Dying for Murder

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “This little guy has just one goggle so he can’t see out of one eye. See how he is circling, trying to compensate. Turtles without goggles head straight for the sea.”

  It was obvious by the intensity of her concentration and the care with which she treated her study subjects just how much the research life meant to her. I looked out to sea and she followed my gaze.

  “One good thing about a hurricane: it keeps the shrimp boats from going out,” she said.

  “Why are you so against them?” I asked.

  “Because they kill my turtles. Collateral damage. They get scooped up in the nets and drown because they can’t get to the surface to breathe.”

  “But I thought they had some kind of device to prevent that from happening.”

  “Turtle excluder devices, also know as TEDS. Yeah, the shrimpers hate them. They say it decreases their catch and lots of them don’t use them. If they get caught they pay the fine.”

  “How would they ever get caught?”

  “Luck or an honest observer.”

  “Observer?”

  “Yeah. They put people on the boats to observe. To make sure any turtles that are caught are given time to get their breath before being put overboard. The shrimpers hate them too. Stacey could have told you a story or two.” She let another little hatchling go and I watched it struggling to get its bearings.

  “Stacey?”

  “Yeah. She was just put in charge of the observers in this area last year.”

  “What sort of stories?”

  “Oh, the usual. Bullying tactics, cold shoulders, even sexual harassment. I mean, most shrimpers are good guys, but not all of them.”

  “Like Trevor?”

  Jayne laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. Without looking at me she took another hatchling and placed it in the centre of the grid. I waited for her to come back to me and I thought she had forgotten what we were talking about but suddenly she said, “Trevor’s like all of them. Out to get a buck even if it means overfishing or causing collateral damage.” She practically spit out the last two words in disdain.

  “Did he and Stacey get on?”

  “Are you kidding? They hated each other. Despised is more like it.

  “Enough to murder Stacey?”

  She slowly turned and looked at me.

  “Lesser motives have killed better women than Stacey.”

  Jayne offered me her ATV to go to the north end and see the lighthouse. I took her up on it, and when I said I’d come back and pick her up she said not to bother, she’d stash her stuff in the hatchery and walk back by the beach, which she assured me was a much shorter route than our jouncy journey through the forest. Every ATV has its own special quirks and it took me awhile to realize I had to jiggle the key and coddle the throttle to get the thing going. It roared to life, shattering the quiet stillness of the morning. It was still early — only 7:00 as I puttered down the leaf-covered trail toward the lighthouse. Once I thought I heard another ATV, but above the noise of my own it could have been my imagination or my own ride playing games on me. Too bad ATVs were so noisy, I thought as I drove under the canopy of live oaks and all the birds that must have been there but I couldn’t hear. I got lost among the warren of roads snaking in and around the lighthouse, but finally spied the sign of a miniature lighthouse with an arrow pointing down yet another identical-looking road. I parked the ATV in a little lay by and heard a bunting so I scrambled around for my equipment and my recorder. I spent the next half hour taping the little guy as he flew in and out of the live oaks right behind the lighthouse.

  When I was done I followed a well-trodden path to a clearing and there it was, soaring above the beach and the rolling dunes like the grand old sentinel it was. But it was a sentinel that had seen better days. Its white paint was blistering as the morning sun reflected off it, showcasing all its blemishes. The red stripe that wound itself around the top had faded into a pinkish brown and the catwalk looked like something once sturdy but that you now wouldn’t want to touch, let alone walk on. Part of the lighthouse was covered in a robust-looking vine that twined its way from the bottom to the very top of the structure. I wondered when the lighthouse had been retired and what they do with old and potentially dangerous lighthouses nobody wants anymore.

  Just as I was heading for the door I thought I heard an ATV somewhere in the distance, but when I scanned the horizon with my ears I came up empty. The door was a huge solid wood affair, three inches thick, with an opened padlock on it that looked older than the lighthouse. I pushed open the heavy door and peered inside. There was some light streaking in from an out-of-sight second-floor window and I could see the telltale concrete spiral staircase curling up out of sight. There was a huge barrel just inside that seemed to be full of wood and other garbage. I pushed the door open further for the benefit of the light and then started up the staircase. I expected to find it swimming in dust and other debris, but evidently many islanders came here and someone obviously had taken a broom to the stairs quite recently because I could see the strokes. I climbed up to the first window and peered out through the three-foot recessed window ledge. The brilliant white sands of Spaniel Island were so bright in the summer sun that they hurt my eyes. Dunes covered in waving sea grass swept north, where they petered out at high-tide mark. The beach was shallow and the waves had plenty of time to gather speed and energy as they roared down on the sand.

