Nicole Peeler - [Jane True 01] (5 page)

Before the door had even shut on the last customer’s heels Grizelda was
facing Tracy and me, her hands on a shoulder each, as if linking us in her holy
trinity of rumor, conjecture, and innuendo.

“Peter Jakes,” she said, with the voice of a narrator from some true
crime docudrama, “was murdered.”

Tracy just rolled her eyes in exasperation and I made a sort of “get on
with it” rolling-hands gesture.

Grizzie ignored our impatience, continuing at the same dramatic pace.

“He was killed in his own driveway,” she intoned. “He’d been to market
for groceries and was unloading them from his car when,
bam,
somebody
hit him on the back of his head with a stone from his own garden’s decorative
border.”

She looked at each of us in turn, letting her words soak in before
continuing.

“They know because that young bag boy at McKinley’s helped Peter load
his trunk and his groceries are still spilled all over his driveway. And the
stone was just lying there, all covered in blood, next to his Cream of Wheat.”
She paused for effect before gleefully plunging back in.

“Old Mrs. Patterson says that she saw a black Mercedes drive up toward
his place around five-thirty, and then drive away again at, like, four in the
morning.” Grizzie shook her head. “That old gossipmonger never sleeps.” Tracy
and I met each other’s eyes and tried not to scoff too openly. “Anyway, the
police think that whoever was driving the car might be the murderer. If so,
that means it was somebody from outside Rockabill, ’cause nobody here owns a
Benz.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, but the sensation was short-lived.

“There is one thing that doesn’t make any sense, however…”

Uh-oh
, I thought.
Here it comes
.

“Apparently, the man we know as Peter Jakes barely existed.”

I schooled my face into blandness, as Tracy grunted. “What does that
mean?”

“It means,” Grizzie said, impatiently, “that Jakes had a credit card and
a Canadian passport, but nothing else. No home address, no records in the U.S.
or in Canada. Nothing. It’s like he didn’t exist. He just had some P.O. box out
near Québec, somewhere.”

“That is a mystery,” I murmured, but Grizzie wasn’t through. Dammit.

“Oh, duh, that reminds me of the
big
mystery… Jakes’s body was definitely
in the ocean, which makes the police think that whoever killed him tried to
dump him. But he somehow ended up on that trail, instead.”

I furrowed my brow, narrowing my eyes into their best “Wow, how
interesting, I wonder why that could be?” look, and focused my gaze somewhere
above Grizzie’s head. If I could have whistled innocently I would have.

“So they don’t know how he got there, or who did it. There aren’t any
fingerprints anywhere. Nothing was taken except for that file where he kept his
notes for his book, which wasn’t valuable at all. Oh, wait, his car
is
missing. But it was a beater, so why would somebody kill him for that? Plus, if
it was the person in the Mercedes who killed Peter, they obviously didn’t drive
off in his car. The police think that the killer must have used Peter’s car to
dump the body, and then abandoned it. They’re organizing a small search party
to find it, but it could be anywhere.”

She looked from one to the other of us for effect. “So it can’t have
been a robbery or some kind of an accident. Whoever killed Peter Jakes came to
Rockabill expressly with the intent to commit murder.”

Tracy sighed. “He seemed like such a quiet man,” she said ruefully. “But
I guess we all have our secrets.”

The veracity of Tracy’s words was demonstrated by how, standing in our
little circle, we avoided each other’s eyes. We three knew all about secrets.

Work went by quickly. Lots of people stopped by Read It and Weep
ostensibly for a coffee or a newspaper but really to take advantage of
Grizzie’s well-known capacity for gossip. Then a busload of oceanographers on a
day trip from a conference at the University of Maine came to see the Old Sow,
and we let them drink their takeaway coffee at our café tables while the rest
bought souvenirs and stuff. One of the tourists was pretty creepy and kept
staring at me. He was a little greasy for an academic, but otherwise fit the
bill: big geeky plastic-framed glasses, chinos, and a button-up Polo shirt. His
lank brown hair fell in his face and he stared like I had sprouted horns. I
shivered, checking the front door. It was shut, but a cold draft from somewhere
had raised goose pimples on my flesh. When I looked back, Creepy McCreeperson
was still staring at me. Of course, I knew better than to think he was admiring
my effervescent personality or understated beauty: He probably remembered me
from the papers. I hope I lived up to my headlines.

