Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked. (40 page)

“Oh . . . of course,” Regan answered.

“Speak of the devil!” Fran crowed. “Look at what just washed ashore!”

All heads turned toward the den. Skip had just reached the top step from the beach and was racing toward the sliding glass doors. He looked frantic. Jack got up and hurried over to let him
in. When he opened the door, the howling wind blew rain onto the tile floor.

Skip stumbled inside.

“Are you all right?” Jack asked as he forcefully pushed the door closed.

Water was dripping from Skip’s slicker. His face and hair were soaked. He was breathing so heavily, he couldn’t get any words out.

“Take it easy,” Jack said, trying to comfort him.

The poor guy, Regan thought. Her heart went out to him. He was so completely distraught.

“What happened?” Fran demanded. It looked as if she was even tempted to hang up the phone.

“I wanted to check the staircase,” Skip explained between breaths, “to make sure none of the steps were missing or loose. When I reached the bottom step, I looked over and saw Mrs. Hopkins’s rowboat banging up against the rocks.”

“She keeps a rowboat on the beach?” Jack asked.

“It’s tied to the bottom of her staircase,” Ginny yelled over, getting up from the table. “She likes to go out on the bay in that beat-up old thing at the craziest hours. It’s so dangerous.”

“Reminds me of
The Old Man and the Sea
,” Fran chimed in.

Skip ignored them. “I went over to see if I could secure the boat for her. Mrs. Hopkins’s body is in a heap at the bottom of her staircase!” he cried.

That did it. Fran hung up the phone.

“She’s dead?” they were all asking at once.

“I think so, but I’m not sure. Her face is all bloody. Jack, we’ve got to get back down there!

Within a split second, the phone was back in Fran’s hand. “I’ll call nine-one-one!” she yelped as Regan and Jack grabbed their coats and hurried out the door with Skip.

At Fern’s diner, a few miles from Jack’s parents’ home, the place was buzzing. Fern’s clientele, especially the retired men, were not the type who liked to sit at home on a morning like this. As long as their roof wasn’t about to cave in, they’d rather go out for a plate of pancakes and keep apprised of all the action around town. In the corner above the counter, a large flat-screen TV was tuned to a local Cape Cod station giving up-to-the-minute reports on downed trees, flooded roads, and power outages. When the words
BREAKING NEWS
flashed on-screen, people stopped talking and looked up at the TV expectantly. More often than not it was something mundane, like a reporter sorrowfully asking someone whose basement had flooded how they were feeling.

Storm or no storm, if you wanted to know about anything that was going on in the area, good, bad, or indifferent, all you had to do was show up at Fern’s between the hours of 6 a.m. and 9 p.m.

Situated on a piece of land bordered on two sides by acres of grassy marshland and a meandering stream, a customer could glance out the window year after year at the same peaceful surroundings. Inside, it wasn’t exactly peaceful, but there was just
enough banter between the waitresses and the customers, and lively exchange among the tables, to give Fern’s a friendly energy. Fern never played loud music that would drive out certain customers, and her staff was instructed to carefully place the dirty dishes and silverware in the rubber bins by the kitchen door. In many of the diners she had visited, the clatter of dishes and silverware being tossed around always rattled her nerves.

When Fern bought the spacious old building several years ago, she went to work transforming it into a cozy gathering spot. Homey flowered wallpaper and an assortment of kitchen tables and chairs secured at garage sales did the trick. The coffee was always hot, the food tasty, the prices fair. Best of all for those with laptops who wanted company around when they were working, there was wireless internet access. Worst of all for Fern was that these people were usually the types who stayed for hours on end and seemed to survive on coffee alone.

A sturdy muscular woman in her late thirties, Fern was the consummate, if slightly gruff, host. Her streaked blond hair always pulled back in a ponytail, she was always in motion. “What are ya having, hon?” she bellowed dozens of times a day. All year long the place was busy with locals stopping in for coffee or a meal. A group of retirees met there for breakfast every morning. Fern made it her business to greet everyone and glean some bit of personal information about any newcomers. At this time of year Fern and her customers were looking forward to the warm weather, even though some of the crowd begrudged the onslaught of tourists.

Today there was a table full of people Fern had never met before, a theater group called the Traveling Thespians. They had arrived in Chatwich late last night to start rehearsals for the play they’d be performing Memorial Day Weekend through the end of June. The owner of the famous Castle by the Sea, a mansion
on the waterfront just down the road, had lent them the use of his property and his home. A tent would be erected on his vast lawn, to be used as the theater. Fern knew that tomorrow night they were having a cocktail party at the mansion to drum up excitement for their show. The only people who weren’t happy about their presence were those who ran the long-established theater in town, Pilgrim’s Playhouse, whose planks had been walked by many of the great stars of stage and screen. Privately they referred to the Traveling Thespians as the Traveling Hobos.

The founder of the Traveling Thespians, a man in his late fifties named Devon, called Fern over. When she arrived at the table, Fern tried not to stare at his hair. It was reddish brown with flecks of gray and seemed like a toupee, but then again it didn’t. Fern had never seen anything like it. “We met ever so briefly when our group entered your wonderful establishment,” Devon began in an exaggerated tone that set Fern’s teeth on edge. If there was anything Fern couldn’t stand, it was a pompous idiot. “You’ve heard about our party tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Yes, I have,” Fern answered with a smile.