  I continued climbing up and was about to place my hand on the sun-filled second window when I found myself looking into the eyes of a rattlesnake, its pupils vertical slits. It was coiled in the sun and staring at me. I wasn’t sure what the striking distance of a rattlesnake was but I was taking no chances. I backed down the stairs, crossed over to the far side, and gingerly made my way up. I tried to picture the snake manoeuvring up the stairs and couldn’t do it. I wondered if it had become lost and then something had frightened it, inspiring it to climb all those stairs. But then, it seemed perfectly content basking in the sun. I reached the second floor, which once must have been the keeper’s living and dining areas — now totally devoid of human life except for me. When I finally reached the top there was a gaping hole where the lamp used to be, but the sun shone in on the bank of windows that encircled the space. It was quite a view of sun and sand and sea and surf and sea grass — so exotic and ageless.

  And then I really did hear an ATV coming my way. Had I been in the big city all alone in a deserted lighthouse I would have been on my guard, but this was Spaniel Island; what could happen here? Then I remembered Stacey…. The ATV grew silent and so did I. There was a long scraping noise, followed by the bang of a closing door. The lighthouse door.

  I went to the window and looked out. I couldn’t see anyone but I yelled out to let them know I was in the lighthouse. No one stepped back to look up at me. I heard an ATV cough to life. Why would anyone come to the lighthouse for the sole purpose of closing the door? I stood and scanned the area and saw nothing. Curious, I headed back down the stairs, thinking I smelled smoke. And then my heart went in my throat as I thought about the rusty lock and whether it worked or not. But I figured I was getting ahead of myself, as I always seem to do, so I ignored all my inner negative voices and continued down the stairs. The smell of smoke was getting stronger, and by the time I reached the door it was getting hard to breathe. The barrel was on fire, exuding a thick, black, choking smoke. I skirted the fire and went for the door, wary all the time of the rattlesnake. I grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing. I tried using both hands. Nothing. I checked the state of the hinges. Desperately I looked around for something to fight the fire with — a fire extinguisher would have been good — but there was nothing. I was trapped.

  I went back up to the top of the lighthouse to look for would-be rescuers but there was no one. I was on my own. And that’s when I remembered the vine. How hard would that be? I peered out the bank of windows at the catwalk and decided that thinking about it was not going to do me any good. So I wrestled the little d
oor to the catwalk open and gingerly stepped out. Pieces of the floor were missing and I could look right down to the ground, one hundred feet away. It was a dizzying distance but I blocked it out and kept walking, testing my footing at each step, to the place where the vine was. When I reached it it looked kind of puny, but I could see fire shooting out from the door off to my left. The vine had travelled up the lighthouse and wended its way around and out of sight. I took the vine in my hand and tested it. It was thick, about the size of a tennis racquet handle, and it seemed pretty solid. I knew if I thought anymore about it I would lose my nerve. I grabbed the vine in both hands and lowered myself off the ledge. I inched my way over and down, never once looking where I was going. I got into a rhythm, a Zen-like state where the only things that existed were me, the vine, and the lighthouse. And my aching arms. And then it happened. The vine let go; in slow motion it peeled itself and me from the side of the lighthouse and gently descended to earth so that I landed with the same force as a parachutist, rolling to blunt the fall. I lay there on the ground for a while, wondering who had locked me in and why. A loud yell made me look up to see Darcy and Sam on top of what looked like an improvised fire truck — a pickup with a giant water container. Trevor was at the wheel and I watched him manoeuvre the truck close to the lighthouse. I didn’t feel much like helping and they didn’t know I had almost been killed. I figured I’d keep it that way.

  It took them awhile to put out the fire but they managed it, in part because there wasn’t any wood inside except for what was in the barrel and the door. It seemed a shame that the door had been destroyed. For all I knew it was the original.

  They asked me what had happened but I said I didn’t know. They didn’t press and I left to find my ATV and go back to the relative safety of the research station. I was unnerved by what had just happened to me — could it have been an accident? Not a chance.

  chapter thirteen

  Jayne’s ATV was sitting where I left it, minus a whole lot of air from one of the tires. As I got closer I could tell it had been slashed and I felt this creepy little chill go down my spine. What the hell was going on? It could be a case of mistaken identity. Whoever was after me might have thought I was Jayne. But why would anyone be after Jayne? I kicked the tire hard — it felt good to do something so useless — and then I headed back up in search of help. Sam and Darcy were gone but Trevor’s truck was still in front of the lighthouse. I could see him leaning against it, having a death-defying smoke.

  “All out?” I asked.

  “Yeah. But if it had been my call I would have let it burn.”

  “But it’s a historic building,” I said.

  “Exactly. People latch onto anything historical, throwing money and time at these albatrosses. They’re sieves for money that should go elsewhere. Look at the thing. It’s falling apart. It should be left to die a dignified death. Now it’s just a death trap.”

  I looked at him quickly — could he have locked me in? — but he was idly contemplating his smelly cigarette.

  “I need a ride back to the research station, if you can give me one.”

  “Where’s your ride?”

  “Flat tire.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  He reached into the truck and pulled out a small bag. I led him back to Jayne’s ATV.

  He let out a long, low whistle. “Jesus. Who did that?” he asked. He went up and kicked the tire. “Can’t fix this. You’ll need a whole new tire.” He stood back and looked at the tire as if that would fix it, then said, “Hey, this is Jayne’s vehicle.”

