Chapter Sixteen

Her laptop tucked under her left arm, Laura held the handrail as she walked down the stair steps one at a time. A shooting pain in her right thigh sucked the air from her lungs. Her leg was letting her know she’d overly exerted the muscles the past few days. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to change.

At the bottom of the landing, she unlocked the back entry door and stepped outside and around the corner, just a few steps to her office. She was careful to keep her stride smooth. Several business owners called morning greetings. She waved and, with a smile, returned their good wishes.

She stood back a moment and looked at the glass-paned door. A swell of pride filled her as she mentally read her name: Laura Friday, Editor-in-Chief. The painter was scheduled to make it visible to everyone next Monday. She reached into her pants pocket and removed her keychain. It wasn’t until she leaned forward to insert the key and turn the lock that she noticed it. There, on the sidewalk, resting peacefully within inches of her shoe. A rose. A white rose.

She bit against the pain as she stooped and used her fingernails to lift the stem. Shifting the laptop, she laid the bud on top of the flat surface. She didn’t want to handle the flower for fear of obscuring possible fingerprints belonging to the donor.

Maudie Perry saved the day. “Let me get that. You seem to have your hands full,” she gushed as she pulled the door wide. “A secret admirer leaving a rose on your doorstep? How romantic! I was always a sucker for romance. I wish Phyllis would discuss a romance novel at the book club meetings once in a while. Mysteries. Always mysteries.”

Laura offered a sympathetic smile. “When it’s your time to host the next meeting, simply suggest a romance novel. Do you have a favorite title in mind?”

A pink glow tinged the older woman’s cheeks. She placed her hands against her heart and sighed. “I’ve just finished reading Bannon’s Brides. The hero, Cordell Bannon, is every woman’s dream. Oh, my, what those poor women endured while crossing the prairie.” She seemed to realize she had drifted into a dreamy prattle, and fluffed herself up like a hen ruffling its feathers. “I’ll take your advice, Laura. By the way, wonderful article about finding the skeleton. I can’t imagine you showing up for work this morning. Falling into a grave…” She tsked. “Why, I’d be absolutely traumatized.”

“We all cope in different ways. Work is my catharsis. Have a good day.” Laura walked through the open door.

Maudie waved as she walked on down the sidewalk. “See you at the tourism council tonight. We’re looking forward to your presentation.”

Laura limped to the desk to set down the laptop. She opened the top drawer and pulled out the manila folder that held the first white rose and the note with it. She undid the metal brad and dropped the second flower inside. Then, on an index card, she wrote the date and time she’d found the second rose, and slid the card inside the envelope. A thought entered her mind. She reached inside for the note that had accompanied the first rose. Her heart thumped as she read the scrawled message, No one loves you. With four words the sender had scrambled her emotions all over again. Looking at her calendar, she flipped over the square piece of white paper and jotted the date she’d received the first bloom. Details like this might be important later. She dropped it into the envelope and sealed the flap with the brad, eyeing the envelope with disgust.

She waded through a mash of emotions as flashbacks of disturbing memories from that night in New York resurfaced. She lifted the land-line phone and punched in the numbers for the sheriff’s office.

“Cole Harbor Sheriff’s Office.”

“Good morning, Louise. Is Deputy Carter available?”

Louise Highland squeed. “Laura…Laura…Laura. I am positively mesmerized by your reporting skills. In all my fifty-five years, nothing exciting has ever happened to me. Falling in a hole, and on top of a skeleton? How thrilling! I almost envy you.”

Laura grimaced at the morbidity of Louise’s comments. “If it’s bones you’d like to dig up, I hear there are universities that offer excavation digs in Egypt for volunteers. You should check it out.” She inquired, again, “If Deputy Carter is in, I’d like to speak to him.”

“Sorry, kiddo, he’s with Ken Musuyo. Can I have him call you?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for the tip, Laura. It’s been years since I took a vacation. Digging for relics in Egypt sounds like dirty fun.” Louise guffawed. “Get it—dirt—dirty?”

Laura lifted her eyes toward the ceiling as she cradled the receiver. She opened her laptop to work on the slide presentation she’d prepared for the tourism council on ways to promote Cole Harbor. After an hour of work, and satisfied with the power point, plus growing restless, she grabbed her camera and decided to do a leisurely walkabout, taking a few more pictures for a possible promotional brochure.

At the bookstore, she tapped on the window and waved at her aunt. Then, lost in thought, Laura headed in the direction of the gazebo. The picturesque views of the bay were postcard perfect. As she neared, she listened to a voice filled with obvious anger. She stopped. The gardener, the strange duck, as her aunt referred to him, was on his knees and appeared frantic.

