Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Page 15

  She had answered, “They have to shed their outer bark to accommodate new growth, sort of like a snake sheds its skin, but not all at once. More gradually, over time.”

  When I reached the wooden lookout shed halfway down the beach, my fingers were numb. As I climbed the steps, I noticed that the sand here ran with fine lines, like cracks in old porcelain. I was somewhat surprised that the tide reached this far inland.

  I sat on the edge of the lookout platform rubbing my hands together. The view was stunning. The water extended out until it became sky, or maybe it was the other way around. I looked up to see white clouds moving fast across the horizon. This was a sure indication that the peninsula was in for yet another sudden change in weather. Snow, maybe? I watched in fascination as one determined seagull struggled in the stiff wind to right its wings.

  Finally, I put my gloves back on and shoved my hands inside my pockets. As the warmth returned, I let myself think about what I had been trying to avoid: Sarah Peck, Rob Martin, and what they might have done together.

  Martin had the knowledge, and Sarah had the motive. But if they did poison Carl Peck, how did they do it without Peck knowing? Sarah was a chef. She could have prepared a special meal for him, and Martin could have added the crucial ingredient. If it was loaded with mushrooms, they knew Eva wouldn’t eat it.

  And if Sarah had helped poison her father, that might explain her attempted suicide. The guilt had overwhelmed her. Or maybe she didn’t know that Martin had planned to kill Peck. Maybe he told her the mushrooms would only make her father sick, that it was only right that he should suffer for the years he'd abused her. Martin certainly was obsessed with Sarah, and probably would do anything for her. Was he obsessed enough to commit murder? I wondered just how far he would go to win her back.

  No, that didn’t make sense. Why kill Sarah's father now? She’d hated him for a long time. Unless something happened recently that made her snap. I shook my head. As I tried to match up the puzzle pieces, something was missing.

  Joyce Oleander: how did she fit into this? She had visited Carl Peck the day he died. Lorraine Birch said she’d come back from that exchange seeming depressed. Joe Stillwater said Joyce had been distracted. What had Joyce meant when she had said she thought she’d feel relief when it was over, but she didn’t? Was she talking about her surgery or was it something else? And why had she committed suicide? Two friends, both prone to suicide by overdose. What were the odds?

  There was something I wasn’t seeing. Sarah and Joyce had been friends in high school. Sarah had attended Joyce’s funeral. Had Joyce somehow been involved in poisoning Carl Peck? Given him something when she visited him? If she did, what was her motive?

  And did any of this have anything to do with those bones? I didn’t believe in coincidences. Sarah Peck chose that cave—South Heaven. She’d been there before. Why had she gone there the same night she attempted suicide? Then there was Renn Woulff. He certainly had a motive for killing his former business partner. According to him, Peck had cheated him out of considerable money owed, which ruined him. But he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to commit such a clever crime. Maybe he had moments of lucidity, between binges. Maybe he had had one long enough to poison Peck.

  What about Peck’s reputation as a skirt chaser? Again, that was the past. Even though he still tried to chase women, what woman in her right mind would find an aging alcoholic attractive?

  I gently massaged my forehead. Maybe Deputy Jorgensen was right. No crime had been committed. Carl Peck was a careless drunk who made a critical mistake—one that had been in the making for years, whenever he mixed alcohol with selecting mushrooms that could prove lethal. Why was I so intent on proving that Carl Peck had been murdered? Why couldn’t I let this alone?

  A shadow suddenly darkened the sand beside me, and I looked up. There was Jake Stevens, grinning down at me. He was clad in shiny, weather-resistant black pants and a matching parka. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves. His loose hair reached his shoulders.

  “You never come when you say you’ll come,” he began, quoting a poem. “But on the other hand, you do come.”

  I interrupted him. “One of yours?”

  “Frank O’Hara,” he said, sitting down next to me.

  “'Do not go gentle into this good night. Just go'. Leigh Girard.” I was grumpy that he had broken into my solitude.

  “Has anyone told you you’ve got a nasty attitude, woman?”

  “It's been mentioned."

  A silence fell between us as we watched the waves shimmer and roll toward the shore.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “It was on my way home.”

  “No, I mean here in Door. What made you give up the consolations too lovely to leave?”

  He was nothing if not persistent. And I wished he’d stop annoying me by quoting poetry.

  I could feel his eyes studying my profile. “Let’s say I needed a change.” I answered, turning toward him. His eyes were cerulean blue, and the irises were rimmed in black.

  “For now, that’s good enough. But don’t expect to get off that easy the next time.” He reached down and picked up some sand, let it run through his fingers.

  “What about you? What keeps you here?” I asked.

  “The winters.”

  I laughed.

  “No, I’m serious. The winters here are unforgiving. The tourists take off before their tails go numb, most of the shops and restaurants close, and the landscape goes stark.”

  “And these are reasons you stay?” He had piqued my curiosity.

  “The change makes me feel alive. No distractions. Just me and this harsh place.” He read the doubt in my face. “If you make it through the winter, I guarantee you will discover something about yourself you never suspected. And not necessarily something you want to know.” He moved so close to me that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face.

  “What have you found out?” I asked, looking directly into those blue eyes.

