Island of Deceit (6 page)

“Harper, I'm not ready to start a new relationship.”

“One thing I've learned is to grab the opportunity when it's presented. I don't intend to let you slip away this time.” He stood. “But I understand you've been through an ordeal tonight. We can deal with us another day. I'll see you home.”

“That's not neces—”

“For my peace of mind,” he said, leading her out the door.

Back home, Barbara took aspirin for her headache, knowing it would only dull the pain. She then took a shower and warmed up some leftover chicken. She was exhausted. She'd had to squeeze in two extra people that day. Everyone was complaining because she now worked only three days one week and four the next. But she just didn't have the time to work five days, nor did she have the inclination to do so.

She looked at herself in the mirror and touched the tender area. Her face was still slightly swollen. She'd probably look like a blow-up clown in the morning. She got a package of frozen peas from the freezer and put it against her jaw. In her bedroom, she stretched out on her bed and watched CNN.

Barbara closed her eyes, grateful it was Saturday. She'd planned to attend church in the morning. She couldn't show up with a swollen jaw.

Harper's words made her uneasy. Now that Andrew was out of the picture, he considered himself in. And she had no intention of dating the local sheriff. He was just too much—too imposing, too demanding, too everything. She couldn't lead him by the nose the way she did Andrew. Couldn't tell him what to do and expect him to follow. That man was like a hound dog with his nose and ears to the ground.

As much as she'd like to sample a relationship with him—Lord knew she'd had all kinds of fantasies about him—she couldn't afford to have him sniffing in her business.

 

John and Harper attended the autopsy Tuesday morning.

“Do you know the cause of death?” Harper asked.

The pathologist squinted as she examined the body, her demeanor serious. Harper had worked with her several times in the past. He'd even considered asking her out for a date, but was glad he hadn't.

“She has several stab wounds, but the wound in the back pierced the lung and killed her.”

“What kind of knife?” Harper asked. Both John and Harper were taking notes even though they would get a report from the medical examiner's office.

“Something sharp, long, and narrow, like an ice pick or a fishing gaff.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?” Harper asked.

“No, no recent sexual activity; she wasn't pregnant and she shows no signs of STDs.”

So the boyfriend didn't go crazy on her for giving him a sexual disease. The woman didn't earn a mint.

A special contact lens with an identifying mark was stuck to her blouse. The crime lab was doing a search for the owner of the prescription, but it could take a few days.

Harper and John headed back to the island, talking about the case most of the way and how they would proceed.

“Let's question some of the fishermen,” Harper said. It was easy enough for someone to pull a small boat into the marsh and dump the body, but he still believed the murderer lived on the island.

 

Now that enough time had passed that he wouldn't be blamed for the shooting at the outhouse, Trent took the first ferry over from the mainland and drove directly to the house. The key was under the potted plant on the front porch, exactly as the real-estate agent had promised. Who in their right mind would leave a key in such an obvious place? Everyone on the island probably knew about her hiding place. He was going to have to fix some way to make sure nobody got in the house while he was sleeping.

He'd quickly unpacked his gear and put up his exercise equipment. Couldn't afford to get out of shape while he was here.

He was hungry and figured he'd get the lay of the land early on. He headed around the island. It took no more than twenty minutes—and that was due to a tractor moving slower than an old woman. The asshole had waited for a car to approach on the other side of the road to pull to the side and wave Trent around. By the time the car passed, the driver had maneuvered the damn tractor to the center of the road again.

Trent wanted to beat the hell out of the old man. When he'd finally turned off, the old geezer had the nerve to wave and holler, “Have a nice day.” It took considerable restraint for him not to flip him off.

There were two—two—places to eat on the entire island. Trent finally stopped at what passed for the heart of the town and found a place that actually had the nerve to call itself the Greasy Spoon. Several vehicles were parked in the gravel parking lot. Across the street seemed to be the town center, with the sheriff's office and the courthouse and administrative offices—a one-floor building with a million steps leading up to the front door.

