Murder in the Mist (4 page)

Laura stood in the center of her new office. Hands on hips, and satisfied with her efforts, she surveyed the space. No more overflowing file cabinets, or stacks of folders piled in chairs or in every corner of the small office. Dan Fremont had said to keep what she thought was important, chuck the rest. The paper was hers to do with as she pleased.

Cleaning and organizing had a cathartic effect on her. She felt good. The floors shone with new polish, and years of dust had been removed from the venetian blinds, shelves, and the ceiling fan.

“You look like the cat who swallowed the canary. Gloating, I see.”

Laura turned when the little bell over the front door dingled. “Good morning to you, too, Aunt Philly.”

Phyllis handed her niece a cup of coffee, then pulled up a chair and sat down, taking a sip from her own cup. “I have an assignment for you. I’d like you to find a missing person.”

Laura removed the plastic cap from the cup. “Sounds intriguing. Tell me more.”

“Sally Wentworth disappeared almost fifty years ago. My theory is she was murdered and her body dumped in the bay. The night you arrived, my book club ladies and I had planned to hold a séance to see if we could call forth her spirit.”

Laura chided. “Really? Don’t tell me you believe in such nonsense.”

Phyllis wagged her finger. “Don’t poke fun. Cole Harbor isn’t exactly a beehive teeming with activities. We have the Lobstah Fest, of course, and the Fourth of July Arts Festival, and in October we hold a Halloween Ghost Hunt at the Lighthouse Museum. Other than going about our daily lives, the rest of the time there isn’t much to do. So if we want to hold a séance, then humor your old aunt and her cronies.”

“Sorry, Aunt Philly. I didn’t mean to be crass. Was Sally a close friend?”

“Yes and no. Her parents rented a cottage here for several years when we were both in grade school. She was such a pretty girl, and so much fun. She and I became inseparable during that time, and she drew boys the way honey draws flies. Shortly after her sixteenth birthday, Sally started skipping school to hang out with Corbin Drake. She was sixteen, and he was twenty. In our day, anyone who wore a black leather jacket, smoked cigarettes, and rode a motorcycle was considered a real pissah, you know, a hoodlum. Then Sally disappeared and was never heard of again. Corbin was gone too, of course.

“Her parents reported her missing. After his investigation, Amos concluded Sally had run off with Corbin. Apparently, clothes and a suitcase were missing, and some money stolen from her mother’s cookie jar”—Phyllis shrugged—“that sort of thing.”

“What happened? Didn’t her parents pursue it further?”

“Nothing happened. Sally was a change-of-life baby. Her parents were in their late fifties when she was born. By the time she disappeared, they were on the high side of seventy. Mr. Wentworth slipped and hit his head down at the fishing docks. Never regained consciousness. Mrs. Wentworth left Cole Harbor shortly after the funeral. We all thought the strain of losing her daughter and her husband was too much, and she went back to wherever they had come from. Case closed and, subsequently, forgotten. But Sally’s disappearance stuck in my mind.” Phyllis grimaced. “I always had visions of Corbin cutting poor Sally into pieces and feeding her to the sharks. My teenage imagination working overtime, I suppose.”

Laura felt a quick sympathy for the sorrow she saw in her aunt’s eyes, and warmed toward her. “Have you tried searching on the Internet?”

“I have not.”

“Don’t you use a computer for your business?”

“It takes a while for an old war horse to get into the race. I’m taking lessons at the library. Once I feel comfortable with what I’m doing, I may buy a computer. Until then, I’ll depend on you to search for Sally.”

Laura opened the laptop to a search engine and typed in the girl’s name. When no hits came up, she tried another tactic. “Hmm, nothing comes up for Sally Wentworth. Let me try white pages?”

“Humor your ole aunt. What is—white pages?”

Laura offered a squinty smile. “It’s an informational site that lists the names, addresses and phone numbers of individuals and businesses. In fact, it also shows a map for people to find you. I’ll bet both you and the bookstore are listed.”

“By Godfrey, is nothing sacred anymore?”

Laura ignored the question. In the search space she typed Corbin Drake. “Aha. Mystery solved. Prepare to be disappointed.”

“So quick. The wonders of modern technology.” A frown wrinkled Phyllis’ forehead. “Why should I be disappointed?”

