Murder by the Seaside (3 page)

“Who cares?” My voice hitched.

“It was Adrian’s fumble that cost Brady the grand.”

I dug in my wallet and placed a five on the counter. “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker.” I took the paper basket and Styrofoam cup and left. I needed to walk. Hopefully Adrian was enjoying his freedom while it lasted. Having a hundred people watch you beat the daylights out of the same guy found bonked on the head twelve hours later seemed pretty incriminating.

My trip down Main Street to the harbor served a dual purpose. I needed to think, and I also had to look for open office space. I plotted my trip in my head so as not to miss any prime real estate. On the way home, I planned to take a walk on Colt Court, Adrian’s new street. All the little shops had closed up for the day. Sidewalk displays had been moved inside for the night, signs flipped, blinds pulled. Island Brew and the Wild Horses Saloon, neither of which served any alcohol, despite their names, had lines out their doors. The former kept coffee lovers sated and the latter served couples having a late dinner.

I crossed the street to get a good look at the harbor. A speckle of sailboats skated in the distance. The setting sun made silhouettes out of the farthest vessels. Large fishing boats chugged their way back to dock for the night. On land, four men dressed in waders and ribbed tank tops stood in a huddle under the marina sign. From my vantage on the sidewalk, there was no clue there’d been a murder there that morning. Even the crime-scene tape was gone, or out of sight. No chalk outline of a body anywhere, either. Who could tell? The foursome created a wall.

My soda disappeared long before the fries. I tossed them both into the trash on the closest corner. Decorative iron cases around the cans caused more than one tourist to do a double-take. They were, in fact, trash cans. Pretty ones. I dusted my palms together then anchored them over my expanding waist. Fries for two meals in one day. What would become of me in a year?

Every shop in sight had a window full of cutesy displays. No For Rent signs. My parents paid more per month for The Purple Pony than I dreamed of making. Main Street wasn’t the best place for a counseling practice anyway. No parking or privacy.

On Poplar I noticed a space like the art studio downstairs from my apartment. It was a cute cream-colored house with blue shutters and a sign in the window. I dialed. The Realtor’s recording advised me to keep walking.

Yeesh. Cute was costly. Message received.

Misty Park looked like it had when I left. Abandoned. The park was named after the famous
Misty of Chincoteague
book and movie. Misty put Chincoteague on the map, though most of the people I spoke with still hadn’t heard of it. I walked through the untrimmed grass and slumped onto a squeaky swing.

This was not the plan I’d had for my life. The master’s degree was supposed to open doors within the FBI. I wanted to counsel agents who were forced to discharge their firearms. Sometimes women agents had trouble readjusting to full-time careers after maternity leave. The government needed a counselor on staff, and contractors were expensive. I used to acquire them as needed and evaluate the quotes for the contract. Moving me into a counseling position would have saved the government mega bucks over the course of my career. Had it been longer.

A black squirrel ran across the wire overhead, through the trees, around a telephone pole and straight to the greatest news I’d had all day. An old boathouse at the edge of the park had a For Rent sign in the window.

“Bingo.”

I called the number immediately, listened to the recording and liked what I heard. The place was empty and in my price range, and the landlord meant to help with upkeep. I left a message. I’d take it. My fingers crossed in hopes that it hadn’t already been rented. My savings were meager, but I’d put the money away exactly for this purpose. An office.

The smile fell from my lips before I had a chance to relish it. Someone ducked behind the trees in the park. As much as I wanted to run, curiosity took over. I had to know. Was it Adrian? If it was, he was busted. I gripped my phone, ready to call the sheriff.

“I see you. Behind the tree. I see you. You can come out.” When no one jumped out in a hockey mask, my confidence built. They were hiding from me. “Come on.” I picked up my pace, heading straight for the tree.

Mrs. Davis stepped out, and I almost had a coronary.

“What are you doing there?” I pressed one palm to my chest. Jeez. Good thing it wasn’t a lunatic killer.

“I’m keeping an eye on you.” She managed to look angry. At me.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Davis. You don’t need to look out for me.”

“I’m not looking out for you. I’m making sure you’re helping Adrian. From the looks of things, you’re on vacation while my son is who knows where. I don’t think you’re really working this case.”

What? My hands flew into the air. My mouth flopped open. “That’s because I’m
not
working this case. I’m not an investigator. I’m a counselor. A counselor who needs an office and some clients.” I looked back at the little boathouse.

“You’re not going to find any patients on this island. Who’d want to be seen getting counseling? No one, that’s who. You’re from the FBI. You owe Adrian. Help him!” Now her hands were in the air. We stood twenty feet apart yelling and only the squirrels seemed to notice.

“I was in HR.” I stamped my foot and turned on one heel. “Stop following me.”

