Murder Drama With Your Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries Book 1)

by Erin McCarthy

  “That sounds perfect.”

  We sat at the kitchen table and ate ice cream and watched a romantic comedy we’d both seen about a dozen times. You could never go wrong with a rom-com.

  “What is Ashton Kutcher up to these days?” Oliver mused. “I haven’t seen him since middle school when I was still pretending I could have a girlfriend and I dated Rumer Willis for three weeks.”

  I opened my mouth to reply when a shrill ring filled the kitchen. I jumped, pressing a hand to my chest.

  "What is that?" I asked, my voice breathy and my heart pounding.

  The sound pierced through the room again.

  Oliver pointed to a bronze dome edge with filigree over the door that led to the staircase we'd used when we arrived. "I think it's just a doorbell. The ghosts have you jumpy."

  Again, it rang.

  That was exactly what it was. Maybe Dean had decided to come over and tell me I was allowed in my pub now. Although it seemed like he'd just come through the office doorway Cliff had showed us and would knock on the kitchen door.

  "See," Oliver said with an encouraging smile, "I bet that's one of your other neighbors coming over to introduce themselves. Maybe they brought over a pie or casserole."

  I smiled. Maybe.

  I got up to investigate, now that my heart wasn't threatening to leap out of my chest.

  Oliver fell into step behind me. Did I mention I was very glad he was there?

  I reached the foyer and opened the door, but it wasn't a neighbor, unless my neighbor was a cop. It was a female police officer in full uniform, gun and all. She looked very young, her brown hair pulled up in a bun and her pretty face devoid of all makeup. Freckles spattered her small nose. Honestly, she looked more like a young teen, playing a police officer. She stopped worrying her lower lips as soon as she saw me.

  "Sophie LaFleur?"

  I nodded, wondering how she could already know my name. "Yes."

  "My name is Officer Young."

  Well, that was certainly accurate.

  "I need you to come with me. There’s been an accident."

  I frowned. I barely knew a soul in town, so why were they coming to tell me?

  "What do you mean? What kind of accident?”

  Was my pub on fire? I didn’t smell smoke.

  My llama missing? Jack was back in his pen.

  A car smashed into my fence? That seemed plausible. “Has there been a car accident out front?”

  “No. It’s a personal injury.”

  “What? Who is it?"

  "Cliff Robichaud, ma'am."

  I gaped at her. "Oh my gosh, I just met him today. Is he okay? I was just with him two hours ago and he was perfectly fine."

  “He’s not perfectly fine now.”

  My stomach knotted. “Surely, he must have family and friends you should be making aware of this. Not me.”

  She nodded. "He does have family, but I still need you to come with me."

  This couldn't be good. So much for being a welcoming neighbor with baked goods. Did they think I was somehow involved in his accident? And what accident could he have had? He’d seemed hearty and hale when he’d been giving me and Oliver our grand tour.

  I shot a look over my shoulder to Oliver. He shrugged, as confused as I was.

  "We need you to come get your llama."

  I blinked. "Jack Kerouac?"

  "Yes, your llama is at the scene of the accident, and he's being rather uncooperative."

  That made more sense, then, why she was here. But it wasn’t as if I knew how to wrangle a llama I had just met. Oliver nodded his head as if to say we better go get him. Or at least try to. I didn’t know the verbiage for getting a llama to listen.

  "Okay," I said, still feeling highly confused, but I followed the officer. She led us down Main Street, making a left onto Water Street, aptly named as it ran parallel to the ocean. If I hadn't been so confused, and frankly nervous, I would have enjoyed the beautiful old houses that lined one side of the street overlooking the rocky coast and harbor on the other side. But right now, all I could focus on was what was wrong with Cliff and how Jack had gotten out of his pen.

  "Is Cliff okay?" I repeated, huffing a little to keep up with the thin, petite officer. She was making me feel old. Or reminding me how much I hated working out.

  "Sheriff Pelletier will give you the details when we get there."

  Oliver shot me a concerned look, validating my worries that this was not a good situation.

