“Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with.”
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU
The main house is situated on a gently sloping hill. From upstairs the panoramic view of the surrounding forest makes Libby feel like she’s in the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse.
This morning she stands at the window and watches the branches sway in the breeze. She doesn’t miss the serrated skyline of San Francisco where she and Mick grew up, but she misses their parents who still live there. I need to plan another visit.
And though she can only hear it in her imagination because the windows are closed, Libby loves the frothy roil of the bay when it recovers from a storm. She also enjoys early mornings before the fog lifts, and the sun warms the house. With no tai chi today, she delights in the idea of a wood fire, wool socks, and hot chocolate made from scratch.
As she turns to look at her lightly snoring husband, she smiles at his hair, wild with sleep, and teasingly says, “Niall, it looks like you combed your hair with an eggbeater.”
“What’s that, wife?” he asks, pulling the pillow over his head.
“You heard me, husband.” She pulls it back off. “Let’s go check on Hemingway. Dr. Sutton said we have to put the Elizabethan collar on him first thing this morning. And I bet he’s got to pee like a racehorse! By the way, where did that saying come from?”
Removing the pillow and the warm covers, Niall swings his legs over the bedside and puts on his slippers. Turning back, he looks at her from under shaggy brows and responds, “Trust me, Libby, you don’t want to know.” And with that, he heads to the bathroom.
Hemingway, wide awake in the mudroom, is busy licking salve from the stitches he can reach with his tongue, and desperately trying to get at those he can’t. He’d need the tongue of an anteater to reach the ones on his back.
Hearing Libby and Niall enter the kitchen, he stands and body-wags a greeting.
“Good morning, fella,” Niall says with exaggerated enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ve got a treat for you.”
Turning to Libby, he stage whispers out the side of his mouth. “You get the collar around his neck while I distract him.”
“Oh, hell no,” she replies. “You get the collar around his neck while I distract him.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s think about this. Based on previous experience, we need a plan. We know that Hemingway has the advantage of speed, strength, and total lack of concern for our welfare.”
“Yes, but we get to pick the battlefield,” she says. “I say the mudroom.”
“Mudroom it is,” Niall agrees.
“Once Hemingway sees the Elizabethan collar, he’s going to go berserk,” Libby says.
“I agree, but the collar’s in the upper-cupboard in the mudroom.” Niall looks worried.
“I’ll keep him distracted at the Dutch door with treats, while you get the collar,” Libby assures him. “But I think you should change your clothes first.”
“Change?” he looks at her curiously. “Into what?”
“Oh, let’s see,” she muses, tapping an index finger on her chin. “Overalls, construction boots, welding gloves, a football helmet, a hockey face-mask, and Mick’s flak vest.”
“Right,” he says, laughing. “And that won’t scare the daylights out of him?”
“Not if we use the element of surprise.”
“We?”
“Well, you,” Libby replies, not one bit shame-faced. “Niall, once Hemingway’s on to what’s happening, speed is essential to your survival. And when it’s all over, we know it’s not—he’ll be plotting ways to kill us in our sleep. Well, you anyway,” she finishes, grinning wickedly.
Seeing the Bellingham Police Department number on the phone display, Mick sets down his coffee cup and picks up his ringing cell. “McPherson,” he answers. “Good morning. Yes, I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Crap, he thinks to himself. I was hoping to see Emma this morning before heading out to the bluff.
There in ten, Mick is the first to arrive at last evening’s scene. Not wanting to jeopardize any potential evidence, he stays clear of the area.
Two cruisers pull up. Herb and Chris get out of the first one. Two other officers exit the other.
“Hey, Mick, it’s been a while,” Joe says, extending his hand. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Turning to the officer next to him, Joe adds, “This is Toni, she just transferred in.”
Stepping forward, Toni shakes Mick’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We know you’ve already been over this with Chris and Herb, but would you mind telling Joe and me what happened, before we inspect the area? It’ll help us to know what we’re looking at and looking for.”
Leading the four of them to the edge of the area, Mick points while sharing everything he knows—the same information he’d shared last night. “I stayed clear of the area so I wouldn’t disturb anything.”
Lifting up one of his feet, he continues, “I wore the same shoes as last night so you can tell my tread from the others.”
