On Shadow Beach (8 page)

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You didn’t do anything wrong. And Colin was doing his job, a job that he loved.”

“You’re letting me off the hook that easily?”

“If you want to work off your guilt, Mrs. Marson’s
dog left some presents in my backyard. Maybe you could take care of them for me.” She paused, holding his gaze. “But I don’t really need you to do chores around here, Jason. I just need you to be my friend and call me out when I’m being a stupid, emotional girl.”

Jason smiled. “The last time I called you a stupid girl, you threw a piece of cake in my face. The icing was coconut, which I’m allergic to, and twenty minutes later I had red welts all over my face, and my throat started closing up. You almost killed me with that damn cake, so if you think I’m dumb enough to call you a stupid girl again, you really are a . . . well, you know what.”

She grinned back at him. “I already apologized for that.”

“Because your mother made you.”

“We were in the fifth grade. You pissed me off.”

“Colin made you mad, too, but you kissed him.”

“Not until the seventh grade—and that’s because he called me a
beautiful
girl.” The memory made her smile. “It was my very first kiss. Colin was so nervous his lips only hit the corner of my mouth, but it still gave me a thrill. I think it took him two months to work up enough courage to try it again.”

“Yeah, and I think he talked about that kiss for every minute of every hour of every day of those two months,” Jason said with a roll of his eyes. “I told him if he didn’t hurry up, I was going to kiss you myself. I think that’s what made him get off his ass.”

“Probably. He was always trying to keep up with you, and you certainly had plenty of girls at your beck and call.”

“Not you. You only had eyes for Colin,” he said.

There was an odd note in his voice that made her a little uncomfortable. She suspected Jason had had a little crush on her when they were teens, but he’d never said anything, and he’d certainly never done anything. He was loyal to Colin. “Well, it was all a long time ago. Although I wish we could go back to those carefree days.”

“You’ll have good days ahead.”

“I really hope so.”

Jason gazed into her eyes. “Kara—for the record—I think Colin is going to wake up.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

“Then get the hell out of here and let me paint.”

Lauren hadn’t meant to drive to the Ramsay house. After checking in on her father at the café, she’d headed to the market to pick up some food to restock the fridge. But on the way to the store she’d found herself driving through town, taking in the sights, and somehow she’d ended up on the narrow road that led to the old house on the bluff where her sister’s body had been found.

Before a fire had taken down the east wing of the building, the Ramsay house had been a mansion, three floors, six bedrooms, four baths, and numerous other rooms, including a movie theater. It had been built as a luxurious summer home in the 1950s by a wealthy media mogul named Bert Ramsay, and its owners had had massive parties entertaining celebrities who spent weeks in the summer on the beach or on the Ramsay yacht.

After Bert Ramsay died, the house was inherited by his children and later his grandchildren, each generation choosing to spend less time at the mansion.
Eventually, the Ramsay house was basically a ghost during the winter and an occasional rental property in the summer. Most of the time it sat empty, making it the perfect location for late night teenage party action.

Until Abby’s lifeless body was found in the basement.

The Ramsays had sold the property after Abby’s murder, and it had gone through several owners since then. Lauren had heard that the house was haunted by her sister’s screams. She hated to think that Abby’s spirit was trapped in that house, so she chose to believe that people were just imagining sounds based on the fact that someone had died there.

Who’d tried to burn the house down? Local kids playing with matches? A new owner who wanted to collect on the insurance and rebuild a house that wasn’t haunted? Someone with a guilty conscience who couldn’t stand the constant reminder?

Drawing in a deep breath, she turned off the engine, got out of the car, and began to walk toward the house. It was almost noon, the sun high in the sky, but she still felt spooked by the tall trees that threw dark shadows along the path. Her unease deepened when she reached the front door. It was ajar and as she hesitated for a moment, a breeze made it move slightly on the rusted hinges, as if someone were inviting her in.

