Philip slipped out a side door, then came back almost immediately. “Whose black Nissan is that in the parking lot?”
“It’s mine.” Everyone turned to the unfamiliar voice. In the confusion of the last few minutes, they had all overlooked the presence of two new people sitting there. “I’m Daniel Harlow and this is my mother, Ruth. We just arrived.”
Jessica stammered an apology. “I’m sorry. Yes. They drove in just as I was heading upstairs and . . .” Her voice quivered and trailed off into a little squeak.
Philip glared at the new man. “You talk about bad timing! Most people would try to get here at a decent hour!”
Sophie spoke up. “It’s only ten forty-five, Philip. That’s a decent hour.”
Chastened, Philip went to his room and returned with Atlas, the house flashlight, and a leash. Jessica knew her dogs would love to go but three dogs would be too much for him to handle in the middle of the night. Philip would be looking for footprints, tire tracks, and anything that hadn’t been there there when the sun went down.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Sophie ran everyone out of the kitchen. They were trying to grab cereal, milk, bagels, and butter, but she had it all planned and intended to put everything out on the table. Toaster, coffee pot, and all. Too many folks in the kitchen drove her up the wall.
Jessica sat with her coffee and her dogs on the house’s east-facing porch. The sunrise, all tangerine and gold across the water, reflected off the wings and beaks of a long string of pelicans, flapping their wings, first to last, in order—an ancient game of follow-the-leader. The dogs were acting antsy, sitting beside her chair and then quickly bouncing up again. She realized she was avoiding the proverbial elephant in the room. The pelicans, the sunrise, the coffee—all these normal morning things, were trying to crowd out the drama of last night from her brain. But the horror returned and she knew this calm wouldn’t last. Surely, the police would be here soon, snooping, spreading fingerprint dust, and asking questions.
She returned to the house and climbed the stairs to the top floor and Olivia’s bedroom. As soon as she walked in, Trey and Kim, a few steps in front of her, froze. Kim started shivering. Trey’s nose went up. Jessica knew they smelled fear. How they could do it, she hadn’t the foggiest idea, but dogs could smell fear just like they could smell people. She walked all around the room, looking for anything that Philip might not have noticed. One of the two windows on the north side of the room was not down all the way. She patted both dogs and led them back down the stairs.
“Want to go for a walk?” These were the dogs’ favorite words. She took two leashes in case they ran into less mannerly dogs who might threaten hers. She took two plastic bags: one for treasures the waves might have washed up overnight and one for dog poop. Kim ran down the outside stairs before Jessica could hook her up and ran straight for the bayberry thicket that ran beside the sandy driveway from the road. Trey looked up at Jessica, then turned back to where Kim was sniffing and bouncing anxiously. Jessica called to them but Kim began running back and forth, scratching here and there as if she was on the trail of something. Trey, always on the job, stayed beside Jessica but his twisting body told her he was dying to follow Kim. She caught up with Kim and hooked her to the leash. Returning to the base of the stairs, she met Philip, trekking up the dune from the water.
Atlas, Trey, and Kim greeted one another.
“They’ll be here soon, I reckon,” Philip said. “Reminds me of the old days. Before I retired. Before I started writing.”
Jessica nodded, remembering her life before she lost her hearing and had to quit her teaching job. She had tried to go on, teaching teenagers without hearing them, but found that she couldn’t do it. With a monetary settlement from the medical mishap that kept her going for a while, she turned to writing. Serendipity. She had always loved writing, and it proved to be the ideal occupation now that she couldn’t hear.
Philip poked at the sand with a stick. “I’ve been thinking about those days, you know? When I was trying to solve crimes like these guys today.” He poked at a ghost crab hole. “Still bothers me, you know? Did I get it right? What if I got it wrong? Sent the wrong man to jail?”
“Do you think you ever did?” Jessica said, tilting her head to one side. “Ever get it wrong?”
“Do you mean, did I ever send the wrong man to jail?”