“That’s helpful, thank you. This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?” Toni asks.
“No. I used to be on the force, too.”
“Yeah, on the way over, Joe explained what happened. I’m sorry about that.”
Shifting gears to the subject at hand, Chris says, “Even after the storm, we can see three sets of shoe prints. These impressions correspond in design, physical size, and mold characteristics to your shoes,” she says, pointing at Mick’s feet. “These,” pointing to another set, “belong to a woman. See?” she continues, squatting near the ground. “This divot was made by a pointed spike like the heel on a woman’s shoe.” After snapping photos in rapid succession, she turns to Mick and asks, “Do you recall what shoes Ms. Winters was wearing last night?”
“When I lifted her into the ATV, I was trying to be careful not to bump any part of her, so I was paying attention. She was wearing fancy sandals, but I couldn’t say with certainty if they had spiked heels, or not.”
“Thank you. And these,” pointing to the third set, “have a completely different design, mold characteristics, and are physically smaller in size than yours,” she says, looking at Mick. “How tall would you guess Mr. Hughes is?”
“He’s at least six inches shorter than I am.”
“These,” she says, pointing at paw prints, “must belong to your dog, the one who got hurt last night. How’s he doing, by the way?”
“I haven’t seen Hemingway yet this morning, but the vet assures us that he’ll fully recover.”
“By the size of these prints, he must be huge,” Toni muses.
“He is,” Mick says, smiling. “He’s an Irish Wolfhound.”
“I’m familiar with that breed. I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with a dog that size.”
“This slide or drag mark that goes to the edge is in keeping with a human body. And look, there are paw marks on each side, like the dog was standing over the person,” Toni says.
“If he was,” Mick counters, “it was to protect Cynthia. Hemingway’s only aggressive when he’s defending himself or someone else.”
“It’s hard to tell in the mud,” Toni continues, “but this area is darker.” She points. “It seems like it could be blood. And look at all of the glass shards. From what’s left of this neck, I’d say they’re from a wine bottle.”
Slipping on a pair of thin latex gloves before bagging the broken glass, she continues, “I’ll send these to the lab to see if they can lift any prints, even a partial might help. I’m going to collect some of this mud too. After all the rain I doubt they can test this potential blood for DNA, but it’s worth a shot. It might not all be from Ms. Winters. From the looks of the scene, your dog may have done some serious damage to Mr. Hughes.”
“Thanks, Toni,” Mick says. “If it’s blood, it’s probably Cynthia’s. Dr. Zimmerman said that her femoral artery had been nicked. She said that if it had been severed, she’d have bled out right here on the bluff.”
“Can you think of any reason why Mr. Hughes would want to hurt Ms. Winters?”
“No, none. The guy arrived with what seems like a chip on his shoulder, and he likes his liquor. We have a well-stocked bar in the main house, yet he went to town and bought an additional stash. In fact, when Niall gave him a lift, he popped open a flask in the car. Niall made him walk the rest of the way. If he’s angry about that, he’d be pissed at us, not Cynthia.”
Joe says, “There hasn’t been a mudslide here in a long time, but to be safe, let’s not all walk to the edge. I’ll take a look over the side to see if Mr. Hughes is down there.”
Peering over, Joe lets out a long, low whistle. “Man, that’s a long way down. I can’t imagine anyone surviving that fall.” Shaking his head, he continues, “We’ll send a diving team to see if they can locate his body. It may have already gone out with the tide.”
Finished with the unpleasant task at hand, a haggard-looking Niall stands back and presses both hands to his arched back.
Before he can suggest to Libby that they open the outer mudroom door to let Hemingway outside, she opens the Dutch door adjoining the kitchen.
Smiling at a pathetic-looking Hemingway, she says, “Oh dear, you do look like a cone—”
But before she can finish the sentence, he dashes past her, knocking into the doorframe on his way. With a reduced line of sight, Hemingway bumps blindly into chairs, the kitchen island, and the refrigerator door before bounding into The Ink Well.
“Come back here,” Niall roars, as he and Libby make their way, hoping to trap him in that room.
A thundering crash announces that Hemingway just toppled the oak stand holding the retreat’s journal.
Barreling back the way he’d come, the Elizabethan collar acts like a cowcatcher on the front of a train, clearing everything in its way.