She bit her bottom lip, feeling crazy for even
considering going inside. If there had been any clues to Abby’s murderer, they were gone by now. Yet something drew her forward. She pushed open the door and stepped into what had once been the grand foyer.

There was no furniture in the entryway or any of the front rooms that she could see, and the wood bore signs of smoke and water damage. A mirror on the wall was broken in several places and part of the carpet had been pulled up from the stairs.

Access to the basement was through the laundry room just off the kitchen. She knew because she’d come to the house once during her senior year in high school to party with Shane and some others. They’d gone down to the basement so no one would see the lights from the road.

Every muscle in her body tightened as she debated her next move. Logically, she knew there was nothing to fear. It had been thirteen years. Abby’s killer was long gone.

Or was he?

What if whoever had killed Abby wasn’t some drifter, but someone in town, someone who was still nearby?

A gust of wind ripped through the trees and the front door slammed behind her, rattling the windows. Lauren jumped.
Get over it!
The wind was always strong along the bluff; the house was not haunted. It was just old and empty.

Straightening her shoulders, she headed into
the kitchen and then the laundry room. She opened the door that led into the basement. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she stepped onto the landing.

Had Abby been afraid that night? Had she felt the same sense of foreboding? Or had she entered the basement with no idea of what was about to happen to her?

Lauren flipped the switch at the top of the stairs, but there was no electricity. A stream of light came through a small window near the ceiling, putting the basement in a shadowy light. She moved slowly down the steps. The room was long and narrow and empty cement planters ran along one wall. An assortment of tools and gardening equipment were heaped in a corner, and a couple of empty beer bottles and cigarette stubs dotted the floor, remnants of a party—but how recent? Did the local kids still come here? Hadn’t they learned anything from Abby’s murder?

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she began to shake. This was where Abby had stood in the last moments of her life. Lauren could feel her sister’s fear. Her breathing came fast and shallow. The air was too thick, the musty smell suffocating—or maybe it was the knowledge that someone had stood in this spot and pulled a rope around Abby’s neck, squeezing the life out of her. How terrified she must have been, looking into the eyes of her killer, knowing that she was dying.

Lauren tried to draw in a breath, but her chest felt tight. She had to get out of here. She needed air. She needed to breathe.

Before she could move, the door above her banged open and she looked up in shock. A man stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs. He wore dark pants and a big coat, but she couldn’t see his face.

She’d left her cell phone in the car.
Oh, God!

Her heart beat in triple time, and adrenaline raced through her body.

He flashed a light on her face, blinding her. She put up a hand in protest. “Who’s there?” she demanded, forcing some strength into her voice.

The man turned the light toward the ceiling as he moved down the stairs.

She instinctively backed up, but there was nowhere to go. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” She grabbed a rake. It wasn’t much of a weapon but it was all she had.

“I was going to ask you the same questions.” He stopped, his gaze narrowing on her face. Surprise flashed in his eyes. “Are you Lauren Jamison?”

“How did you know that?” she asked quickly. He had blond hair and light eyes, an attractive face, a warming smile. Her tension eased slightly.

“I’ve seen your picture,” he replied. “I’m Mark Devlin.”

The movie producer.

“I didn’t expect to find you down here,” he continued.
“In fact, I was just at your house. Your father didn’t mention that you were headed this way.”

“You need to leave my father alone. You’re upsetting him.”

“He didn’t seem upset. He knows I’m trying to help.”

“By making a sensational movie about Abby’s death? My entire family was ripped apart by her murder. We can’t live through it again. You should drop this project.”

He frowned. “I understand it’s painful, but don’t you want to find out who killed your sister?”

“Of course I do, but if the police couldn’t figure it out, what makes you think you can?”

“I have a fresh eye, a different perspective, and the benefit of time. That’s the key in cold cases. Over many years, people often remember things. They feel free to speak out. I’ve already learned something that the police didn’t discover.”

“What’s that?” she scoffed, sure that he was going to throw out some meaningless piece of information just to make her think she should get involved with his movie.