Before approaching, she lifted the camera and clicked several frames. “Is something wrong?”

Benjamin squinted as he looked up. “Somebody hurt my flowers. My precious flowers! Except for the thorns, roses never harmed anyone. Every single day of their lives, all flowers do is sit and look pretty for people to admire. They give pleasure.”

Still grumbling under his breath, he seemed to forget Laura’s presence and bent to snip away broken stems and smooth the footprints and wheelbarrow ruts with fresh mulching.

Though she didn’t see the damage that would cause him this much upset, it did look as though someone had purposely trod through a section of the colorful blooms. “Do you mind if I take a few pictures?”

He rocked back on his knees. “You’re that newspaper lady, ain’t you?”

She nodded.

“I ’spose if the flowers don’t mind, I don’t either.”

The eerie intensity of his gaze unsettled her, and she searched her mind for a distraction. “The roses are lovely. I especially like the white ones.”

Her breath locked inside her throat. A gust of chilling wind blew from the bay. She swallowed hard to settle the uneasy knot twisting in her stomach. White roses.

“Ayuh. The mayor is partial to white roses. Mostly, it’s his wife who is always after me to keep up the red, white, and blue theme. Says it’s patriotic. Me, I think it looks funny to have red roses, white roses, and blue geraniums, ’cause you can’t get blue roses, don’t yah know. But she tells the mayor what to do, and then he tells me, to keep her happy.”

Laura thought she heard him mumble, almost under his breath, something that sounded like, Fat bitch pisses me off.

When she lifted the camera, Benjamin pulled his cap low on his forehead, and bent forward. Whether on purpose or unintentionally, he had blocked his face, which kept her from getting a clear camera shot. She wanted a close up to compare to the image in the twenty-year-old feature article Dan Fremont had written about Brenda Alligood’s murder. Her gut instinct said Bennie Wiener and Benjamin Noone held a striking resemblance to one another. “Excuse me. Would you mind smiling for the camera?”

Without looking up, he said, “Don’t like havin’ my picture taken. ’Sides, you’re keepin’ me from gettin’ my work done.”

The camera clutched tight, she almost felt his flinty blue eyes boring a hole in her back as she walked away. Still rattled from receiving this morning’s anonymous white rose, she chastised herself for viewing everyone as a potential criminal.

Later that night, Laura stood in front of the tourism council, inside city hall’s conference room. She thanked Mayor Shipley for the illustrious introduction and inwardly cringed when she spotted the white rosebud in his lapel.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she stepped away from the portly man, who reeked of musk cologne and wore a toupee that reminded her of a nest for vermin. Her first thought—pervert! She shriveled inside when his clammy hand patted her on the arm. Was he the one who wrote the note and sent the roses? She scanned the audience. Her heart sank a bit. Mitch wasn’t there. Her aunt gave her two thumbs up.

After the slide presentation, Laura said, “Cole Harbor has a beautiful port. We must give tourists a reason to visit and to linger in our quaint community, and in addition, give the campers in the national park a reason to come to town. Our little slice of paradise is the perfect place to hold an island lobster bake, take a romantic evening sail aboard a friendship sloop or a schooner and listen to the stories of seasoned captains from some of you who have sailed the seven seas. Our harbor bustles with fishing vessels and pleasure craft in equal numbers. Capitalize on offering excursion boats to enjoy a harbor tour, cruise out to explore any one of the public islands, or spend the day watching seals, puffins, and whales.”

Martha Shipley stood. “This is all well and good, dear. How do you propose to advertise? No offense, but your little newspaper has limited circulation, and this council has equally limited funds.”

Laura recalled the words she thought Benjamin had spoken under his breath—fat bitch. Noting the indignant scowl, and to avoid a verbal out-lash from her aunt, Laura smiled. “Raise your hand if you are a business owner and have a computer.” She counted. “Websites and blogs, Mrs. Shipley. With very little expense, we can reach the world. In my spare time, I will teach all who are interested how to create a website to promote both your businesses and Cole Harbor.”

Not wanting to omit the non-business owners, she ventured on. “The same offer is available to the rest of you. I’ll help you set up blogs.” She rubbed her hands together and waited for the onslaught of dreaded reactions—groans and grumbles.

Martha Shipley once again stood. “I, personally, don’t think—”

Phyllis Friday quipped, “Sit down, Martha. If it isn’t your idea, you are automatically against it. If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”

Harmon Taylor from the boat yard stood and removed his cap. “I’m a crusty ole seadog. Have to say, I admire this young woman’s spunk. Ayuh, for certain, I ain’t the smartest fish in the sea, but sign me up, missy.”