  We continued down Water Street until we reached a dirt path marked by a wooden sign reading Friendship Harbor Walk. The path wound through a green tunnel of pine trees and maples until they gave way to a clearing and a spectacular view of the harbor. Despite my anxiety, I couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of the ocean crashing against the rocky cliffs.

  Then I spotted a man in uniform, presumably Sheriff Pelletier. He waited farther down the path with Jack Kerouac, who was tethered with a rope, jerking his head in an attempt to get away.

  "This is not good," Oliver said lowly, voicing my exact sentiments.

  I broke into a run. "What happened?" I cried as soon as I reached the new officer.

  Still struggling, Jack made a noise I hadn't heard before, a low, deep rumble. "What happened? Where is Cliff?"

  The officer struggled with the rope, trying not to lose grip as Jack whipped his head again.

  "You must be Sophie. I'm Sheriff Pelletier." He didn't offer to shake my hand, since he was rather busy with my irritated llama. “Jack is being ornery right now. Unfortunately, he was involved with a fatality."

  "A fatality?" I gaped at the man. "Cliff?"

  "Yes. Cliff Robichaud was found dead and it appears Jack Kerouac killed him."

  “What?” Cliff had just been alive, feeding Jack treats. They were buddies, pals. How the heck could Cliff be dead?

  I scanned the area, for the first time noticing another officer several yards away, talking to a tall, thin woman in her mid-forties, her movements jerky and frantic as she gestured toward my llama. Then I noticed several feet away from me a damp, brownish-red spot on the pathway. Nausea hit me. That was blood. Blood seeped into the dried dirt. Cliff's blood.

  "Are you sure?" I asked, even as I stared at the stain. I looked back to the sheriff, hoping he would tell me this was some bizarre joke.

  He nodded slowly, his lips surrounded by a beard and moustache pressed into a grim line. "Cliff suffered a blow to his head. It appears your llama most likely kicked him."

  Beside me, Jack rumbled again. Oliver moved to pet his side. Jack calmed, no longer tugging at the rope.

  I opened my mouth, wanting to say something. But what did a person say when you discover your newly acquired pet just killed someone? The someone who was only one of two people you’d met in your new town?

  As it turned out, I didn't have time to say a thing.

  "Is this her?" a shrill voice cried, and I turned to see the woman that other officer had been talking to storming toward me. "Are you the clueless woman who let her dangerous animal loose to cause chaos in our town?"

  "Karen, I know you are very upset," said Sheriff Pelletier, stepping in front of me before the irate woman could reach me. "But this was just a horrible accident."

  "Accident? My father is dead."

  My heart sunk. Oh my God, this was Cliff's daughter.

  "I know," the sheriff said, his voice calm and sympathetic. "And I know how hard this is for you."

  "My father is dead. Yeah, you're right, it is pretty hard." She glared around the broad frame of the sheriff at me.

  "I cannot tell you how sorry I am." My heart ached for her and for Cliff. I pictured the twinkle in Cliff's eyes. His plans to spend winters in his new condo in Ft. Lauderdale. And although I knew I shouldn't, I even grieved for all the things I could have asked him about my grandmother. But more than anything, I grieved for the loss of Cliff in his family's lives. "I only got to meet your father briefly, but he seemed like a wonderful m
an."

  Karen narrowed her eyes. "You knew nothing about my father."

  I opened my mouth to agree, and that I could only imagine what she was feeling, but the stony, angry look in her eyes made me stop. Was she mad because her father died in such a senseless way? Or was she mad about something else?

  "Karen, do you want Officer Young to drive you to your mother's? She will need to know what has happened, and I think it would be better coming from you than her hearing it from someone else," Sheriff Pelletier said.

  Karen shot daggers at me for a moment longer, then frowned up at him. "No, I'm fine. I can go there on my own."

  "Then I think you should head over there. You know how news travels around here."

  I closed my eyes. Oh God, in a matter of hours, everyone was going to know my llama had killed poor Cliff Robichaud. This was awful. On so many levels.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes to find Karen glowering at me again. She hated me. There was no missing that.

  "You stupid flake. Why don't you just go back to So Cal, where you obviously belong?"

