Murder by the Seaside Page 4

  “What is wrong with you?” The snarl hurt my throat.

  His grin hitched further and my near nakedness registered for the first time. I turned tail, ran for the bedroom and yanked on the first thing I saw. Everything was packed and my closet was empty. I’d laid out the ratty cutoff shorts and worn-out T-shirt to clean in later. Worse? Dad made the shirt with the Purple Pony shirt press during my freshman year in college. A stick figure in glasses declared “Counselors do it on the couch.” Not exactly how I’d hoped to look for my reunion with Adrian. Then again, I didn’t expect him to break into my apartment and try to abduct me either. The shower shut off in the bathroom. I headed for my purse. I needed to call the sheriff and also pepper spray Adrian to be sure he got the point.

  “Hey.” His throaty voice arrived in my doorway before I did. I stopped short. Adrian leaned against the frame. “Don’t be mad. I tried not to scare you.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes, certainly. I often break into people’s apartments, slam a hand over their mouth and drag them away. That never frightens them.” The heel of my hand bounced off my forehead. “Get out of my way. Why did you take me to the bathroom?”

  He stepped aside. I blew past him, toward the living room. “No windows. I hated sneaking in here, but my mom is everywhere. I don’t want her in trouble for knowing where I am and not turning me in. What are you doing?”

  I pressed my cell to my ear. “I’m calling Sheriff Murray. You’re a fugitive.”

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “I didn’t say you were. What’s the number over there? I don’t want to call nine-one-one and spend a bunch of tax dollars.”

  “You’re kidding.” He guffawed.

  “I can look it up.” I moseyed to my bedroom to retrieve the laptop. He followed.

  “If you don’t think I’m guilty, why would you turn me in?” He studied my face and barked a crazy laugh. “That’s just great. Perfect, Patience. You’re still mad I went to college. Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

  “I am not mad you went to college. You’re so self-absorbed.” I walked back to the bathroom to grab a brush.

  “Really? Because you seem a little irritable.”

  He squeezed into the tiny apartment bathroom behind me and stripped off his shirt. I gawked as he wrung it out over the sink and slipped the only hand towel I’d hung off its bar. He rubbed it over his wet hair. My body relaxed into the wall behind me. The sharp V of his torso disappeared into low-slung black warm-ups. The waistband showing beneath the warm-ups ruined my concentration. I swallowed.

  “You broke into my apartment.” I averted my eyes. Adrian could always see through me. “I was mad because you never bothered to mention you were going to college. That’s an important nugget of information, don’t you think? ‘By the way, I changed my mind about seeing the world with you...’”

  Breath caught in my throat. I did sound mad. Which I wasn’t. “Anyway, I’m not mad anymore. You blindsided me, but that was ages ago.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Now, I’m home for five seconds and you want me to help you beat a murder rap.”

  “I didn’t kill Brady. I need you to believe me.”

  I deflated an inch. I’d squared my shoulders in preparation for his excuses for having left without cluing me in: I was a freak. I had bad breath. He deserved better than an uptight child of hippies. Anything. I’d racked my brain for years trying to make sense of why someone would do that to someone else. But even after I spilled my guts, his only comment was about Brady’s murder.

  Excellent explanation he had there. It wasn’t me. Bet that would hold up in court.

  “Who cares what I think? I just got here.”

  “I care.” With that, he turned on me. The quarters were tight to begin with, but now we were inches apart and face-to-face. Adrian braced his palms against the wall over my head and leaned down toward me. “I care that someone killed Brady and I want to know who did it. It wasn’t me. Help me find out who did this.”

  His pale gray eyes confused and excited me. His steady gaze skewered me to the wall. My mouth opened and closed without a sound. Heat radiated off him, hit me in the chest and ran south. My mind scrambled. What was I doing again?

  “You. You’re supposed to be in jail,” I said. “You don’t get to pick when you go. You just go. It’s the law.”

  “There’s something else going on here. Brady was always kind of a douche, but you should’ve heard him yesterday.”

