TELLTALE
Shelby Hope Book Two
Stephanie Parrish
© 2014 Stephanie Parrish – All Rights Reserved
www.shelbyhopebooks.com
Cover Design by Donna Casey
www.digitaldonna.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Terry
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Dismal Swamp Canal, North Carolina
Midnight, and it was too hot to sleep.
Nathan and Alex’s sailboat, Thief of Time, rocked gently when I climbed off. In the still, sweltering gloom ahead of me, the Welcome Center stood silent and dim, lit only by the orange glow of the streetlights in the empty parking lot. The night was quiet except for the occasional high-pitched whine of mosquitoes and the soft whisper of movement in the tall pine trees that hugged the edges of the Center.
Relieved to be somewhere other than the stifling darkness of the boat on this hot June night, I crossed the parking lot toward the Welcome Center and walked through the breezeway that connected the Center’s two big buildings, heading to the vending machines. I fed money into the slot and pressed the button for a Coke, then walked back through the breezeway and sat down on a bench which was tucked deep into the shadows of some tall bushes. My long hair felt heavy and hot, so I flipped up my ponytail with one hand and used it to fan myself while I drank the soda. The night air felt cool on my skin, and the stars glowed in the quiet sky. I exhaled, letting the peace of the night shrink away the day’s aggravations, including the reason why we were here tonight, in the Dismal Swamp Canal, instead of in Elizabeth City.
A beat-up old Cadillac pulled into the parking lot and coasted into a slot about thirty feet away from me, leaving the engine idling. A heavyset guy sat in the front seat alone. He glanced around casually, his hands drumming the wheel. After a minute, he powered down his window and put his arm along the frame, tapping his hand in time to the soft music of the radio, the rolled-up sleeve of his white button-down shirt shaded an unnatural orange from the streetlights.
I wondered why he was there. It was late, and the Center was closed. He didn’t seem to be looking for a bathroom or trying to catch a nap. After a little while, he glanced at his watch, then looked around the empty parking lot, frowning slightly.
Oh.
He was waiting for someone.
A tingle of fear whispered through me. Who had a good reason for meeting someone in a deserted parking lot in the middle of the night?
Now I wished I hadn’t come up here alone. I felt trapped, not wanting to get up and cross the parking lot while he was there, but not wanting to stay either. I didn’t think he could see me where I sat in the shadows, but I scooted back a little further against the bench and deeper into the darkness of the bushes anyway, trying to ignore a mosquito that buzzed near my ear.
A few minutes later, a tricked-out muscle car drove into the parking lot and pulled to a stop just behind the Caddy, blocking it in. Leaving the engine running, a man climbed out. He looked to be about forty, clean-shaven with thick dark hair, wearing a snug-fitting tee shirt and blue jeans that emphasized a powerful body. Beyond him, I thought I could see a vague shadow in the passenger seat. The dark-haired man slammed his door before I could see his passenger clearly.
Then I saw the dark-haired man’s left arm. Even from this distance, I could see the heavy, ugly scar that twisted from his elbow down past his wrist onto the back of his hand. It looked like an old burn. And he held something in that hand, down by his side. He headed toward the first car.
My tingle of fear became a full-on alarm.
White Shirt raised his hand in a casual greeting. In the quiet darkness I heard him say, "Hey, bro."
Scar Guy said, "I know what you did."
"What? Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Scar Guy grabbed White Shirt’s arm with his right hand and clamped it against the car door frame. He raised his left hand. I could now see what he held.
White Shirt saw what it was at the same time. His voice rose in fear, "Hey, bro, I’ll pay it back! I will. I just needed a little to tide me over. No big deal. Come on. You know me, I’m good for it!"
"I do know you," Scar Guy said. "That’s why this has to happen. Real sorry, and all that. Bro." Then he turned to look around the parking lot, ignoring the other man’s panicked struggle to pull his arm away. His gaze skimmed the area where I sat, and it felt like he was looking right at me, although I was pretty sure—and hoping like hell—that it was too dark for him to see me. I shrank back further and held my breath. Apparently satisfied that no one else was there, Scar Guy turned back to White Shirt, leaned down, and reached into the car with his left hand. He said something that I couldn’t hear.
Then the crack of a gunshot fractured the still, humid night.
Chapter 2
My hand tightened compulsively around my Coke can, making a metallic ping that sounded appallingly loud to me. I stared toward Scar Guy, frozen with terror, expecting him to turn and find me. And shoot me.
But he apparently hadn’t heard it. He got back into his own vehicle, laughing as he said something to the person next to him, and slammed the door, then put the car into gear and pulled away. His taillights blinked once while he slowed down briefly at the yield sign, then he merged onto the empty highway. The car was gone from sight a few seconds later.
I leaned forward limply, resting my head against my knees. A moment later, I heard feet running toward me and someone calling my name.
