A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) (10 page)

Claire gave Lindsay’s hand a hard squeeze. “We’d better get going,” she said to Warren, looking back over her shoulder. “The Duck guys will be here in about five minutes.”

Warren stepped out into the hall and gestured for Claire to follow him. “I’m not sure we should leave her alone, even for five minutes. She’s in shock. And what if there’s still somebody dangerous prowling around out there?” Warren said in a barely audible voice.

“She’s safe. The house is secure. Besides, we don’t even know if this was a murder yet,” Claire whispered. “And even if it was, how many times have you known a killer to hang around and wait to be caught? The Duck officers will take care of her. We can’t wait. The most important thing now is to secure that crime scene ASAP. Every minute we wait, evidence is disappearing in the rain. And Lindsay said there’s some kind of ferocious Doberman out there with the body. Who knows what that dog might do to the crime scene or to the body…” she trailed off, suddenly aware that Lindsay’s eyes were on them. Claire gently closed the bedroom door so they could continue their conversation out of earshot, but it was already too late to take away the terrible image that their words had conjured in Lindsay’s already-tortured mind.

###

In the end, Claire’s point of view prevailed, and she and Warren headed off. Alone again, Lindsay stared wide-eyed at the bedroom ceiling. Every creak and bump in the house ignited a new explosion of adrenaline. Lindsay huddled on her bed, trying to concentrate once again on her breath.

Noiselessly, a shadow passed across Lindsay’s bedroom window, and her eyes snapped toward it. At first she thought it might be Sarabelle, returning to the house, or the policemen from Duck. But through the sheer curtains, she saw a monstrous form trying to peer in through the glass. She shot upright, trying to determine if she was hallucinating. The face seemed to be disfigured; horns sprouted from the top of its head. The hideous shadow disappeared but then immediately reappeared. Lindsay’s terrified eyes were unable to make sense of what she was seeing. She wrapped the blanket tight around her as if it had some kind of magical power to protect her, and she crossed the small room wearing it like a cape. Pressing herself against the wall, she steeled her frayed nerves. “1...2...,” she counted in time with her shaky breaths. On the count of three, she flung back the curtain to reveal…Kipper—head tilted sideways, tongue hanging out. She rushed to the front door and opened it. Kipper stood there, looking up at her with his round, chocolate-drop eyes. She lowered herself to the threshold next to him, hugging his rain-soaked body close to her and burying her face in his warm fur. Whether out of shock or pure relief, she began to laugh.

Chapter 11

Warren and Claire returned to the house a few hours later, grim-faced and dripping wet. They found Lindsay drinking coffee on the living room floor with two policemen from Duck, who had arrived shortly after Kipper had returned. Lindsay was still wrapped in her blanket, but she was now wearing dry clothes under it and her winter coat over the top of it; she seemed unable to get warm.

Claire wiped her fogged-up glasses with her sodden shirtsleeve. “How are you doing?” she asked Lindsay. “You look better.”

“I’m a lot better, thanks,” Lindsay said, smiling weakly.

She had already called her father to give him the news of Aunt Harding’s death. Although Jonah Harding wasn’t emotionally close to Aunt Harding, she knew he would mourn her loss deeply. His own parents had been dead for more than 30 years. The old woman had represented his only link to that part of his past. He wanted to come immediately, to comfort Lindsay and help with funeral arrangements, but she assured him that there was nothing to be done. He was better off in bed, resting his injured back.

Claire turned her attention to the two uniformed officers from Duck. They scrambled to standing as she addressed them. “Thanks for coming, guys. This is Detective Satterwhite. He’s the one working the murder in New Albany. You may have heard about him working with the FBI last summer to solve that big murder case with the Civil War re-enactors. For the time being, he’s going to run the show. But I promised him that whatever he needs locally or from the county will be at his disposal.”

Warren played it cool, but Lindsay could tell he was basking in the glow of the authority Claire had publically bestowed on him. Lindsay had always been slightly confused by the complex ways that different law enforcement agencies worked with one another to solve murder cases. From what she’d seen second-hand through Warren’s work, even if a murder took place within a single jurisdiction, personnel from the State and Federal Bureaus of Investigation and neighboring municipalities and counties could all be involved. When the FBI had come to Mount Moriah the previous summer, Lindsay had assumed that they were the big bosses who would take over the investigation. Instead, Warren had explained that the local authority usually keeps control of the cases it initiates unless it chooses to or is ordered by the courts to hand them over.