Libby and Niall press their backs to the wall as Hemingway shoots past them.
“Quick Niall, open the front door before he destroys anything else.”
Hand flying to her chest, Fran yelps, stopping mid-stride on the outside steps as Hemingway bolts past her.
“We’re so sorry. We didn’t know you were there,” Niall apologizes to the stunned woman.
“I came to find out if there’s any news about Cynthia,” she says.
“The vet told us to put the Elizabethan collar on that hairy mongrel first thing this morning. Then we were going to call the hospital, but all hell broke loose,” Niall says.
“Please come in and join us for breakfast,” Libby invites. “I’ll call now.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
After putting his apron on, Niall starts pulling items from the refrigerator.
Fran watches as he removes eggs, tomatoes, yellow peppers, mushrooms, a block of cheese, bacon, and sour cream.
“My stomach just growled. What are you making?” Fran asks.
“I call it ‘The Farmer’s Daughter.’” He smiles. “It’s Libby’s favorite. She loves avocados, so I finish it off with thick slices on top.”
“Did I hear my name?” Libby asks, stepping back into the kitchen from the phone call.
“Yes. Niall says he’s making ‘The Farmer’s Daughter,’” Fran replies.
“That’s my favorite,” Libby says with a smile.
“That’s just what he was saying. What’s the news on Cynthia? Is she okay?”
“She is. In fact, they’re releasing her this afternoon. I think it would be nice if we all went in the van to pick her up. After I clean up the mess in The Ink Well, I’ll head over to Austen cottage to see if Emma wants to join us.”
Hemingway smells the delicious scent through the kitchen windows. Never one to pass up food, he barks at the mudroom door.
Pulling the lower half of the Dutch door closed behind her so he can’t get into the kitchen, Libby lets Hemingway in. His paws are mud-caked, as is the bottom edge of the Elizabethan collar.
“I’m sorry, big guy, but the sooner your wounds heal, the sooner we can take that awful contraption off your head. If we remove it now, you’ll just lick the salve off your stitches.”
Laying down on his mat, Hemingway lets out a resigned harrumph and does his best to prop his head on top of his massive front paws.
While snipping bits of fresh parsley onto dollops of sour cream, Niall clears his throat and asks, “Ladies, do you really think Cynthia would want all of us there to pick her up?”
“Yes. Absolutely!” they say in unison. And with that, two battle-ready women launch into the merits of having all of them along.
A smart man, Niall knows to choose his battles. Clearly, this isn’t one he’d win.
“I’m stuffed. Thank you for such a lovely breakfast. It was delicious,” Fran says. “What time should I meet you at the van?”
“Cynthia’s going to be released after the doctor makes her one o’clock rounds. They suggested I call again before coming to make sure Dr. Zimmerman doesn’t change her mind for any reason. I’ll call the hospital at one-thirty, then ring you at Dickens cottage after I’ve confirmed her release.”
“That sounds great,” Fran says, patting her stomach. “In the meantime, I’m well-fueled and will write until you call.”
Libby turns to Niall. “If you clean the kitchen, I’ll take care of The Ink Well. Deal?”
“Deal.” Niall smiles.
It’s not nearly as bad as it could be, Libby thinks. A couple of furniture pillows are tossed from overstuffed chairs, and a few books are knocked off the shelves. The crash they’d heard was from Hemingway knocking over an oak stand as he bulldozed his way through.
Once righted, Libby picks up the Pines & Quill journal and lays it flat, open to the most recent page. She smiles when she notices a fresh entry, delighted that one of this month’s guests has written something.
Grabbing a pair of cheaters from the fireplace mantle, she reads the tight, precise script. Look in the mirror and what do you see? An eerie reflection that looks like me. It was signed, Andrew Berndt.
Foreboding wipes the smile off her face as if she’d been slapped. Heart-pounding alarm raises the hairs on the nape of her neck.
Libby recognizes the name from the newscasts and newspapers she’d watched and pored over after Mick’s accident. Andrew Berndt is one of the ringleaders who was arrested in conjunction with the drug heist on the night of Sam’s slaying. He was found hanging in his prison cell.
The other ringleader, his fraternal twin, is still at large.