by Susie Gayle
Be honest; if this was your life, wouldn’t you need a vacation too?
Luckily I don’t have to dwell on it for long, because halfway to the restaurant Sarah turns on the radio and starts belting out the lyrics to the latest chart topper. She’s a woman of many talents, but singing is not one of them; she couldn’t carry a tune if I gave her a bucket.
But that’s okay, neither can I, so I join her and, with the windows down and the radio up, we announce our arrival to Angler Cove.
***
“Oh my god, I’m stuffed.” Sarah leans back in her seat and sighs happily. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Me, neither,” I agree. The place is small, about a dozen tables in a modest dining room ornamented with décor from Mexican culture. From the adjacent kitchen, I can hear the telltale sound of fajitas sizzling, which is what got me into this state in the first place.
As if on cue, our waiter comes by with a smile and his hands clasped in front of him. He is a short man, a few years younger than me, with a tidy moustache and deeply tanned skin.
“Can I interest you in any dessert?” he asks pleasantly, with just the slightest hint of an accent.
“Absolutely not,” Sarah tells him. “Everything was wonderful, though. Please tell the chef we said so.”
Despite his tan, the man blushes and nods to us. “Well, thank you. I aim to please.”
“You’re our waiter and the chef?” I ask him.
“You could say I wear many hats.” He chuckles softly, probably because at the moment, his head is entirely hat-less. “My name is Diego. This is my restaurant.”
Sarah and I glance at each other, impressed. That kind of small-town hospitality is what we’re accustomed to, so getting it elsewhere is always a pleasant surprise.
“May I ask where you are staying?” Diego asks.
I can’t help but laugh a little at that. “Is it that obvious we’re tourists?”
Diego smiles. “No, no, it’s just that Angler Cove is a fairly small town. I’ve lived here for nearly twenty years, so I know just about everyone. I don’t know you, so I assume you’re not from around here.”
“You’re not wrong,” Sarah tells him. “We’re from Maine. We’re staying at the Estes’ beach house.”
“Ah, the Estes family!” Diego beams. “Mario is one of my best customers whenever he and his family come to town, but I have not seen him in at least two years now, I think. How is he?”
Sarah and I glance at each other again. She shifts uncomfortably. Diego must pick up on our vibe, because his broad smile disappears.
“He, um…” I clear my throat. “He passed away last week. Sorry to have to tell you.”
“I see,” Diego says quietly. “That is most unfortunate. He was a very nice man.”
An awkward silence hangs over our table like a fog, until Sarah pipes up. “His granddaughter, Anna, inherited the beach house. She’s letting us stay there this week.”
“Yes, I remember Anna,” he says thoughtfully. “She hasn’t been around here since she was a little girl. But by now she must be a young woman.” He claps his hands and motions to our empty margarita glasses. “Another round, on the house, for my new friends. What do you say?”
I shrug. I’m not normally a margarita guy, but when in Rome, right? “I wouldn’t say no to that. Thank you, Diego.”
“My pleasure. I know you will want to see the sights and explore, but I do hope you come back to visit me again while you’re here.”
Authentic food? Free drinks? How could we not? Of course, I don’t say that; I just nod and tell him, “We will.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
The next morning I wake to the feeling of someone rubbing low-grit sandpaper on my nose. When I open my eyes, Basket is standing on my pillow and licking my face.
“Alright, I’m up,” I groan. “Sheesh. I see Rowdy is passing along some of his more endearing habits.”
For a brief moment, I forget where I am; waking up in surroundings you’re not quite used to can be a little disorienting. I gain my bearings before I realize that Sarah is already up somewhere, so I drag myself out of bed and find her on the small balcony off the kitchen.
“Hey, good morning,” I greet her with a yawn.
“You must have slept well,” she notes. “It’s almost ten.”
“Seriously? Wow.” I can’t remember the last time I slept that late. “Where’s Rowdy?”
She points out and downward, toward the beach. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.” As she heads in, I peer down to see my dog digging yet another massive hole in the sand. I shake my head; dogs will be dogs, but I’ve already had to fill in three holes yesterday alone. Looks like I’ll be filling in at least one more.
“Come on, Rowdy,” I call down to him. “There’s got to be a better way to entertain yourself than that.” He looks up at me briefly, cocks his head, and immediately resumes his quest to the center of the earth, sand flying from between his paws with each swipe. He’s got to be at least a few feet deep already.
“Eh, whatever,” I mutter. I head inside, graciously accept a cup of coffee from Sarah, and then suggest we join Rowdy on the beach. Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em, right?
I forego shoes and dig my naked toes into the sand. Despite the early hour, it’s already warm and inviting. Sarah laughs at Rowdy while I meander down to the surf, letting the water wash up around my feet, the chill of it doing as good a job at waking me as the caffeine.
“It’s so nice here,” I say to no one. Seaview Rock has always been my home. I was born there, raised there, and I’ve never even considered living anywhere else. Yet being here in this peaceful place, unencumbered by town politics and complex relationships, gives me pause. Would it be so bad to try out somewhere new? Of course it wouldn’t always feel like vacation, but a change of scenery might be nice. Could I do that? Just pick up and go, take Sarah and Rowdy and Basket and relocate?