"Shelby!" Matt’s voice. Matt was my business partner and my best friend.
I stood up and wobbled toward him. "I’m here. I’m over here. I’m okay."
"What happened? Something woke us up. You were gone." When he reached me, Matt grabbed my shoulders, leaning close to look into my face as if to reassure himself that I was really all right.
"Oh my God," Nathan said. He’d followed Matt but stopped when he saw the car, where he stood staring, appalled. We walked toward the Caddy, but didn’t have to go far before we could see the ugly dark blotch on the driver’s chest. The guy’s head lolled forward like he was trying to sleep sitting up. I felt my gorge rise and turned away. Matt walked over to the car and leaned in without touching anything. He stood there for a long moment. Finally, he came back to where I stood.
"Is he…dead?"
"Yes," Matt said. "Do you have your cell phone with you?"
Still keeping my back turned, I shook my head. "It’s on the boat."
"Shelby?" called a soft voice from the back edge of the parking lot. Alex, Nathan’s partner, was walking toward us. "Are you okay? What happened?" His voice trailed off as he got closer and saw the man in the car. "Oh. Oh no."
"Oh my God," Nathan said again. "Oh God. I guess it was a gunshot we heard. We thought…we hoped that maybe it was just a car backfiring. But…oh God."
I turned and walked back to the boat, keeping my eyes away from the car. I climbed aboard and dug through my purse until I found my cell phone. I punched in 911, my hands trembling so much I had to try twice to get the numbers.
"911. What is the nature of your emergency?" asked the operator, in a chirpy voice that jarred with the dark lumpy mass in the car.
"Somebody’s just been shot," I said. My voice shook. "I saw the guy who did it."
✽✽✽
WHILE WE WAITED, the four of us huddled about fifty feet from the Caddy, close enough that it was in our line of sight, but far away enough that we didn’t have to look at whoever was left inside. Matt kept his arm around me. I jumped at the sound of the few vehicles that passed on the highway before the cops got there, thinking, What if they come back?
But three police cars pulled into the parking lot not much more than ten minutes after we called, stopping near the road, sirens flashing. I sagged with relief. Two guys got out of the first one and called to us to step toward them slowly. The other cops got out too, but stayed behind the open doors, hands on their holstered weapons. One of them talked into a radio.
We moved forward. Matt said, "We’re the ones who called you."
One of the cops, a young-looking guy, came closer and said, "Okay, sir, we just need to get some information from you. First, do you have any weapons?"
All of us shook our heads.
"All right, thanks," said the cop, stepping back and giving a signal to the other cops. Two of them walked over to the car and checked the driver. They gave a signal, and the other two cops started walking around the parking lot, unrolling yellow crime scene tape.
The young guy came closer. His nametag said Roberts. "I’m going to ask you to move over here to the far corner of the parking lot." We trailed along after him to stand outside the yellow tape. "All right. Can I get your names, please?" he said, taking out a little notepad.
"Matthew Mitchell."
Officer Roberts wrote that down.
"Alexander Reed."
Officer Roberts wrote that down.
"Nathan Grant."
Officer Roberts wrote that down.
"Shelby Hope."
He glanced up at me before writing on his little pad. "You’re the one who called 911."
Although he hadn’t asked a question, I nodded.
"Okay, can you tell me what happened?"
"I came up here to get a Coke. I sat down on a bench over there, and that car pulled in…" I waved my hand toward the car and the person in it. "Then another car pulled in behind him, and a guy got out, and…"
"You saw the guy who did the shooting?"
"Yeah."
"Describe him for me."
I told him about Scar Guy and his car, and he wrote it all down. I told him that I thought there was a second person in the car, but that I couldn’t see well enough to give him a description.
"All right. Hold on just a second." He went over and conferred with his partner, who then got on his radio.
When Roberts came back, he turned to the guys. "What did you see?"
"Nothing," Alex said. "We were all asleep on the boat. The gunshot woke us up, and Shelby wasn’t there. We came out then to find her and to see what had happened."
"What’s this about a boat?" Roberts asked. He looked toward the dock. He hadn’t asked us yet what we were doing there, or how we had gotten there. "You’re docked here?"
"Yes, we came in this afternoon and ended up staying for the night."
"Can we take a look at your boat?"
"Sure, sure, go right ahead," Nathan said, waving his hand toward Thief of Time.
Roberts got on the radio and spoke to the two cops who had been walking around the parking lot. One of them headed down toward the dock, and the other headed our way.
"I’m going to ask the four of you to stay here for now and to wait for our crime scene team and a detective to arrive before you say anything more. This officer here is going to wait with you. All right?"
We all nodded. A little while later, the cop who had searched the boat came back and shepherded me away from the guys. She said, "It shouldn’t be too much longer before the detective gets here. He’s going to want to talk to you. You okay waiting here?"