  “I like living alone.” He put his fingers under my chin and pulled my face toward his. “Living alone, not being alone,” he added, as if I had asked for clarification.

  I knew what was coming, and I didn’t pull away. The kiss was part of the wind and the sun, the white beach, the ache in my chest. It was quick and light and held a multitude of questions.

  “What a relief to get that over with,” I sighed. “I’m never sure when to kiss the boss, or where.”

  His mouth curled into a slow grin. “You’re nothing if not perplexing, Girard.” For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me again. Instead, he stared out at the water. “You heard about Sarah Peck?”

  I thought I'd probably bruised his vanity. “I saw her this morning at the hospital.”

  “I don’t want her suicide attempt reported in the paper. If she doesn’t make it, then we’ll print something.”

  “Okay.” I conceded. He was protecting her.

  “Your head looks better. Find out who ran you off the road?”

  “Sarah told me last night that she did it. But this morning at the hospital, Rob Martin took credit for it. He claimed he was protecting her, said something about his wanting me to leave Sarah alone.” I wanted to see his reaction.

  “You really have a talent for pissing people off, Leigh.”

  The kiss seemed to have put us on a first name basis. For now, I let it slide. “Sarah also told me she’s glad her father’s dead.”

  He didn’t look surprised. “Lots of people hate their parents.”

  “She said that he should have died years ago and put everyone out of their misery, that he’d ruined a lot of lives.”

  He let out a deep breath. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Don’t you think such comments might suggest a motive for murder?”

  “Slow down. No one’s proved there’s been a murder. Besides, even if Carl was murdered, I don’t see Sarah as the culprit.”

  “Maybe you don
’t want to see her in that light.”

  He took another deep breath and blew it out. But didn't offer any further defense of Sarah Peck.

  “I’m sure you’re quite aware how angry and erratic Sarah is. And I’m not sure I believe Martin. Sarah could have run me off the road.”

  He still didn’t answer me. Instead, he stood up and brushed off his sweat pants. The sun was sinking into the water and purpling the horizon.

  “It’s getting cold. Let’s head back.”

  I followed him down the steps of the shed and onto the beach. He obviously wanted the discussion to be over, but I wasn’t quite ready for that.

  “You have to admit that if Carl Peck was murdered, his daughter is a strong suspect.”

  He walked faster, more resolute, back toward the parking lot. I couldn't keep up with him.

  “You wouldn’t want someone to get away with murder!” I shouted toward his retreating back.

  “Depends!” he shouted back.

  I stopped trying to gain any ground on him. “On what?”

  He kept marching on, right up to his car. “On whether they deserved it,” he answered, opening the convertible door and then slamming it shut.

  On the drive north down the dark highway, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to tell Stevens about the bones.

  19

  “Why didn’t you tell me someone ran you off the road?” Lydia asked, as she followed me into the cottage. She had been waiting for me when I pulled into the drive at home. She must have come from the shop, because she was wearing a long, black silk dress threaded with silver. A matching ribbon kept her chestnut hair off her face, and her silver snake earrings had crystal tails. There must have been seven rings on her fingers.

  I switched on the lights, and let Salinger out the door.

  “You’re mad because I didn’t call you after the meeting?” She took off her suede jacket and flung it across a chair.

  “I’m not mad, Lydia.” I really wasn’t. A little disappointed, perhaps, but I was used to that.

  “Good, then that’s settled. And I did let you know about Sarah. By the way, she’s out of the coma and should be discharged from the hospital Sunday.”

  “That was a quick recovery. I take it there’s no permanent damage?”

  “There doesn’t appear to be. Got any food in the house?” She went into the kitchen.

  I followed her, unsure as to what might be decomposing in the refrigerator. There were three pieces of leftover pizza, half a head of wilted lettuce, low cal Italian dressing, and a bottle of chardonnay. In the freezer, I had a gallon of chocolate chip ice cream that was three-quarters full.

  “Does anyone know why she attempted suicide?” I asked her.

  “That I don’t know.” She peered over my shoulder into the refrigerator. “Well, all the basic food groups seem to be here.”

  “You seem pretty casual about it. Has she ever tried anything like this before?”

  She reached over me and pulled out the half-full bottle of wine. “Not that I know about.”

  “Do you think this had anything to do with her father’s death?” I decided not to discuss my suspicions about Sarah. Lydia’s talent for exaggeration would only confuse the issue.

  “Who knows? I’ve stopped trying to figure her out.” She took the pizza from me and popped it into the microwave.

  Lydia’s attitude perplexed me. Normally, she’d be squeezing every bit of drama from the situation. Could she also be feeling some guilt about Sarah? “Is something wrong, Lydia?"

  The microwave buzzer went off. “Nothing food couldn’t fix.” She opened the microwave door and pulled out the pizza. “Let’s dig in.”

  * * * * *

  After I’d lit a fire and fed Salinger, I settled in front of the fireplace with my cold pizza.

  “How did you find out that someone ran me off the road?”

  “Marge,” Lydia answered, putting her plate on the coffee table. “And what’s this I hear about you finding human bones in some cave?” Lydia was waiting to spring this on me. “Don’t look so surprised, Chet Jorgensen and I are bridge partners.”

