by J. S. Marlo
Since sleep eluded him, he might as well work on his story. He sat at his desk and opened his laptop. He clicked on the file titled Midnight Shadows and began typing, but the next chapter of his story refused to flow from his brain into his fingers. For every decent sentence he wrote, he deleted at least a dozen. Frustrated, he closed the lid and downed his drink.
The first ray of dawn peeked over the horizon. To put a stop to the nonsense in his head, he needed to talk with Gail. Preferably alone.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee guided his descent into the kitchen.
“You’re up bright and early, Mr. S.” With big red silicone oven mitts resembling lobster claws, the cheerful woman removed two trays of muffins from the oven. “Would you like a special breakfast? I can make waffles or pancakes.”
A newspaper lay open on the table with a blue pen discarded on the partly finished crossword puzzle. He sat with his back to the wall while Gail emptied the trays into a breadbasket lined with a paper towel. “Surprise me, luv.”
High-pitched giggles erupted from her throat. “You like living dangerously, Mr. S.”
Not anymore.
“Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee and a muffin while I make waffles?”
He poured steaming black coffee into a blue cup. “I heard Buccaneer used to belong to Miss O’Reilly’s aunt. Is that true?”
“Yes. Miss Mattie was such a sweet woman.” From a cupboard, she retrieved two stainless steel bowls. “Her death was a tragic accident.”
The good woman gave him the opening he’d hoped for. “What kind of accident?”
Sugar spilled on the counter when she added the ingredients into the smaller bowl. “It was the hornets’ fault.”
Visions of yellow jackets flashed in his mind. “You mean the insects?”
“Mean, pesky buggers.” Flour spewed from the bowl as she stirred the mixture. “They’d built a nest under the window ledge of the Squid Room. Mattie wanted to get rid of them before our new guests arrived.” She pushed the bowl aside and pulled a jug of milk from the fridge. “Bill never shows up until late afternoon on Wednesdays—I guess she didn’t want to wait.”
Avery eyed the blue pen on the table and itched to curl his fingers around it, to scribble notes onto the corner of the newspaper. Contrary to many of his colleagues, conducting interviews had always been something he enjoyed. There had also been a time when he hadn’t gone anywhere without a notepad and a pen.
“What happened to Mattie?”
“I’d left her alone to go to the grocery store.” Her voice quivered. “When I got back, I found—” She set the milk jug on the counter, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I found Mattie lying on the grass.”
“Was she still alive?”
Stifling a sniffle, she shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget her face.”
She wouldn’t, no more than he would ever forget Rachel’s expression. “How exactly did Mattie die?”
“She fell down the ladder after destroying the nest.”
Taken aback, he strove to keep his voice even. “Mattie climbed all the way up?” In his lifetime, he hadn’t met anyone who’d conquered his or her fear of heights.
“Yes. Doctor Malcolm performed an autopsy. He said she broke her neck when she hit the ground.”
The same irresponsible doctor who nearly caused O’Reilly’s fall from the roof multitasked as a coroner? For reasons he couldn’t put his fingers on, Avery didn’t trust Malcolm in either capacity. “Did someone witness the accident?”
“No. Bill arrived after I called the ambulance. The poor man was devastated. He blamed himself.”
In a way, Bill’s absence had forced Mattie into taking actions that had resulted in her death. On the other hand, Avery had seen guilt stem from other, less noble, sources.
Through the French doors leading to the outdoor terrace, he glimpsed a goldfinch scuttling along the armrest of a lawn chair, oblivious to human drama.
“Do you recall any other sign of trauma on Mattie’s body?”
“What do you mean?” The waffle maker sizzled when Gail poured the mixture onto it.
“Scratches? Bruises?” Destroying the nest would have angered the wasps. Maybe they’d attacked her, causing her to panic and lose her footing. “Any wasp stings?”
From the cupboard, Gail pulled out a blue-and-white porcelain plate. “No scratch or sting that I could see—just blood in her eyes.”
