Murder in the Mist (2 page)

Her throat tightened. Her mind sped back sixteen years to the gruesome images of Brenda Alligood’s tortured body, and Bennie Wiener sobbing and apologizing for hurting Brenda.

Lynnette tried a different tactic. “If you
don’t
let me go, I’ll scream.”

“Shh…shh. Don’t scream. Please. I
won’t
hurt you.”

His reassurance meant nothing to her. She had lived in Cole Harbor most of her life, and the only real crime the community had ever suffered was from Bennie’s hands. And now he had returned.

The pounding in her ears was more deafening than the constant waves lapping against pier pylons. Her chest rose and fell faster with each breath.

She tensed when he leaned down and sniffed her hair. “I like the way you smell.” He inhaled again, as if he were savoring each sniff. “You smell the way a real woman should. Clean and fresh, like a spring day. Nice. Not like a cheap whore doused in even cheaper perfume. That’s what Brenda was—cheap. Every guy in school knew about her.”

He nuzzled Lynnette’s hair. Her nerves tangled in a frenzy. Rage punched its way past her fear. She screamed, and screamed again. Twisted and squirmed until she broke from his arms. She clawed his face, the backs of his hands. At the hospital, she had seen death. She wasn’t ready to die.

Out of the gray mist, one large hand wrapped around her forehead, the other around her chin. The crack echoed through her brain, and for one intense moment she had the feeling she could escape.

“You should’ve listened to me. I warned you. I don’t like screaming.”

****

Ben staggered through the back door of the cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather, closed it, and leaned back, touching the wooden slats.

Weary, he let his head rest against the door. A dog howled, way off in the distance. The sound rallied his senses. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he walked to the bathroom and switched on the light. With a groan, he turned on the faucet and placed his hands under the warm running water. Looking down, he saw the source of the stinging pain. Streams of crimson ran stark against the white sink.

He stared into the mirror. Bloody lacerations covered both cheeks where Lynnette’s nails had punished him. Blood had already begun to clot in the deep scratches on the tops of both hands. He lathered his hands with soap and scrubbed his face. He peeled off his bloodstained jacket and let it fall in a heap on the old-fashioned braided rug. Dirt, grass, and leaves clung to the dark T-shirt and jeans he wore. Mud laced the rims of his brogans. He undressed, tossing the clothing and shoes aside. All the time, he mumbled, “She shouldn’t have screamed. I told her, didn’t I?”

He beat his fist against his forehead. “No…no…no. I promised not to hurt her. She shouldn’t have screamed.”

He strode to the bed, knelt on the floor, then reached between the mattress and box spring until his fingers found the pouch. In a matter of seconds, he had lit the joint and inhaled until he felt certain his lungs could hold no more of the calming drags. He sat naked, legs stretched in front of him, back against the box spring, until he’d siphoned the stick and nothing remained to hold between his fingers.

Climbing into bed, he pulled the quilt over his trembling body. Tears sprang to his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Vrrrr vrrrr vrrrr.
Ben crawled from the bed. He shivered as the cold prickled across his body. V
rrrr vrrrr vrrrr.
He reached down and plucked his pants from the bathroom floor to extract the cell phone from the pocket. The whirring vibrated his hand. He walked into the kitchen, then lifted the latch on the back door. With quiet reverence, he set the phone on the step. A shovel leaned against the cabin. Gripping the long wooden handle, he smashed the metal end against the piece of plastic. In a frenzy, he hit the cell phone again and again, until broken pieces scattered and rolled to the ground. He’d bury them in the morning.

He was exhausted. Depleted of energy.

Sleep.

All he wanted now was to sleep and to forget about Lynnette Braswell.

****

In the center of the town’s park, Ben knelt in the raw dirt that surrounded the gazebo. He lifted a large plastic pot, turned it upside down, and carefully removed the white rosebush. He used the small spade to dig a hole deep enough to accommodate the plant. Then with his hands he filled in the gap around the roots. He carefully measured the distance and marked the space for another rosebush. A red one, this time.

Buoys clanged in the bay, the sea fog had lifted, and the sun shone. He stopped long enough to draw in a breath of salt air. He watched the town come alive as shop owners opened their doors, rolled out displays, and called greetings to each other. It was like watching a grand Victorian lady put on her jewelry.