  She might as well have said that she and Chet had split the atom. “Whoa. Let me see if I can really connect these dots: Jorgensen mentioned in the same breath with bridge. Don’t you have to be able to count for bridge?”

  Lydia laughed. “So you were fooled by his 'golly gee, shucks' demeanor. But let's get back to those bones.”

  “Really not a lot to tell. I was out hiking in Peninsula State Park and Salinger found the bones in one of the caves off Eagle Trail.”

  Lydia raised an eyebrow. “What were you and that dog of yours doing in those caves at night?”

  “I followed Sarah Peck there.”

  “Oh, this is too good! Back up and start from the beginning. Why were you following Sarah?” Lydia was practically licking her lips with anticipation.

  “The night Sarah attempted suicide, I was at the park with Salinger. I was about to go for a hike when Sarah showed up. I had a hunch she might have been the person who ran me off the road. And I wanted to find out if I was right. So when I saw her take off down Eagle Trail, I followed her.”

  Lydia raised an eyebrow. “You followed her in the dark, down a treacherous, secluded trail? Really Leigh, I’m beginning to think you’re one of those people who gets off on danger. Ever hear of a phone?”

  “Okay, I know it sounds stupid now. But she refused to talk to me. At the time, catching her off guard seemed the best way to get a straight answer from her.”

  “And did you?” Lydia refilled her glass with wine.

  “Yes and no. She admitted running me off the road. But when I talked to Rob Martin at the hospital, he said Sarah was covering for him, that he had run me off the road.”

  A few drops of wine spilled on Lydia's dress. “I’ll bet it was the other way around. Martin was covering for Sarah. She was furious at you when she left the women’s group.” Lydia dabbed at the wine stain with a paper napkin. “Frankly, I think she's quite capable of having run you off the road, and possibly more violence than that."

  It was obvious that Lydia’s assessment was colored by her lingering feelings for Martin. “Whatever,” I said, not wanting to pursue it. “Getting back to the bones. Salinger dug up what looked like the human bones of an infant from one of the caves. The police think they’ve probably been there for hundreds of years.”

  “Wait, let me guess.” Lydia put up one of her ring-spangled hands. “You don’t agree with them. You think there is some ubiquitous killer loose on the peninsula who is murdering babies and old men.”

  “I didn’t say that.” I felt defensive. “But you have to admit, it’s odd that those bones were in the very cave Sarah led me to.”

  Lydia tucked her legs up and pulled her silvery skirt over her feet. “What’s odd is that you found them.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, daring her to finish.

  “Nothing. Just stay away from cemeteries, especially when the moon’s full, or the townspeople may get a little suspicious.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” There was a strident sound to my voice.

  “Leigh, it’s a joke. Chill already! Has a doctor looked at that bump on your forehead?” She touched the black stone pendant around her neck.

  “No need. It’s fine.” I finished my glass of chardonnay.

  “At least let me take a look at it.” Before I could protest, she was off the sofa and poking at my head. “From what I can see, it’s healing, but you should have an MRI.”

  “It’s okay, now sit down.” She was making me nervous.

  She continued to stand over me. “What about your chest?”

  I felt my face flush. A person had no privacy on this damn peninsula. “Lydia, please sit down, or I will be mad at you.”

  She wasn't letting up. “Which side is the bruise on?”

  “The left. Now let it go.”

  I got up and poured myself another gl
ass of wine.

  “That’s where you had the mastectomy, isn’t it?”

  I steadied my hand so I could sip my wine without spilling. The acidic dryness stung my nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That day at the hospital when you fainted, your bra shifted up as I lifted you off the floor. I felt under the prosthesis.”

  I looked skeptical.

  “I guess I didn’t tell you that I used to work with breast cancer patients until I burned out,” she added.

  “No, you didn’t.” Anger flooded my cheeks.

  “Leigh, I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Lydia. So drop it.” I was shaking with panic. I felt trapped and cornered. It took all my self-control to remain rooted in place.

  “I’m only going say one more thing, and then I will drop it.”

  I steeled myself for the inevitable lecture on how I should have the area looked at, that I couldn’t be too careful, that since I'd had cancer, I was at greater risk with bruises, blah blah blah. I’d listen to her, politely, end the evening, and that would be the last I'd see of Lydia Crane.

  She stared into the fire. “I hope you haven’t come here to die.”

  * * * * *

  A storm started around midnight, rattling the windows with gusts of wind and snow. Salinger slept fitfully at the end of my bed, punctuated by her jerking legs and deep sighs that I envied. I had skipped my nightly foraging through Hawthorne’s shadowy forest of secret evils, and decided that Hemingway would be a better antidote for insomnia. But after reading all the Nick Adams stories and “Big Two-Hearted River: Part I and Part II," twice, I was still awake.

  My mind kept circling back to Sarah Peck. She wasn’t going to die. Somehow she had survived her attempt to annihilate herself. I had to talk to her, find out why she had done this drastic thing. I'd go see her on Monday, make her talk to me. With a heavy sigh of my own, I turned off the table lamp and snuggled under the down comforter.