Without other sign of trauma, bloodshot eyes could indicate strangulation. He wished he had access to the pictures from the scene. “Did the police come?”
“Yes.” Like an artist, she topped the golden waffle with whipped cream and sliced strawberries. “But they didn’t stay long.”
“I see.” There might be a way to find out how much of an investigation was conducted before they’d concluded it an accident.
“Enjoy.” The breakfast she placed in front of him appealed to his eyes and taste buds.
“Gail, that smells—” The floor squeaked, and Avery swallowed the word delicious as he turned around.
O’Reilly stood in the doorway with dark bags under her eyes.
“Miss Rowan? Is something wrong? You don’t look too good.”
“Terrible” would fit the description better, but he refrained from voicing his opinion aloud.
“I didn’t sleep much.” Her gaze locked on him as she approached the table and snatched a muffin. “I’ll be in my office.”
Before he could assess whether she’d overheard his discussion with Gail, she’d already retreated down the hallway.
***
Muffin crumbs fell on her keyboard while Rowan stared at the computer screen. With a sweep of the hand, she brushed them off.
Last week had seen the cancellation of her only guests, a family from England who couldn’t fly out because of the ash cloud hovering over Heathrow Airport. If the morning news was to be believed, the volcano had calmed down overnight, but it would be days, if not weeks, before the wind dispersed the volcanic particles and air travel resumed safely. In the meantime, flight disruptions prevailed over Europe because of one volcano on one magnificent island.
She sighed. The guests had promised to rebook as soon as they could board another plane, but Rowan didn’t hold her breath. Iceland seemed to have fun wreaking havoc with every aspect of her life, and yet, the island still held her broken heart, and to no avail, she longed to go back.
Ignoring the regrets that threatened to overcome her, she concentrated on her futile quest. Ever since she’d found her father’s letter, she’d been teetering between burying the past and finding the truth. After a week, Rowan had come to the conclusion that one wouldn’t be achieved without the other. If Mattie hadn’t intended for someone to find the letters, she wouldn’t have hidden them; she would have destroyed them. As Mattie’s heir and Chad’s daughter, it was her duty to seek the truth—whatever truth that might be. With that resolve in mind, she’d gotten up before dawn and searched the Internet for a glimpse of her grandparents’ life or fate. All she’d unearthed were articles about the sudden storm that killed them and the damage it caused along the coast but nothing more than what Chris had told her over dinner.
“What a waste of time.”
A knock on the open door tore her attention away from her computer. “Come in.”
Gail entered the office with a food tray. “A good breakfast will do you good, Miss Rowan.”
Her kindness and intuition never ceased to amaze Rowan. “Do I look that bad?”
“Yes.” Smiling apologetically, she placed the tray on the desk. “Anything I can do?”
“Maybe.” She gestured for Gail to sit across from her. “You grew up around here, right? Any chance you knew my grandparents?”
“Can’t say I knew them well. They drowned a long time ago.” Hands clasped on her lap, she scrunched up her eyebrows. “A bad storm, it was. Why?”
“What were they like?”
“You
r Grandparents O’Reilly?” She shrugged. “They didn’t talk to their neighbors much. I suppose they had their ups and downs like anyone else, but they were nice folks.”
Sometimes appearances could be deceiving. “What about my father? Did you know him?”
“Yes, and he was one cocky teenager, Miss Rowan.” A coy smile lit Gail’s face. “Chad was friends with my cousin, Arthur. Those two—they didn’t look for trouble, but trouble sure liked to find them. Then one day, Chad took off. No idea why.”
That didn’t provide much insight into her father’s teenage years. She needed to talk to the people who’d known him, like Arthur. “Does Arthur live on the island? Do you think he’d mind if I ask him about my father?”
“I’m afraid trouble caught up with him, Miss Rowan.” Sorrow washed over Gail’s face. “He died in a bar brawl somewhere in northern British Columbia when he was still a young man.”