“No,” I tell myself. “You know you couldn’t.” I’d have to close the shop. Make new friends. Start all over, at thirty-seven. I sigh. While I’m here, I’ll enjoy myself. Then it’s back to reality.
As I head back up the beach toward the house, I see Rowdy dashing through the sand with an object in his mouth, something about a foot and a half long and brownish in color.
“Sarah,” I call out, “what does he have in his mouth?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “He found it in his hole and he won’t let me have it.”
“Rowdy,” I scold. “Drop it.” He fakes left and right, his head close to the sand and his butt in the air like we’re playing a game. “I’m not playing, Rowdy. Come on now; drop it.” He tucks his tail and drops the object in the sand dejectedly. “Good boy. We have tennis balls for that, not beach garbage.”
Sarah picks up the object and turns it over in her hand. As I’m walking toward her, she suddenly flings it away, spilling her coffee as she does.
“Oh, god,” she gasps.
“What? What is it?”
“Will…” She turns to me, her eyes wide. Despite spending most of yesterday in the sun, all the color has drained from her face.
“What?”
“I don’t know for sure… but I’m pretty certain that is a human bone.”
***
About twenty minutes later, a police cruiser pulls up the gravel road leading to the Estes vacation home.
We didn’t immediately call the police after Sarah’s realization. First I sent her inside to wash her hands and try to calm herself (she had, after all, touched the thing) while I grabbed a paper towel and carefully used it to pick up the bone from where she’d flung it. I took a good look at it. I know animals, but anatomy was never my best subject. Even so, I really hoped that it came from a horse or cow.
I dropped it back in the hole where it was found, figuring it was best to leave it
lay for now, and was dismayed (and a little sick to my stomach) to see that Rowdy’s digging endeavor had unearthed the ends of a few other bones, too.
A skeleton.
I promptly brought Rowdy inside and called the police. It seemed like the only thing to do; best-case scenario, it’s a false alarm and the local PD gets a good laugh at our expense.
Worst-case… well, I don’t think I need to say it.
The two officers that come to the house are both male, tall, and as I meet them in the gravel driveway, I’m surprised to see that they look alike.
Exactly alike. Twins.
“Hello, sir,” says the one on the left. “I’m Officer Heathrow…”
“…And I’m also Officer Heathrow,” says the other.
“I gathered that,” I mutter.
“Are you Mr. Sullivan? You called about a… bone?”
I nod. “Let me show you.” I lead them down past the house to the beach. The hole that Rowdy dug is about halfway between the surf and where the gravel driveway begins. I point down into it. “It’s in there. It looks like there are others, too.”
One of the officers pulls on a pair of latex gloves and, with his brother’s help, lowers himself down into the hole. I can’t help but be impressed by Rowdy’s tenacity; his hole is about three feet wide and almost four feet deep. He must have been at it for well over an hour before I even woke up. Looking at one wall of the hole, I can see where the dry top layer gives way to darker, moist sand, and then to dirt, and finally, reddish clay at the very bottom.
The officer carefully picks up the bone and turns it in his hands. The other crouches at the edge of the hole, looking down.
“What’s that look like to you, Roger?” asks the one in the hole.
“Well, Rory,” the one called Roger says, squinting, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s a human tibia.”
“Yup, that’s what I was afraid of.” The one called Rory sighs. “Alright, help me out of here. I don’t want to go mucking anything up… oh, wait a sec.” He leans over and pinches two fingers over something—a small corner of black fabric sticking out of the dirt at an angle. “What’s this now?”
Rory Heathrow tugs at the fabric until it pulls loose from the dirt. I look away for a moment, afraid of what he might pull out. I notice Sarah watching from the balcony above us, one hand over her mouth.
But then the officer says, “Looks like a bag… like a little purse, I think.” I hazard a glance as Rory brushes dirt from a small rectangle of black leather—a clutch. He unzips the top of it and reaches inside. He pulls out a small bundle of plastic cards.
“Well, I’ll be,” Rory says softly, rifling through them.
“What is it?”
“Roger, we’re going to have to get some people on the horn. Looks like this gentleman just found Julia Weatherby.”
CHAPTER 5
* * *
Two hours go by before we get any answers. The two officers ask us to stay inside and just keep out of the way for now, but two things are certain. One: we just found a body. And two…
“This is the worst vacation ever,” I mutter to Sarah.
“Oh, come on now,” Sarah placates. “Are we really going to let a little thing like this ruin our whole week?”
“A little thing? We just found a human skeleton!” I point to Rowdy, lying on a sofa. “This is your fault, you and that nose of yours. You smelled it down there, didn’t you?”
Rowdy whines a little and puts a paw over his face.
“I bet the Estes’ have a board game or a deck of cards around here,” Sarah suggests. “How about we sit with a glass of wine and relax?”
