Murder in the Mist (12 page)

“I don’t understand. Why did you leave the wide open spaces to move to a small coastal town thousands of miles away, only to return to what you left in the first place?”

He reached into his wallet and pulled out the photo. “My wife, Susie. She taught kindergarten. Everyone loved her.”

For a moment, Laura thought he wasn’t going to continue. She caught her breath at the unexpected emotion in his eyes. “She was murdered. We were married six weeks when it happened. My mom took a bullet in the spine. A vibrant woman who’d rather ride a horse and herd cattle than cook and clean house will spend the rest of her days in a wheelchair. Months before it happened, I was instrumental in taking down a major player and busting up his human trafficking operation. The cowards waited until I was away on assignment to target my family. I came here to get away from the emotional pain, the crime, the everything. I think I was trying to find…normal. You have to understand that being sheriff gives me the opportunity to run my own department. Taking down bad guys is what I do best. I have to go home. It’s the right thing to do.”

A stretch of silence followed.

Dressed in navy blue slacks and a white button-down shirt, Laura wore her hair in a funky spiked style. Her blue eyes glinted steel. Skin that reminded him of peaches and cream, with a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Even with little makeup she made a lot of women look plain. Laura was a natural beauty.

He ignored the zing of attraction he always seemed to get around her. Romance, attraction, whatever it was he felt when he spent time with her, was not an option.

“What about you, Friday? Any plans for marriage and a family?”

She considered his question. “In a manner of speaking I was married—to my job. For ten years, my only desire was to out-scoop the competition. I loved seeing my name in the byline. As for family, the newspaper was my family.” She went quiet.

Mitch waited.

“As for losing someone close…Jolly was like my kid brother. I felt the life drain out of him, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. For the rest of my life, I’ll have to live with the fact that his dying was my fault.” She held up her hand to stop Mitch from speaking. “Oh, I didn’t pull the trigger. Jolly was killed because of my stupidity. I came home to heal.”

“What happens when you do? Will you sell the paper and move back to New York?”

“The thought has entered my head, more than once, but no.” She lifted her foot, the one with the oversized orthopedic heel. Her voice soft. “Unlike your mom, I can still walk. Thing is, with a bum leg, I’m no longer able to outrun bullets. Nor do I have the desire. I’m here to stay. Plus, Aunt Philly has always wanted to visit Paris. Right now, with a monthly edition and limited special editions, I have the time to travel. Because of my self-centeredness, I’ve lost precious time with my only real family member. I intend to stick as close as possible.”

“What about love?”

She laughed. “I’m thirty-two, and underneath this blonde from a bottle lies a beginning crop of gray hairs.” She laughed again. “In the olden days, I’d be considered an old maid. Joking aside, Mitch, I’m not looking for love. If it happens, he’ll have to be someone pretty darn special.”

She changed the subject. “As long as we’re playing twenty questions—what about our skeleton?”

“Yeah. About that. Sheriff Gilman returns from her honeymoon the end of July. Her husband is law enforcement. She may want the two of them to run the office together. If that’s the case, then I’d be looking for a job anyways. As for our skeleton, I hope to solve that mystery before I leave in September.”

Laura whistled. “Wow, it’s already the first of June. We’d better get with it, cowboy.”

Chapter Fifteen

At eight-thirty Monday morning, Maudie Perry greeted Benjamin Noone with a small coffee and a bagel with lox. She chirped her customary greeting. “Your usual, Benjamin.” She glanced around. “My goodness, Cole Harbor was certainly lucky the day you were hired as the town’s gardener.”

He stood, gripping the sack and wishing she’d go away. He’d listened to her repeat the same phrase every day for the last three thousand one hundred and seventy days. Her chattering hurt his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Perry.” He turned toward the gazebo.

“I know what a workaholic you are, so I won’t keep you.” She stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. He flinched and drew back. “Did you hear the latest news?”

“Guess not. I don’t own a television. Prefer books and my record player. It needs a new needle.”

“Oh, yes, well, never mind that.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “The skeleton of a woman was found, Saturday.”

The cap he wore suddenly felt too tight. He was certain his head would explode. “Where?”

