Authors: Susan M. Boyer
“So why haven’t you alerted the media?”
Blake tossed the seashell over the deck rail. “Culprit thinks he got away with it, maybe he’s less careful. Also, I’ve avoided the mass hysteria that will turn this island into Bedlam by the Sea.”
“Who knows besides Mamma, Daddy, Merry, and me?”
“No one outside the department—except Mackie Sullivan. He’s the town’s attorney. I’m required to notify him.”
Blake gestured with his head up the beach towards the bed and breakfast. “Oh—and Grace. I didn’t tell her, she told me.”
“Figures.”
Grace Sullivan, my godmother, was our local psychic. She’d nearly drowned in the ocean when she was seventeen—white light and all that. Ever since, she’d possessed insights that fascinated some and scared others.
“Any idea what the murder weapon was?”
“There were small pieces of bark in her hair consistent with the firewood underneath the deck. The forensic team went over the house with a fine-tooth comb. No evidence anyone else was inside that night. Nothing obvious is missing. My guess, it happened out here.”
“What makes you think she was moved?”
“The position of the body. She was face down in the sand at the bottom of the steps. She didn’t fall. The blow came from behind. The killer would’ve had to’ve been on the deck when she came outside. She would’ve seen him—there’s no place to hide. Motion detectors light this place like a football field on a Friday night.”
Blake hesitated. “Also, I found a flashlight underneath the deck. It’s possible she dropped it when she was hit from behind.”
“Why would she have a flashlight if the outdoor lights were on?”
“No lights under the deck.”
“Do you think she went down for firewood?”
“Nah,” he said. “She had a fire going in the fireplace. But the log rack in the sunroom was full. TV was still on. Glass of wine on the table by her chair. Something else, the wind was up that night—near gale force. Hard to figure why she’d go outside.”
“And Alma Glendawn found her around nine-thirty that night?” Alma and John Glendawn lived just down the beach, next to their restaurant, The Pirates’ Den.
Blake nodded. “It was a fluke. Alma stopped by to bring her a slice of key lime pie when she left the restaurant. Gram loved the stuff. When she didn’t answer the front door, Alma came around back.
“So what’s your read?” he asked, like curiosity and stubborn had fought, and curiosity won in a points decision.
“It wasn’t random,” I said. “Probably has something to do with the land.” The Stella Maris beaches weren’t pristine by accident. Much of the land on our twenty-four-square-mile paradise had been in the same families for generations—folks who cherished our small town and were terrified of timeshares.
Others looked at our wide beaches and saw the potential for enormous wealth. Zoning regulations protected the island from exploitation. Still, the town stood one town council election and one real estate deal away from becoming its own worst nightmare.
“Did you notice how pissed Marci was about the will?” I asked.
“She didn’t exactly try to hide it.”
“But do you think she really expected she’d inherit?”
“She’s the oldest grandchild. Always thought she was entitled to…well, whatever she wants.”
I knew that better than most. “Do you think she’s capable…?”
“Oh hell, yeah,” Blake said. “But she’s got an alibi. She was home with Michael. He wouldn’t lie for her.”
I mulled that. Thinking about Marci being home with Michael stirred up all manner of emotions, none of them happy. “How did you find out she had an alibi for a reported accident?”
“I’m highly skilled.”
I nodded, but I was thinking about the turtles.
The summer I was six and Marci was eight, Gram bought Blake, Merry, Marci, and me pet turtles. Gram taught us what to feed them, how to clean their tanks, and to make sure they spent time under sun lamps. Merry was only four, so Blake and I helped her take care of her turtle. She named him Ted. Mine was Susan Akin, after the reigning Miss America, and Blake’s was Donatello, after one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Marci would never tell us her turtle’s name. She probably never gave it one.
