“What leads you to believe this happened last night?”
Rubbing the heel of my hand over my eyes, I pinched my temples. “Because she was still dressed up. She had on a cute outfit, matching shoes and purse. Makeup, too. She doesn’t normally wear makeup at the library. In fact, I know she doesn’t because I was forever green with jealousy over her gorgeously creamy skin. So it had to be after she left Officer Nelson and their date. Also, she was stiff… I think I read somewhere rigor mortis sets in around twelve hours after…after death. Or maybe it was two to six. I can’t remember.”
I blew out a breath. It was one thing to read facts like that on the Internet, but another entirely to attribute them to something you’d actually witnessed.
Win cleared his throat, and I knew exactly where he was headed, but I didn’t try to stop him because I knew we had to explore this avenue, even though this avenue was a dead end. I knew it in my heart.
“Their date…” Win said, caution in his tone. “Do you suppose something went horribly awry?”
“Like maybe he popped the question and she said no?”
“Yes,” was Win’s reluctant answer.
I crossed my arms over my chest and emphatically shook my head. “Uh, nope. I sure don’t. You can theorize all you want, do it until you’re blue in the face, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Arizona Dana Nelson hurt Sophia Fleming. Whether she said no to his question or not. A question we don’t even know he asked.”
“Good enough. Now, do you think she was killed on sight, or brought there afterward?”
I stuck the tip of my pen in my mouth and considered that. “You know, that’s a steep decline, and while Sophia was petite, it’s still a haul to carry a limp body down our rickety stairs to get to the boat, if the killer did it somewhere else. Unless the killer works out—a lot. I didn’t note any scuffle, but I imagine a scuffle would be pretty hard to see with the tide washing it away. Which makes the beach a pretty perfect place to dump a body. Also, why would she go back to the beach after her date with Dana anyway?”
“No one said she went back, Dove. Maybe she never left…”
Again, I shook my head. Dana was many things, a PITA among them because he was so by the book; he’d prevented me from snooping when I’d been wrapped up in Madam Zoltar’s murder—and Tito’s, too. But a killer he ain’t.
“Sorry, Spy Guy, but that’s a no go. No way Dana had anything to do with it. So let’s mark the origin of the murder as unknown for now and come back to it.”
“Okay, so a robbery gone wrong?”
“There’s always that,” I agreed on a nod. “Maybe she had cash on her? Or some valuable jewelry. But if robbery was the motive, why was her credit card, or maybe it was a debit card, still in her purse? I saw it on the ground when it spilled.”
“Let’s move on to something else. Like placement of the body. Anything to suggest this was a ritual killing? Anything significant at all that stands out?”
My eyes grew grainier by the second as I squinted into the kitchen and thought. “You mean like a serial killing? I guess anything’s possible, but I didn’t see anything suggesting there was a ritual to the technique. But then what do I know? It simply looked like someone placed her back in the boat. In fact, if I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t seen the gunshot wound, I’d have thought she was napping, she was set there so carefully. Her shoes were still on, her hair was mussed but there could be several reasons for that. The wind at the beach, or maybe a little snuggling with Officer Nelson… Her clothes weren’t in disarray at all.”
“Her purse? How did Whiskey come upon her purse, Bel?”
“It was right there on the ground by the boat, Winterbutt. She must’ve had it in her hand or something just before…well, you know. It was right next to the boat in the sand. Big guy here got to it before I had the chance to,” he said with a tiny tremor against my neck.
“Which leads us to the contents of the purse. What did you see aside from the credit card?” Win coaxed.
“Lipstick, a drugstore brand I’ve seen before. Like I said earlier, credit or debit card, can’t be sure, but it definitely had her name on it, keys and… Oh! I forgot!” I shouted, that tingle of mine kicking into high gear. I’d forgotten about the postcard and what was written on the back. “There was a postcard. One that came from Madam Zoltar’s.”
“Did she write something on it, Stevie?”
The words I’d read had more impact now than they had when I’d first read them, knowing almost certainly they were Sophia’s. I had to swallow hard to get the words out.
