Cold Shot (26 page)

Finley cracked her window, letting the sea air seep in and soothe her soul. The sea always filled her with such peace.

Maybe today would be the day they finally got some concrete answers rather than more questions.

“There,” Finley said, pointing at the duplex bungalow one block off the ocean. “55B.”

Down a block Griffin found an open section of street parking.

“It’s nice Marley was so close with her dad, coming down most weekends to see him,” Finley said as they climbed the
front porch steps, a weathered swing creaking in the wind. She turned to find another on the adjoining porch.

“The file said her mom passed when Marley was nine.”

“So her dad raised her alone?” she asked, turning back to Mr. Trent’s place.

“Appears that way.” Griffin opened the storm door and knocked.

The interior door opened, and a woman with curly blond hair that bounced just at her shoulders, brown eyes, and a friendly smile greeted them. “Yes?”

“Hello, ma’am,” Griffin began.

“Ma’am.” She smiled, all tickled. “Well, aren’t you the gentleman, but you know us ladies under a certain age prefer
miss
.”

“Oh.” Griffin looked embarrassed for the second time since Finley had met him—his cheeks actually flushing slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No worries. I’m Sammie.” She took pity on his bumbling.

“Griffin.” He nodded with a smile. “And this is Finley.”

“Finley? That’s a unique name. I like it.”

“Thanks.”

She stepped back, inviting them inside. “My name is actually Sammie Jo. My mother was a die-hard
Dynasty
fan. Gotta laugh at the ludicrousness of being named after a nighttime soap opera character or it’d make me want to cry. I know it’s ridiculous, but that’s Mama. Follow me. Mr. Trent’s expecting you.”

She led them around the corner to a cozy front room. The furniture was straight out of the ’80s and more Floridian than Chesapeake in style—white rattan furniture with palm-patterned cushions in mint and peach shades, but all impeccably maintained. Framed pictures lined the white mantel. Images of
Marley as a kid. Most in front of the ocean or by a pool, her wearing a bright smile and colorful ribbons.

“She was half mermaid,” an elderly voice crackled behind them. Finley turned as the man entered. His shoulders and upper back hunched and slightly curved to the right, decreasing his probable five-ten frame by several inches. He had salt-and-pepper hair, an aquiline nose, pale skin, and drooping jowls. His soft blue shirt was mostly covered by a well-loved grey cardigan sweater with leather buttons. He pushed his walker across the room toward them.

“Mr. Trent.” Griffin extended his hand. “We appreciate your taking the time to speak with us.”

“Time. Ha! Got plenty of that these days. Not able to do much—not with Little Miss Bossy around.”

“I heard that,” Sammie’s southern twang echoed from the adjacent room.

“Of course you did,” he called back with a grin. “She drives a hard line, but she means well. Please, have a seat.” He lowered into the mint green La-Z-Boy as Griffin and Finley took a seat on the sofa.

Mr. Trent set his walker to the side and reclined, the non-skid soles of his grey slippers peeking up at them—a smiley-face sticker on the center of the right and a hang-loose sticker on the left.

Finley smiled. She was happy to see he still had a sense of humor. It was easy to lose with age and loss. “Sounds like Sammie takes good care of you.”

“Marley found her for me. Marley always excelled at finding good people. She could read them easily.”

“We are terribly sorry for your loss,” Griffin said.

“Do either of you have children?”

“No,” Finley said, wondering what kind of dad Griffin would be. She smiled to herself. A really great one, she bet.

“Trust me, they never stop being your child.” He looked at the picture of Marley and him on his side table.

It looked recent. Sometime in the last few years of her life.

Tears pooled in his eyes. “She’ll always be my little girl.”

Finley blinked back the tears stinging her eyes. She hated having to bring Marley’s death back to the surface for the poor man. She moved to his chair and sank into a squat, covering his hand with hers. “We’re so very sorry.”

He nodded, sniffing back tears. “Thank you.”

Sammie entered, compassion and concern evident on her round face. “Thought y’all might like some tea.”

“Thanks,” Finley said as they each took a cup.

Mr. Trent took a sip and puckered his lips. “Sammie, why is mine unsweet?”