She stretched her arm and pointed. “At the place you’ve enjoyed sitting and looking at for these last ten years. Pine Island.” She smiled. “I don’t blame you. We’d all like to own our own private paradise.”

His temples throbbed, and he wondered if the yakking old woman could hear the thudding of his heart against his chest. He wanted to press his hands against his head to shut out her screeching. He wanted to scream,
Shut up…shut up…shut uuuup!

“Why, Benjamin, have you taken ill? You’ve turned white as a ghost. Except for the weekends and holidays, I don’t believe you’ve taken a day off since the city hired you. Perhaps you’ve been working too hard.”

“After I eat, I’ll be fine. Again, thanks for the food, Mrs. Perry. I gotta go.” This time he left her standing while he entered the gazebo and sat down.

“Of course, Benjamin. You heed what I say, and go home to rest.”

The clacking of her heels against the cement sidewalk kept on until he thought his ears would burst. He inhaled, deeply, and blew out a long breath.
Calm…remain calm. Eat…drink…calm. Did I take my pill this morning? Can’t remember.

He looked out across the bay toward Pine Island, and then turned to look over his shoulder, and called out, “Mrs. Perry, who found it?”

“Laura Friday and her Aunt Phyllis.”

“What happened to it—the skeleton?”

She waved her hand. “You’ll read all about it. Laura put out a special edition this morning.”

His hand trembled when he removed the plastic cap from the cup. Without blowing to cool the steaming coffee, and with his thoughts on the skeleton, he gulped. The hot liquid slid down his throat, scalding all the way to his stomach. He coughed. His hand trembled more, this time spilling the cup’s contents down the front of his shirt. He yelped as he tried to brush away the blistering liquid.
Go home. I have to go home.

He left the sack with the untouched bagel on the bench. He gathered his rake and hoe, and the wheelbarrow, and for the first time in ten years he carelessly plowed through his precious flowers to get to the gardening shack where he kept his tools and other supplies. After securing the lock, he jumped on his bicycle and pedaled away from town. At one of the houses, he skidded to a halt long enough to snatch a newspaper from the paper box. He rolled it into a roll and stuffed it inside his shirt pocket. This time, he didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the national park where his cabin sat hidden from sight, far off the road.

He was tired now. The sun, bright and strong, had kept him pedaling up the steep grade. Habit forced him to lift the bicycle up the steps to where he could lean it against the cabin’s outer wall. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sat in a chair and looked beyond to the sea. There was no sound. He closed his eyes and allowed the hush to hover over him.

Benjamin reached up to swat a stinging black fly seeking nourishment. In the process, he knocked the newspaper from his pocket. He unrolled the tabloid. His eyes darted back and forth over the page and the picture of the hole in the ground. Most of the language was too complicated for him. He stopped and went back to the beginning of the article, skipping over the hard words. He did understand the part where the earth had opened up beneath Laura Friday’s feet to reveal a grave that held the skeleton of a female believed to be the long missing body of a young nurse, Lynnette Braswell.

He had a morbid need to chase death, having felt its hands crush the necks of those animals. He automatically flexed his fingers. He thought of his mother again and the sad expression she’d worn every time she watched the horizon steal the sun. She had left him. A mother should be a safe harbor. A protector.

The beginning of a headache throbbed against his temples, and he felt liquid oozing through the black holes to crowd his brain. A voice rasped,
Bennie is a bad boy…bad boy…bad boy. He killed the dog, he killed the cats. Bennie killed one girl and then another.

He clasped his hands over his ears, and through the pulsating pain he cried, “No! Go away! Bennie is dead. I’m Benjamin. Benjamin is a good boy.”

His chest heaved until his breath came out in great gasps. Tears leaked from his eyes, and he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the snot dripping from his nose.

He was tired, bone-deep weary in a way that people who had never killed would find impossible to appreciate. Bennie was hungry. His need was growing stronger. He would kill again.

When Benjamin awakened, he lay on the ground. He glanced around. His bicycle lay next to him. His last memory was carrying it up the steps to the porch. Darkness crowded the thick canopy of trees. Shadows grew and lengthened, and the horizon was streaked with the vivid pinks and bright oranges of the dying sun.