By the time the oceanographers left and I’d put the café back to rights,
it was nearly four. Nothing more had developed regarding Peter’s murder: The
car was still missing and the small search party had called it quits, as it was
getting dark.

We were all pretty beat from our unexpectedly busy day, so we went ahead
and closed a half hour early. I faked bundling up against the cold, hating the
fact that I felt I needed to be circumspect even around Tracy and Grizzie, then
said my good-byes and started off home.

My daily commute was about an hour on foot, but I despised driving.
Plus, it’s not like I had much of a social life, so walking helped fill my
time. I only took the car when I had to pick up groceries; otherwise, I left it
at home so Dad could go out if he wanted to do something.

There were still more people around town than usual, and the Trough was
packed.
Nothing like a grisly murder to bring people together
, I
reflected bitterly. I knew all too well how otherwise decent people got off on
the tragedy of others.

My anger subsided once I got to the end of our little main street. I
took a few deep breaths and unwound my scarf, then unzipped my coat and stuffed
my mittens in my pockets. I knew the air must be cold; my breath steamed away
from me so thick it appeared solid. But my body told me it was comfortable, and
if I’d had more courage I would have taken my coat off altogether.

After all the stress of the afternoon and the night before, I was happy
to let my mind wander and enjoy the walk home. I loved this time of year. The
sea was actually slightly warmer than usual—although still bone-chilling—as it
took longer to cool down from summer than did the earth itself. But because the
outside temperature was so cold and the tourists were almost entirely gone, I
didn’t have to be so paranoid.

It’s not like I could ever really be comfortable in Rockabill, but walking
home every day without seeing a single soul, tourist or native, went a long way
toward helping me relax. That said, sometimes the long walk home in the
darkness could be creepy—especially when somebody had just been murdered and
I’d been the one to find the body.

I couldn’t help but shudder, remembering poor Peter’s clammy skin and
staring eyes. And the wound on the back of his head…

I had unconsciously picked up my pace, but I forced myself to slow down.
Don’t be ridiculous
, I told myself.
This is Rockabill. Whoever Peter
really was, he must have brought the trouble with him, and sent it packing with
his death. Little villages in Maine are not apt to become the site of serial
killings. Unless that village is Cabot Cove, of course.

I couldn’t help but smile, imagining Angela Lansbury down at Rockabill’s
tiny Sheriff’s office: George Varga shaking his head and saying, “Gee, Mrs.
Fletcher, I had no idea that the butler did it!”

I realized that I was mixing up my genres, and that butlers were about
as likely to be in Rockabill as were serial killers or fictional murder-mystery
characters, when I heard a resounding
snap
.

I froze. The forest surrounding me on either side of the road was
deathly quiet, which was not at all normal. Rockabill was out in the middle of
nowhere, really, and my dad and I lived as far out as we could and still be
considered living in the village. Our woods were replete with all sorts of
wildlife and birdlife at any time of year.

When had it gone quiet?

I was listening as hard as I could, when from my right there was the
slightest sound of movement. But it wasn’t the random scurrying of little feet.
Whatever made that noise was coming toward me at a steady pace.

I turned toward the sound, desperately peering into the dark woods. The
moon was but a crescent sickle hanging in the sky and I couldn’t see a thing.

Suddenly, my heart lurched as my peripheral vision registered something
large dart across the road about twenty feet behind me. Then I started to run.