“Because the doctor said you have to watch your sugar, among other things.”

He shook his head, setting the glass aside. “Unsweet tea. Really? What’s the point?”

“Mr. Trent—” Griffin began.

“Nonsense. Please, call me Arthur.”

“Arthur.” Griffin nodded. “I couldn’t help but notice the cross suncatcher on your front window.”

Finley turned, taking in the yellow, orange, and red hues of the suncatcher.

“By any chance did Marley collect suncatchers?” Griffin asked.

“Yes she did. That”—he pointed with a slightly crooked finger—“was her favorite. Said it reminded her of the sun and beach. She loved both dearly. Part mermaid, like I said.”

He winked and Finley noted the purple tint to the whites
of his eyes. Combined with the spine curvature . . . So Marley had inherited the genetic disorder osteogenesis imperfecta from her dad.

“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?” A man about Griffin’s age and stature stood in the doorway balancing two paper buckets of what smelled like vinegar and potatoes in one hand and a drink tray in the other.

“Ben.” Arthur lit, his wrinkled face smiling. “Come in.”

“Hey, Art. I brought you Thrasher’s.”

Arthur beamed. “You spoil me.”

“Yes, he does,” Sammie said, planting her hands on her hips.

Arthur blinked. “You wouldn’t deny an old man his Thrasher’s now, would you?”

Sammie rolled her eyes. “Those puppy-dog eyes are only going to work for so long.”

Arthur smiled and reached into the bucket with a smile.

Finley looked at Griffin. “Thrasher’s?”

“Iconic O.C. right in your hands. Hand-cut fries with malt vinegar and salt,” Ben said, sitting down and digging into his own bucket. “I’m sorry. Would you like some?” He extended the bucket.

“I’m good, but thanks,” Finley said.

“I’ll be sure to grab a bucket before we leave,” Griffin said. “I’m Griffin McCray, by the way, and this is Finley Scott.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ben Douglas, Art’s neighbor. I hope you don’t mind if I eat. They are best warm.”

Griffin waved him on as Arthur popped a fry in his mouth.

Sammie stood next to Ben, her Looney Tunes scrubs a stark contrast to his understated tan sweater.

Ben waved a fry in her direction. “Come on, you know you wanna have one.”

“I’m good, but you won’t be if Arthur’s sodium levels are off the charts at his next exam.”

Ben quickly postured a mischievous schoolboy repentance smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That time I’ll take the
ma’am
.” She winked at Griffin before exiting the room.

“They are the ones who found Marley,” Arthur said out of the blue between bites.

Ben stilled. “Oh?”

“I’m afraid so,” Griffin said, sitting forward. “You knew Marley?”

“Yes.”

“Were you close?”

He looked at Arthur and then back to them.

Griffin took the hint and got to his feet. “Ben, any chance you’d be willing to show us around the place while Arthur finishes his fries? Marley’s old room, that sort of thing.”

Ben wiped his hands on his napkin. “Sure.” He set his tan-and-blue bucket aside and stood. “We’ll be back, Art.”

“Take your time. I’ll work on these.” He popped another fry in his mouth with a smile.

“Thanks,” Ben said as they exited the room and started upstairs. “Arthur’s memory is spotty, and I don’t know how much Marley told him about our relationship.”

“It’s uncomfortable talking about a relationship with your girl’s parents,” Griffin said.

Ben exhaled. “Right.”

Finley smiled at Griffin’s choice of affectionate phrase. She wondered if he would or perhaps already did view her as
his girl
.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” he said,
reaching the top landing. “I don’t really know anything about that part of Marley’s life.”

“Which part would that be?” Griffin asked as he led them to the curtained, glass-paned door at the end of the hall.

“Her work.”

“Why do you assume her death was related to her work?”

Finley looked at Griffin, curious about his question. They all knew or at least assumed Marley’s death was related to her work.

“Because her whole life revolved around her work. And . . .” He glanced back at the stairs. “Arthur. She loved her dad very much.”

Finley could tell he cared a great deal about the man too. She bet that would make Marley very happy to know her dad was still being cared for and lovingly looked after.

“When the police came . . . When Marley first went missing they asked us a bunch of questions about her personal life, but we told them that, other than her weekends here, she didn’t really have a personal life. Everything she did was about fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.”