  “Before or after you beat him up in front of half the town?” My fingers itched at my sides. I balled them into fists to keep from touching him. “Is it hot in here?”

  He straightened and walked into the next room. I followed.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Brady and I bantered a lot—we weren’t friends, but we weren’t enemies. Then yesterday he went berserk, yelling at me about a pass I missed eight years ago. I don’t even remember what he was talking about.”

  “Uh-huh.” My fingers waded through the giant purse I brought to haul flyers around the island.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  “Looking for my pepper spray.”

  “What? You got tired of hitting me with your computer already?”

  “I can’t afford a new one. I’m unemployed.”

  “The way I hear it, you work for the FBI. That’s amazing. I’m really proud of you.”

  I stamped my foot. “First, I was in HR. They downsized me. Second, you don’t get to be proud of me. You don’t have any claim to me.” Ticking off my fingers, I stopped on the second one and waved the finger between us. “Don’t you forget it.”

  He raised his palms in defense. “You’re right. I’m sorry, but I’m not turning myself in. So, what do you say? Will you help me find Brady’s killer? Clear my name? Think about it—two good deeds in one. You always were a Girl Scout. Can’t pass that up, right? Plus, you see through people. I used to think you could see a liar coming a mile away.”

  “Not all of them.” I lifted my chin an inch.

  “Please? This island has made up its mind about me. They think they know all they need to, but they don’t. I didn’t do this.” His voice grew soft and pleading. “Patience? Please.”

  I hated the power he still had over me. Those eyes. That dimple. Too much history. My resolve softened, and curiosity reared its ugly head. I slid a thumbnail between my teeth, a habit I immediately regretted. Adrian knew I was considering his words. “Where are you staying?”

  “Nope. Not until you promise me you’ll help. You must still have contacts at the FBI. At least talk to people around here. Someone had to have seen something. You’ll be able to learn more doing that than Sheriff Murray will doing one of his half-assed investigations.”

  I appreciated the vote of confidence, but it was my civic duty to turn him in. I wavered. I hated to see an innocent man go to jail. It was unlikely they’d continue to look for the killer if they had Adrian in custody. “I’ll ask a few questions.”

  “Yesss.” He lifted two fists in victory. I hated him.

  “But you need to leave. I don’t want to be guilty of harboring a fugitive.”

  “Always with the rules. That’s why I know I can trust you. You’re honest.”

  I bit my lip to hold back a plethora of rude retorts. Instead, I nodded. When my head cleared slightly, I put down my purse. “Where were you last night?”

  “Home. Alone.”

  Of course. “You should get dressed.”

  “Do you have a shirt I can wear?”

  “If you fit into my clothes, I’ll kill myself.”

  “Right. You look amazing, by the way.”

  He’d seen me in my underpants. My mind raced to remember if they were my nice ones. “You need to go.”

  “
I’ll be back.”

  “Lucky me.” I followed him to my bedroom, where a breeze blew in the darkness.

  He straddled the windowsill and swung his legs over the edge. “You need to get a lock on this. Anyone with a little motivation can get in.”

  He jumped to the porch roof below and then to the ground with a muffled thump. Then I locked the window and checked it twice. Adrian disappeared into the darkness.

  I took a cold shower.

  Adrian Davis might not be a murderer, but he was a menace. As soon as he got the murder charges dropped, I’d consider filing a complaint for breaking and entering.

  I tossed under my sheet all night. The warm temperatures didn’t comfort me. Every creak and groan of the old house freaked me out. Adrian’s words haunted me. Anyone could get in and I’d never know. I vowed to never leave my pepper spray out of reach again.

  He’d looked me in the eye and pleaded. As much as I wanted to be indifferent, I couldn’t. While I refused to waste my time saving the big jerk, he had piqued my curiosity. When the sun finally peeked over the horizon, I resolved to visit the sheriff. Just to see if Adrian was right. Had the sheriff’s office pointed the finger at him and stopped searching for other suspects? What could it hurt to find that out?