Laura wanted to kiss the spindly, bowlegged salt on his weathered cheek. Without knowing it, he’d opened the door for opportunity, and others walked through. Including Martha Shipley.

The fervor died down, and the meeting adjourned. Laura strolled with her aunt down the sidewalk leading to the back entrance of their living quarters above the bookstore. As she discussed the events of the evening, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She glanced over her shoulder.

“What is it, Laura?”

“Nothing. Just jumping at shadows.”

After saying goodnight, Laura went to her bedroom. She opened the sliding door and stood for a moment looking out at the bay. The cool air caused a shiver to waft over her. Kicking off her orthopedic shoe, she walked tiptoe to the bathroom and changed into her pjs. Then she settled on the bed with her laptop propped against her knees. A moment later, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. A bleep-bleep interrupted her thoughts. She grabbed the cell phone from the side table and smiled at the caller’s name.

“Mitch?”

“I know it’s late, Friday. It’s been a hectic day.”

“Yeah, for me, too. What’s up?”

“Ken Musuyo concluded his report on the animals. He found no unusual fibers in the hair. Analysis samples indicate soil and plants found on the bodies were native to the national park. He did a necropsy which turned up nothing unusual—no poisons or unusual chemicals. Final conclusion—all the animals died from broken necks.”

“What about the boys who found the animals? Could they have killed the animals?”

“Not likely. The animals were in rapid decomposition. The family had been in the park less than forty-eight hours when the boys found the bones.”

“This is like a needle in a haystack. Are you going to write it off as some sick whacko camper who is long gone, and hopefully will never return?”

“For now. Louise said you called.”

“My secret admirer left another rose. Have you had a chance to find out anything about Elio Casper?”

“Damn. I’m waiting for my source to get back with me. Was there a note?”

“Not this time. Just the rose.”

“Hmm. I’ll put in a call to see if my contact can put a rush on the information. How are you holding up?”

She frowned. Was a half-truth really a complete lie? “Don’t worry about me. We reporters have emotions thick as rhino hides.”

It was as if he’d heard the hesitation in her voice. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

“I’m not sure. At tonight’s tourism council, the mayor and his wife both wore white roses.” She related the incident at the gazebo with Benjamin Noone, and the specific request from Mrs. Shipley to plant white roses. “Do you think there’s a connection?”

“Don’t go jumping at conclusions, Friday. The Shipleys are a mainstay in this town. Until proven otherwise, chalk it up to coincidence.”

She then told him about how upset Benjamin appeared. “There was minor damage to the garden. It looked as if someone had either stomped through the flowers or shoved a wheelbarrow or a bicycle through them. He was truly agitated. And he made it quite clear he didn’t want his picture taken.”

Mitch chuckled. “Don’t read too much into it. Lots of people are camera shy. Doesn’t mean he’s hiding a deep dark secret.”

Laura sighed. “I guess it’s too early to hear from the ME?”

“You’re an investigative reporter. You already know the answer.”

“Just curious, and impatient to know if our skeleton is Lynnette Braswell.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Sore. I’m not complaining.”

“Good girl. I’ll keep you posted.”

“You said your day was hectic. Other than visiting with Dr. Musuyo, what else happened?”

Laura thrummed her fingers against the closed laptop. “I can hear you breathing, Mitch. What happened?”

“Senior Park Ranger Bryan Cole reported one of the female campers called him, hysterical. She was certain someone was watching while she was inside the public showers. An hour later, another woman reported she thought someone was peeking through the bedroom window of her RV. He called me after he’d spoken to the ladies. I drove out. By the time I got to the park it was almost too dark to see. Ranger Cole and I used flashlights hoping to find footprints. Nothing conclusive at either scene.”

Revulsion rippled through her. “A peeping tom in a campground? Maybe it was a bear or a moose.”

“I had the same reaction. According to Bryan, neither is likely. His ancestors settled Cole Harbor. He’s lived here all his life and states there’s only about fifteen bears in the park. He’s never seen one near the campsites, and it’d be even more rare to see a moose. I’m going back out in the morning.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

She stared at the computer and pondered the conversation. As a reporter, she had an obligation to report the news—good, bad, or otherwise. As a citizen of Cole Harbor, what kind of uproar would this information about peeping toms create in the community once she printed it?

She hissed out a breath. News was news. She turned her attention to drafting the article.