Trent found a parking space in a free area where he was sure he'd escape dings in his truck. The Greasy Spoon seemed to be the jumping place in the morning. Trent shook his head. He missed D.C. already.

He already knew he'd have to trek all the way to Norfolk to find anything approaching civilization. The last thing he needed was some country bump-kin pulling out his shotgun when he went to bed with one of his daughters. And this looked just like one of those places.

But this wasn't like the fast-food places he usually frequented. He scanned the food on the tables. Although the faire matched its greasy name, the eggs were real and homemade. He ordered two sausage-and-egg biscuits and coffee.

As soon as he opened the door, he heard talk about a robbery. But everyone had stopped talking by the time he made it to the cash register and all eyes were glued on him. The person standing beside him in line actually spoke. Trent glanced around, then realized the man was greeting him. Trent managed a “Good morning” a beat late. The buzz started up again.

The hairdresser's robbery got equal gossip time with the corpse found near Trent's rental house. The crime scene tape was still up near the marsh. He hadn't killed the man who was staying there, so what the hell was going on?

The people here acted as if one robbery and one corpse was big news. Hell, that was nothing compared with the crime in D.C.

Trent paid for his food and snagged a table when four guys got up to leave.

Trent dug into his food and closed his eyes to savor it. Real homemade biscuits, full of flavor and dripping in butter. And the best sausage he'd ever tasted.

He listened intently to the local gossip while he ate. These people didn't mind telling all their business to strangers, either. They were still talking when he finished eating, and he engaged in a conversation with a couple of men who'd gone fishing the previous day. He got himself a second cup of coffee just to stay in the conversation.

“Robberies don't happen here very often. How's somebody gonna get away?” someone said. “No roads outta here.” The man cracked up and hit his thigh at his wit. “That's a foreigner for you. Islanders know better.” Trent had already gleaned that foreigners included all who were not born on the island. As if islanders were a nation among themselves. And at least they were talking, even to foreigners.

Trent hated when someone messed with his plans. He'd planned to approach Barbara today. He knew her manicurist died a couple of months ago and the position hadn't been filled. But with the robbery fresh in her mind, on top of the corpse found near his place, Barbara wouldn't be willing to hire anyone new, especially a stranger. Correction, foreigner.

But Trent was puzzled. Why would Barbara break her own boyfriend's arm? In the past, they worked their schemes together. He shook his head. None of this made sense. He needed that job so he could get the 411. He scrubbed a hand over his head. He could use a cut.

“Is this Ms. Turner any good at cutting men's hair?” He wanted a cut, but not to look like some country hick.

“Oh, yeah,” someone said, nodding. “Or you can go to the barber shop. Barbara's better, though. Got those New York styles. She charges more than the barber shop. You short on money, you go to the barber shop.”

“She charges a lot more,” another islander grumbled. “Wife 'bout to put me in the poor house.”

“You get what you pay for,” Trent said, and headed home in his ass-kicking SUV. God, he liked the power behind these machines. Too bad he was on an island and couldn't really let go. Even this baby couldn't roll across the Atlantic.

But when he turned into his driveway, he got nervous. The sheriff's car was parked in his yard. He hadn't done anything illegal here. There weren't any warrants on him—anywhere. Like the guy at the Greasy Spoon said, there was nowhere to run on an island, even when you owned an ass-kicking SUV.

Trent rolled into the driveway and slowly got out of the truck, pocketing his keys and approaching the sheriff. It wasn't so much that the sheriff was big, but he was solid, all lean, not an ounce of fat. He knew he worked out daily. Not many men intimidated Trent, but he wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of this guy.

“Morning, Sheriff. Is there a problem?”

The sheriff unfolded his thick arms. “Just wanted to stop by and welcome you to our island. And to tell you there was some shooting out here a few days ago. A body was found nearby in a marsh.”

Trent looked uneasy. “I heard about it at the restaurant this morning. But I didn't know it was near here. Seems like such a peaceful, quiet place, which is the reason I decided to stay here.”