I nodded, swatting at a mosquito that was buzzing around my ear. I noticed that the other officers who’d been taping off the crime scene were now waiting with Alex, Nathan, and Matt. They’d separated the guys. The whole thing felt surreal to me.
More time passed, with an occasional squawk from a radio and a low-voiced reply. Finally, a big vehicle that looked like an RV pulled into the grass, outside the tape. The lettering on the side said, "Mobile Crime Unit." A few people piled out, dragging cases with them. They headed toward the Caddy.
Another car pulled into parking lot, and a tall, dark-skinned man in a shirt and tie got out. He walked toward Officer Roberts, looking around at the car, the parking lot, and each of us in turn while Roberts talked to him. A few minutes later, the dark-skinned man motioned the other officers and the guys over. "I’m Detective Fairholm," he said. We gave him our names.
"From what Officer Roberts here told me, none of you besides Ms. Hope saw the other car, or the guy with the gun?"
"No," Alex said. "Just…" he motioned toward the car and its passenger. I glanced over. One of the crime scene technicians was photographing the car, the passenger, and the surrounding area, while another technician carefully bagged something he picked up from the ground.
"All right. Ms. Hope, do you think he saw you?"
God, I hoped not. I shuddered a little. "He looked around once, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t see me."
"What about the other person? The person in the passenger seat?"
That stopped me cold. After that first glimpse, I’d focused completely on Scar Guy and what he was doing. I hadn’t paid attention to what the passenger was doing.
Squeezing my shoulder, Matt said, "We don’t have a car here, obviously, so they probably thought there wasn’t anyone else here. They might not have noticed the boat. It’s got a dark hull, and since there’s no moon tonight, the mast blends in with the trees if you’re not looking closely."
We all turned to look at the boat. Matt was right; someone casually glancing that way probably wouldn’t notice it. No lights showed, and some bushes blocked the dock. I shivered though; I didn’t like the idea of a murderer knowing that I saw what he did. And knowing he had an accomplice didn’t make me feel any better. I’d had enough of bad guys on our last cruise.
Officer Roberts’ partner walked over then. I strained to read his nametag in the semi-darkness and finally worked out that his name was Irvine. Although his voice was low, I could hear what he said to the detective. "Found an abandoned Plymouth GTX 440 a couple miles from here. Car was stolen earlier today from a mall. Dead end. But we know who the victim was. Guy’s name was Eric Bluesky. Liked to wear business clothes and call himself an arms dealer, but really was just a jumped-up petty thug." Detective Fairholm took him by the arm and guided him away from us, but I could still hear the rest. "Just released from prison about eight months ago for his latest conviction. This arms dealing was mostly just him selling weapons here and there to local hoodlums and to what he called paramilitary groups but were really just gangs."
Detective Fairholm nodded to Irvine then walked back over to us. "Ms. Hope, I’m going to ask you to come inside the mobile unit over there," pointing to the RV. "I’ll get your statement first. If you gentlemen don’t mind waiting a li
ttle longer with these officers, I’ll talk to each of you separately." The officers fanned out again, making sure that Alex, Nathan, and Matt weren’t close enough to talk to each other. Detective Fairholm took me by the elbow and led me toward the mobile unit, opening the door and guiding me up the steps.
Inside, he motioned me toward a chair, and he took the seat opposite me.
"Ms. Hope, I know this has been a bad night for you. Just please bear with me so we can get your statement and have you on your way. First, though, I’d like to eliminate you as a suspect. Is that okay with you?"
I wondered if any innocent person ever said no to that question.
"Yes."
"Okay, we’re going to test your hands for gunshot residue. Let me grab one of the techs."
He stood up and opened the door, calling to someone named Zeke. Almost immediately, a young guy came bounding up the steps.
"Can you check her hands for us?"
"Sure." I held out my hands, and Zeke used small adhesive swabs on my hands. It tickled a little. He moved over to a microscope, humming while he set it up and made some adjustments. "She’s okay," he said, nodding to Detective Fairholm. The detective thanked him, and Zeke hopped down the steps, presumably heading back to his colleagues to continue processing the scene. Detective Fairholm flipped a small notepad open to a fresh page, clicked his pen, and wrote something on the top of the page. I peeked at the paper. He’d made a note of the date and the time. I was surprised to see that it was already after one.
"I know you’ve already answered some of these questions, but I’d appreciate it if you’d bear with me while we go through everything again."
"No problem."
"First, let’s verify your information. May I see your driver’s license?"
"Sure." I dug it out of my purse and handed it to him.
"Hope, Shelby Lee, female, birth date August 17. You’re thirty-five?" I nodded. "17 Oystercatcher Lane, Junction 98, Florida." Seeing his puzzled look, I explained, "Junction 98 is a little town in the Florida Panhandle."
Telltale (Shelby Hope Book Two) (Shelby Hope Novels 2) Page 1