“Or let a guilty one go?”
“Oh, plenty of them. Every crime I didn’t solve. That’s someone or someones that got away.” Atlas ran toward the house. Philip resumed his climb, then turned back and touched her on the shoulder. “Those don’t bother me so much as the thought that I may have sent an innocent person to prison.”
Jessica watched his retreating form and saw that a car emblazoned with the word Sheriff had arrived. “Here we go,” she told her dogs.
Sheriff Bo Deane and his deputy, Kevin Levi, gathered everyone together in the big room with instructions that they must not leave without permission. Both men were being very stingy with their information and the writers, being writers, were keen to know everything. To his credit, Deane perceived that he would learn more if he told them a bit of what he now knew. To Jessica, he confided, “Y’all curious, ain’tcha?”
“We have to be,” she said. “That’s how we get our stories.”
Deane laughed. “You just might have a story here. But mind, you got to keep all this under your hats—at least for the time being.”
Jessica knew he was taking a risk, telling a bunch of writers things that had to stay confidential. But she also knew he had no choice. The writers knew more about last night than he did and he needed their cooperation. “I wish I could tell you all about her,” Jessica said. “Her family and friends and things like that. But the fact is, none of us had ever met her before last night.”
“None that you know of.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t know for sure that none of the others had ever met her.”
“You have a point there.” She looked around at the group. Seven writers, all bright, well-educated, and accustomed to lying for a living. “All I can say is, she seemed perfectly happy all evening.”
The others nodded their agreement.
Deane cleared his throat and said, “She died of asphyxia. She was smothered, probably with a pillow.”
“We sort of figured that,” Philip said. “There’s a pillow on the floor and the pillowcase is missing. Whoever did it figured the pillowcase had evidence on it.”
“Yes. That’s what we think,” the Sheriff said.
Sheriff Deane insisted that all the houseguests leave the house while he and his deputy conducted their necessary investigations. Sophie Perone objected, saying that the eggplant for that night’s moussaka was dehydrating between towels and had to be checked often to keep it from dehydrating too much. Sheriff Deane went to the kitchen with her and agreed that she could return to the kitchen as needed but she was not to go anywhere else in the house. The two officers started with the living room, squeezing puffs of fingerprint powder on all the door frames and windowsills.
Jessica took Trey and Kim to the beach. She set her chair under the sun tent Alex had set up, and plopped her tote bag in a spot far enough away from the badminton net Alex was erecting that she wouldn’t be in the way. Alex said he found the badminton set in the store room. She would do her beach writing on a yellow legal pad rather than her usual laptop which was back in her room, safe from blowing sand. Settling her sunglasses on her nose, she leaned back and commanded her brain to think about the story she was currently working on. She had left her characters on a yacht in the Chesapeake Bay. A storm was coming. But it was hard to ignore the more immediate mystery unfolding inside the house. What are the investigators doing right now? Are they vacuuming the bed Olivia was in when someone came in and took her life? The reality that this actually happened and only hours ago, overshadowed the story she was making up. Then a real shadow fell across her face.
>
Alex had settled his beach chair beside her. “Mind if I join you?”
Jessica nodded. “What about your badminton game?”
“When Ashley comes back from her walk, we’ll try to get a game of doubles going. You want to play?”
“Might as well. It’s hard to think about my story with everything else that’s going on.”
“Ah! The test of a real fiction writer. Can you write a mystery when you are in the middle of a real mystery?”
Jessica laughed. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” She watched Atlas and Philip jog by, the big dog’s tongue lolling happily out the side of his mouth. “How’s Ashley today? Headache gone?”
“Oh. Yeah. Forgot about that. Must be. She hasn’t mentioned it today.” Alex craned his neck, peering toward the parking lot behind them. “Did you notice that sweet car she drove up in?”
He was referring to Olivia’s red Alfa Romeo which she had wisely parked as far as possible from the other vehicles to avoid accidental damage. Jessica had seen both men, early that morning, standing outside and peeking in the car’s windows. “How much would a car like that cost?” she asked.
