Murder in the Mist (23 page)

He waved and walked out the door.

Laura scowled at Mitch. “You put me at a distinct disadvantage. How could I possibly say no?”

Mitch shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “By the looks the two of you wore when I walked in, it was obvious I had disturbed an
about to happen
important moment. I’m just makin’ amends.”

Not wishing to pursue the romance subject, Laura switched gears. “Seriously, Mitch. Do you have any leads on who killed Daisy Fuller?”

“Nothing. Her body was squeaky clean. No DNA, not a hair or a fiber. But he’s here, and he’ll mess up. When he does, I’ll nail the jack-off.”

“Shall I write an article about the missing pets?”

“Yep, and if the owners have pictures, post ’em.” He rattled off the list of names.

“By the way, care for a bit of gossip?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess—Louise.”

“Told Aunt Philly you threatened to fire her, and with great embellishment said she told you a thing or two.”

He offered a sardonic smile. “Louise is a real prize. Embellishment or not, I meant every word I said.”

Laura hesitated. “Are you still planning to run for sheriff in El Paso?”

He waited a heartbeat, then pivoted on his heel. “Yes.”

She watched as he disappeared through the door.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mitch spent the rest of the day knocking on doors and asking questions of the various residents along Cole Drive. No one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary the night of Daisy Fuller’s murder. He garnered the same responses from those who lived along Atlantic Avenue. Everyone expressed concern for their own safety, some more vocally than others.

He drove to the highest point of Lighthouse Road. Except for the Osmond family, and a few of the fisher families, the remaining structures were abandoned. It wasn’t until he headed back to town that he noticed a dirt road made nearly invisible by the overgrowth of trees. He turned onto the narrow lane and followed it to a rundown dwelling. An aging beauty with a sweeping front porch. Whoever resided here took little pride in the property’s upkeep.

Mitch exited the patrol car. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Taking precaution, he used his door as a shield. “Hello, the house.”

No answer.

He called again. “Deputy Sheriff Mitch Carter. Anybody home?”

He scanned each window fronting the house and saw no sign of anyone peering out at him. Feeling relatively safe, he approached and walked up the steps. He rapped on the door and called out once again, identifying himself.

Stepping to a window, he placed his hands on either side of his face and peered inside. The interior showed signs of being lived in. One large space consisting of kitchen, eating area, and living room. A shirt draped over a dining chair. Pots sitting on a drain board. From what he could see, the inside was neat and orderly.

As he turned to leave, he felt as if he had stepped into a painting and was part of the scenery. The blue-hued panoramic vista of the bay was beyond description. He doubted if an artist could capture the beauty and bring it alive on canvas.

Reminding himself he was here to work, he walked down the steps and around the side of the dwelling. A greenhouse drew his attention. Inside, long wooden planks atop cinderblocks formed neat rows of potted plants, lined the length and width of the structure, with pruning shears, plastic gloves, fertilizer, sacks of peat and potting soil all visible.

He didn’t recall seeing a mailbox as he entered the drive, which wasn’t unusual. Most people received their mail at the Cole Harbor Post Office. At the rear of the house, a footpath led from the yard up an incline. Mitch followed it. He wasn’t surprised when he spotted a trail marker. The path definitely led to the national park’s interior.

Glancing around, he did a mental calculation of how far this dwelling was from the abandoned structure he and Laura had investigated a few days ago. An easy mile along the paved road. He searched for signs of a path that ran along this property to join the other. If there was one, it wasn’t visible in the day’s fading light.

He checked his watch. He didn’t want to get caught off guard should the owner return and find his patrol car. His cop instinct warned this property belonged to Benjamin Noone. Mitch mentally questioned if Noone fit the profile of a murderer.

In the evening’s quiet dusk, a roaring sound caught his attention…the crash of waves spewing through a blow hole. Sprinting along the park’s path, he estimated he was no more than a half mile from the scenic area where, just two days ago, the tide had almost swept him out to sea.

Mitch turned and jogged back to the trail and skittered down the path to the yard. He stooped to look beneath the house. Uncertain of what he was searching for, he used his cell phone to take pictures. What was it he was missing? An elusive detail teased his mind. He couldn’t quite call the information forward.

