“Huh,” Mitch grunted.
“I’ll do that,” Brenna said and hurried out of the shop. She found the same debate raging at the post office and the grocery store.
When she stopped by the library to return her books and scan the new book rack, she overheard the head librarian, Lillian Page, talking to Roger Chisholm, the president of the local historic preservation society.
“I do have a book about the history of Morse Point that includes the cabins,” she was saying.
Brenna’s ears perked up. She had no doubt that they were talking about her cabins. She picked up a book and pretended to read the cover blurb.
“Excellent,” Roger said. “That should make it much easier to get them designated as a historic site. Oh, I can’t wait to see Ripley’s face.”
Lillian pushed up her narrow, dark-framed glasses and studied him. Wearing a cardigan with patches on the sleeves, Roger had a scholarly look to him, which was reinforced by his thick silver hair and neatly trimmed beard.
“Still bitter, Roger?” she asked, her tone gently teasing.
“Bitter, I’m not …” he began to protest and then his shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Yeah, I’m pretty bitter.”
They both laughed and Brenna knew they shared a joke to which she wasn’t privy.
“I don’t blame you,” Lillian said. “He maneuvered the town council into buying that land to put that strip mall up before the preservation society could make an offer.”
“They just plowed over the old school yard as if it were no more a historic site than the dump. It was such a travesty. Well, I think the mayor has finally met his match. I’m going to enjoy watching Nate Williams take Jim Ripley down,” Roger said. “And I’ll do anything I can to help.”
It seemed to Brenna that Roger Chisholm was more than a little bitter. In fact, it sounded as if should Ripley happen to step in front of Roger’s car, he’d be hard pressed to decide whether to hit the gas or the brake.
She left the library with a wave to Lillian, who frequented her decoupage classes, feeling more than a little disturbed. A resolution needed to be made about the lake property, and soon, before the town was irrevocably divided by the issue. She mulled it over on the drive back to her cabin, but with no resolution in mind by the time she got home, she was happy to close her door on the entire mess.
She had bought a fresh loaf of French bread and quickly pulled together the ingredients for a cheese soufflé, which she seasoned with dry mustard, garlic powder, and kosher salt. While that baked for thirty-five minutes, she made a spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette and poured herself a glass of wine.
The sun was just beginning its descent so she took her wine outside. She sat on the top step and rested her back against the porch railing, watching as the lake reflected the sky’s deepening amber hues as perfectly as a mirror. A soft breeze sent ripples across the water’s surface, and Brenna wrapped her arms about her middle, trying to keep in more of her own warmth. This was her favorite time of day, when the woods surrounding the lake took on hushed tones like a parent tucking a child into bed.
As the water smoothed back into its pristine veneer, she saw something bob to the surface. At first she thought maybe one of Nate’s signs had fallen into the drink, but no. This was too large and too brown.
She placed her wineglass on the top step and rose from her seat. The sunset was now bursting into vibrant shades of blood red tinged with gold. She felt a chill spread up her arms, giving her goose bumps.
She squinted at the object in the water. It looked like an old wooden steamer trunk. What was it doing in the lake? Having spent many of her days off foraging in the town dump, looking for old furniture to restore and decoupage, Brenna couldn’t help but think that this trunk could be quite a find if it wasn’t too water damaged.
Without stopping to reconsider, she kicked off her shoes and rolled up her pant legs. The trunk was close enough that she didn’t think she’d actually have to swim for it. She grabbed a fallen tree limb from a nearby willow and shimmied out onto a big rock at the edge of the water. She had to use two hands to maneuver the branch over the trunk to try and rake it closer. It bobbed on the water, getting nearer before it got bogged down in the weeds that filled the shallows at the water’s edge. Damn.
Brenna debated leaving it there. She loathed the feel of slimy weeds on her feet. But then, what if it had just fallen off someone’s truck when they were moving? It could be in excellent condition. She could picture it painted white with deep blue hydrangea blossom cutouts trailing up one side and down the other. No, she couldn’t let it sit.
Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the frigid water and waded out to the trunk. Jagged pebbles dug into the soles of her feet, while slippery weeds wrapped around her ankles. Ew. Still, she kept going.
When she reached the trunk, she was delighted to find the burgundy leather handles and brass hardware on it looked to be in good condition. She grabbed the handle and tried to pull the trunk to shore. It was heavier than she’d expected so it had to be full of someone’s belongings, making her think someone had indeed lost it by accident. Its buoyancy in the water helped her get it to the edge of the lake, but it took all of her strength to pull it clear of the water. She dragged it onto a patch of grass and collapsed beside it.
She wondered if it was full of blankets. If they’d gotten waterlogged, it would certainly explain why her back was having spasms right now. Maybe it had someone’s wedding dress in it. A tingle of anticipation wriggled down her spine. It was as if she’d found a treasure chest, and all she had to do was pop the lid to see what secrets it held.
She climbed up onto her knees and examined the front of the trunk. The latches were easy to unhook, but the flush mount circular lock wouldn’t budge. Whoever had shut it had not left the key with it.
