Dark Beach (12 page)

But she didn’t want to be alone. She hoped Molly Coggington would arrive soon. “Kip,” she yelled again. “Come cuddle Mamma. Come
on, my little curly-haired girl. Come get me.”

The cramping refused to ease up.

There’s a side I’m supposed to lie on when this happens, isn’t there? Or is that just when the baby gets big?
She pursed her lips, trying to remember, and then took a deep breath and rolled over on her side anyway.
I should tell Ron.
Jenny rubbed her belly, remembering the day Kip was born. That wild, crazy day.

She had been in bed when her water broke at one in the morning, soaking the bed. Jenny had risen quietly and showered and then poked at Ron, who’d leaped out of bed and run around like a madman.

“Where’s the hospital bag?” He’d rushed around, shouting where’s this, where’s that. Everything had been right there, on the dresser. She smiled, remembering. Ron had always been like that, never been able to find a thing. They’d rushed to hospital. Kip had been born after two hours of pushing—

Jenny put a hand to her temple then sighed deeply. “Maybe it will go quicker with you?” She rubbed her tummy again. “But you have to stay in there to find out. It’s far too early, little one. Far too early.”

“Mamma?”

“Oh, Kip! Come here and snuggle me. Come on. Up on the bed.”

“I love oo, Mamma.” Kip snuggled her head into Jenny’s chest.

“I love you too, Kim
,” she said, and sudden tears sprang to her eyes.

* * *

Voicemail—again! He’d called five times already, leaving only one message. And she had promised to call him back after the police left. He’d even called
them
back, and they’d reassured him everything was fine. So why wasn’t she answering her phone?

What if something has happened?
asked the panicked voice in his head. “She’s fine … she’s fine,” he muttered, reassuring himself.
Someone would have called if there was something wrong.

The coffee was dirty brown, muddy tasting. Ron could not concentrate. Things were still wild out there on the dry dock, and between calls from his boss and all the yelling, he had yet to get away to get hold of Jenny.

“Come on, pick up. Pick up,” he willed her. All he got was her pleasant voicemail message, followed by the uncaring beep. “Dammit, Jenny! You need to call me. I’m worried about you. Maybe your cell died? Just call me as soon as you can.”

He downed the rest of his cold coffee, crumpled up the cup, and dropped it back on the table. “What to do? What to do?”

Calling the police again seemed extreme, but what if something really had happened to her?

They would have called me. Surely they would have notified me?
Still pondering his options, Ron dialed a different number.

“Busy Bee Meadows, Marilynn speaking. How may I help you?”

“Marilynn, I’m glad it’s you.”

“Pardon me?” She didn’t recognize his voice.

“I’m Gerry’s grandson, Ron. I was in a few days ago.”

“Oh yes … I remember now.”

“Listen, I had to leave Rocky Shores. I got called in for work. Is everything okay with Gerry?”

“I’m not supposed to get into the details over the phone. I can tell you generally but not specifically, as per your mother’s request.”

“My mother? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you filled me in on Nana’s condition.”

“Actually, she would.” Marilynn sounded sympathetic. “We notified her of Gerry’s change in condition and your visit. Rachael is Gerry’s power of attorney. She requested that we not divulge any details to other family members.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You can’t tell me what’s going on over the phone? That doesn’t make any sense at all. Anyway, listen, what I called about is ... is there any way I can call Gerry’s friend?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the name offhand.”

“Mrs. Coggington? Or Barney?”

“Mrs. Coggington—that’s the name. Do you have a number for her?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a number.”

“Fine. I’ll find it. Who’s Barney anyway?”

“I can’t give out that kind of information.” Her tone became tight again.

“But you just gave me their names! You’re not very good at this are you?”

“It’s very busy here today.”

“I see. Have a good day now.”

“And you too.”

Accessing the Internet on his cell phone, he browsed the telephone directory until he found a listing for a Mrs. M Coggington on Rocky Shores Boulevard.

“Hello?”

“Yes. Mrs. Coggington, this is Ron—Gerry’s grandson?”

“Oh, hello! I’ve heard all about you—good things of course
—from Gerry over the years, mostly about your schooling and work, and things like that. We met when you were a young boy.”

“Yes, I remember: the book club?”

“Yes. I met your wife the other day. She’s so nice. She made me a lovely salmon dinner and chatted about this and that. We were up very late, you know. I haven’t been up that late in years. Oh, congratulations, by the way. How are you doing?”

“Oh thanks,” said Ron politely, wondering what on earth she was on about. “I’m okay, but I kind of need your help.”

“My help? I don’t know what I could do for you. I’ve been working on my knitting. I’m making a scarf, and a sweater to match. It’s been awfully cold here the past few days—”

Ron rose from his plastic chair, pushed it away, and paced impatiently, unsure if he was ever going to get a word in at all. “That
sounds nice,” he finally interrupted. “You see, I need your help. I can’t get hold of my wife. I have been calling her but she’s not answering. I was wondering if you would mind going over to check on her?”

“Oh, actually I was just on my way over there. She asked me to baby-sit for her when I was over there
the other night. Is something wrong with the baby?’

“Kip?”
he asked, worried.

“No, the baby. Your wife told me about it. Congratulations. It’s so very exciting. I remember back to when I was pregnant—such a special time. I should really stop knitting my scarf and knit up a little hat and some baby bootees.”