“Oh, I’d say, something north of seventy thou.”
At that moment, an ear-splitting alarm made Alex jump up. Jessica turned and saw Sheriff Deane in the parking lot, waving his arms at his deputy who was frantically pushing buttons on a remote.
“How did they get into her car?” Alex asked.
“They probably have her purse. It went with her in the ambulance last night.”
The deputy must have done something right, because the nerve-jangling noise stopped. Jessica and Alex returned to their beach chairs. Alex dug his toes in the sand, absently. “The last time I was in Italy, I almost bought one of those babies.”
Jessica raised her brows, trying to look impressed. “What were you doing there?”
“Mostly just hanging around, but the whole trip turned into Escape from the Catacombs. That’s what I love about traveling. You never know what will turn into a story.”
“Sounds like one I’d like to read.” Jessica said. Over her shoulder, she watched Ashley descend the dune from the parking lot. A gauzy sarong barely covering her brief bikini, she had the rapt attention of the sheriff and deputy watching from above.
The next hour was filled with the soft pings and thunks of badminton—an oddly silent game when played in the sand. Alex and Ashley played against Philip and Jessica. At first, the dogs tried to join in but they gave up after being repeatedly shoved aside. It seemed as if no one was playing seriously enough to keep score, so the winners remained in doubt.
Alex added Ashley’s badminton racket to his own and looked toward the house. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get much done, with all these distractions.”
“Just think of this as a real test of your ability to stay inside your story,” Jessica said.
“I mean it. I think it would be better if we just left. This is useless,” Alex said.
Philip had taken a canvas-back chair and turned it toward the water. “Can’t do that.”
“Why? We’re not under arrest.” Alex sounded testy, as if a fight was coming on.
“We were all in the house where a woman was murdered last night,” Philip said. “The sheriff won’t let us go until he’s sure he’s gotten everything he needs out of us. If he lets any of us go, he might be letting the killer get away.”
It dawned on Jessica that, since they were all suspects, Philip was right. It wasn’t as if the sheriff could know if they were giving him their correct address or making one up. It wasn’t as if he could trust them to return to their own homes. It gave the old “Don’t leave town” a special meaning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sophie left sandwich makings and a large bowl of fruit and avocado salad on the kitchen counter so the housemates could help themselves to lunch.
With everyone sitting around the living room, plates on their knees, the two new housemates became the center of attention. Given everything that had happened the night before, and with the sheriff ordering everyone out that morning, no one had seen fit to welcome them appropriately. Jessica asked Ruth to tell them about her writing.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid I haven’t got anything actually published yet,” Ruth said, nervously fiddling with the wet napkin around her glass of tea.
“No problem,” Sophie said. “Coming to a retreat like this one is a great way to start.”
“Daniel? What about you?” Jessica said.
“I don’t write. Well, I do write, in a way. I’m a programmer. I mostly write and revise computer games,” he said, “but I couldn’t begin to write a book. I’m only here as Mama’s driver.”
Alex said that writing computer games was, indeed, writing. “These games today tell a story.”
Daniel looked around the room and his gaze fell on Philip. “We’re so sorry to have burst in like this and at the worst possible time. Is there any news from the hospital today?” As if realizing this was a poor question he added, “Are they sure it wasn’t just—I mean are they sure someone else did it? That it was actually homicide?”
Jessica did not believe the Harlows were telling the truth. They had told her they were from Alexandria, Virginia. Had they driven more than two hundred miles just to spend a weekend with writers they did not know? There were plenty of writers’ groups in Northern Virginia. Ruth had joined the group and applied to attend the weekend retreat only a week earlier. They had arrived shortly after Olivia.
Philip said, “There’s no doubt. All we need to know is who. But we aren’t going to get much out of the sheriff until he decides to tell us.”