Instead of dampening her enthusiasm for her find, the lock only made Brenna more determined to bust it open. After all, she would have to find out who owned the trunk if she had any hope of returning it to them. And how else could she figure that out than to open it and look for clues?
She hurried up to her cabin. The smell of her cheese soufflé distracted her and she stopped to pull it out of the oven before grabbing her toolbox from the bottom of the pantry cupboard and racing back to the trunk.
She chose a flat-headed screwdriver first. It fit into the lock and she jiggled and wiggled it, but nothing happened. Next she chose the smallest of her metal files. It fit into the lock and she pushed it up and to the right until she heard a faint click. The round face of the lock flopped forward and Brenna dropped the file into her toolbox.
The sky was a smoky shade of purple now and she fished in her toolbox for her small flashlight. She turned it on and held the unlit end with her teeth while she grasped each corner of the trunk’s lid and slowly lifted it open.
At first, it did look like a bundle of old blankets. No treasure then, she thought. Darn it. But then she noticed the blankets seemed to be wearing an expensive leather belt. She gasped and the flashlight fell out of her mouth and rolled across the grass to plop into the lake. In seconds its little beam was extinguished, and Brenna was left in the encroaching dark with a trunk that she suspected had a body in it.
She felt a scream claw its way up her throat, but she swallowed it. Maybe it was just her imagination, she thought. Maybe it was just a bundle of old clothes. She swallowed hard and forced herself to lean closer to the trunk. Her fingers were shaking as she reached forward and touched the sodden clothes. There was no mistaking the feel of a hard, cold body encased in the wet dress shirt beneath her fingers.
She leapt back from the trunk. Her heart was racing triple time and she flapped her hands uselessly at her sides as she tried to think of what to do. She should run for help, she thought, but what if the person was alive?
In a panic, she dashed forward and began to tug the person out of the trunk. He could be alive. Maybe it was just a practical joke gone wrong. She tugged and pull
ed but the person was wedged pretty tight. Finally, she reached down and hefted the body up by the armpits and hauled it to a sitting position. Staring back at her with wide vacant eyes was Mayor Ripley. Water gurgled out of his open mouth and Brenna screamed.
Chapter 7
Make it a hobby to seek unusual papers for decoupage.
Porch lights from the cabins around her snapped on. Brenna was unaware. She felt her stomach churn and she sank into the dirt, putting her head between her knees to keep from throwing up.
Hank, the golden retriever, came bounding down from Nate’s cabin, barking all the way. He nudged her face with his cold nose and licked her cheek. The slobber actually felt good in the brisk night air. She felt dizzy, but as she sucked in great gulps of oxygen, she thought she might not hurl.
“Brenna!” Nate came skidding across the grass to where she sat hunched. She was wet, cold, and shaking. “What happened? Did you fall in? Are you okay?”
He slid to a stop, and she noticed he was barefoot. He was wearing jeans, and his shirt was unbuttoned as if he’d been in the middle of changing when he was interrupted. Landing on his knees beside her, he grabbed her arms and forced her to look at him. His gray eyes were searching, as if he were trying to see inside her to make sure she was all right.
Twyla, Paul, and Portia followed in his wake, shouting questions as they hurried across the lawn.
“What happened?”
“Is that Brenna?”
“Is she okay?”
The questions came fast and furious from all sides, but no one seemed to notice the trunk or, more accurately, what was in the trunk.
Brenna felt winded and shaky as if suffering the after-shocks of an earthquake, but she forced herself to speak. “Someone call Chief Barker. The mayor is dead.”
She pointed, and all four of them turned to follow the direction her trembling finger indicated. A gasp rippled through them and there were several muted curses. Nate and Portia stepped closer while Twyla and Paul stepped back.
“I’ll call the police,” Twyla volunteered, and she ran back to her cabin.
Hank crouched next to Brenna, leaning against her. A low growl came from his throat as he kept his gaze on the trunk. Brenna got the feeling he had placed himself beside her to comfort her. She buried her hand in his soft thick hair and held on.
A former nurse, Portia reached in and pressed her fingers on the pulse point beneath the mayor’s left ear. She was still for a moment and then she pulled her hand away and shook her head. She leaned in and placed her ear against his chest. Again, she pulled back with a shake of her head.
“He’s dead,” she confirmed. Both she and Nate stepped back, knowing that there was nothing more they could do.
Nate turned back to Brenna. He put his arm around her shoulders and slowly helped her to her feet. “Your teeth are chattering,” he said. “Let’s get you up to the house, where it’s warm.”
Hank flanked her other side and the three of them walked slowly up to Nate’s cabin with Paul and Portia following behind them.
Chief Barker arrived in a matter of minutes with two officers as backup. Nate walked him down to the water’s edge. He soon rejoined them and they all waited on the porch while floodlights were set up for the state investigator who would be arriving shortly.
Brenna suspected the others wanted to know what had happened, but Nate sat on the padded bench beside her as if putting himself between her and the others to shield her from any questions. She was grateful. She knew the police were going to ask her what happened, and she didn’t want to relive it more than once.
After what felt like an eternity, a van arrived with a Massachusetts state seal on the side. Chief Barker greeted the personnel that climbed out of it with a handshake and stood talking to them for a long while.