“Sounds like you admired her.” And was at the same time frustrated or concerned by her consuming drive for work.

“Of course I did. She took on bullies for a living. How could I not admire her?” He rubbed his neck. “But in the end I fear it’s what got her killed. Are you any closer to catching her killer?”

“We’ve got a number of leads.”

“Well, that’s a start. Last investigator seemed like he was just going through the motions.”

“I give you my word we aren’t,” Griffin said. “We are doing everything we can to find Marley’s killer.”

“I appreciate that. She was a remarkable woman.” He ex
haled and shook his head, as if struggling to refocus on them and the present.

“So tell us about you and Marley,” Griffin said as Ben opened the door they’d been standing in front of.

Marley’s room
. Finley looked at the window, noting the pearl dove suncatcher, wondering how Griffin knew Marley had collected them.

“There isn’t much to tell.” Ben looked around the room, his eyes reddening.

“I know this is painful, and I’m sorry,” she said. “But anything you can tell us may help.”

“Yeah.” Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to compose himself before looking up and adjusting his glasses.

“How long did you know Marley?” Griffin asked.

“Since I moved in next door to Arthur summer before last. I saw her coming every weekend to visit, and one time we got to talking on the front porch.” He glanced down with a hint of a smile. “Truth is, I waited out on that porch all day, hoping she’d pop out, as she tended to do.” He looked up, his smile widening. “She was more amazing than I ever could have imagined.”

“And then?” Griffin asked, his voice lower. He hated pressing. Finley could read it on his face, but he had a job to do. They both did. To find Marley’s killer.

“And then we became friends.”

“Just friends?”

“I like to think we were on our way to becoming more.”

Just as Paul had believed.

“Meaning?”

“We kissed the weekend before she disappeared. When she called to say she wouldn’t be coming down the following week
end, I thought maybe it was because I’d scared her off. Moved too fast.”

“I highly doubt you were the reason,” Finley said, probably overstepping her bounds, but if anything she said could bring him comfort . . . “Griffin said he was told she lit up when she spoke of you.”

He looked at Griffin, his eyes welling with hope. “Is that true?”

She prayed Griffin understood why she’d shared what he’d told her. Ben deserved to know.

“Yes,” Griffin said. “I was told by a woman Marley worked with that she lit up whenever she spoke of you.”

Ben swiped his nose, sniffed, and then cleared this throat. “Thank you for that.”

Griffin nodded and looked at Finley. She exhaled in relief. He understood.

“I hate to keep pressing . . .” he said.

“But you are trying to find Marley’s killer.” Ben nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you have any idea why she was found up at Gettysburg?”

“None whatsoever.”

“She didn’t mention she was headed there?”

“No. Just said she needed to take care of something but that she’d be down the following weekend and was really looking forward to spending some time together.”

He stepped to the window, running a finger along the suncatcher’s edge. “It was the last time I heard her voice.” He looked up, trying to shake off the heartache, but was doing a terrible job. Sorrow was etched on the lines of his face.

“Stained glass,” he said. “She loved suncatchers. I didn’t understand it. Her love for them. I mean it’s colored glass, but
she said when the sun flooded in and the colorful rays bounced off the dim interior, it reminded her how God brings beauty and light to the darkest places. And that all the broken pieces of different and uniquely shaped glass making up one beautiful image reminded her how God brings beauty out of brokenness and uses the smallest of pieces to make up a whole. Despite her job, despite the ugliness she saw and her own struggles, she trusted God in the dark places.”

“That’s beautiful,” Finley said. What an amazing reminder of God’s faithfulness.

“That’s Marley,” he said. “Seeing the possible, believing God could perform miracles and make the broken whole.”

“And do you believe that?” she asked, stepping toward him.

“Finley,” Griffin said, his tone hushed, his eyes widening. Now she’d really overstepped her bounds.

Ben held up his hand. “It’s fine. Yes, I used to believe, but then . . .”

“Marley disappeared.”

He nodded, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his narrow throat.

“Don’t let the darkness win,” Griffin said, surprising them both.

“What?” Ben’s brow furrowed.