On the way home, I thought of the things I should’ve said to her. I veered past Adrian’s giant house on the marsh. I checked the mailbox. Empty. I marched up a couple dozen steps to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. The wide wrap-around porch encircled his entire house. As inviting as the rockers and swing looked, it was getting dark.

I bounded down the steps to the road, hoping to avoid any wild ponies. Chincoteague had its pitfalls. One was the island pride: wild ponies. I shivered. The ponies freaked me out. They wandered around loose with their giant teeth and crazy twitchy skin. All the way home I kept an eye out for ponies and stalking mothers of criminals.

Climbing the steps to my place, I sang a victory song. I made it. I’d steered clear of ponies, found some cheap office space, checked on Adrian’s house and told his mom to leave me alone. It was a great feeling. A highly successful outing, to be sure.

I took a deep breath and leaned into the door. Safe and sound. I kicked my shoes off and pulled my sweaty T-shirt over my head. The shower called out to me. Humidity was the sworn enemy of unruly hair and out-of-shape human resource workers. I shimmied out of my jeans and checked my e-mail.

Claire would be back Friday night. Excellent.

A creak sounded, and I froze. The window rattled in its old wooden frame. The wind? I slid from the chair and plastered my body to the wall. Of course, my pepper spray was nowhere around. Again. I waited, barely breathing. Listening.

Another creak.

I shut my laptop and grabbed it in both hands. An expensive weapon, but my life was worth it. Moving to the window, I searched for shadows outside and saw nothing. The knob on the door didn’t give when I turned it. Locked. I slid the dead bolt and backed away, eyes on the window.

Three Chicken-Little steps backward, my life flashed before my eyes. A hand clamped over my mouth. One wide arm wound around my waist, pressing my techy weapon into my ribs. Damn it. I stomped my foot into his and hurt myself. My assailant wore boots. Double damn it. I blanked on everything I learned in the self-defense refresher courses at work. My feet slid against thirty-year-old linoleum as I was dragged into my dark hallway.

Chapter Three

Instead of my pitch-black bedroom, the creep dragged me to the bathroom, where he flipped on the light and eased his grip by a fraction. I wiggled my arms, hoping to elbow him in the gut. No luck. His sweet breath blew over my cheek. He smelled like cherry ChapStick. The cylinders in my brain backfired.
No.

“Don’t be mad.” The whisper heated my cheek.

Fire climbed from my toes to my hair. When his grip loosened further, I connected my bare foot with his shin. He let out a wail and I took full advantage.

He had the good sense to know I wasn’t finished and lifted an arm to block my attack. The weight of my laptop knocked against his elbow. I hoped to knock his head off, but I had to settle for his funny bone.

“Yeow!” Adrian stepped back, into the side of my tub, and fell in. I cranked on the water.

My heart hammered, threatening to bust free. I raised the laptop over my head and backed through the bathroom door. Infuriatingly, his dimple caved in. Fully clothed and sitting under my shower, he had the audacity to smile at me.

“What is wrong with you?” The snarl hurt my throat.

His grin hitched further and my near nakedness registered for the first time. I turned tail, ran for the bedroom and yanked on the first thing I saw. Everything was packed and my closet was empty. I’d laid out the ratty cutoff shorts and worn-out T-shirt to clean in later. Worse? Dad made the shirt with the Purple Pony shirt press during my freshman year in college. A stick figure in glasses declared “Counselors do it on the couch.” Not exactly how I’d hoped to look for my reunion with Adrian. Then again, I didn’t expect him to break into my apartment and try to abduct me either. The shower shut off in the bathroom. I headed for my purse. I needed to call the sheriff and also pepper spray Adrian to be sure he got the point.

“Hey.” His throaty voice arrived in my doorway before I did. I stopped short. Adrian leaned against the frame. “Don’t be mad. I tried not to scare you.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, certainly. I often break into people’s apartments, slam a hand over their mouth and drag them away. That never frightens them.” The heel of my hand bounced off my forehead. “Get out of my way. Why did you take me to the bathroom?”

He stepped aside. I blew past him, toward the living room. “No windows. I hated sneaking in here, but my mom is everywhere. I don’t want her in trouble for knowing where I am and not turning me in. What are you doing?”

I pressed my cell to my ear. “I’m calling Sheriff Murray. You’re a fugitive.”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“I didn’t say you were. What’s the number over there? I don’t want to call nine-one-one and spend a bunch of tax dollars.”

“You’re kidding.” He guffawed.

“I can look it up.” I moseyed to my bedroom to retrieve the laptop. He followed.

“If you don’t think I’m guilty, why would you turn me in?” He studied my face and barked a crazy laugh. “That’s just great. Perfect, Patience. You’re still mad I went to college. Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

“I am not mad you went to college. You’re so self-absorbed.” I walked back to the bathroom to grab a brush.

“Really? Because you seem a little irritable.”