  "Karen," Sheriff Pelletier warned.

  But Karen didn't heed his warning, instead she lunged toward me, poking a long, thin finger toward me. I stumbled back, shocked by her sudden dive. Behind me, Jack Kerouac rumbled deep and loud.

  Sheriff Pelletier snagged the irate woman around the waist, keeping her from coming any closer, but his restraint didn't dampen her rage.

  "You have no idea what you have done," she shouted and struggled against the sheriff's hold. Fortunately, he was a big, muscular man and her struggles were fruitless.

  Again, Jack rumbled.

  "It's okay," Oliver whispered to the agitated animal.

  But Jack didn't quiet. In fact, he made another noise, this one a loud snuffle. I turned just in time to see a spray of sticky, slimy mucus fly over my head and hit Karen, right smack in the face.

  I groaned and closed my eyes. Oh, Jack. Just when I thought this day couldn't get worse.

  Three

  The plus side to Jack's ill-manners was being covered in llama spit was enough to get Karen to leave. Not before she hurled a few more insults in my direction, but I couldn't bring myself to be offended. My llama had killed her father. I couldn't exactly expect to be besties after something like that.

  "Are you okay?" Sheriff Pelletier asked once she'd stormed down the path in the opposite direction of the way that Oliver, Officer Young, and I had arrived there.

  I sighed. "As okay as you can be when you discovered the llama you inherited is a murderer." I tried to smile but failed. "Honestly, I feel awful."

  He smiled sympathetically, and I noticed for the first time, he was a good-looking man. Not the breath-stealing, mind-scrambling way Dean Jordan was. But he was very handsome. Facial hair peppered with hints of gray. Kind brown eyes. A nice smile. And he scored extra points for being nice.

  "It was a freak accident. It's not like Sunny's llama has gone on killing rampages before. And Jack knew Cliff. Cliff cared for him whenever your grandmother was away. I suspect the old guy fell or something, and the animal managed to kick him."

  I nodded, not that his explanation made me feel any better. None of this would have happened if Jack hadn't escaped his pen. Karen had been right about that.

  "Here," he said, handing the rope he still held to Oliver. "He seems pretty relaxed with you."

  Oliver took it and started down the path. "Come on, you vicious beast."

  Jack looked anything but vicious as he ambled along after my friend, his wool bouncing around his body like a bad home perm. The sheriff and I fell in step behind them, although I noticed we both left a wide berth between ourselves and the llama's back end.

  "So, you are from California?" Sheriff Pelletier said suddenly.

  I glanced at him. "Yes. L.A."

  "I guess right now isn't the time to ask you if you are enjoying Maine."

  He caught me off guard, and a surprised laugh escaped my lips. "No, probably not."

  He smiled, then fell silent. I appreciated his friendliness, but I was glad for the silence. I was too shaken to make small talk.

  We reached Water Street, and I noticed two police cars parked along the curb near the entrance to the scenic walk. I hadn't noticed them before. Officer Young and the other cop, whose name I still hadn't gotten, waited by one of the vehicles.

  Sheriff Pelletier stopped near the other one. "I'm sorry this has been such a rough start to your move here. I hope it hasn't ruined things for you. This really is a nice, quaint little town."

  I managed a smile. "It can only get better, right?"

  He nodded. "It will absolutely get better."

  A more genuine smile curved my lips. Well, at least the sheriff didn't seem to hate me. That was a start, I supposed.

  "I'll be in touch if I need anything," he said. "But this all seems pretty straightforward."

  I was glad for that, at least.

  Both Oliver and I thanked him and continued down that sidewalk toward Main Street, walking Jack like he was a dog. We passed a few people who eyed us oddly, but they didn't stare at the llama in fear. I chose to see that as a good sign. Maybe the news hadn't spread yet that Jack had gone homicidal upon my arrival.

  I let out a pent-up breath as soon as we got back to my grandmother's house. My house, I corrected. The paddock door was still open, evidence of Jack's escape. Oliver led him back to his stall, then as if he'd cared for llamas all his life, he grabbed a pitchfork and shoveled in some hay for the animal and checked his water.