Placing his hands on his hips, the yard was much the way Amy Osmond had described it: weedy, littered with bits and pieces of lawnmower parts, a wheelbarrow. He checked for signs of freshly dug dirt that resembled small graves. Nothing.

Mitch returned to the porch. He jammed a business card between the door and the frame. Maybe Benjamin Noone was exactly who he was. An eccentric loner who enjoyed gardening.

****

Weary from helping string lights and getting the town ready for its annual Fourth of July bash, Benjamin’s headache increased when he removed the card from the doorjamb and read Deputy Sheriff Mitchell Carter’s name. Anxiety race through him like a dose of medicine attacking his bowels. His afternoon sandwich roiled up his throat, and he gagged. Whimpers echoed in his ears as he reached for the key lying inside a rusted birdcage.

His hand trembled as he unlocked the weathered front door, flung it wide, and stumbled inside. Slamming it shut, he collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball, his knees drawn to his stomach. He closed his eyes and allowed the black tomb of darkness to engulf him.

“Bennie, that deputy sheriff was here. What should I do?”

Only the thrumming inside his head answered.

He pleaded, “Where are you when I need you?” Benjamin balled his fist and slammed the floor. “Sniveling bastard! I hope you burn in hell.”

Shadows gathered at the fringes of his mind.

A voice mocked him.
You always were the weaker twin. Stop whining. Deputy…smeputy. He’s got nothing on you.

Snickering. Whose? Benjamin wasn’t certain who made the sound.

I know what will make you feel better.

“What?”

This time his mind filled with teasing laughter.
A…woman. Bennie needs a woman.

Benjamin placed his hands over his ears and pressed. “How many times do I have to tell you…I am…not…you?”

He was tired. So very tired. His eyes closed of their own free will.

He dreamed of fire. He was tied to his bed, a gag in his mouth. Daisy Fuller laughed as she poured gasoline over his body and lit a match. Flames licked up his legs. Lynnette Braswell watched. She clapped her hands in glee and danced a little jig. In unison the girls taunted—
Don’t scream, Benjamin. Don’t ever scream.

The fire savored his flesh, starting at the tips of his toes and slithering up to his elbows. He choked on the odor of burning hair. The flames singed his eyebrows, and stole inside his nostrils. His brain melted, and he felt all the little cells of gray matter leaking out his ears.

Water. Water. He needed water to cool the burning inside his scalded body.

Inching his eyes open, he found the smoke had cleared. There was no fire. He was on the floor in his little crackerbox cottage.

He lifted his hand and looked at it.
Not my hand
, his mind whispered. He felt his hair, patted it, and pulled a lock forward to examine.

Not my hair.

What was going on? He pushed to his hands and knees and crawled to the bathroom. His strength had left him. He used the toilet to pull himself upright, and looked into the mirror.

A hollow-eyed reflection stared at him.
Hello, Bennie. That was a terrible dream we had.

Benjamin gripped the edges of the sink. His breaths came in heaves. “Go away. I’m…Benjamin.”

And then there was screaming, uncontrollable screaming.

Shh..shh. Don’t scream…We don’t like screamin’.

His mouth was dry, his stomach churned, and his head pounded so hard he was certain it would burst. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face. He bent closer, cupped his hands, and drank. Lifting his throbbing head was too much effort. He opened the medicine cabinet. His prescription bottle was empty. The refill date had expired. He counted out four aspirin and allowed them to melt in his mouth.

Only a few feet to the bedroom, and a few more feet to the bed. He turned toward the door, careful not to shuffle his feet. Each step vibrated like a tuning fork inside his brain. He sank to the mattress.

He lay facing the ceiling, his head on the pillow, an arm flung across his eyes. And though he whispered, the words seemed to echo off the walls. “I want to die and end this suffering.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Phyllis tapped the newspaper with a loud thump. “This is absolutely frightful, Laura. Do these missing animals have anything to do with the ones found buried in the park?” She picked up her coffee cup. “The possibility of having a psycho running around loose in Cole Harbor gives me the willies.”