  An eerie orange glow coated my apartment. The screen door thumped. I ran for my purse and then to check out what had caused the noise. This time Adrian would learn not to break in to people’s apartments. Pulling back a finger full of curtain, I held my breath, but all I heard was the faint mewing of a cat. No boogey man. No Adrian. Outside my door, a tiny gray fuzzball rubbed his sides against the screen, one after the other. Huh. I went to my kitchen for an empty mug and filled it with water.

  “Here you go.” I set the mug of water on the little porch outside my door and shook a handful of chips onto the wood plank flooring. “I haven’t been to the grocery store.”

  Back inside I got dressed. No time like the present, as they said. Especially when I had to do something awkward like question the sheriff about things that were none of my business. I flipped through the few things I’d unpacked and settled on jeans and a silk tank top. After yesterday, I opted for Chucks instead of the sandals I’d worn on the mainland.

  The little cat sat cleaning its paws. He hadn’t touched the chips. “I’m off to be nosey.”

  * * *

  The police station had white stucco walls and a pink tile roof. Nothing new there. Sheriff Murray’s cruiser sat at the curb. Typical. The deputy’s SUV was wedged behind the station. Good thing I brought three of Mrs. Tucker’s cappuccinos. Nothing was worse than the stale black coffee in a police station. I’d had my share in high school. It sucked every time.

  I slid through a mass of people inside the reception area. Sheriff Murray barked behind closed doors, drawing attention that way. His tenor rattled the blinds in the windows. The deputy fielded a volley of questions nearby. The receptionist’s phone rang incessantly. Her mussed hair pointed in every direction. One hand waved off the never-ending stream of visitors, while the other rubbed her forehead.

  I’d planned to share the cappuccinos with the sheriff and his deputy and drink mine while I waited, but the receptionist looked like she needed caffeine more than I did. I pushed my cup across her desk and then sat in the last open chair and unwrapped a piece of gum.

  Every year the island had a big pony swim and auction. Cowboys rustled up the wild ponies from the marshes, forced them to swim across a section of water between the national park and town, and then sold them at auction. The money went to support our local firemen. The whole shindig lasted a week and culminated with the auction. It was the biggest week of the year for tourists and revenues. People descended on Chincoteague like locusts for the pony swim. Some wanted a glimpse at the wild ponies; others planned to buy them. Most hoped to make some money selling inflatable horses and funnel cakes to other tourists. All those extra people on a seven-by-three-mile island meant lots of police reports filed, vendor permits lost and general chaos. Security gave the sheriff annual fits. Every sheriff. Every year.

  From the looks of it, Sheriff Murray had a new deputy and he wasn’t prepared. The man looked smart in a Clark Kent way—dark hair parted on the left, combed to the side. Clearly younger than me, and more lanky than any of the field agents I’d gotten used to working with. He was no Sebastian Clark, but who was? The badge on his shirt was covered by the crowd of people waiting for his attention. Thanks to Mrs. Tucker and the Harry Potter glasses he wore, Deputy Doofus would remain his identity for now.

  The office door swung wide, and I jumped in my seat. The plaster held surprisingly well when the door bounced off the wall. Sheriff Murray’s face looked like a hot tamale. He kicked a trash bin beside an empty desk and stared at the crowd gathered up front with me.

  I waved. “Sheriff Murray! Sheriff? A minute?” I swung an arm overhead. He squinted. When his chin went slack, I knew he recognized me.

  “Excuse me.” I dropped the carrier with my last two cappuccinos on the receptionist’s desk and smiled. Then I shoved my way through the vendors arguing over permits. Poor girl was two complaints away from blowing a gasket.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Price?” The sheriff moved back into his office and sat at his desk.

  “Hi. Well, I wondered if you had any other suspects for the Brady McGee murder?”

  He glared at me without speaking. His left eye twitched.

  “I picked a rough day to make my homecoming, right?” I sat in a hard plastic chair across from his desk and crossed my legs. “You almost hit my friend and me with your cruiser. Then I heard Adrian Davis is the only suspect in a murder investigation. Wow.” I dragged the final word out for three syllables. My foot bounced erratically.