_____________
After lunch, Jessica returned to her beach chair under their portable tent and knocked the sand off her yellow legal pad. Alex joined her. Ashley had gone to their room. Alex seemed unconcerned about his wife. Jessica had seen him laugh at himself while eating a huge sandwich with slippery avocado slices falling out as he bit down. But Ashley’s refusal to read, the migraine. Unstable, Jessica thought. Or maybe she was a terrible writer and knew it so she was avoiding embarrassment. Had Ashley ever talked about her writing in their regular club meetings? She had told them she wrote modern cozies, but if she had said any more than that, Jessica didn’t remember. Maybe she didn’t actually have anything. Maybe she was only here to keep an eye on Alex. Or perhaps she was just a drama queen, Jessica thought. That was probably it.
Jessica hoped Alex wouldn’t want to talk and keep her from her writing.
“Working on a deadline?” Alex asked, adjusting his sunglasses.
“Not really, I’m starting a new story. Long way to go.”
“And I’m waiting to get a manuscript back from my editor,” Alex said. “I’m sure he’ll want me to make changes that will keep me busy for a month.” He scuffed his bare toes in the sand. “Michael Pacifico. Great editor.”
“His name sounds familiar, but I don’t think I know him. A good editor is important, isn’t he?”
Jessica’s words were drowned out by Ashley’s voice, calling down from a porch at the house. “Where are the car keys? I need to get into the trunk.” Alex left to help his wife find the keys and Jessica returned to her legal pad. Michael Pacifico. I remember now. She had met him at a writer’s conference a year or two ago. Big guy. About fifty. And something else, but Jessica couldn’t remember what it was.
“Mind if I join you?” Sheriff Bo Deane crunched across the sand and turned the chair Alex had just vacated toward Jessica. He sat heavily, and the chair sank deeper into the sand. “Trying to get all these folks straight. Who’s who. Normally there’s not more than one or two people that we have to vet. But we have to know how y’all are connected to Ms. Bradley and it was you that swapped emails with her before y’all came here.”
“Excuse me. Who did you say?” Jessica wondered if the sheriff was getting two cases mixed up.
“Ms. Bradley,” he said. “Joyce Bradley. That
was her real name.”
Jessica mentally slapped her own face. A pseudonym! She hadn’t even considered the possibility that Olivia Sands was not her real name. “I did not know that. But to answer your question, I am the one who emailed back and forth with her but I didn’t know her personally.”
“Explain.”
Jessica told him about attending the conference where Olivia was the featured speaker and she herself was a member of the audience. The story sounded fishy when she told it to the sheriff, but it was the truth. She helped him with the spelling of all the residents of the house and told him if he wanted to interview Philip Carr next, he could likely be found at the house.
As soon as the sheriff vacated Alex’s chair, Alex himself returned and sat. He wanted to know what she and the lawman had talked about and Jessica told him. “Pseudonym, eh? I did not know that.” He looked over Jessica’s shoulder and grinned. Ashley, now wearing only the tropical print bikini, walked past them and stood facing the shoreline. As she walked past, Jessica had caught a glimpse of Ashley’s gloomy face. Her shoulders were tense and her hands clenched.
“I’m going in for a swim,” she said.
“Watch it. There’s a bit of a rip current out past the jetty,” Alex said. He stood and pointed to the remains of an old breakwater, now submerged and useless. From the beach the surf zone looked normal.
Ashley paid no attention but walked into the water, oblivious of the next incoming wave. She may have stepped into a trough because she suddenly fell in up to her neck. The next few events happened, as far as Jessica could tell, simultaneously.
Ashley floundered, her head disappearing completely. Alex jumped up and ran, not toward the water, but toward the house. Trey appeared out of nowhere and flew into the surf.
Jessica jumped up and screamed. She knew what was happening. Tiny Trey was trying to save Ashley. She flashed on a scene from last summer when she had put Trey in a swimming pool and he sank. Like all dogs he had paddled with his legs but it wasn’t enough. “He can’t swim!” Jessica screamed.
To Fetch a Killer Page 3