He blinked back the fleeting image of Lynnette. He had hoped, when he awakened this morning, that it was all a bad dream. No, it had not been a nightmare; it had really happened. The full reality of what he’d done settled firmly in his mind.

A cheery voice startled him back to reality. “Good morning, Mr. Noone.”

He squinted up at the mayor’s wife. “Ayuh, ’tis a fine morning, Mrs. Shipley.”

At that moment, Mrs. Perry, who owned the pastry shop, walked up. “Lovely, Mr. Noone. Just lovely. Don’t you think so, Martha?”

Martha Shipley gathered her plump body like a hen fluffing its feathers. “Ayuh. I believe you are a better gardener than old Mr. Wilton. The flowers will look beautiful for the annual Lobstah Fest and Fourth of July fireworks. Well, ta-ta. As president of the women’s society, I have much to do before next week’s opening ceremonies.”

Mrs. Perry offered a large disposable cup filled with steaming coffee, along with a sack containing a bagel spread with cream cheese and thin-sliced lox. “A young man needs to keep up his strength.”

He accepted the refreshments. “Thank you kindly. I’ll stop by and pay you after I finish up he-ah.”

“Oh, pshaw. It’s the least I can do while you work to beautify the town square.”

A shard of panic raced through him when the middle-aged woman grabbed his hand. “You orta wear gloves. Scratches like that can turn septic from working in the dirt. What happened? Oh, my, and look at your poor face.”

A streak of dirt stained his cheek where he reached up and touched it. “I’ll heed your advice, Mrs. Perry, and buy a pair of leather gloves. Rose thorns can make a mess of your hands. B-but I found a kitten in the woods. It’s kinda wild and didn’t take kindly to me. Between the kitten and the scratches from the rose thorns, I probably look like I’ve been in a fight.”

Maudine Perry patted Ben on the shoulder. “You are a kind soul. Now, sit and enjoy your breakfast before the coffee gets cold.”

He opened his mouth but closed it without speaking, merely acknowledging her with a nod. Seated inside the summer house, he looked across the bay toward Pine Island. He watched the world go by until he was finished with his snack. Disposing of the sack and cup in a public garbage bin, he knelt down, enjoying the feel of the soft earth that sent its cool dampness through his old blue jeans to his skin.

As he began his careful effort to plant rows of petunias, then variegated border grass, a feeling of unease settled in his mind. He found himself thinking of the young woman who lay in a lonely grave. And then he smiled. How incredibly smart of him to bury the body right under the town’s regal noses. He sucked in gulps of fresh air, clearing the residue of death from his lungs.

Chapter One

Ten years later

The weeks had passed in a blur of pain and sorrow. Although the windshield wipers worked at full speed, Laura Friday leaned forward to peer through the heavy mist that blanketed the two-lane highway to Cole Harbor.

Justice.
The word left a bitter taste in her mouth as she thought back to the night she’d cradled Jolly’s head in her lap. Jaali Zuri, her cameraman and friend of many years. In Swahili his name meant “fearless and beautiful.” Always smiling, he lived up to that and to his nickname.

Overly zealous, and not heeding her editor’s warning about checking the reliability of an informant’s sources, the only thing that had mattered to Laura was to out-scoop her competitor. She’d beat him, all right. And at what cost? Jolly was dead, and she was left with scars deeper than the permanent limp from bullets that had nearly taken her life.

Other reporters had jockeyed for positions, flashed cameras, yelled questions. In spite of wavering in and out of consciousness, she’d heard every profane word shouted by the two drug mules being shoved into the patrol car. She’d swung her gaze to the two lumps covered by white sheets. She wanted to scream that she hoped they rotted in hell. And then she had shifted to look at the kid, handcuffed, his eyes glittering with pure hatred. The informant. He’d set her up, and she had trusted those childlike brown eyes, the innocent baby face. He shouted something. She didn’t understand the language, but even amid the noise and confusion the gist of his words was not lost on her:
I’ll get you.

She had dropped her gaze to Jolly’s dark curly hair and with one hand stroked his cheek, her fingers laced with blood that glistened in the street light. From somewhere far away she heard someone say her name.

Pain, sharp and intense, had slammed into her with blinding force. She recalled nothing else until she opened her eyes to see a nurse adjusting the IV and asking if she needed anything.