Against Gram’s better judgment, Marci took The Turtle with No Name home to the rented duplex where she lived with her parents. Marci’s mamma, my daddy’s older sister, was one of those mothers who had too many of her own problems to pay much attention to her daughter, let alone a pet. Mamma generally avoided allowing us to cross the threshold of that sad, neglected home, but she occasionally relented, when she ran out of excuses to offer Aunt Sharon.
One day I was over at Marci’s and The Turtle with No Name was splotchy, his eyes filmy. The tank smelled to high heaven, and what little water the turtle had was filthy. I told Marci the turtle was sick and needed to go to the vet. She told me to fuck off. By the time I alerted Gram, his symptoms had disappeared.
That evening, Merry’s turtle, Ted, had splotches and milky eyes. He died before we could get him to the vet. Marci denied switching the turtles and Aunt Sharon pitched a hissy fit when Gram called her on it. Two weeks later, my turtle disappeared. I know in my bones Marci took Susan Akin, either for the pure-T meanness of it or to replace Ted after she’d killed
him
. Donatello lived to a ripe old age under tight security. The last occupant of Marci’s tank died within a month.
I was only six, but I think I knew even then that something was bad wrong with Marci.
A flock of seagulls flew by.
“How do you know when the flashlight was dropped? It could’ve been there for months.”
“Maybe,” Blake allowed. “But I don’t think so. Looked brand new.”
“Where exactly was it?”
“I’ll show you.” Blake led the way down the steps. The space was adjacent to the garage and had a sand floor. “Over there.” He pointed to the area in front of the stacked firewood.
It felt preternaturally chilly under the deck. A burst of wind swirled through, whipping my hair into my face and blowing sand. I rubbed my arms.
“I’ve got to get back to the office,” Blake said. “Promise me you’ll let me handle this.”
“Don’t ask me to make a promise you know I can’t keep.”
“Dammit, Liz—”
“I’ll promise you this. I’ll bring you anything I find. I’d never do anything to make you look bad. And I’ll be careful.”
His shoulders rose and fell heavily. “It’s still a mess inside. I would’ve had someone clean up the print dust if I’d known you were coming.” He turned and left.
I stepped back into the sunlight and surveyed the area one section at a time. What had Gram been doing out here that night in gale force winds?
A familiar ripping pain tore through my abdomen.
I staggered to the nearest support beam and leaned against it, holding my stomach with one arm, gripping the post with the other. Ovarian cysts, the gynecologist in Greenville had said. I squeezed my eyes shut. Bursts of light popped behind my lids. Somehow I was going to have to see a local GYN damn quick. Thank heavens the bad pains were rare.
Rhett’s high-alert bark sounded from the front yard. I made my way around the house. Rhett ran a circle around me, then sprinted down the driveway and barked emphatically up Ocean Boulevard.
Catching up with him, I peered up and down the street. The only sign of life was an older gentleman in a baseball cap several blocks away walking in the other direction. Rhett kept barking at him, alternating
woofs
at me.
“What is it, boy?” I knelt and stroked his head. The man disappeared around a curve. Someone whizzed by on a bike. Uneasy, I scanned the area once more. If anyone else had been there, he—or she—was gone. I turned towards the house and called Rhett to follow. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d missed something important.
FIVE
I grabbed my suitcase, garment bag, and makeup case from the back of the Escape. Another wind gust, too cool for the day, beat at my back as I climbed the steps. When I unlocked the mahogany and stained-glass door, it blew open. Oddly, the wind offered no resistance when I closed the door behind me.
I set my luggage down on the heart-of-pine floor in the foyer. Rhett followed as I wandered down the wide entry hall and through the dining room, where Gram had presided over holiday feasts. In the kitchen Gram’s grocery list was still on the refrigerator, an open copy of
Southern Living
on the black granite-topped island.
I slipped into the sunroom that fringed the back of the house, hungrily exploring for more of Gram. The wall of full-length windows offered a panoramic view of the Atlantic. A half-completed crossword sat atop a stack of magazines in the sweetgrass basket by her favorite chair. I sank into the overstuffed tropical print and put my feet up on the ottoman. A soft throw spilled across the chair arm. I gathered it to me, nuzzled my face in it, and inhaled. Lavender. Gram’s favorite.