He squeezed into the tiny apartment bathroom behind me and stripped off his shirt. I gawked as he wrung it out over the sink and slipped the only hand towel I’d hung off its bar. He rubbed it over his wet hair. My body relaxed into the wall behind me. The sharp V of his torso disappeared into low-slung black warm-ups. The waistband showing beneath the warm-ups ruined my concentration. I swallowed.

“You broke into my apartment.” I averted my eyes. Adrian could always see through me. “I was mad because you never bothered to mention you were going to college. That’s an important nugget of information, don’t you think? ‘By the way, I changed my mind about seeing the world with you...’”

Breath caught in my throat. I did sound mad. Which I wasn’t. “Anyway, I’m not mad anymore. You blindsided me, but that was ages ago.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Now, I’m home for five seconds and you want me to help you beat a murder rap.”

“I didn’t kill Brady. I need you to believe me.”

I deflated an inch. I’d squared my shoulders in preparation for his excuses for having left without cluing me in: I was a freak. I had bad breath. He deserved better than an uptight child of hippies. Anything. I’d racked my brain for years trying to make sense of why someone would do that to someone else. But even after I spilled my guts, his only comment was about Brady’s murder.

Excellent explanation he had there.
It wasn’t me.
Bet that would hold up in court.

“Who cares what I think? I just got here.”

“I care.” With that, he turned on me. The quarters were tight to begin with, but now we were inches apart and face-to-face. Adrian braced his palms against the wall over my head and leaned down toward me. “I care that someone killed Brady and I want to know who did it. It wasn’t me. Help me find out who did this.”

His pale gray eyes confused and excited me. His steady gaze skewered me to the wall. My mouth opened and closed without a sound. Heat radiated off him, hit me in the chest and ran south. My mind scrambled. What was I doing again?

“You. You’re supposed to be in jail,” I said. “You don’t get to pick when you go. You just go. It’s the law.”

“There’s something else going on here. Brady was always kind of a douche, but you should’ve heard him yesterday.”

“Before or after you beat him up in front of half the town?” My fingers itched at my sides. I balled them into fists to keep from touching him. “Is it hot in here?”

He straightened and walked into the next room. I followed.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Brady and I bantered a lot—we weren’t friends, but we weren’t enemies. Then yesterday he went berserk, yelling at me about a pass I missed eight years ago. I don’t even remember what he was talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” My fingers waded through the giant purse I brought to haul flyers around the island.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Looking for my pepper spray.”

“What? You got tired of hitting me with your computer already?”

“I can’t afford a new one. I’m unemployed.”

“The way I hear it, you work for the FBI. That’s amazing. I’m really proud of you.”

I stamped my foot. “First, I was in HR. They downsized me. Second, you don’t get to be proud of me. You don’t have any claim to me.” Ticking off my fingers, I stopped on the second one and waved the finger between us. “Don’t you forget it.”

He raised his palms in defense. “You’re right. I’m sorry, but I’m not turning myself in. So, what do you say? Will you help me find Brady’s killer? Clear my name? Think about it—two good deeds in one. You always were a Girl Scout. Can’t pass that up, right? Plus, you see through people. I used to think you could see a liar coming a mile away.”

“Not all of them.” I lifted my chin an inch.

“Please? This island has made up its mind about me. They think they know all they need to, but they don’t. I didn’t do this.” His voice grew soft and pleading. “Patience? Please.”

I hated the power he still had over me. Those eyes. That dimple. Too much history. My resolve softened, and curiosity reared its ugly head. I slid a thumbnail between my teeth, a habit I immediately regretted. Adrian knew I was considering his words. “Where are you staying?”

“Nope. Not until you promise me you’ll help. You must still have contacts at the FBI. At least talk to people around here. Someone had to have seen something. You’ll be able to learn more doing that than Sheriff Murray will doing one of his half-assed investigations.”

I appreciated the vote of confidence, but it was my civic duty to turn him in. I wavered. I hated to see an innocent man go to jail. It was unlikely they’d continue to look for the killer if they had Adrian in custody. “I’ll ask a few questions.”

“Yesss.” He lifted two fists in victory. I hated him.

“But you need to leave. I don’t want to be guilty of harboring a fugitive.”

“Always with the rules. That’s why I know I can trust you. You’re honest.”

I bit my lip to hold back a plethora of rude retorts. Instead, I nodded. When my head cleared slightly, I put down my purse. “Where were you last night?”

“Home. Alone.”

Of course. “You should get dressed.”

“Do you have a shirt I can wear?”

“If you fit into my clothes, I’ll kill myself.”

“Right. You look amazing, by the way.”

He’d seen me in my underpants. My mind raced to remember if they were my nice ones. “You need to go.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Lucky me.” I followed him to my bedroom, where a breeze blew in the darkness.