Everything came to a standstill. All the noise that surrounded him seemed to fade away. It was all beginning to make sense—Jenny’s blackout, the odd behavior, everything.
She stopped taking her medication.

Mrs. Coggington was still jabbering on about babies. “Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”

Great news,
Ron thought.
That’s just great. Now my pregnant wife is missing
. He waited for a slight pause in the old woman’s monologue and said, “Mrs. Coggington … I honestly don’t know yet. I can’t get a hold of my wife and I really just need your help. When you get there, give me a call back, or tell her to call me. I would greatly appreciate that.”

“Yes, yes. I
’m popping right over there now.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”

He gave her his number, ensuring she had written it down, and then got off the line as politely as he could. Ron put his head in his hands, then ran his fingers through his hair, stood, and went to get another cup of bland coffee.

“You look like hell.” The southern accent gave Ron no comfort at all. He turned to find Carl behind him.

Carl gestured to the coffee. “Is it that bad? Ah don’t even drink that shit.”

“It is.”

“Want some grub?”

“This will do me.” Ron lifted his cup.

“It was a fuel tank,” Carl said.

“What was?”

“That’s what caused the explosion.”

“Oh. How’d they figure it out?”

“The fire department took samples; they just came in. We think the welder opened the wrong void, thinking it was water. But it was fuel. When he started weldin’ BOOM. They must’ve mixed up the lids when the tanks got painted last.”

“Jesus.”

Ron’s thoughts flew to the great gash the explosion had rent in the hull of the gunmetal grey destroyer.

“Ah’m sorry for what Ah said yesterday. I was pissed off, hot under the collar.”

“Enough said. Forget about it.” Ron wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.

Carl rubbed a hand over his eyes. “One’ve my best was lost down there. He was young, smart—picked everythin’ up quickly—a bright future ahead of him.”

“Yeah, I heard he was an ace. Heard he’d just gotten married, too.”

“Yip.”

“I didn’t call the Admiral.”

“Thanks,” said Carl.

* * *

When the cramping eased off, Jenny returned to the kitchen. She was starving again.
I suppose I better eat before I go out.
“I’ll take this as a good sign,” she told no one in particular.

The lantern sat on the kitchen bench, where she left it.

Curiosity always got the better of her.
Curiosity killed Jenny—might be prophetic.

Inside the glass casing, a half-burned white candle dribbled a trail of wax in the center
. She noticed a piece of paper folded underneath the base of the candle. Opening the lantern door, she tried to inch the stump of candle out, but managed only to knock it over. The paper below it was still covered by wax.

“Come on, come on,” she moaned, working at it.
“Piece of—” The paper was jammed in there at a strange angle, between the base and the glass pane. She picked up the  lantern and shook it. “Come on. Come
on
! Come free.”

It did not.

“This isn’t rocket science,” she scolded herself, knowing Ron would be laughing at her if he were here witness to it. “Hmmm.” Glancing around, she selected her favorite knife from the counter. The knife stabbed deep into the lump of wax and, with a twist, it popped loose.

“There!”

The note sat on the bottom. White paper perfectly folded in a neat little square. With trembling hands, Jenny reached in and grabbed it.

What are you looking for?

That was it. That was all it said. She flicked the note across the kitchen. Kurt’s words came back to her:
Because you’re looking for something
.

“What an idiot,” she muttered. “I can’t believe this guy. Who does he think he is?”

“My dear?” Mrs. Coggington’s words were followed by a soft tap on the door. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m a little late.”

FIVE

The black-handed clock on t
he tackle shop wall read twelve-thirty. She was late, and she knew it. She didn’t care. She was alone in that cramped fisherman’s heaven; not a single customer was in sight.
How does Kurt make any money in this sleepy town?

Jenny snooped about. Fishing lures in all shapes and sizes hung from the walls.
He doesn’t seem like the stalker type
. She examined the barbed hooks, the sharp stainless steel gaffs.
Well, maybe.

The longer she waited the more her anger dissipated.
Maybe it was a coincidence?
Kurt appeared nice, friendly—perhaps overly so—but Jenny wasn’t sure about him. Usually she had good gut instincts about people, but this fisherman was a mystery to her.

“Where is he?” She looked at the clock again and examined a fish size chart on the wall.

A chime rang out as the front door behind her opened. A tall man, dirty in tired blue flannel, blue suspenders, and big heavy boots took off his faded red ball cap and scratched one hand through his hair. Jenny couldn’t tell if his face was filthy too, or if he was just unshaven.

“I need five hundred yards of thirty-pound test, multi-strand or multi-fiber. Oh … Where’s Kurt?” He looked her up and down, his eyes skipping over red loafers and denim to pause, chest height, at her white tank and
grey zipped hoodie. He made absolutely no eye contact. “Never mind … I’ll get it.”

The fisherman went behind the counter and took what he needed, scrawled a note on the notepad on the counter, and left with a disinterested, “Excuse me.”

Jenny craned her neck across the counter. The note just listed the items and finished with the man’s name. “Dan Town,” she said, guessing he had a tab or something.

Another fellow entered
, this time baby-faced, thin and pale—obviously a tourist. “Nice shop you have here.”

“Uh … I … don’t work here.” Jenny tried to act natural, all the while knowing she looked like a fish out of water.

“Why are you behind the counter?”

A tourist and a smart-ass.
“Er … I was looking for the owner. I needed to get something.”