He brushed leaves and dirt from the front of his shirt. Weary, he climbed the steps to the cabin, walked to the bathroom, and washed his face. The cooling water refreshed him. Returning to the bedroom, he sprawled to the floor on his stomach and removed his special box. Sitting with his back against the bed, he opened the lid, removed the papers, and the little drawstring sack. Careful not to spill any of the leaves, Benjamin rolled a joint and lit it. He inhaled deeply, held it, and then swallowed. He closed his eyes and let the devil lettuce work its magic.

Relaxed and giddy, he giggled. The voice, that hateful voice, intruded.

Bennie, I see you.

He sobered as he eyed the shadowy image that crouched near him. He hissed, “Go away. I’m Benjamin. You’re Bennie.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You’re not real.”

I’m your twin. We are one. I’m tired of waiting…aren’t you?

Benjamin placed his hands against his head and squeezed. Why wouldn’t the pain go away? In a frenzy, he ran to the front door and locked it, then did the same to the cabin’s back door. He raced into the bathroom and locked the door. He stripped down, kicked his dirty clothes aside, and climbed into the shower. With his knees drawn to his chin, he sat on the fiberglass floor under the cold spray, and bit his lip until it bled.
Don’t scream. We don’t like screaming.

Chapter Sixteen

Her laptop tucked under her left arm, Laura held the handrail as she walked down the stair steps one at a time. A shooting pain in her right thigh sucked the air from her lungs. Her leg was letting her know she’d overly exerted the muscles the past few days. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to change.

At the bottom of the landing, she unlocked the back entry door and stepped outside and around the corner, just a few steps to her office. She was careful to keep her stride smooth. Several business owners called morning greetings. She waved and, with a smile, returned their good wishes.

She stood back a moment and looked at the glass-paned door. A swell of pride filled her as she mentally read her name: Laura Friday, Editor-in-Chief. The painter was scheduled to make it visible to everyone next Monday. She reached into her pants pocket and removed her keychain. It wasn’t until she leaned forward to insert the key and turn the lock that she noticed it. There, on the sidewalk, resting peacefully within inches of her shoe. A rose. A white rose.

She bit against the pain as she stooped and used her fingernails to lift the stem. Shifting the laptop, she laid the bud on top of the flat surface. She didn’t want to handle the flower for fear of obscuring possible fingerprints belonging to the donor.

Maudie Perry saved the day. “Let me get that. You seem to have your hands full,” she gushed as she pulled the door wide. “A secret admirer leaving a rose on your doorstep? How romantic! I was always a sucker for romance. I wish Phyllis would discuss a romance novel at the book club meetings once in a while. Mysteries. Always mysteries.”

Laura offered a sympathetic smile. “When it’s your time to host the next meeting, simply suggest a romance novel. Do you have a favorite title in mind?”

A pink glow tinged the older woman’s cheeks. She placed her hands against her heart and sighed. “I’ve just finished reading
Bannon’s Brides
. The hero, Cordell Bannon, is every woman’s dream. Oh, my, what those poor women endured while crossing the prairie.” She seemed to realize she had drifted into a dreamy prattle, and fluffed herself up like a hen ruffling its feathers. “I’ll take your advice, Laura. By the way, wonderful article about finding the skeleton. I can’t imagine you showing up for work this morning. Falling into a grave…” She tsked. “Why, I’d be absolutely traumatized.”

“We all cope in different ways. Work is my catharsis. Have a good day.” Laura walked through the open door.

Maudie waved as she walked on down the sidewalk. “See you at the tourism council tonight. We’re looking forward to your presentation.”

Laura limped to the desk to set down the laptop. She opened the top drawer and pulled out the manila folder that held the first white rose and the note with it. She undid the metal brad and dropped the second flower inside. Then, on an index card, she wrote the date and time she’d found the second rose, and slid the card inside the envelope. A thought entered her mind. She reached inside for the note that had accompanied the first rose. Her heart thumped as she read the scrawled message,
No one loves you
. With four words the sender had scrambled her emotions all over again. Looking at her calendar, she flipped over the square piece of white paper and jotted the date she’d received the first bloom. Details like this might be important later. She dropped it into the envelope and sealed the flap with the brad, eyeing the envelope with disgust.