Laura turned the computer for her aunt to view the screen. She came around the desk, and leaned over to point at the page. “Corbin Drake. Living in the same household: spouse, Sally Wentworth Drake. Approximate age, sixty-five. Address: Washington State.” She patted her aunt on the shoulder. “Sorry, it appears your mystery girl and her bad-biker boyfriend eloped and are living happily ever after.”

Phyllis huffed. “By Godfrey, this frustrates me to no end. It proves Maudie’s theory was right. She will
never
let me live this down.”

Laura drifted to the large picture window. “Who is the man sitting in the gazebo?”

Phyllis frowned as she followed Laura’s gaze. “Benjamin Noone. He’s the city groundskeeper and handyman. I once called him Ben, and he let me know right quick-like that his name is
Benjamin.
Strange duck.”

“How so?”

“A loner, mostly. Comes into the bookstore once in a while. Mostly, I think he comes in for the heat in winter and air conditioning in summer. Seems to enjoy reading about flowers and fertilizers.” She wrinkled her nose and gave an exaggerated shudder. “He should actually do a study on the benefits of taking a bath. Whenever people greet him, sometimes he’ll respond, other times not. Lives in an old cabin close to the national park. He moved here about ten years ago. On occasion, he’ll show up at one of the festivals, or the Christmas program at the church over there—for the free food, is my guess. For whatever reason, Maudie takes pity on him. Every morning she walks out to the gazebo with a cup of coffee and a bagel. And every morning, for at least an hour, he sits in the gazebo and stares out over the bay.

“I can say one thing in his favor, he is an excellent gardener and keeps the town square clean as a whistle, even though I can’t say much for his own personal hygiene.” Phyllis tilted her head to look at Laura. “Why the interest? Has he been out of the way with you?”

Laura rubbed her thigh as she limped to her desk chair and sat down. “I’ve never spoken to the man. Just curious.”

Phyllis waggled her eyebrows. “Beginning to miss the excitement of investigative reporting, poking around in dark alleys and smoke-filled billiard parlors?”

Smiling, Laura ran a hand through her spiked blonde hair. “Aunt Philly, you read too many mystery novels. Even if I were getting a bit bored, my leg is a constant reminder of why I left New York. Cole Harbor is my home now. Besides, I’ve sunk my life savings into this newspaper. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not looking for a story where there isn’t one.”

“Well, you are certainly good at what you do. It didn’t take long for you to locate Sally Wentworth—which, by the way, has spoiled my chances of holding a séance.”

Laura looked toward the ceiling and shook her head. “Mystery novels and mysticism. Aunt Philly, you are one in a million, and I adore you.” She placed a hand on her forehead, closed her eyes, and chanted, “Ohmmah. I see a customer in your near future.” The expression on her aunt’s face was priceless. “Truly, a woman just walked into the bookstore.”

Phyllis shook her finger toward Laura. “If you’re funning with me, no more free coffee, or blueberry muffins.”

Laura crossed her heart. “Hope to die.” She opened the bottom desk drawer and withdrew her camera. “It’s about time I start drumming up some front page news. I’ll walk out with you.”

The sheriff’s office was first on her list. She walked the short distance to the town hall, which housed the courtroom, the city council office, the sheriff’s office, and a one-person jail cell. A gray-haired woman with a cherubic smile greeted Laura.
Doesn’t anyone under fifty live in Cole Harbor?
She offered the woman a business card.

Before Laura could speak, the woman said, “Pleased to meet yah, and welcome. Maybe you’ll breathe new life into that ole rag Dan Fremont called a newspaper. He never printed anything worth reading.” She stood and offered her hand. “I’m Louise Highland.”

The sheriff’s secretary had a strong grip. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Highland. Today is my meet-and-greet day. Is the sheriff in?”

“’Fraid not. Sheriff Gilman is on her honeymoon. Deputy Carter is in charge until she returns.” The secretary winked, then sighed. “If I were younger, I’d give Mitchell Carter a run for his money. Anyhow, he’s down at the docks. There was a smidgen of excitement a while ago.” Louise’s overly penciled eyebrows lifted. “Say, maybe there’s a story for you.”

Laura thanked the woman. What with her aunt and now the sheriff’s secretary swooning, Mitchell Carter must be more than she’d noticed that night on the road. “Thanks for the tip.”

Laura hurried to the bookstore. “Okay if I borrow your bicycle, Aunt Philly?”

Phyllis looked up from the circulation desk. “Ayuh. What’s up?”

Laura waved. “Tell you later.”