“I appreciate that, Sheriff Burke,” he said. He turned to the Duck officers with a knitted brow. “I know this is messing with y’all’s Christmas and I imagine you got things you’d rather be doing. So I expect we’d better get started securing whatever evidence we can find in the house.”

The police officers seemed grateful to have someone definitively take charge. “That’s why we’re sitting down here. We didn’t want to disturb anything until you got back,” the younger officer, who had introduced himself to Lindsay earlier as Officer Short, said. He was so fresh-faced and clear-eyed that, in his uniform, he looked like an Eagle Scout.

“Just let us know what you want us to do,” the older officer said, introducing himself to Warren as Officer Yancey. “Can’t remember the last time we had a murder in Duck. I’ve been here for going on 10 years and I know I’ve never worked a murder case. We usually spend most of the winter protecting empty properties from break-ins, being glorified security guards.”

“The guys from the state crime scene unit are still working out on the dunes,” Warren said. “They’re going to send another couple of people out to look over the house. They should be here shortly. Could I have a moment alone with Reverend Harding, please?” Not waiting for an answer, he helped Lindsay to her feet and guided her outside. The rain had finally stopped, and they tromped out through the wet sand.

“Are you really okay?” he asked.

“I keep seeing her. Lying there.”

As they moved out of sight of the house, he took hold of her hands and rubbed each of them in turn, letting the friction heat them. “I know. I’m sorry you had to see that, and I’m sorry we had to leave you alone.”

At Warren’s use of the word “alone,” worry crept into Lindsay’s mind. She remembered that she had yet to tell Warren about Sarabelle being at the house, but even as the words began to form, she hesitated. Sarabelle had seemed utterly terrified of going to the police; Lindsay had never seen anyone so scared.

The crackle of static on Warren’s walkie talkie interrupted her train of thought. “Detective Satterwhite, the state boys’ll be here in two minutes to start on the house.”

Warren raised the walkie talkie to his face and replied, “Copy. I’m heading back now.” He turned to Lindsay. “Look, Lins. I’m real sorry about this, but we’re gonna need you to move out for awhile so the crime scene guys can go over the house. It might take a couple of days. If you feel ready to give your statement when we get back, then we can get you packed up and outta here. Where’s your car, by the way?”

“I left it in Corolla.”

“You probably shouldn’t drive right now anyway. You still look a little shaky. I’m sure one of the Duck guys can take you into town. Why don’t you call Anna? I expect they can find some space for you at the Sandpiper. You can rest up for as long as you need to.” He removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

“Maybe I should just go back to Mount Moriah,” Lindsay said. She felt deflated, defeated. “I can’t imagine going to Anna’s wedding in less than a week.”

“I can’t let you go back home.”

For a brief moment, Lindsay thought he was making a grand romantic gesture—refusing to leave her side during this terrible crisis. But almost as soon as the thought flickered into her brain, she realized what he really meant. That she had to remain nearby as a witness to the crime. For all she knew, she was a suspect.

“Of course. You need to question me.”

“I can’t be the one to put you through that.”

“It’s okay. I know you have to.”

“No, I’m sorry, but I mean I shouldn’t be the one to question you. It wouldn’t look right. That’s why I asked Claire to get involved. She was one of my instructors at the Academy and now she’s the Deputy Sheriff. She’s an old-school, by-the-book gal. If I can pass muster with her, I can pass muster with anybody. Usually, when a case crosses jurisdictions, it’s a matter of, ‘He who has the body, has the case,’ but this time, I need her to take the lead on some things. I’m just too close. When we catch this guy and the case gets tried, I need everything to be totally above board. No hint that I did anything special because I’m acquainted with you.”

“
Acquainted
with me?” Lindsay’s voice came out with greater force. “Does that mean you came out here intending to question me? What exactly do you suspect me of doing?” She was no longer a mewling kitten, shivering in his arms. She stopped walking and pulled her hand away from his.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

Lindsay turned from Warren, toward the house. In the distance, a small group of wild horses grazed among the dunes. Aunt Harding’s house lay directly in front of them, and Lindsay took it in completely for the first time in years. It squatted low on the thin, sandy soil, flanked by a few stands of battered beachgrass. Unusually for the Outer Banks, the foundation was raised only a few feet off the ground. The new building codes required homes along the coast to ascend to mind-boggling heights of 10 or 12 feet in order to keep them safe from the storm surges that occasionally engulfed the islands. Despite its non-compliance, the old place had managed to survive decades of gales and hurricanes. Aunt Harding’s house hunkered down obstinately clinging to the ground, refusing to be moved even as the landscape around it shifted.