  “She lent it to me this morning.” I watched him closely as he rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “Why would anyone want to do that to her ATV?”

  “Does Jayne have any enemies?”

  “Yeah. Me. But I wasn’t anywhere near here.” At least he was honest.

  It dawned on him that I might misconstrue his remarks, and he added hurriedly, “I’d never do something like that, not in a million years.”

  What about two million, I thought uncharitably. Out loud I asked, “Why do you say you are Jayne’s enemy?”

  “She’s a fucking enviro nut job. All living things are more important to her than humans. She’ll save the life of a single turtle even if it means sending a child to bed hungry.”

  “And is that what she did?”

  “What?”

  “Send a child to bed hungry.”

  “Damn right she did and the child was mine!” He flicked his cigarette on the ground and stomped on it.

  “I’m a shrimper, or I was until Jayne and Stacey came along moaning about the poor little sea turtles. They’re the kind of bleeding hearts who were responsible for the TEDs and now the observers. It’s harder and harder to make a living and the rules just get more and more ridiculous. I was hoping my kids would take over the boat when I retire, but there’s nothing there for them.”

  What do you say to a man whose livelihood is threatened by conservation? Go find another job? Take it on the chin for the rest of humanity? There are no easy answers, just easy scapegoats.

  “Stacey and Jayne worked on sea turtles together?”

  “It was the only thing they ever agreed on, as far as I know. Both gaga over the creatures. I tell you it is not healthy when grown women take the side of a marine animal over the livelihoods of shrimpers. It’s criminal.”

  “How do you save them then?” I asked and immediately regretted it.

  “You don’t,” he said. I thought about all the good arguments to save creatures like sea turtles, the diversity of life, the potential cures for diseases, the esthetics, but I knew he wouldn’t listen to me.

  “What was their involvement?”

  “Well, Jayne does research and both of them did letter-writing campaigns and things like that. Stacey went to bat for the observer program without ever asking shrimpers what it might be like to have landlubbers on their boats.”

  “I understand Stacey is head of that program now?”

  “She made our lives miserable, always pushing for more and more observers. That and her fucking brother, always trying to win me over to the cause. Spies, that’s all those observers are, and it makes us feel like scum to be treated like suspects. And Stacey was the worst, the most vocal, the most emotional, and the most vindictive in her dealings with us. Jayne was an angel compared to Stacey.”

  “Sounds like she made a lot of enemies.”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “Is a sea turtle worth dying for?”

  “Stacey seemed to think it was.”

  “And you?”

  He smiled then and said, “If you are insinuating that I killed Stacey over a sea turtle then you are delusional.”

  “And if you killed Stacey so your children would not go to bed hungry?”

  He stared at me hard and then turned and walked away.

  So much for my ride.

  I decided to walk back along the beach and skirted the lighthouse to get there. It still looked the same but I caught the whiff of the dank, acrid smoke that had chased me up to the catwalk. I wondered if Trevor could hate Jayne enough to do such a thing.

  Judging by the sun and the heat it was around noon. I walked through a series of undulating dunes, some the size of a small car and others the size of a tractor. This was the north end of the island where the wind wandered through the dunes with reckless abandon, shaping them, shifting them, and sometimes obliterating them. There was no time for a little grass seedling to take hold, so they were naked and highly vulnerable to erosion. This particular barrier island was being eaten by the wind at the north end and built up by the wind at the south end. An island in a constant state of flux — sort of like me.

  I broke out of the dunes and the beach lay before me, a white band of sand. Below the high-tide mark was a black band of compact sand, as hard as a road and as wide as a four-lane highway on a bit of a tilt. The waves were pounding in and I wondered when it would
ever let up. All that power crashing on the beach and dissipating. I wondered how many people had ever thought to harness the surf.

  I hiked along the wave line for a while but there wasn’t much being kicked up. A few shells, a dead horseshoe crab, and a dead seagull were about it. I headed back up above the high-tide mark thinking there would be better pickings, when I heard a putt putt and turned to look behind me. The sun was in my eyes and it wasn’t until the Land Rover had come up alongside me that I realized it was Sam. I eyeballed the Land Rover — a series II — and realized it must be one of a very few trucks on the island. Most of the vehicles were ATVs.

  Sam killed the motor but the sound of the surf had him yelling at me to be heard. “Trevor told me you needed a lift,” he said. I was surprised. I hadn’t expected that of Trevor. And where had Sam got himself another ride?

  I accepted the ride because it was a chance to talk to Sam. He flapped his hand in the direction of the passenger seat and I clambered in as he moved some of his batting equipment out of the way.

  We drove along the hard-packed sand, leaving barely a trace of our passage. Sam pointed at something up ahead. The tide was going out and the waves had withdrawn, leaving behind a dark object that rolled and tumbled with each passing wave. Sam drove up and circled it — a dead sea turtle. The shell was massive and was carved up by something sharp, the marks cutting across the shell seemingly at random. The enormous head was badly disfigured.