At the bike rack in front of the store she bit back a grimace as she straddled the bicycle. It took all the fortitude she could muster to set the pedal in motion with her bad leg. She told herself to push through the pain.

As she pedaled toward the docks, Laura tried to remember the last time she’d felt this invigorated. Fearing she might lose control of the bicycle and fall if she lifted her arms in the air and shouted, she opted to simply breathe in the fresh, salt air and allow the smile on her face to widen.

She braked before reaching the bottom of the hill. Her current vantage point provided a perfect view of the deputy sheriff’s car, an ambulance, a gathering crowd, several expensive yachts, and two men pushing a gurney up the dock. The sheet-draped body brought back vivid memories of the night she was shot, and Elio Casper’s threat. She shook off the chill that threatened to chatter her teeth on this picturesque May morning. She lifted her camera from the bicycle’s basket, set the shutter speed, and snapped pictures of the deputy lifting the sheet, random shots of the crowd, and, standing aft on the main deck, a young woman dressed in a white caftan.

Laura removed the lanyard from her pocket and placed it around her neck. The badge at the end read “Press.” She pushed off and rode to the parking lot, where she parked the bike. “Good morning, Deputy, I’m Laura Friday, the new editor and sole reporter for the
Harbor Gazette
.”

“We meet again, Miss Friday.”

“What’s happened here?”

“Wife called, said her husband collapsed. By the time we got here, he was dead. Heart attack, most likely.”

“Do you mind if I look at the body?”

“You fancy yourself a medical examiner?” The sarcasm in his voice spiked Laura’s own temper. She tamped it down.

“In New York, investigative reporting was my specialty.”

“This isn’t New York, and until proven otherwise, it appears the victim died of natural causes. Case closed.”

“Just like that?”

“Yep.”

“We’ll see.” The moment she started up the steep incline, the muscle in her leg refused to respond, causing her to stumble. “Damn.”

Strong arms held her up. Laura wrested her arm away. “I don’t need your help.”

“Suit yourself.”

She took a moment to swallow her aggravation before she half hobbled, half limped toward the ambulance. “Hey…wait a sec…press.” She held the badge forward.

The overt look from the EMT and the lawman’s almost indiscernible nod in reply didn’t escape Laura. “Thank you, Deputy Carter.”

She lifted the sheet. No bruising, no indications of a fall, nothing to suggest foul play, until she parted the man’s lips and bent forward. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” Mitchell Carter said in a flat voice.

They faced each other like duelers, with that unblinking awareness. She quirked a smile, leaned in close and whispered, “I’ll bet you a lobster dinner and a beer the vic didn’t die of natural causes.”

“First of all, he’s not a victim. Secondly, I’m a steak-and-bourbon guy.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take pictures of the…deceased.”

“That’s the coroner’s job.”

Laura looked around. “Where is he?”

Mitch removed his hat and riffled through his hair. “This is a small community, a tourist town. He’s not available at the moment.”

“Wow, I didn’t know Cole Harbor was a hot bed of crime.”

One of the EMTs laughed, then sobered when Carter sent him a scathing scowl.

When no one offered further explanation, Laura shrugged. “Whatever.” She walked to the bicycle, and quirked a smile over her shoulder. “Have a nice day, Deputy.”

She spent the rest of the morning introducing herself to business owners, soliciting ads for the paper, and taking pictures of crafters setting up their tents, along with a flurry of other activities for the annual Fourth of July festivities.

At three o’ clock, Mitch Carter walked into her office. His voice betrayed his aggravation. “Not that it matters, but after the coroner examined the body, I requested he send it to the medical examiner in Bangor for an autopsy.”

Laura leaned back in her chair. She smiled with harsh amusement. “You always so abrupt? No ‘Good afternoon,’ or ‘How’s it going,’ just straight to the point…shoot from the hip?”

Mitch drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Good afternoon, Miss Friday. How was your day? Mind if I sit down?”

She extended a hand toward the chair. “Let me guess. You and your drawl come from Montana? Wyoming?”

“Texas.”

“Long ways from home. How did you end up here?”

His discomfort with the question piqued her curiosity. He ignored the inquiry, and she chose not to goad him further.

“My job history is none of your concern. Regardless of what you’ve assumed, I care about the safety of this town. Negative press for a community that depends on tourist dollars would be bad for business. Believe me, the citizens won’t take kindly to it, or to you. Keep the story about Victor Forgione general until I receive the medical examiner’s report.”