one in the house I dared trust.

  * * * * *

  The sky was leaden. The rain had abated to a soft drizzle, seemingly content to linger. I gained the sanctuary of my car and turned on the engine, waiting only momentarily for the wipers to clear the windshield and the blower to disperse the fog. Backing the car around, I glanced ner
vously toward the windows across the front of the house.

  Was that Grant peering out at me? I didn’t wait to find out but drove off, relieved once I reached the open road.

  I took my time driving into town. The rolling acres of mottled trees were muted by the mist. Leaves, stripped from their branches, littered the road, the combination of the frost and rain too much for their frail lifeholds. Nature’s quiet, unhurried dealing of death seemed to amplify the violence that took my father and now Giles. It frightened me most of all to think how easily a life could be ripped from existence at the whim of a maniac.

  Jenny was propped up in bed and seemed better, though she was still hooked up to an intravenous drip and a heart monitor. She looked gaunt and tired but was pleased to see me and smiled weakly.

  “Are you up to a visitor?” I asked tentatively.

  She nodded. “They’ve just given me another needleful of something but I refuse to give in. It seems all they want me to do around here is sleep!”

  I smiled and sat down on a chair near the bed. She turned her head on the pillow and her brow knitted as she studied my face.

  “Something’s happened,” she said.

  I looked down at my hands. It was useless trying to hide it. I nodded dully, knowing I shouldn’t burden her with bad news. She waited patiently, her eyelids heavy but her gaze fixed and curious.

  “It’s Giles Lancaster, Jenny. He’s…dead.”