A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter 10
 

“Stop it,” Lindsay mumbled. In her dream, she was a child again. She was dirty after a day at the beach, covered in sweat and sand. Sarabelle was rubbing a rough washcloth across her hands and face, desperately trying to get them clean. Lindsay tried to swat her mother away, but she returned again and again, insistent. Finally, a gentle whimpering awakened her. Lindsay opened her eyes and found Kipper standing at her bedside. His apricot-colored eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, his ears erect, listening.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Kipper whined again. “What?” Lindsay asked. He paced back and forth in front of her, nails clicking on the wood floor. “Whatever you want, I’m sure Sarabelle or Aunt Harding will get it for you.” Kipper nudged her arm and whimpered. “Fine, but this doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

Lindsay rose from the bed, put on her glasses, and went down the hall into the main living area. She still wore the clothes she’d fallen asleep in the previous night. The woodstove had gone cold and no one had bothered to clean up the dinner dishes. The scene was perfectly preserved, like Pompeii. The only reminder that it was Christmas morning came from the blinking plastic tree that stood twirling on top of the gun safe.

Thin, gray daylight seeped in through the curtains and the muffled drumming of rain echoed from the rooftop. Aunt Harding always rose shockingly early, usually well before dawn. Lindsay expected that she was already well into her day’s activities. Sarabelle, by contrast, was known to stay in bed for days at a time, especially when she’d been drinking.

The Doberman whined and scratched at the front door. “All right. I’ll take you for a walk, because it’s Christmas.” As she opened the door, Kipper bolted out ahead of her into the fast-falling rain. “Kipper!” He ran quickly from sight. “Dammit,” she cursed under her breath, pulling on the rain boots and waterproof coat that hung by the door. She grabbed Kipper’s leash and jogged after him, following his tracks through the wet sand. She headed out towards the Atlantic side of the island, threading her way through the lines of dunes and scrubby trees that shielded Aunt Harding’s house from the worst of the ocean climate. Once she’d cleared the final sand ridge, the full force of the wind kicked sand and rain into her face.

A few hundred yards in front of her, the gray ocean spread across the horizon, almost melting into the low, gray sky. She thought Kipper might be headed out into the surf. From her limited experience with dogs, chasing waves seemed to be among their favorite pastimes. She was surprised, then, to see that his footprints wove back into the dunes. The pounding rain had begun to erase Kipper’s tracks from the beach. She jogged more quickly, calling his name, her voice sounding thin and feeble in the wind. Finally, she spotted him. He circled what appeared to be a disused fishing shack that lay almost hidden in high beach grass. Years of accumulated sand was banked up to a height of three or four feet on the windward side, breaking against the building like a slow-cresting wave.  

Although Lindsay was a regular jogger, she found herself bent in half, panting. Running a mile in wet sand wearing a pair of ill-fitting rain boots was a very different proposition from her usual form of exercise. As she approached the shack, Kipper bore down on her. For a moment, she braced herself, thinking he was going to lunge at her again. Instead, he wheeled to a stop next to her, waiting obediently while she clipped his leash on his collar. As soon as it was secure, the dog began to drag Lindsay forward toward the shed. Lindsay’s first instinct was to pull him away, but his determination to lead her ahead piqued her curiosity.

Kipper slowed and cautiously rounded the building. On the far side, a wooden door hung half off of its hinges, banging against the side of the building with each fresh gust of wind. The wood had weathered to a soft beige that almost matched the surrounding aggregations of sand. Large gaps in the side boards and corrugated metal roof allowed dim shafts of light to penetrate the gloom of the shed.

Kipper froze in the doorway. Lindsay, too, stood paralyzed. On the wide wooden floorboards lay the still form of Patricia Harding. Blood had soaked through her bottle green sweater and seeped out onto the floor beneath her. A large dried brown patch covered her midsection. Lindsay dropped Kipper’s leash and rushed to her aunt’s side. Her arms encircled her aunt’s torso, clutching her lifeless form, trying in vain to shake the death out of her. Aunt Harding’s body was stiff and unyielding. Her eyes were fixed open in wide Os of surprise.  Lindsay felt detached, as if the arms she saw in front of her were someone else’s, as if this body wasn’t her aunt, but a wax figure.