Leaning forward, resting my head in my hands, I nodded, feeling worse than I had just moments ago, if that were possible. “It wasn’t signed, but there was definitely a message. If that was Sophia’s postcard, it makes sense, I suppose.”
“What she’d write, Boss?” Bel asked.
My throat grew tight as I recalled the words and repeated them out loud. “I think I found the one. Wish you were here. Love you to the moon and back.”
Chapter 4
We all sat silently for a moment as we digested the words. The one. If that postcard had indeed been Sophia’s, she’d called someone the one.
“Do you think the one meant Officer Nelson?” I finally asked, breaking out of my thoughts.
“If he was as serious about her as he appeared, and certainly she was incredibly fond of him, if what I witnessed was real, the possibility is there.”
“Why wouldn’t she just call or text that to whoever she was sending the postcard to, then? There wasn’t an address on it. It wasn’t even signed. Maybe it wasn’t hers at all…”
But Win had more theories. “Maybe she has a friend who collects postcards? She was newish in town, right? No family that we know of. It read, ‘love you to the moon and back.’ That certainly suggests a very close relationship, possibly a parent or sibling, wouldn’t you think? In fact, my mother used to say that to me when I was a child.”
I made a note to ask Liza if she’d sold Sophia any postcards. It had to have been her. For sure it hadn’t been me, and I couldn’t think of anyone else in town who sold that particular postcard, because they were from a local artist who stocked at our store exclusively.
“What made her move here, I wonder? Did you ever hear Sophia say where she’s from, Win? Like maybe in a passing conversation or something?”
The sound of Win clucking his tongue clacked in my ear. “Never. In fact, I don’t recall her ever mentioning any family at all, do you?”
“Come to think of it, no. But we didn’t have in-depth conversations. We chatted about stuff, you know? The weather. My overdue books and the fees that went with them. The end-of-summer fair coming up this month. Our favorite flavor of coffee. Just stuff-stuff.”
Now I regretted not making a bigger effort to befriend Sophia on a more personal level. Win thought it crucial I make more connections with my fellow Eb Fall-ers. He was always teasing me about how I was going to turn into the town spinster—especially considering I was often caught talking to what outwardly appeared myself.
“Google, Boss,” Bel reminded. “Get on the web and surf.”
Nodding, I went to grab my laptop just as the doorbell rang. I think I’ve said this before, but I’m not a fan of my front door as of late.
Not because it isn’t beautifully refinished courtesy of Enzo, the man who’d turned this monstrosity into a veritable palace, but because nothing good ever seems to be on the other side. Once, there’d been a killer—no, make that twice—and then there was Fakebottom. I consider those three strikes a sign from the universe that I shouldn’t ever have a front door, or at the very least, I should stop answering the doorbell.
With caution and much trepidation, I called out, “Who is it?”
“Officer—I mean, Dana. It’s Dana Nelson.”
My heart crashed inside my chest with a thump that physically hurt. His voice sounded raw, hoarse, as though he’d walked a hundred miles under the blazin
g heat of an African sun.
I yanked the door open to find his face ashen and pale under normally ruddy skin, his eyes dull, his body language, well…broken, defeated.
He was still in his uniform, even hours after I’d found Sophia, but it wasn’t in the pristine condition I’m so accustomed to seeing. There were patches of dirt on his knees where’d he sunk into the sand by the boat and sweat stains under his armpits and around his collar. His chestnut hair was windblown rather than slicked back away from his face, and his brow was covered in beads of sweat.
“Dana! Come in, please. Get out of that heat,” I croaked, choking up all over again as a hot blast of air greeted me. Even at almost seven in the evening, it was muggy and thick out there.
When Dana didn’t make a move, I grabbed his big hand and tugged him inside, shutting the door behind him to block out the sun. I clung to his fingers, but he didn’t cling back. In fact, he was almost unresponsive to my touch.
“He’s still in shock, Stevie. Bring him to the kitchen and get him a cool cloth and ice water,” Win instructed.
So I pulled him along behind me, my chest aching in tune with my heart. He let me lead him to the kitchen as though he were a small child. As I positioned him over a chair, he collapsed into it with wobbly legs.