“I’m sorry.”
“His mama was sorry too, but we get the life we choose, don’t we?” As she stood up, her gaze turned to the tray she’d brought in. “Make sure you eat before it gets cold.” And with that last bit of advice, she exited the room.
Her mom might know things about her first husband that she’d never revealed to anyone, but the clock on the wall warned Rowan against phoning home yet. Seven-thirty on the Atlantic coast was the equivalent of four-thirty in the mountains. Way too early to wake Mom. The time difference was an inconvenience she’d learned to live with while she was in Iceland.
While racking her brain for someone else to press for information, she dug into her waffle. The morbid discussion she’d overheard between Gail and her mysterious attic guest added to the tumult in her mind. Stone had no reason to inquire about Mattie’s death. On a hunch, she typed his name in the search engine and pressed Enter. The name “Avery Stone” popped up on many links. She clicked on the first one.
Double Murder and Suicide Rocked New Brunswick Town
Late Tuesday morning, two Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers were gunned down while responding to a domestic disturbance call in a quiet neighborhood. Sgt. Avery Stone, 32, an eleven-year veteran in the force, is listed in serious but stable condition at the Woodstock General Hospital.
“Woodstock?” On his registration card, Stone had listed an address in Woodstock, New Brunswick but no occupation. With his strong, chiseled face, outdoor tan, and piercing brown eyes, he appeared to be in his forties, not early thirties. There had to be dozens of Avery Stones in Woodstock. The name was common enough—wasn’t it?
She searched the headline for a date. “March first.” The shooting had occurred four months earlier, while she’d still lived in Iceland.
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she kept reading.
Five months pregnant with her first child, Const. Rachel Milford, 24, died at the scene.
One of the folders that Rowan had spied on Stone’s desktop was titled Rachel.
Inside the two-story bungalow, the police recovered the bodies of Gordie and Emma Monroe. At this point, it remains unclear who fired on the RCMP officers.
An official investigation has been launched.
Having lost her appetite, she discarded the breakfast tray and headed out for a run along the cliff.
***
From the garden, Avery spotted O’Reilly’s bouncing ponytail and easy strides as she faded against the light blue sky.
Given time and the right exercises, the psychologist and physiotherapist had been confident he’d regain his full mobility and return to active duty. “So much for the wrong prognosis,” he muttered, disillusioned. Like most of the things he’d loved in life, running belonged in his past.
He hobbled along the outside walls of the house. Underneath the window ledge of the Squid Room, protected from the weather, traces of the hornets’ nest still existed. As he stared at the remnants, he pictured Mattie firmly gripping the rails of the ladder with both hands, sweat pearling on her forehead as she took a hesitant step up, then another. She would have carried some sort of stick to destroy the nest, but it wouldn’t have stopped the insects from swarming around her. It was possible they had scared her and made her lose her grip, but it was doubtful she would have avoided being stung.
On his left, the kitchen window was wide open. “Gail? Are you in there?”
The cook’s nose pushed against the screen. “Still hungry, Mr. S.?”
The teasing added random specks of levity to his day. “No, luv, but I have one more question. What kind of stick did Mattie use to destroy the nest?”
“Don’t know, Mr. S. I didn’t see any stick lying around.” The frame of the window cast a shadow on her face, making it impossible for him to read her expression. “Just the broken ladder. Why?”
“Nothing. Thanks.”
Intent on finding clues, he headed for the shed. The unlocked door creaked when he opened it. Once inside, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
In a corner, he spotted a discarded ladder. Its two lower rungs were cracked near the center and blotched with black smudges. He scraped a sample with his nail and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger. The friction turned the dry gunk into a slick, greasy paste that stained his skin black.
Tar? Back home, his Grandpa Stone used tar to fix water leaks on the roof of the garage, and for weeks, the pungent odor lingered in the air.
He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them. Nothing. If it was tar, the smell had evaporated.