I shake my head. “I want to see what’s going on.” I open the French doors to the balcony. “Technically I’m out of the way, right?”
Shortly after we were told to stay inside, a cadre of personnel showed up at the beach house. I’m talking no fewer than six police officers, a medical examiner, and an excavation crew—a dozen people crowding what was supposed to be our own private little beach.
From my place on the balcony, I can see that the police have driven wooden stakes into the sand and stretched yellow caution tape between them. The ME and coroner stand near the hole with a tarp laid out, carefully arranging each bone that the excavation crew finds as they carefully and slowly expand the hole, which is now easily eight feet in diameter.
I sigh. So much for sunbathing.
“I found playing cards,” Sarah announces behind me. “How about some rummy?”
***
Another hour goes by before the pair of first-responders, Roger and Rory Heathrow, knock gently on the door to the beach house. Rowdy lets out a low growl, but I put a hand up to silence him as I let them in.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, folks,” says one of them (I’m not sure which). “I understand this is your vacation.”
“It was,” I mutter.
“We just want you to assure that you are not suspects in this in any way whatsoever,” says the other. “But we do have to ask you a few questions, and then we’d like to look around the house, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” Sarah answers on my grumpy behalf. “Anything you need.”
They ask the usual stuff—who we are, why we’re here, how we got here, when we got here—before we get to the part about actually finding the bones. They both raise an eyebrow in unison when I tell them that Rowdy was the one to dig the hole. I decide to leave out the part about how it’s not the first time my dog has found a body.
They spend about twenty minutes poking around the small beach house before, apparently satisfied, they rejoin us in the dining room, where Sarah and I sit.
“Okay, folks, thanks for your cooperation. We appreciate it,” says one of the twins.
“Now for the bad news,” says the other.
“We’re afraid you can’t stay here while we’re investigating,” says the first.
“What?” I exclaim, rising from my chair. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re going to have to dig up this whole stretch of beach,” the one on the right tells us. “To do that, we’ll need some heavier machinery. I mean, I guess you could stay in the house if you want, but you’re not going to enjoy it much with all that noise.”
“Best bet would be for you to check into a hotel, at least for a night or two, until we let you know you can come back,” the first one says.
“If you can come back,” the second says.
“Right, if you can come back.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to get a grip on what they’re telling us. “We found the body. Your guys dug it up. Why do you have to tear up the rest of the beach?”
One of the twins looks at the other, who grimaces before he looks at me. “Well… to find the other body.”
“Other body?” Now Sarah’s standing too.
“We have reason to believe there’s another somewhere, probably close by. Now, there’s a really nice little motel on the other side of town. I’ll give ‘em a call, and make sure they give you the best rate they can—”
“Hold up,” Sarah interrupts. “This is a real problem for us, so I think we deserve some answers.” Apparently the notion of being kicked out of the beach house has brought her down to my grumpy level.
The officers look at each other, and then back at us. “You’re right. Okay. About three years ago now… is that right, Roger?”
“Yeah, ‘bout three years ago,” Roger confirms.
“A woman went missing,” Rory continues. “Her name was Julia Weatherby. She left a note, saying that she was running off with her lover, a fellow named…”
“Victor,” says Roger.
“Yeah, Victor,” Rory agrees. “She and Victor ran off together. They packed up, cleaned out her bank accounts, left a note, and took off. Nobody ever heard from them again. Julia’s sister filed a missing person report; she wanted to fin
d her. We looked…”
“Yeah, we looked, even got the state police involved,” Roger chimes in.
“But on account of the note, and packing up and all that, there was only so much the authorities were willing to do. It looked like Julia and Victor didn’t want to be found.”
“Until today,” Roger says quietly, staring at the floor.
“Right,” Rory says. “I guess they never really left.”
“Your dog found Julia,” says Roger. “But we still need to find Victor.”
“What did the coroner say?” Sarah asks, half-demandingly. I fold my arms over my chest, symbolically backing her up and at the same time impressed with her assertiveness.
“Sorry, but we can’t share any of that,” Roger says. “Cold case or not, this is now an all-new investigation.”
“Well, the reason I ask,” Sarah tells them, “is because maybe you won’t find Victor in the sand. Maybe Victor was the one that killed and buried Julia.”
The two officers look at each other quizzically. “Now that’s interesting,” Roger says.
“That is interesting,” Rory agrees. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
CHAPTER 6
* * *
The motel is sea-themed, the walls painted in pastel colors and adorned in shadow-boxes holding seashells and sand dollars and starfish and the like. It’s clean, smells nice, and not only did the very genial owner comp us our first night on account of our troubles, she also let us keep Rowdy and Basket in the room, despite their “no pets” policy.
But it’s not on the beach, and it’s not a private beach house, so naturally, I hate it.
“Maybe we should just go home,” I grumble as we drop our bags on the floor near the bed.
“Maybe you should stop being such a sourpuss,” Sarah suggests. “Come on, let’s take the boys for a walk and just clear our heads, okay?”