Gram’s life passed before my eyes. When I was little, she rocked me to sleep crooning Broadway tunes. She taught me to play Scrabble, Monopoly, and poker. We had slumber parties and watched old movies wearing pajamas, wide-brimmed hats, and pearls. She taught me which glasses were for champagne, how to shag, and why life isn’t fair. She held my hair while I puked up the tequila I swiped from her liquor cabinet and she never told Mamma. It’s not that she loved me more than Blake, Merry, or Marci. It was more that Gram and I were kindred spirits.
The doorbell chimed. Rhett raced towards the foyer and I followed. I glanced through the tall window to the right of the door. Kate Devlin stood on the porch holding a casserole dish. I couldn’t help but think of Kate as an old-fashioned Southern Belle—gentility personified. Her delicate ivory skin would never confess her age, though she was only a few years younger than Gram. Kate’s dark-chocolate hair was no doubt the same shade it had been the day she married Stuart Devlin.
In a world where things went according to script, Kate would have been my mother-in-law. In my fantasies, she reflected a great deal on how I would have made a more suitable wife for Michael than Marci the Schemer. I fluffed my hair and opened the door.
“Hey, Kate.” I stepped back to welcome her inside.
“Liz, darlin’, I was hoping I’d catch you. I know you won’t have time for cooking while you’re settling in. I made you this chicken potpie.” She handed me the dish.
Boy, word got around this island fast. “Well, thank you so much. Aren’t you sweet? Please come in.”
Rhett sniffed at the dish and whined.
“Stop that now,” I admonished him.
When I looked up Kate had one foot on the top step. “Thank you, darlin’, but I can’t stay.” She started down the steps. “I’m running late for a meeting at the church. Come by and see me real soon, you hear?”
“All right then.” I waved. “Thanks again.”
She was inside her dark blue Lincoln MKS and headed down the drive lickety-split.
The bottom of the dish was frosty. Women like Kate kept potpies, casseroles, and stews in the freezer ready to go for new neighbors and friends with any manner of emergency. She sure had gotten here fast—left in a hurry, too.
I put the potpie in the freezer. It hadn’t thawed much, and I was banking calories. Mamma would not be serving a diet-friendly dinner Wednesday evening. I’d no sooner turned away from the refrigerator when Rhett started barking like a hound of hell.
I started back down the hall and heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open. There stood Marci the Schemer in a red linen suit and heels. With her ivory skin expertly made up and every ebony hair in place, she looked like Snow White. One look into her eyes and you knew she had more in common with the Wicked Queen. Rhett barked as if he might like to devour her.
“What are you doing here?” I asked loud enough to be heard over Rhett.
She didn’t appear intimidated by either of us, but she had a pissy look on her face. “Why don’t you call off that mutt of yours.”
“This is how he typically responds to trespassers.” I matched her expression, or tried. I hadn’t had near the practice at looking irritated. “Rhett, come here, boy.”
He stopped barking, trotted to my side, and turned to face her.
Marci closed the door behind her. “I’m hardly a trespasser here. I’ve had the run of this house my whole life, just like you.”
“Well, you don’t anymore. I’ll take that key.”
She raised one corner of her mouth. “My, my. Is that how family treats family? What would Gram say?”
“She’d likely say she didn’t recall giving you that key, or she would’ve had the locks changed.”
Marci’s hard eyes never left mine as she laid the key on the secretary. “I’ve come for what’s mine. Gram left me a piece of jewelry as a ‘memento.’ My choice. Said so right in that will of hers.”
I stared at her for a moment. “Too bad you waited until I arrived to come by for it. Now that’s all you’ll get.”
“Oh, you didn’t think this was my first trip, did you?” Her eyes glittered with spite.
“If I find anything else is missing, I’ll report it stolen.”