“I would just love it if you joined us as my guest. Bring a friend. It’s going to be marvelous,” he enthused. “Simply marrrrrvelous.”

“I’ll try,” Fern said. “By the end of the day I’m pretty beat.”

“But theater uplifts,” Devon cried. “It renews one’s spirit.” He lowered his voice and paused dramatically. “The actors will be reading a scene from the play they’ll be performing, a play that I wrote. I’m so thrilled to have the world premiere here on Cape Cod!”

A world premiere on someone’s lawn? Fern thought. Give me a break. I should ask him if he’d like the world premiere of our
next plate of eggs. And if this guy wrote the play, I know I won’t like it. “I’ll definitely try to get there,” Fern replied, even sounding like she meant it. “Let’s hope this storm lets up so you get a big crowd.” She turned from the table and through the window saw a police cruiser pulling into the driveway. The cops in town were her friends, often spending their breaks at the first table by the counter, which was Fern’s home base. There’s no way they’ll be taking breaks on a day like this, Fern thought. It’ll be two coffees to go. But just as quickly as the cruiser pulled in, it did a U-turn, turned on its flashing lights, and sped out of the parking lot.

“Oh, Fern,” Devon cried. “It looks like you just lost some business. But maybe something dramatic is happening! All the world’s a stage . . .”

“Let’s hope no one is hurt,” Fern replied, trying not to sound annoyed. If this guy comes in here too often between now and the end of June, she thought, I’ll definitely go crazy.

As Regan raced out the door behind Skip and Jack, she could see that the waves were now enormous. When Skip reached the stairs to the beach and looked down, he let out a howl.

“The waves are hitting the rocks!” he cried. “The beach is underwater! How could that have happened so fast?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

The three of them made it down the slippery stairs as fast as possible. When they reached the bottom, they stepped into the freezing cold water, which was up to Regan’s thighs. Turning to the right, they ran through the water as quickly as they could. Mrs. Hopkins’s rowboat was now afloat, still banging against the rocks.

But Mrs. Hopkins was gone.

Skip became hysterical. “I left her right here,” he yelled, kicking his feet in the water. “The tide must have pulled her out! We have to find her!” He started charging back and forth in the water near her staircase, apparently hoping he’d stumble over the body. Then he headed toward the deeper water, where the waves were breaking.

Jack grabbed his arm. “Skip, the undertow is very strong. I’ve never seen the bay this rough. If you go out there, you’ll get pulled under. It’s just too dangerous.”

“But what about Mrs. Hopkins?” Skip asked as he broke into tears. “I never should have left her here.”

Regan went over and put her arm around him. “Skip, it’s not your fault.”

Skip shook his head back and forth. “I guess I should have tried to pick her up and carry her up the steps.”

“You couldn’t have guessed that this would happen,” Regan said.

Jack pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Fran was calling the police. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. I’ll call the coast guard.”

Skip kicked the water. “I only wish I knew for sure that she was dead when I left her here! Because if she wasn’t, then I’m responsible for her being dead now!”

Fran and Ginny ran to the front door the second they spotted a police car speeding down the block, its lights flashing. Two officers jumped out of the car.

“They’re down on the beach,” Ginny yelled out from the front porch. “Take the steps around the back. I didn’t want to go down there. I’ve never seen a dead body before it was embalmed.”

The officers ran around the side of the house. Within minutes another patrol car came racing down the block. They were also directed to the back of the house.

“Such excitement!” Ginny exclaimed to her sister as they stepped back inside. “I’d better make another pot of coffee.”

“Good idea. I may as well give that window company another try. I’m sure our living room isn’t getting any drier.”

*   *   *

Jack recognized the policemen who were heading down to the beach, Officer Tom Barnes and Officer Jim Malone. He and Regan had met them the past summer at Fern’s coffee shop. Quickly he apprised them of the situation.

“This woman rented the house right up here?” Barnes asked Skip.

“Yes.”

“She lived alone?”

Skip shrugged. “I think so.”

“That’s the impression of our other neighbors who are up at my parents’ house right now,” Jack said. “None of us know much about her. My parents are friendly with the owners of the house she rented. We can contact them.”

“Thanks, Jack. Had you met this woman?”

“No. Regan and I haven’t been up to the Cape since she moved here.”

Rain was pelting their faces. The icy water they were standing in was getting deeper.

Medics carrying a stretcher, firemen, and more police arrived. Searchers in hip boots started combing the beach, but the waves were getting bigger and the rain was coming down harder.

“This is too dangerous,” Barnes decided. “We’ll have to wait until the storm lets up to come back. I don’t want anyone else getting pulled out by those currents. The coast guard will be on the lookout for the body.” He called off the search, then turned to Skip. “If you don’t mind, I’d just like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Okay,” Skip answered.

“Would you like to do the questioning at my parents’ house?” Jack asked.

“Thanks, Jack. Yes I would. But first let’s ring Mrs. Hopkins’s
bell. It doesn’t sound like anyone will be home, but I’d like to try.”

There was a light on in Mrs. Hopkins’s kitchen. No one answered the back door.

“Let’s check and see if the car is in the garage,” Barnes said as the wind and rain continued.

The garage was a separate building at the end of the road. The door was locked, but through the window they could see a blue sedan.