Twyla leaned hard against the porch rail in an obvious effort to hear what they were saying. But even the sound-carrying powers of the lake water couldn’t bring the chief’s low voice up to them on the porch, so they waited in silence until the small group broke up and the chief made his way up to the porch, where they all sat.
Nate had gotten Brenna a hooded sweatshirt to wear, and it spoke to her jumbled state of mind that she didn’t protest wearing something with an embroidered Yankees emblem on it. Normally, she would have opted to shiver until all of her teeth fell out first.
“I have some questions for you all,” Chief Barker said. “Do you mind if I use your living room, Nate?”
“Not at all,” he said.
“Brenna, I’d like to start with you.”
She had expected as much. She stood on rubbery legs, and walked across the porch with Hank pressed tightly to her side.
“Is it okay if Hank comes, too?” she asked. Her voice cracked, making her sound almost as vulnerable as she felt, if that was even possible.
Chief Barker nodded and Nate gave her hand a reassuring squeeze when she passed by him. She glanced at him swiftly. The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch in her throat, and she realized he was worried about her.
“Thanks,” she said and patted his shoulder as she moved past him and through the screen door.
They sat awkwardly across the large coffee table from one another, Chief Barker in a leather recliner and Brenna on the matching brown sofa.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. Casually, he took a small notebook and pen out of his breast pocket.
“Rattled,” she said.
“I can imagine,” he said. “Now, I know this was a shock, but do you think you can tell me what happened?”
The chief’s voice was its usual slow-as-molasses drawl. He had the r-dropping accent of a man born and bred in Massachusetts, but he spoke slower than most natives. It was as if he had learned early on in his career to use his voice as a calming tool.
“I think so,” she said. He nodded encouragingly at her and she took a deep sustaining breath. She told him about sitting on her steps with a glass of wine and spotting the trunk on the lake. She described hauling the trunk out of the water and then about opening it. The chief never interrupted but scratched occasional notes in his pad. Then she described finding the mayor and screaming. She paused to catch her breath.
“So you were all alone out there until after you screamed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Who was the first person to reach you?” he asked.
She smiled. “It wasn’t a person.”
He looked confused.
“It was Hank.” She patted the dog’s head. “Then Nate, Paul, Portia, and Twyla all arrived.”
“What were their reactions?” he asked. His gaze, which had almost never left her face during her recitation of the evening’s events, seemed to get even sharper.
“No one noticed the trunk at first,” she said. “They all thought I’d fallen into the lake or hurt myself. I had to point the trunk out to them.”
He raised his brows and made a note.
“And what were their reactions after you pointed to the trunk?”
Brenna took a deep breath. It was hard to remember. She’d been so focused on not throwing up.
“Twyla ran to call you, Portia and Nate checked to see if he was actually dead, and Paul swore a lot,” she said.
Chief Barker nodded as if he’d expected her answer, and she felt as if she’d passed some unspoken test.
“What will happen now?” she asked.
“We’ll investigate the scene to see if we can figure out how this happened, the Courier will have a field day with the story, and hopefully, in the end we’ll come up with some answers,” he said.
Brenna nodded. “Chief, can I ask you something?”
“I can’t promise you an answer,” he said, “but you’re welcome to ask me anything.”
“Do you think this was an accident?” she asked. She could feel her heart pound in her ears, almost drowning out his answer when he said, “I can’t say for sure just yet, but …”
“But wha
t?” she prodded.
“But I can’t say for sure yet,” he said. Whatever he’d been thinking he thought better of saying. Brenna understood that he couldn’t really answer the question, but she really wanted someone to tell her it was just a crazy accident, because the alternative, that it was murder, was just unthinkable.
She went back outside to wait while, one by one, each of her neighbors was questioned as well.
It was a dull-eyed crowd of five that watched from the porch while the police worked under the floodlights that were reflected back at them by the smooth surface of the lake.
Twyla made a pot of jasmine tea and everyone had a cup, though no one seemed to be thirsty. The ritual of mixing in honey and milk kept them busy but not nearly long enough.
Brenna had no idea what time it was when the investigators finally rolled a stretcher with a zipped-up body bag to the waiting van. The trunk was put into another vehicle and slowly the floodlights were dismantled. The yellow crime scene tape, however, stayed as a temporary marker.
Chief Barker told them that he would be in touch if he had more questions, but for now they were free to go. An awkwardness fell over the group, and Brenna wondered if, like her, no one was eager to be alone.
Twyla was the first to stand up. She gathered her teapot and cups onto a large wooden breakfast tray that Brenna had decoupaged for her a few months before. It was covered with cutouts of large bunches of grapes in hues of luscious red and luminous purple, and entwined with twisty rust-colored vines and deep green leaves. It was one of Brenna’s favorite pieces and she was gratified to see Twyla using it.
“Well, I think some shut-eye is in order,” Twyla said.
“You’re right,” Paul agreed. He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the stupor he was in. He stood and held out his hand to help Portia to her feet. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”
“Do you want us to walk you back to your cabin?” Twyla asked Brenna.
“I’ll take her,” Nate volunteered before Brenna could answer.
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