Upon closer inspection, the other steps didn’t show any trace of the black substance. Strange. If Mattie had collected the residue under her shoes, she would have transferred it onto every rung she climbed.
Puzzled by the discrepancy, he examined each rail. At one end, his gaze encountered thin, wilting shreds of paper-like material. Bloody hell. Remnants of the nest had stuck to the end of the ladder.
He mentally measured the length of the ladder against the height of the window. The ladder was too short to have knocked down the nest on its own. If Mattie had used it as a long, giant stick to smash the nest, like the evidence seemed to suggest, she would have needed to stand with both feet firmly planted on the ground while she lifted the ladder at the end of her arms in order to reach the window ledge. That she climbed up the rungs makes no sense. Something wasn’t right.
“May I help you?”
As he spun around, Avery instinctively reached for his nonexistent gun. The muscles in his leg balked under the abrupt motion, and daggers of pain shot through his body. “Bill?” he groaned through clenched teeth.
“Looking for something in particular, Mr. Stone?” Wearing black working boots covered with red dust, Buccaneer’s handyman stood in the doorway, blocking his exit.
The tools surrounding him presented Avery with an easy answer. “Is there a hammer I could borrow?”
“Sure.” Once inside the shed, Bill threw his baseball cap on the workbench. He fetched two hammers from a shelf and balanced them in his hands. “Light or heavy? What do you need a hammer for?”
Avery held up his bent cane. “I want to straighten the shaft.”
“May I see it?” Bill’s expression grew sober as he eyed the dented metal. “Banging on it will only make it worse. Why don’t you let me fix it for you?”
Agreeing to the offer allowed Avery to openly observe the older man while he locked the shaft in a vise. “The ladder in the corner is broken. What happened?”
“It broke when Mattie fell. It was a bad accident.” Bill paused and, with his forearm, rubbed his salt and pepper beard. “I need to get rid of it before Miss Rowan uses it to climb somewhere unsafe.”
When the man didn’t elaborate, Avery didn’t insist. “Is Chris Malcolm the only doctor in town?”
“No.” A muscle twitched in Bill’s neck. “Why?”
“Leg’s hurting.” While he wasn’t lying about the pain, he had no intention of doing anything to alleviate it, but he needed an excuse to chat with the doc
tor. “Does Malcolm accept patients without appointments?”
“If you mention Miss Rowan, I’m sure he’ll make an exception.” A smidgen of irritation peeked in his voice. “But it’s July first today. His clinic doesn’t open on statutory holidays. If your leg bothers you, you should go to Emergency.”
“I can stand the pain for three more days. I’ll go on Monday.” Since he’d moved into the attic, Avery had lost track of time. Hopefully, with no guests around, there wouldn’t be any Canada Day celebrations at Buccaneer.
“If you need a ride on Monday, let me know. I’ll be more than happy to drop you off in town.”
Chapter Ten
The week around Canada Day should have ranked among the busiest times of the year, especially with July first landing on a Friday. But Rowan didn’t welcome a single visitor over the entire long weekend. Not quite true. There was Avery Stone, but after two weeks, he’d become more or less a permanent fixture.
To quell her disappointment, she’d gone for a long morning run before seeking refuge on a secluded patch of white sand at the foot of the cliff. She’d discovered the narrow beach when she’d followed a steep path down at low tide a week or so ago. In a few hours, the sea would reclaim her corner of heaven, but until then, it belonged to her.
Lying, eyes closed, in the sand, she basked in the sun’s warm embrace. The breeze caressed her skin but failed to soothe her restless mind.
There was no doubt in her mind that Stone was the RCMP officer mentioned in the shooting article she’d read on Friday. His career explained his fascination for accidents and crimes but not the reasons why he lived in her attic. Maybe he was here to rest while he recovered from his injury, or he might be trying to escape his past—like she was.
The names of the folders she’d visually eavesdropped on his desktop flashed inside her eyelids. Motives. Murders. Suspects. Rachel. Rachel…
***