“Crime is everywhere.”

“That's the truth. Appreciate your stopping by, Sheriff.”

“Harper Porterfield,” the man said.

“I'm Trent Seaton.”

“Where're you from, Trent?”

“D.C.” But Trent had the feeling the sheriff already knew that.

“You have any problems, just give us a ring.”

“Will do. Thanks again for stopping by.”

Trent watched the sheriff reenter his car and pull off. He exhaled a long, slow breath. When you skated around the edge of the law, you didn't feel comfortable about an officer of the law waiting on your doorstep.

Once inside the cabin, Trent changed into sweats and watched the satellite channel while he worked out with his weights. Then he took a long shower and left for the salon. He arrived exactly at ten when Barbara was opening the door.

“Ms. Turner?” he asked.

She eyed him nervously.

“Name's Trent Seaton, ma'am. I was at the Greasy Spoon this morning and folks said if I need a good haircut, you were the one to see. I'm new in town. Be here a few months at least, if not longer.”

She eyed him sharply. “I see.”

“I was wondering if I can get a cut today.”

She glanced at her watch. “Let me take a look at my schedule. I may be able to fit you in if you're not in a hurry.”

“I'm not.”

Barbara had a tough day ahead of her. She was supposed to be retired. She hadn't meant to work this hard on the island. But once people found out she was from New York, and once customers started bragging about her styles and cuts, they poured in like rain during a monsoon.

“Have a seat,” she said once they were inside. She was still a little nervous about this newcomer.

The thermostat was on a timer, so it was already warm inside. The message light on her answering machine was lit and she pressed the button. There were four messages. Her ten o'clock was going to be a half hour late. Was the woman out of her mind? When a customer was late it put her behind all day. That's the other thing. People thought they could just whiz in and out at their convenience, without a thought of inconveniencing other customers.

She felt like kicking all the Stones' butts. She and her grandmother would be on vacation somewhere…Barbara stopped her train of thought. She didn't want to break down in tears. But they'd made so many plans. She was reminded of the old salt that if you wanted to make God laugh, make a plan.

Barbara wrote down the numbers of customers who wanted to schedule appointments. She'd call them after she finished cutting Trent's hair.

“I can take you now,” Barbara said.

Trent smiled. “Thank you.”

“What do you want done?”

“The works. Wash, cut.”

They discussed what he wanted while Barbara tied a plastic cape around his beefy shoulders. She led him to the shampoo bowl. He had nice hair. Soft, and since it was short, she washed it quickly.

“How long will you be with us?” she asked.

“Three or four months at least.”

“Are you working nearby?” She always engaged her customers in conversation, not that she wanted to know their life's history, but it was hard to work on someone in silence.

“I needed time away. Had some tragedy in my family.”

“I'm so sorry.” Barbara could understand that. “It's a good thing your job will let you take time off,” she said.

“I'm in your line of work, so I can easily find something when I return.”

“My line of work?” Barbara asked, frowning.

“I've worked as a shampoo person. Worked in the nail salon doing pedicures and manicures. Do massages, too.”

“You have a license for nails and massages?”

“Yes, ma'am. Even brought my massage table along just in case I decide to do a little work while I'm here.”

Barbara felt like she was sixty with the man. But how often did you meet young men with manners these days? Somebody had taken the time to teach him some things.

She squeezed conditioner in his hair and thought of her tight schedule. “I have more customers than I can comfortably handle. From the time I opened the shop I've been overscheduled. I have Sunday through Tuesday off, if that's any consolation, and every other Saturday.”

He opened his eyes. They were midnight black. “Let me think about it and get back to you.”

“If you decide to work with me, first I have to see what you can do. And I'd like a look at the certificates, and references.”

“No problem, ma'am.”

“You can call me Barbara. Everyone else does.”

“Yes, ma…I mean Barbara. If I decide to take the job, when do you want to test me?”

“Tonight will be good. I'll need a pedicure after this day.”

“What time?” he asked.

He was actually considering it? “Seven.” If she was lucky.