Chapter Two

Detective Mark Pruitt shielded his eyes from the high-noon glare. Small whitecaps curled along the distant waves and the surf churned against the shore. The radio of a passing car blasted twangy country music but fortunately that faded as the car disappeared down the roadway. The soothing tones of classical guitar was more his style.

A messy murder in the boardwalk bathroom. Bad for tourism; if he didn’t clear this one quickly, city leaders would complain, loudly, to his boss. The summer season kept Olympus Bay alive. Vacation travelers purchased hotel rooms and meals, knick-knacks and clothing, toys and services of all kinds. A slaying, particularly one right here on the boardwalk, would wipe out profits for a month. Not that he cared about the economics involved; human beings were more important than dollars…but his bosses and their bosses cared very much. This case would be top priority until the criminal was apprehended and the police chief held his press conference.

He strode to the small concrete structure which was taped off and swarming with men and women in dark blue uniforms. A few onlookers sat atop the dunes and held up cell phones to record the event.

“He’s dead, sir,” the officer guarding the taped area said in a way of greeting. “Multiple stab wounds. Even one in the face. Gory sight.”

Pruitt nodded once, ducked under the tape, and entered the men’s room. The victim lay face up in the middle of the floor. With injuries impossible to miss, the man was very much dead. Blood covered the azure tiles and coated the drain. A smooth-soled shoe print was next to the body and tracked away toward the entrance, where it faded with each subsequent step.

“Who stepped in the evidence?” he asked another officer who crouched in the corner, appearing to examine the accumulated grime of years. His words echoed in the tile-lined room.

The officer rose, his lanky body unfolding to an impressive height. Six-five, at least, Pruitt calculated by habit. “Sir,” the man stuttered. His eyes darted to the body and away. “The shoe print was here when we arrived. I believe it was from the woman who called in the murder.”

Pruitt registered the young officer’s pale complexion and nervous demeanor. “What’s your name, officer?”

“Ryan, sir.”

“First body?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. We all had our first.”

“There’s a lot of blood. Must be gallons.”

“Unlikely. The average person has about one and half gallons of blood, total.”

Pruitt surveyed the small room, with its two urinals, one stall and two sinks. The dead man sprawled in the middle of the room, arms akimbo and legs straight. Strange he wore a long-sleeved shirt to the beach. Something to note. Blood leaked from at least five gaping wounds, indicating a large blade. “There’s a fair amount though. Good of him to fall near the drain.”

Ryan gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, sir.”

Pruitt nodded toward the door. “You’re relieved.”

The young officer handed over a stained brown wallet encased in plastic. “This was on the deceased. Nothing else.”

“No murder weapon found, I understand.”

“Not yet, sir. We’re searching the area.”

As Ryan dashed out the door, the detective studied the interior more closely. Aside from being as filthy as one might expect from a beachfront restroom during a busy season, all appeared in order. Except for the body lying in a pool of viscous crimson liquid, of course. And those bloody shoe prints from the woman who discovered the murder? Interesting, that a woman entered the men’s room.

He poked his head out the door and gestured to Ryan, who stood guard near the police tape. “Who is the woman, the one who tramped in the blood and mucked up my crime scene? We have her name, of course?”

“Rosella something or another,” the young officer sputtered. “She’s just over there.”

Pruitt’s gaze followed where the officer pointed. A young woman, her face framed by curly auburn hair, leaned out a food truck window and handed an ice cream cone to a smiling little boy. Age twenty-seven or twenty-eight, no more, and probably five-six, though her height was difficult to gauge with her being behind the counter. She laughed at something the boy said, her teeth even and white. He cleared his throat.

“She’s aware I need to talk to her.”

It wasn’t a question. The first arriving officers were supposed to secure witnesses and either keep them on site, or take information so he could contact them later. A potential suspect shouldn’t have been released at all.

Ryan’s eyebrows rose in a questioning manner. “Sir. I didn’t think it a problem if she returned to work, since her business is right there.”

Pruitt nodded in a manner that let the younger man know he wasn’t in trouble. “Keep an eye on her for me. I’ll want to talk to her once I complete my inspection of the body. And Ryan, get those people off the sand dunes. This is a crime scene not a TV show.”