  "I need a drink," Oliver said, when Jack was all settled. "I'm sure your grandmother's got a stash of booze somewhere."

  "If not, there's a whole pub," I said.

  "Good point." He left the barn, but I lingered with Jack. I curled my fingers into his fur, scratching his long neck as he munched on his hay, totally unfazed by the events of the day.

  "I know I locked the gate," I murmured to the animal, replaying everything in my mind. "You’ll see I’m a very trustworthy pet owner. Once, I took home the classroom hamster in third grade. You know, just for Christmas break, but I did great with that little guy. And not once did he escape. Or kill anyone."

  I grimaced, realizing I was justifying to a llama.

  And maybe I hadn't locked the gate. I had been overwhelmed by the tour of the house. And by discovering I was now the owner of a llama. Maybe I hadn't locked it completely. I rested my head against the llama's neck. Guilt filled my chest. Had my stupid oversight led to Cliff Robichaud's death? That was a lot to handle.

  "If only you could tell me what happened," I whispered to Jack. He responded by gobbling up another mouthful of hay, his jaw and lips moving side to side as he chewed.

  I stroked his neck one last time, then left his stall, making sure the gate was securely locked. I shook it to be completely certain. I did the same with the gate of his paddock, trying to remember exactly what I did when I left it earlier. I just wasn't sure.

  When I got into the house, Oliver had found a bottle of Jameson and two highball glasses. The ice machine on the door of the fridge churned and thudded as he filled with glasses with ice, then he returned to the counter and poured a generous portion of whisky into each of them. He held one out to me. I didn't usually drink liquor without plenty of mixer, but today, I was willing to make an exception.

  Oliver raised his glass. "To Cliff. We didn't know you well, but you seemed like a nice man and we are sorry you had to go."

  “To Cliff.” I raised my glass. One swallow and I choked and shuddered and set the glass down. Oliver drained his. I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that a man I’d just been talking to three hours earlier was dead. It was horrible.

  "I could have sworn I locked that fence," I said, needing to share my thoughts with someone other than a llama. But even as I said it, I felt like I sounded like a child making excuses. After all, I just wasn't sure.

  Oliver studied me. "There was a lot going on. It would have
been easy to miss it."

  I took another sip of the whisky, even though I knew I didn't like it. I grimaced, then slumped against the counter. So much for fabulous new beginnings.

  "I mean, I didn't think to lock it either," he added, seeing my misery. "I was too busy with my phone to even think about it. Millennials and their selfies, right? Cliff was right about us. How predictable and gross. We’ve let down our generation."

  He was refilling his glass when I grabbed his arm. Whisky sloshed on the granite countertop. "Soph! Watch it."

  "Give me your phone," I demanded. His comment had triggered the realization that we could verify the gate.

  "What?"

  "Your phone. Let me see it."

  He started to reach for it, then paused. “This isn’t going to be some ‘technology is evil’ campaign, where you destroy my phone as a symbol of how our world is losing touch with humanity, is it?”

  I held my hand out, waiting. He dug in his back pocket, typed in his passcode, then handed it to me. “I’m still paying on that,” he warned.

  I ignored him and tapped his photo folder, then swiped through his most recent photos.

  "There," I said, waving the phone in his face.

  He leaned back, squinting. "What am I supposed to see?"

  I tapped the selfie of us with Jack, then spread my fingers on the screen to enlarge the picture. I handed him the phone.

  He looked at it, his eyes widened. "The gate was locked."

  "It was locked," I said, grinning, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I had locked it. But my glee vanished immediately. It was locked, so who…

  "So who unlocked it?" Oliver asked, finishing my thought for me. We both peered at the blown-up photo.

  I took another sip of my whisky, this time barely registering the sour, burning taste. "And why? What would be the point of letting out a llama?"

  “Could it have been Cliff?”

  “He left ahead of us,” Oliver pointed out. “He was talking to your Sex on a Stick pub manager.”

  He was right. But that also brought up a disturbing concern. “The pub manager who just happens to live in the guesthouse on the property. Feet away from the shed. Could he have gone in to see Jack and left the gate open?”