He straddled the windowsill and swung his legs over the edge. “You need to get a lock on this. Anyone with a little motivation can get in.”

He jumped to the porch roof below and then to the ground with a muffled
thump
. Then I locked the window and checked it twice. Adrian disappeared into the darkness.

I took a cold shower.

Adrian Davis might not be a murderer, but he was a menace. As soon as he got the murder charges dropped, I’d consider filing a complaint for breaking and entering.

I tossed under my sheet all night. The warm temperatures didn’t comfort me. Every creak and groan of the old house freaked me out. Adrian’s words haunted me. Anyone could get in and I’d never know. I vowed to never leave my pepper spray out of reach again.

He’d looked me in the eye and pleaded. As much as I wanted to be indifferent, I couldn’t. While I refused to waste my time saving the big jerk, he had piqued my curiosity. When the sun finally peeked over the horizon, I resolved to visit the sheriff. Just to see if Adrian was right. Had the sheriff’s office pointed the finger at him and stopped searching for other suspects? What could it hurt to find that out?

An eerie orange glow coated my apartment. The screen door thumped. I ran for my purse and then to check out what had caused the noise. This time Adrian would learn not to break in to people’s apartments. Pulling back a finger full of curtain, I held my breath, but all I heard was the faint mewing of a cat. No boogey man. No Adrian. Outside my door, a tiny gray fuzzball rubbed his sides against the screen, one after the other. Huh. I went to my kitchen for an empty mug and filled it with water.

“Here you go.” I set the mug of water on the little porch outside my door and shook a handful of chips onto the wood plank flooring. “I haven’t been to the grocery store.”

Back inside I got dressed. No time like the present, as they said. Especially when I had to do something awkward like question the sheriff about things that were none of my business. I flipped through the few things I’d unpacked and settled on jeans and a silk tank top. After yesterday, I opted for Chucks instead of the sandals I’d worn on the mainland.

The little cat sat cleaning its paws. He hadn’t touched the chips. “I’m off to be nosey.”

* * *

The police station had white stucco walls and a pink tile roof. Nothing new there. Sheriff Murray’s cruiser sat at the curb. Typical. The deputy’s SUV was wedged behind the station. Good thing I brought three of Mrs. Tucker’s cappuccinos. Nothing was worse than the stale black coffee in a police station. I’d had my share in high school. It sucked every time.

I slid through a mass of people inside the reception area. Sheriff Murray barked behind closed doors, drawing attention that way. His tenor rattled the blinds in the windows. The deputy fielded a volley of questions nearby. The receptionist’s phone rang incessantly. Her mussed hair pointed in every direction. One hand waved off the never-ending stream of visitors, while the other rubbed her forehead.

I’d planned to share the cappuccinos with the sheriff and his deputy and drink mine while I waited, but the receptionist looked like she needed caffeine more than I did. I pushed my cup across her desk and then sat in the last open chair and unwrapped a piece of gum.

Every year the island had a big pony swim and auction. Cowboys rustled up the wild ponies from the marshes, forced them to swim across a section of water between the national park and town, and then sold them at auction. The money went to support our local firemen. The whole shindig lasted a week and culminated with the auction. It was the biggest week of the year for tourists and revenues. People descended on Chincoteague like locusts for the pony swim. Some wanted a glimpse at the wild ponies; others planned to buy them. Most hoped to make some money selling inflatable horses and funnel cakes to other tourists. All those extra people on a seven-by-three-mile island meant lots of police reports filed, vendor permits lost and general chaos. Security gave the sheriff annual fits. Every sheriff. Every year.

From the looks of it, Sheriff Murray had a new deputy and he wasn’t prepared. The man looked smart in a Clark Kent way—dark hair parted on the left, combed to the side. Clearly younger than me, and more lanky than any of the field agents I’d gotten used to working with. He was no Sebastian Clark, but who was? The badge on his shirt was covered by the crowd of people waiting for his attention. Thanks to Mrs. Tucker and the Harry Potter glasses he wore, Deputy Doofus would remain his identity for now.

The office door swung wide, and I jumped in my seat. The plaster held surprisingly well when the door bounced off the wall. Sheriff Murray’s face looked like a hot tamale. He kicked a trash bin beside an empty desk and stared at the crowd gathered up front with me.

I waved. “Sheriff Murray! Sheriff? A minute?” I swung an arm overhead. He squinted. When his chin went slack, I knew he recognized me.

“Excuse me.” I dropped the carrier with my last two cappuccinos on the receptionist’s desk and smiled. Then I shoved my way through the vendors arguing over permits. Poor girl was two complaints away from blowing a gasket.

“What can I do for you, Miss Price?” The sheriff moved back into his office and sat at his desk.

“Hi. Well, I wondered if you had any other suspects for the Brady McGee murder?”

He glared at me without speaking. His left eye twitched.