Kipper came alongside Lindsay and nuzzled her cheek. Water dripped steadily through the gaps in the ceiling; a drop splashed on Lindsay’s face and mingled with her tears. She gently lowered Aunt Harding’s body back to the ground. Her small, shaking hands stroked her aunt’s gray hair. Growing up, Lindsay had always thought of Aunt Harding’s hair as steel gray—cold and sleek. Now the color looked softer, like the ashes of an extinguished fire.

Lindsay’s perception gradually expanded to take in the rest of the shed. The room was no more than eight feet square. It was empty, save for a set of old oars that stood in one corner. Near the door, though, lay an object that made Lindsay rise quickly and back out of the shed—a gun. She had seen it many times. It was an antique German revolver from Aunt Harding’s collection. Lindsay called to Kipper, but he refused to budge from her aunt’s side. Lindsay was too terrified to try to persuade him. She ran back to the house, feeling all the while as if she were in the kind of recurring dream where the dreamer is unable to get to their destination no matter how fast they run.

After what seemed like an eternity, she reached the house. She walked straight to the kitchen and dialed 9-1-1 on the old, black wall phone next to the fridge. After she relayed her gruesome discovery to the dispatcher and hung up, she slumped down and sat huddled on the floor.

“You doing yoga or something?”

Lindsay’s head snapped to attention at the sound of a human voice in close proximity. Sarabelle stood before her wearing fuzzy slippers and a flannel robe. Her day-old eyeliner had formed little lines and eddies in the creases around her eyes. In the shocking aftermath of her discovery, Lindsay had entirely forgotten that Sarabelle was asleep inside the house.

“Where’s Kipper?” Sarabelle said, looking idly around the kitchen. She retrieved a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her robe and placed one between her lips. “Want one? I can’t remember if you still smoke...” she paused and looked more closely at Lindsay. “You been drinkin’? Sorry to say it, honey, but you look like you been rode hard and hung up wet.”

“Mama, it’s Aunt Harding.”

“What about her, baby?” Sarabelle asked, tapping her cigarette on the side of the pack and putting it back in her mouth.

“She’s dead. She was shot. I think she was killed with one of her own guns. I found her out on the dunes.”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” Sarabelle threw her hands over her mouth, sending the unlit cigarette skittering across the kitchen. “Oh, this can’t be happening to me.”

Lindsay stared at her mother, incredulous. “This didn’t happen to you. This happened to her.”

“But don’t you see?” Sarabelle began to pace nervously. “Have you called the police? Maybe there’s still something we can do.”

“What are you talking about?” Lindsay was suddenly furious. For the first time, she was experiencing something that she had seen so many times in the people she ministered to at the hospital. The fuse of their shock or their grief would suddenly catch fire and their emotions would ignite into rage. Her familiarity with such reactions in others did nothing to calm her. “She’s dead! There are lots of things we need to do. Call Dad and tell him his aunt died. Go over and tell Simmy that her best friend has been killed. Plan a funeral. Find out how she died. Some officers from Duck will be here in a few minutes, so we can at least start that part.”

“You already called the police?” Sarabelle said, with fear creeping into her voice. “I gotta get out of here. You can’t tell them I was here, okay?” Sarabelle rushed to her bedroom, with Lindsay trailing her. The room looked like it belonged to a teenage girl. Clothes were strewn all over the floor. Nail polish bottles and makeup tubes covered the dresser. Sarabelle yanked a suitcase out from under the bed and began frantically packing. Still wearing her pajamas and robe, she kicked her slippers into the suitcase and pulled on a pair of high-heeled leather boots. Zipping the case shut, she said, “Take care of Kipper for me, okay?”

“You can’t leave now! Where are you even going?”

“Baby, I don’t have time to make you understand. It’s not safe for me here. You either. You call that policeman boyfriend of yours, okay? Make sure he takes care of you. But don’t tell them nothing about me being here.”