“Just sit and I’ll get you something cool to drink and a cold pack. Don’t move,” I ordered with a shake of a stern finger, but I don’t think it mattered. He had no plans to go anywhere at this point.
As I ran to the fridge, I plucked Bel from under the lapel of my shirt and set him inside my purse, where I tucked him safely into a napkin, out of sight.
Whiskey made his way to Dana’s feet and promptly plunked down at them, letting his chin rest on the edge of his dusty shoes. I tried to think of what I was going to say, if I should ask why he was here, but I kept coming up dry.
I’m usually pretty good in times of crisis. I had been a 9-1-1 operator, after all. But this was closer to home than usual and nothing felt right. All the words I thought up felt trivial, overdone.
So I brought him the cold pack and a tall glass of ice water without speaking a word, setting them in front of him.
But he only stared at them blankly, so I physically put the cold pack in his hand. “Put that to the back of your neck, Dana. It’ll help cool you, and you need to hydrate. Drink up, okay? Please?” I asked, peering at him.
He did as I instructed, but still said nothing—until he looked toward the counter where I’d begun that list. “I should have known,” he grumbled, his voice broken and scratchy.
“Known what?”
Pointing to the counter, he motioned toward my list. “That you’d already have your nose buried ten feet deep in this.”
I cringed, instant guilt washing over me. “I’m sorry. It’s just what I…”
“Do,” he whispered. “It’s what you do, Stevie. It’s why I’m here.” Lifting a shaky hand, he drank some of the water, his grip tight on the glass, as though he needed something tangible to hold on to.
“I don’t understand. Tell me what I can do to help you through this, Dana.”
“Help me find the son of a…the monster who killed her. That’s how you can help,” he said with an eerily hushed tone.
But I sat back and shook my head, tears springing to my eyes again. “You’re in no condition to talk about this now, Dana. Let me take you home, huh? I didn’t see your car out there. I’ll drive you. You can take a shower. I’ll call Sandwich, he’ll come over. We’ll have something to eat together. We’ll stay as long as you need us to, okay?”
Suddenly, Dana was fully animated. He slammed his fist on the table, the water sloshing in his glass from the force, and barked, “No! I need your help, Stevie. I need you to help me now!”
“I’m going to have Bel slip upstairs and call Sandwich, Dove. He’s clearly overwhelmed and in no shape to get home on his own. More support is necessary. Just keep him calm,” Win said before the warmth of his voice in my ear dissipated.
I held up my hands before I placed them on his arm. “Okay. I’ll help you. Promise. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. But I’ll only help you if you promise you’ll drink more water and maybe even eat something. Deal?”
His chuckle was ironic and surprising all at once. He was in that light-switch stage of grief where his emotions were on and off in the blink of an eye.
“We’ve made deals like this before, haven’t we, Miss Cartwright?”
I relaxed a little, letting go of his arm and sitting back in my chair. “Yeah,” I whispered back, remembering the last deal we’d cut, when he’d let me snoop to my heart’s content after my favorite taco vendor, Tito, had been killed. “Yeah, we have. But this time is different, Officer Nelson.”
Dana closed his eyes and swallowed, the effort visible. “I don’t understand why…who?”
I rose from the table and went to the fridge to find something to fix him a sandwich. I was itching to ask him questions about what happened between them last night. Now, I’m well aware I’m a rambler. I can talk circles around most people in order to get what I want. I’m good at confusion and chaos. Just ask Sandwich what I’m like when I want an answer only the police are privy to.
But I also, ironically, have a gauge, and I’d never trample all over someone’s feelings to get that information. I knew the longer we waited, the more time Sophia’s killer was free, but I could live without involving Officer Nelson and his raw heart in order to figure this out. I’d just work around him.
So I stuck my head inside our fridge and looked for the sliced cheddar. “I don’t either, Dana.” Dragging out some tomatoes fresh from our garden, and the cheese and mayo, I rustled up some thick slices of turkey Enzo’s wife, Carmella, had dropped off earlier today, making a hearty sandwich.