Panic sent a flood of adrenaline rushing through my system, and I was
running like I’d never run before. I wasn’t thinking about anything except
pumping my little legs and trying not to fall over my flapping scarf. I somehow
managed to wrench it from my neck and let it fall on the roadside when a shadow
darted across the road again, this time in front of me.

Shit!
I thought, and veered off the road. Part of my brain
acknowledged that leaving the road was a very bad idea, but the rest of my
brain was just trying to put as much distance between myself and that menacing
shadow as possible.

I also knew I was going in the direction of the beach and that if I
could get in the water I’d be safe. My running took on a new purpose with that
thought. Nothing could follow me into the water, but if I brought the trouble
home with me, what could my dad do to protect us? We didn’t own a gun, and he
was too sick to take somebody on. So I had to get to the beach. That was better
than leading whatever was behind me to my only family.

I tripped, cursing, just barely managing to keep my feet. Loud rustling
from the forest behind me meant I was still being followed. But my pursuer
wasn’t getting any closer, and that actually worried me. With the exception of
when I was swimming, I was definitely built for comfort rather than speed. I
could possibly outrun a three-year-old, but anything else?

I started to swerve left, the shortest route to the sea and escape. I
could smell the ocean beckoning, guiding me to the safety of her waters.

But once again a flash of darkness darted on my left, forcing me to veer
back to the right. For a second, I caught a glimpse of the whites of eyes and
the flash of teeth. Whatever was chasing me was some kind of animal.

Under the circumstances, I certainly wasn’t capable of being glad of
that fact, but some part of my brain recognized that whatever was following me
couldn’t have killed Peter. Large-toothed beasties don’t club their victims
over the head with decorative stones and then stuff them in a car for
convenient disposal.

That part of my brain, however, was quickly being hedged out by
exhaustion. The first burst of adrenaline had faded, and my lungs and legs were
aching. I may have had tons of stamina in the water, but on land I was about as
nimble as your average guinea pig. Whatever it was could easily have caught me.
If it didn’t want to catch me, what
did
it want to do with me?

I tried again to veer left. The beach was close this way, the salt air
whispering to me of safety. But once again, the dark outline of my pursuer
steered me to the right, and my fears were confirmed.

I was being herded.

Whatever this thing was, it was moving me where it wanted me to go, like
I was some damned sheep.

My legs were aching so bad that I don’t know how I kept going. Only those
little glimpses of moving darkness kept my feet churning. I was really starting
to slow, my energy almost totally spent. And I was starting to think my best
bet was to stop in my tracks and confront whatever was behind me.

But then I realized where I was: right at the back of my secret cove. It
was only accessible through the forests to the side of my property or by the
sea. Except for its slender strip of beach and a narrow breach on the cove’s
far side from the sea, it was surrounded by natural rock walls. If only I could
make it to the cove…

I pulled on my last dregs of energy in order to get to that breach.
Hopefully, whatever was chasing me thought it was driving me into a trap,
unaware that I knew about the break in the cove walls. And once through that
gap, it was a straight shot into the ocean and away.

I wasn’t running now so much as stumbling quickly, panting like a
geriatric lion. Every step was torture. Pain shot through my calves and my
lungs felt like they were going to burst. But I knew I couldn’t let up so I
steamed ahead. I was swinging toward the right, heading for the break, which my
shepherd was allowing. It must not think I could get out that way. Little did
it know…

When I hit the break I plunged through, shouting in triumph, only for my
voice to be cut short with a painful “Oof.” My damned coat had caught on
something as I tried to squeeze through the narrow opening at too high a speed.
My own momentum slammed me painfully into the rough wall of the cove, and I
felt a gash open up above my eyelid. I’d had the wind knocked out of me, and I
barely managed to stay upright. I heard an ominous rustle behind me, and I
peered frantically into the forest as blood dripped down into my eye, stinging
horribly. Something was emerging from the undergrowth, and I really didn’t want
to be wedged here when it came out to introduce itself.