Sarabelle’s footsteps receded, the front door slammed, and Lindsay was left alone in the house. Her breathing felt unnatural; she had to force air in and out of her lungs like a bellows. The events of that morning replayed in her mind, despite her attempts to shut them out. She sat on the floor again and hugged her knees in to her shivering body. Minutes oozed slowly past.

At last, she heard the sound of tires rolling on sand. She hurriedly opened the front door and saw two cars—an SUV emblazoned with the Currituck County Sherriff logo and a black Ford Explorer owned by the New Albany Police—pulling up in front of the house. Warren emerged from his car and walked towards Lindsay.

“How did you know I called?” Lindsay asked him.

“Called who?” Warren asked. As he stepped onto the porch, Lindsay suddenly remembered that Warren had already arranged to come to talk to her aunt that morning. In her confusion, she had thought that her 9-1-1 call had summoned him.

When Warren caught sight of her dazed expression, he asked, “Are you okay?”

She took a few wobbly steps forward and collapsed into his outstretched arms. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and even she couldn’t be sure if she was coughing or sobbing. She couldn’t remember the last time she was so happy to see Warren. His warmth and movement provided an antidote to the cold, unyielding body of her aunt. She tried to turn back toward the house, but instead she collapsed against him. Warren half-lifted her across the porch, where she leaned heavily on the wall next to the door.

A round-faced female officer with short-cropped, gray-streaked hair emerged from the County Sheriff’s vehicle and approached them. “You must be Lindsay Harding,” she said. Her friendly smile quickly dropped into a frown of concern when she saw Lindsay’s countenance.

As they stood together on the porch, Lindsay numbly related how she found Aunt Harding’s body—Kipper, the shed, the gun. She stuttered over the words; they were like solid objects in her mouth.

“Lins, we need to go out there,” Warren said. “This is Claire Burke. She’s from the sheriff's office. They’re helping us out on the Sikes case.”

“I’ll drive,” Claire offered. “I think I know where she means.”

“On second thought, I don’t know if Lindsay is in a fit state to come out with us,” Warren said frowning.

The two of them looked closely at Lindsay. She was soaked and shivering, as pale and clammy as the underbelly of a trout. Usually, her natural curiosity and desire to help would have spurred her to insist that she accompany them. Now, however, it was all she could do to keep herself standing upright. All of the fast-spinning gears that normally propelled her body and brain had ground to a stop.

“You’re right. Let’s get her settled in here.”  Claire turned to face Lindsay. “Ms. Harding, I’m going to call this in now,” Claire said.

“I already called 9-1-1, but they’re not here yet.”

“How long ago did you call them?” Warren asked her.

Lindsay just stared at him vaguely.

Claire frowned. “It would take them a good 15 minutes to get out here, even if they were hustling. We’d better get her inside. The uniforms from Duck can stay with her while we go out to the dunes.”

While Claire contacted the local agencies to coordinate their plans, Warren helped Lindsay into the house. She directed him to the spare bedroom and he guided her gently to the bed. “Lins, are you okay?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said through chattering teeth. She felt like her brain had solidified into a large, wooden block. No coherent thoughts could form.

Warren helped her remove her boots and outer garments, and she slid between the covers. He stood in a corner of the room, looking at her with a worried frown, seeming unsure what to do. Lindsay sensed that he was torn between wanting to help her and wanting to take action on the new developments in his case. She willed him to just cross the room and hold her close, stroke her hair, and tell her it was all going to be okay. But he’d never been an emotionally expressive person. He usually saved even the most innocent demonstrations of affection for times when they were totally alone. He began to pace around the small room, chewing hard on his gum.

After a few moments, Claire knocked on the open door and came in carrying a cup of tea. “I saw some whiskey on the counter and put a swig of that in. I know it’s a little early, but I figured it would do you some good, given the circumstances.” Claire set the cup on the bedside table and squatted down, bringing her face level with Lindsay’s. “Try to drink this.” She squeezed Lindsay’s frigid hand in her warm one. She used her other hand to stroke Lindsay’s clammy forehead, smoothing her hair away from her face. The human touch soothed Lindsay’s raw nerves. Why hadn’t Warren done that? Why hadn’t he just reached out and held her hand?