Laura finished packing the picnic cooler. She understood her aunt’s concern. “We live in a wacky world. Promise to keep the back doors locked. Until Mitch solves this case, it pays to take extra precaution.”

She grabbed her tote bag and the small ice chest. “I can’t believe how many art and food vendors are setting up for the weekend. Both bed-and-breakfasts are completely booked. Harmon Taylor said all of his charters for sightseeing cruises are filled. At least this type of news takes the edge off the murder.”

Phyllis snorted her disgust. “Ayuh. Of course, Martha Shipley and the mayor are taking credit for your hard work.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Aunt Philly. C’mon, walk with me.”

Phyllis carried the cooler down the stairs. Laura followed her aunt through the storage area and into the bookstore’s tea room. She spoke to Maudie, who commented on the news article about the missing pets. Laura made her way through the bookstore. Several patrons sat in the various reading sections. She scanned the faces of those she didn’t know. Strangers. Every one a possible suspect.

At the entrance door, she took the small ice chest from her aunt. “I feel guilty. It’s Monday. A work day.”

“Good Godfrey, Laura. You’re the boss. In fact, you’re the only employee. The newspaper isn’t going to fold around your ears if you take a day to enjoy yourself.”

She kissed her aunt on the cheek, and Phyllis whispered, “Give Bryan a chance.”

Outside, Laura drew a deep nasal breath. She resisted the urge to walk the short distance to her office. The town seemed far from perfect right now. There was something evil lurking here.

Last night she’d had that feeling, the creepy ice-slithering-down-her-spine feeling. It was the same sensation she’d experienced the night Lynnette Braswell’s spirit had visited her. She closed her eyes.
Maybe Aunt Philly is right. I need a day to forget about murder and dead bodies
.

It was warm out, with the morning sun already beating down. Damn. She didn’t want to go sailing. She really didn’t. There was no sense arguing about it. She had agreed, and even packed a lunch. Deep down inside, she’d rather be with Mitch, helping with his investigation.

She was picking her way through the vendors’ tents, mentally writing an article for the
Gazette
’s next edition. One minute she was up, the next minute she was sprawled on the ground. She hadn’t given much thought to the treachery of tent ropes and the possibility of tripping over them.

Laura met his eyes, and he just stood there, mute, staring at her. She wondered briefly what he was seeing as he stared at her. Finally, she said, “Hi, Benjamin, would you mind helping me up?”

He shrugged, as if not overly concerned about her plight. His lack of enthusiasm annoyed her.

She struggled to her good knee, green from the grass staining her white pants, and then she felt a strong pair of hands lifting her. Benjamin held her at arms’ length, frowning, studying her face. He studied her for a long moment and slowly his expression changed. His face, harsh before, softened just a little, and he let go of her.

Then, to her utter surprise, he reached out and ran his fingertips from the crown of her head and down her cheek to her shoulder. The touch made her nerves jump, and not in a good way. She placed a hand on his chest. “Um, you can let go, now.”

He nodded, sighed heavily. “Pays to watch where you’re walking.”

“Laura…Laura.” She turned to see Bryan sprinting toward her. “I saw you fall. Are you hurt?”

Benjamin had lowered both arms to his side. Laura thought she saw a flash of anger, but he masked it quickly.

She met Benjamin’s eyes. “Thank you for your assistance.”

He watched her face for a moment, as if waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he nodded and walked away.

Bryan gathered the cooler and Laura’s tote bag in one hand. He used the other to cup her elbow. She leaned into his strength.

“Can you make it to the marina, or would you rather cancel the trip?”

Although her leg ached, she kept it to herself. “I’m not hurt, just embarrassed.”

He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “According to this morning’s forecast, the wind is perfect for sailing. No rain.”

Guiding her down the dock, he stopped at slip five and stepped into a sleek, candy-apple-red sloop with a tall spar. The sun bounced off the all-white interior, and Laura pulled the sunglasses atop her head down to settle on the bridge of her nose.

Bryan held out both hands. “I’ve got you. Step on the gunwale, then onto the seat.”

“Fair warning—I don’t know jibbing from tacking or starboard from leeward. In fact, I’m not much of a sailor.”