  “If you’re about finished, Miss Price, I have a lot to deal with out there. I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of my investigation.”

  Sarcasm. Really? “I don’t want to be nosey. I—”

  “Then don’t be.” He stood and opened a palm to the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sheriff Murray.” I stood. “If I can do anything to help...I know how crazy pony week can be.”

  “You’d be happy to take my job off my hands? The FBI wasn’t enough to satisfy you? Not enough things to investigate on the mainland? You thought you’d come home and take over here?” He worked his jaw.

  “No, sir. No. I was hoping—”

  “To take over? Flash your badge and get anything you want? Not here, young lady. You’ll need to take a number, get in that line stretching around the building and flash your badge when you make it to the front again.”

  “I was in HR.” My voice squeaked. What was wrong with everyone? Adrian was right. There were a slew of witnesses to his fight with Brady and gossip traveled faster than a forest fire. Between first—and secondhand accounts, the whole town had enough evidence to convict him. At least in the court of public opinion. I didn’t want to think of what a jury of Adrian’s peers might decide if the case against him went to trial. Chincoteague was an exercise in groupthink. He needed help. “If I could help—”

  “Help who, exactly? Me or your boyfriend?”

  “My what?” I bit my lip.

  “I haven’t forgotten the fact you and the accused have a history together. A long one. Now, you do know if you’ve seen him and haven’t told me where he’s hiding out, that makes you a hindrance to my investigation. Perhaps even an accomplice.” He raised a puffy gray eyebrow my way. “Miss Price, when was the last time you spoke with Adrian Davis?”

  I narrowed my eyes, turned and ran away. With any luck it appeared more like storming out.

  “Tell your parents I said hello.” He slammed his door behind me, rattling my teeth.

  The office quieted long enough to register it was just me before the buzzing of voices resumed.

/>   Adrian had impeccable timing. He picked the worst possible month to be accused of murder. Worse still, the sheriff had no intention of doing anything other than bringing Adrian in. Then what? If Adrian hadn’t done it, he’d go to jail unjustly and the guilty party would go free. Could I live with that scenario?

  I cast a glance over one shoulder at the pretty stucco station. It couldn’t hurt to pay the deceased’s wife a quick visit.

  Chapter Four

  The McGee house looked like all the others in the middle-class Chincoteague neighborhood. Little purple flowers curled down from a line of hanging baskets on the porch. A tidy postage-stamp yard was attached to the walk. A pair of gnomes stood sentry beside the front steps. Typical. Quaint. Inviting.

  I raised a fist to knock, but hesitated. I had no idea what to say. This poor woman had lost her husband. To murder. Yesterday.

  The door sucked open, rattling the screen under my fist. A medley of voices silenced as a group appeared at the door.

  “Hello.” If only I’d brought some flowers or food. I folded my hands against my hips and tried to look less conspicuous.

  Three sets of eyes appraised me. A couple I didn’t know strolled out onto the porch beside me, promising to return soon. The blond woman standing inside the door sniffed and straightened her blouse.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Based on my towering five-foot-five-inch frame, she had to be praying for five feet. Maybe if she shopped in the kids department, she could afford those Seven Jeans on a fisherman’s salary. Otherwise, I didn’t see how.

  “Mrs. McGee? I’m so sorry to hear about your husband. Do you mind if I come in?”

  She shrugged and stepped aside, wiping her nose into a white linen handkerchief.

  The interior of the home was as simple as the outside. Wooden floors. Walls painted in bright Victorian colors and edged with oversized white woodwork. She led me to a sitting room where every flat surface bowed under the weight of casseroles and pies. A degree hung on the wall above a bookshelf. Mrs. McGee had studied marine biology. That explained how she ended up with a fisherman. Hopeful biologists and future park rangers flooded the island every summer after graduation, hoping to secure an internship. Half the island was protected. The national park and seashore were pristine from the number of graduates still excited to examine scat.