When the doorbell rang again, Win assured me it was Sandwich. I set the plate in front of Dana and patted his shoulder, encouraging him to eat before I went to the door and let Sandwich in.
Sandwich looked as tired as Dana. His uniform was also sweat-stained, his eyes bleary, his face solemn as he stepped over our threshold, his bulky body filling the entryway.
He hitched his jaw toward the kitchen where Dana sat, toying with his food. “Your virtual assistant called and said he was here. Didn’t know you had a virtual assistant. Belfry, is it? Crazy name.”
I gave him a brief smile. We’d created a virtual-assistant-from-Connecticut label for Belfry, so he could help with the day-to-day running of Madam Z’s, among a million other things. “Bel just makes things much easier on me when it comes to juggling Madam Zoltar’s. He handles all the social media and such.”
Sandwich let his eyes skim over the top of my head to the kitchen where Dana sat. “How is he?”
“Crappy. Gosh, Sandwich, I’ve never seen him look like this. I know I haven’t known him as long as you, but he’s torn up.”
“Yep. He loved her for sure. Can’t say as I blame him. Nice girl, she was. Daggone shame is what today was.”
“Any news? Any new developments?” I asked hopefully, but not because I couldn’t wait to dig into this mystery. Not at all. I just wanted anything that might help Dana feel better.
Sandwich’s face deflated. “Nah. I couldn’t tell you even if there was. You know that.”
“I know. I wasn’t asking because I want a hot tip. I was asking because I’m worried about Officer Nelson.” I left it at that as I patted him on the arm and motioned for him to make his way into the kitchen.
Sandwich approached with care, gripping Dana’s shoulder before taking a place at the kitchen table. I decided to make him a sandwich, too, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do.
I watched from the counter as Sandwich peered at his fellow officer and friend, his eyes rich with concern. “Stupid question comin’ at ya, but are you okay, pal? I mean, you have it together enough now?”
Meaning he’d lost it again after the beach? Goddess, he was a wreck.
Dana looked
up then, staring directly at Sandwich. “No. I’m not okay, but I’m more together than I was,” he cleared his throat, “uh…earlier.”
Setting a plate in front of Sandwich, I slid into a chair between the two of them and folded my hands, waiting. I wasn’t sure where to go from here.
The sun was beginning to fade, leaving the purply-orange twilight of the approaching evening, and time was wasting. I didn’t want to upset Dana, but I did want to keep working on that list while the details were still fresh in my mind.
“So what brought ya to Stevie’s, buddy?” Sandwich asked, nodding his thanks for the plate of food.
“She brought me here,” he offered, wooden and short.
Sandwich looked to me, his eyes suspicious and accusatory. I knew that look. It said, “Nosy Stevie can’t even let a guy grieve before she’s sticking her face in the middle of things because she loves a good mystery.”
“No-no-no. I didn’t bring him here, Sandwich. Give me some credit, would you? How’d I get such a bad rap with you? Yeah, I’m nosy. Yes, I’m pushy, but I’m not some insensitive ogre, eating the flesh from the bones of my victims. Officer Nelson came to me.”
Sandwich didn’t look like he believed me, but he looked at Dana and gave him a brief smile of sympathy. “Why don’t you let me take you home when we finish eating, D? We’ll get you a shower, maybe a beer, yeah?”
But Dana shook his mussed head full of hair. “I don’t want a shower or a beer, and I don’t want to go home, Lyn. I need Stevie.”
How I’d suddenly become the object of his fixation was beyond me. Clearly he wasn’t thinking rationally. “You mean me, Stevie? Stevie Cartwright, the woman who drives you up the proverbial wall with all her questions and her amateur, bumbling, dare I say, full-blown chaotic sleuthing, Stevie? Surely you’re flush with fever,” I teased, because I needed to lighten up this conversation. I didn’t understand where he was going with this.
“But I do mean you, Miss Cartwright,” he reiterated with a hint of determination to his voice, sounding more like the Officer Nelson I knew and had grown to maybe not love, but appreciate.
The Old Witcheroo Page 4