****

The examination of the dead man offered no additional clues. Six stab wounds, with one to the face. Surely, three would have done the job. Either the killer was enraged or they were an overachiever. Pruitt took what notes he could and then gave the waiting ambulance attendants the all-clear to remove the body.

He tucked his notepad in a back pocket as he strolled toward the pink-and-white ice cream truck, noting the woman’s somber face as he approached. In general, people were never happy to see him. One of the hazards of the trade.

“Officer,” she greeted him, her voice musical and light. She emerged from the truck and he adjusted his calculation slightly upward, closer to five-seven. The aroma of sweet cream and…was it nutmeg?…wafted in his direction, likely carried on the light breeze off the ocean.

“It’s detective. Detective Mark Pruitt.” Strange, he thought; he normally didn’t offer his first name.

“I’m Rosella Rivers. I called the police. I can’t believe this happened. I was right here, within sight of the building the entire time. The sound of the ocean probably covered any yell for help, if he had time to call out, that is.”

As she spoke, he noted her demeanor was disturbed, but not distraught. Most civilians would have come apart at discovering a bloody corpse. Especially a young woman. A young very pretty woman, whose shiny auburn curls frame a heart-shaped face. His heart gave a strange thump.

“I have a few questions to ask, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I found Mick. He left Aphrodite with me and when he didn’t return, I went to look for him. I have no idea who would do something like this.”

Damn, she had the cutest mouth.

Pruitt blinked. What was wrong with him? He’d had a good breakfast, two cups of coffee, crushed two reps of push-ups and a hundred sit-ups just as he always did each morning. Must be the sun. The heat could sneak up on a person, especially near the water, and addle one’s senses.

“Detective?”

He wrestled his hyperactive brain into action. “Who’s Aphrodite?”

The woman gestured at a poodle who lay in the truck’s shade, a bowl of water next to its head. “Mick’s dog. He left her in my care and said he’d be right back. But he was gone so long. I decided to check on him, and…” Her eyes glistened and her gaze lowered to the dog. “Poor Aphrodite. Poor Mick.”

“The victim was a good friend of yours, then.”

“Not at all. He would stop by for ice cream—for his dog. I knew his first name—Mick—but nothing else about him other than he loved Aphrodite. He doted on her. She’s going to be lost without him. She’s always willing to try new flavors, no matter how experimental I may have gotten.” A tear rolled down one smooth-as-silk cheek. “She’s the only one brave enough to try sauerkraut and butterscotch. We sort of understand each other, I think.”

Pruitt stared at the woman who appeared more concerned about the living dog than its dead owner. And what kind of business did she operate anyway? No sane person would fork over hard-earned money for sauerkraut and butterscotch ice cream. His brow furrowed at the idea of such an evil twinning.

But…a memory surfaced, of his Polish grandmother serving the pickled cabbage along with a side of maple syrup to sweeten it. Indeed, the pairing was delicious, especially to an eight-year-old boy who adored spending time in his beloved Nana’s kitchen. His gaze drifted to an overhead kite as it darted to and fro in the azure sky. He hadn’t thought of his grandmother in years.

“Detective?” Her voice was soft and full of concern.

He blinked away the memory and brushed back a lock of hair that fell across his eyes. “You’re telling me he was just a customer to you, nothing more?”

“Exactly. I didn’t even know his full name.”

“Did you touch the body?”

She nodded, the unshed tears gone. “I flipped him over. I thought maybe…maybe he was still alive and I could do something. But he was already gone.” Her clear-eyed gaze pierced through him. Light green eyes, so pale they could almost be blue—the color of sea glass, polished smooth by the tumbling tide.

“There was so much blood. Whoever did this must have hit a couple of arteries.” Her lips trembled, but her words didn’t falter. “I’m afraid I upset Aphrodite terribly, stepping in Mick’s blood and then tracking it back here.” She gestured to the truck. “I threw my shoes away in there. Do you need them?”