“Two days before the murder, Abby and her friend Lisa were spotted sitting in a car outside their volleyball coach’s house around ten o’clock Saturday night.”

“So?”

“So their volleyball coach was a young, married man in his early twenties, Tim Sorensen. From what I’ve gathered, a lot of his female students had
crushes on him.”

“I knew Mr. Sorensen. He also taught biology, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at. You think he was involved with my sister?”

“I think you should ask Lisa why she told the police that she and Abby never left her house that night.”

“They were probably dropping something off—uniforms or the extra bag of balls or something. Where did you even get this information?” she asked suspiciously.

“Kendra Holt.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“She’s a local woman. At the time of the murder, she was having an affair with the man who lived next door to Sorensen, and she couldn’t afford to be placed at the scene. She got divorced a few years ago and now isn’t concerned about her reputation or her former husband. Ms. Holt also told me that it wasn’t the first time she’d seen the girls on the street.” He paused. “I’ve tried to get in touch with both Lisa Delaney and Mr. Sorensen. Neither one will talk to me. I also passed the information on to the chief of police. I’m not trying to take the police out of this, just to help them along.”

“Lisa was Abby’s best friend,” Lauren said. “She was questioned thoroughly about everything that they’d done in the weeks preceding Abby’s death. I’m more inclined to believe her than some woman who was having an affair and thought she saw my sister in a car. Lisa and Abby weren’t old enough to
drive, so whose car were they in?”

“Good question. Maybe you should ask Lisa.”

“I spoke to Lisa several times after Abby died. I asked her to tell me if there was anything that Abby was into that she didn’t want my parents to know about, and she said there wasn’t.” Lauren shook her head, disliking the doubts Mark Devlin was putting in her head. “If you’re suggesting that my sister was involved with a married man, who was also her teacher, you’re out of your mind. Abby was fifteen. And Lisa would have told me about Mr. Sorensen if there was anything to tell. You’re on the wrong track.”

“It’s possible,” he said with a small, conceding nod. “I do have other suspects.”

One of those other suspects had to be Shane. “I’m not interested in your theories.” She set down the rake and moved toward the stairs.

“Even if one of them involves you?”

She slowly turned. “What are you talking about?”

“You were never really questioned, Lauren.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Her jaw dropped in shock. “What the hell are you saying? Abby was my little sister! How could you think I had anything to do with her death?”

“She was beautiful, popular, an accomplished athlete, a great student. Some people claim you were in her shadow, that you were jealous of her.”

“I was proud of her.” Lauren refused to admit to any tinge of envy for her sister’s success. Sure,
things had come a little easier for Abby, and sometimes that had been frustrating, but she’d loved her sister far more than she’d ever felt jealous of her.

“There’s also the question of your alibi—it had a lot of holes in it. The librarian said she saw you enter the library, but she never saw you leave,” he said, his gaze never leaving her face. “But even if you had stayed until the library closed at ten, you didn’t arrive at your house until eleven twenty-five. That’s an hour and twenty-five minutes that were unaccounted for.”

Her heart pounded against her chest, but she tried to stay calm. He wanted to get a reaction from her, but she wouldn’t give him one. “I went for a walk after I left the library. I got some coffee and then I went home. The police confirmed that I stopped at Dina’s to get coffee.”

“You were at Dina’s for only five minutes. What did you do after that?”

She had gone down to the marina to see if Shane was back from the fishing charter he’d told her he was going to run with his dad. The boat was there, but there was no sign of Shane. She’d gone by his house, but his motorcycle was gone. She’d finally given up and returned home.

She threw back her shoulders. “I don’t have to answer your questions. I didn’t kill my sister.”

“Then who did? Shane Murray?”

“This is just your roundabout way of getting me to implicate him, isn’t it?” she challenged.

A small smile crossed his lips. “Maybe. Although
when I mentioned my theory about you to Mr. Murray, he didn’t dispute the possibility that you could have been involved.”