She’d been a crime reporter for ten years. Her job had always meant everything—her career, her obsession. With her nearest relative living in another state, the newspaper had become her family. Nothing had mattered except getting the story, exposing the bad guys.

None of that mattered now. Nothing would erase the guilt from her soul.

Shaking off the memories, she squinted through the windshield to see the road ahead. The endless sweep of trees on one side reminded her of ominous giants, balanced against the cold waters of the bay on the other side. An unexpected sense of loneliness twisted her heart.

A blast of wind slammed against the side of her car, sending it with a lurch into the opposite lane. Wrestling the steering wheel for control, Laura scanned the darkness on either side of the road. She hadn’t seen another vehicle for more than an hour. If she careened down the steep embankment, she likely wouldn’t be found for months. But then, who was there to miss her? She hadn’t bothered telephoning her Aunt Phyllis. Foolish! Her nearest living relative, and she hadn’t considered the possibility of not being welcomed. Their last contact was a brief encounter at her mother’s funeral. Aunt Phyllis had invited Laura then to stay a few days in Cole Harbor. She had used the excuse of needing to return to New York City for a news story she was following. Yeah, foolish.

Laura checked the odometer. The highway seemed to stretch on forever. The sheer desolation made her shiver. Already she missed the bustle of crowds, the honking horns of irate taxi drivers during rush hour traffic, and the comingling of savory aromas from food vendor trucks.

She lifted the container from the cup holder and shook it. Empty. What she needed now was an extra dose of caffeine.

The large stop sign loomed in front of her like an unexpected red eye. She touched the brakes. Hitting the electric button to lower the window, she listened for the sound of another vehicle. Poor visibility, the throbbing pain in her hip, and the overwhelming need for a strong cup of coffee made her wonder if she’d made the biggest mistake of her life.

A familiar wash of grief and anger flowed through her. No, she’d made a worse mistake. The one that had cost her friend’s life. The whoop-whoop of a siren invaded her thoughts. She glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted the flashing amber bubble.

Every sense she owned went on red alert. An isolated location. She pressed the button to close the window, then opened it again, a few inches. A light flashed, momentarily blinded her.

“Car trouble?”

She met his gaze squarely. “No. Because of the fog, I was being extra careful.”

The badge on his jacket meant nothing to her, although his body language didn’t seem threatening. But looks were deceiving. Out here, totally alone. Fingers of fear chilled her. What if Elio Casper had escaped prison and somehow found her?

She gave the man with the badge a bland smile. “My aunt is expecting me. She’s probably worried because I’m running late; and I have no bars on my cell phone to call her.”

“I assume you’re on your way to Cole Harbor?”

Swallowing hard, she said, “Why would you think that?”

He pointed to the right. “Unless you plan to spend the night outside the national park, except for a few cabins, not many people live in that direction. If your aunt lives close to the park, you can follow me.”

“Mmph, no. She lives in town, above her store. Again, thanks for the directions.”

“I’d escort you in, but I need to check on a complaint.” He pointed. “Hang a left. The town is less than a half mile.”

She caught herself captivated by his slight southern drawl. Maybe he wasn’t what she’d thought after all. Consorting with narcs and stoolies had made her edgy, had honed her sense of caution. Not that it had helped in Jolly’s case. Still, a crime reporter who didn’t develop a sense of awareness didn’t last long in a tough business. She drew in a deep, steadying breath and slowly exhaled. “Thank you.”

He offered a nod before returning to his vehicle.

As a matter of caution, she waited for the deputy’s car to pull around hers. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands until the flashing blinker light showed the car turning to the right. After she’d turned in the opposite direction, and again as a matter of caution, she checked the rearview mirror to make certain no one followed her.

As he’d predicted, in less than a minute the town opened up. Even with the buildings shrouded in gray mist it was a welcome sight. Laura drove down the main boulevard until she spotted the gazebo. She swung the car into an empty parking space in front of Friday’s Bookstore and Tea Room.

Chapter Two

The last dregs of winter air hung mild and misty as dense sea fog blanketed Cole Harbor. Inside the conference area of Friday’s Bookstore and Tea Room, Phyllis Friday glanced around the table at the other five participants. “Perfect weather for our little experiment. I believe we’ve followed all the instructions to conduct a proper séance. Let us join hands, and no matter what happens, don’t break the circle.”