Warren put his hand on the small of her back, and said in a softer tone, “Please don’t be mad at me. I’m on your side. I promise. We weren’t coming to question you. We were coming to talk to your aunt.”

She nodded. “Why, though? You said there was some connection to Lydia Sikes?”

“Well, I decided to do a little internet searching. I wondered if Lydia Sikes’s killer might be having second thoughts about keeping hold of the murder weapon. Happens a lot. The criminal takes the weapon away with them, but then they start to worry. What if their house gets searched? What if their car gets pulled over? Suddenly, the person starts thinking maybe they should get rid of the evidence. We already know that this killer was too greedy to leave the gun at the scene, so it seemed unlikely that he would suddenly up and chuck it into a river.

“And lo and behold,” he continued, “a man in Alamance County was selling a Smith and Wesson Model 29 on Facebook. You know there are whole groups on there devoted to this kind of stuff.”

“Is that legal?” Lindsay asked. The idea of anonymous strangers exchanging weapons with such ease gave her a chill.

“Usually. Any that aren’t operating above board get shut down pretty quickly, and the moderators are good about reporting anyone whose actions seem questionable. In this case, we decided to pay the seller a call. He was surprised as heck to see us, I can tell you that. He said he’d just bought the gun a few days before from an old woman and her son. Said they seemed anxious to sell it, so he felt like he got a pretty good deal on it. He’d only bought it to turn a profit and was looking to sell it on quickly.”

“Isn’t it a little risky to list a stolen gun on a website?”

“Not if the gun wasn’t stolen. He had all the paperwork, and it was in order. The old woman even showed him her permit and her concealed carry license.”

“So it was legitimate? I don’t understand. Was it just coincidence that it was the same kind of gun in the same area?”

“Well, he showed us a copy of the bill of sale. The gun had been registered to Patricia Harding.” Lindsay’s jaw dropped. Warren held up his hands and continued. “Before you say anything, I think I know what you’re thinking—Patricia Harding doesn’t have a son.”

Lindsay felt the pilot light of her intellect reignite. “Leander Swoopes?”

“Exactly. We showed the gun seller a picture of Swoopes. If you remember, old Leander’s got a pretty unmistakable face.”

Lindsay doubted she’d ever forget that face. The algae-green eyes, the leathery yellow skin, the thinning black hair slicked back from an unnaturally high forehead. “Aunt Harding was in league with Swoopes?”

“Maybe he really is her son. Some of our guys are looking into the records.”

“That just can’t be.” The thought of Aunt Harding being pregnant and giving birth struck Lindsay as a physical impossibility. It was like suggesting that a baby could spring forth out of a slab of granite.

“Stranger things have happened. Anyway, that’s what we came here to find out,” he said.

“Well, there’s another connection,” Lindsay said. Even though she wasn’t sure how her mother could have been involved with Lydia Sikes’s death or Aunt Harding’s disposal of the murder weapon, Sarabelle Harding was clearly the missing link between the two murders.

But Warren had stopped listening to her. Additional police vehicles had arrived while Lindsay and Warren had been out walking, and there seemed to be some commotion coming from the house. Warren held up his hand and strained his ears toward the sound. “Do you hear that barking?” he asked, moving quickly toward the sound. “Is that your aunt’s dog? The one who led you to the body? He wasn’t there when Claire and I went out to the shack.”

“Yeah, that’s Kipper. He was going nuts when the Duck guys got here, so I tied him up in the yard. I suppose I’d better take him with me, unless you want to question him, too?” Try as she might, she couldn’t keep an edge of bitter sarcasm from creeping in.

As Lindsay and Warren circled around the back of the house, Lindsay warned, “Now watch out. He hates strangers. He might go for you.” To her astonishment, however, as soon as she and Warren rounded the corner of the house, Kipper immediately fell silent. He sat down and perked his ears up expectantly.

“What in the world?” Warren whispered.

“Yeah, it’s weird. From what I’ve seen, he’s usually pretty ferocious with people he doesn’t know.”

“That’s because Paul knows me.”

“Who’s Paul?”

“Kipper is Paul. He’s the fourth Beatle. Tanner’s missing dog.”