Automatically, he glanced at her bare feet, noting the pale pink toenails and blinked again. Time to take control. This woman didn’t kill the man. It took brute strength to drive a knife into a man’s body, and steely rage to stab someone in the face. A stabbing of this nature would have coated the perpetrator with blood, from head to toe. Rosella Rivers was…shimmery perfection.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Whatever I can do to help, please ask. Now, I’d like you to try something and give me your honest opinion.” She whirled and was inside her truck in an instant. Before he realized what she was up to, she stretched out a container of rose-colored ice cream in his direction.

He held up a hand, fending off the sample. “No, thank you.”

She smiled, a dimple forming in one pink cheek. “Can’t eat on duty?”

“Lactose intolerant.” Heat rose in his neck as he volunteered this personal information.

The smile faded and two little frown lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“Ms. Rivers—”

“Rosella, please.”

He hesitated for a second. A professional distance was important, but he had an inexplicable urge to taste her name in his mouth. “Rosella. Um. You were the one to find the victim. You flipped him over and discovered he was dead. You stepped in a spreading pool of blood. Yet you returned right back to work, within sight of the murder location. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem terribly shaken by the day’s events.”

Her gaze dropped, long black lashes fanned over the tops of her sculpted cheeks. “I’ve seen a few dead bodies. My mother was a mortician. My brothers and I used to play in the autopsy room, under the equipment.” She regarded him once more. “Car accidents, gunshot deaths, normal old age, and one triple-axe murder. We saw more than kids ever should be allowed to see. But our mother explained the people weren’t there anymore. They disappeared as soon as they died, and the body was just a shell. I believe that, Detective. What I found in the bathroom today was just Mick’s shell. He was gone.”

He stared at her, this sprite of the sea with pearlescent skin and pragmatic words. Pruitt glanced behind him at the murder scene. A stretcher emerged from the bathrooms and the blue uniforms combed the sand dunes in a search for evidence. He belonged over there, not here with this ice cream vendor, however charming she might be. But he should be thorough with his investigation, right?

He cleared his throat. “I believe there was more to this Mick than you know. I don’t believe that was his name at all. ”

A puzzled look crossed her face. “Why would he lie about his name?”

“Here’s my first clue, right here.” He drew out the plastic baggie containing the man’s wallet. He flipped open the brown leather flap, dark red stains at its edges, and pointed to the driver’s license. The picture was that of Mick, not a hint of smile on his face as he stared directly into the camera. She leaned in to study the photo. “Mick Edgar Rodente.” The detective raised one eyebrow in a high expectant arch as he read the name on the license.

Rosella frowned and shrugged. “I never knew his full name. Does that mean something?”

“Mick E. Rodente,” he said. “Mickey Mouse.”

Her mouth fell open, and she leaned in once more to study the name. A kooky coincidence—a man named Mick having a last name spelled one letter away from rodent—nothing more. Unfortunate that his middle name started with an ‘e.’

“No,” she protested. “He was just this average guy. Normal as anyone.”

Pruitt sighed and snapped the wallet closed. “You sure you can’t tell me anything else about him?” His lips twisted to one side as he added, “This Mr. Mouse.”

It was time to wrap up this chat with the ice cream gal. Clearly, she was a bystander and could offer no additional information.

Two coroner’s office staff in dark blue uniforms tightened straps to secure the plastic covering the body. They rolled the stretcher to the ambulance, then loaded the body into the back of the vehicle. On the pavement, small dark ruby stains in the shape of a shoe tracked toward the ice cream truck. Small white chalk X’s marked spots where potential evidence had already been collected.

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything more, Detective. He was a regular customer with this adorable dog. He wasn’t too chatty, and when we talked, it was usually about Aphrodite.”

Pruitt nodded toward her truck, where the poodle sat at attention, its pointy black nose sniffing the air. “Do you need any help in finding a place for the dog?”

The woman appeared startled, as though the poodle’s future hadn’t occurred to her. “I can keep her, I suppose, unless you find Mick’s family. Aphrodite knows me and is comfortable with me.” A satisfied smile spread across her lips. “She likes my ice cream.”

The detective studied this Rosella Rivers. Could she be as innocent as she appeared, concocting sweet treats while a man bled to death practically within sight? One way or another, this ice cream vendor was mixed up in a murder.

It was his job to get to the bottom of the crime.