our house. Sometimes he came here to our stretch of beach to sleep off his binge before going home to beg forgiveness.
In my head, I heard the question Win would surely ask if I’d spoken the request out loud. “Would old man Hinkle be in a peach sweater with a matching clutch? Come now, Stephania,” he’d chastise.
I pushed my eyes open and forced myself to look at who was in our rowboat.
And then I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes as sorrow filled my chest until I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, Dove. How tragic,” Win whispered in my ear, his warm aura instantly cloaking me in sympathy.
“Yeah,” I whispered back, as I dropped the picnic basket and inhaled a gulp of steamy air to keep from passing out.
Almost on auto drive, I flipped the top of the basket open and felt for my cell to dial 9-1-1. Wrapping my shaky fingers around it, I yanked it out, ran my finger over the screen, hitting the appropriate numbers, my heart so heavy I thought it would drop out at my feet.
As the ugly-hot sun beat down on my head like a bongo player wailing on his drums, I heard the operator say, “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
Licking my dry lips, I answered, forcing my voice to remain steady, my information clear and concise. “This is Stevie Cartwright. I live at 711 Samantha Lane. I’m on my private beach as we speak. I’m not in any danger, but I’ve happened upon a dead body as I was taking a walk along the shore with my dog. It’s Sophia Fleming.”
Chapter 3
S andwich, one of our local law enforcement officers, handed me a bottle of ice-cold water, his enormous body blocking the sun as the police milled about in every direction with crime scene tape and evidence bags. “You okay, Stevie?”
No. I was never going to be okay again. But forget me. Forget all about me and how I felt. That was insignificant. As small as the smallest concern ever.
How was Dana going to feel?
His face, his typically hard grrr-face, gone all soft and gooey yesterday, kept flashing in my mind’s eye. He’d been almost euphoric when he came to ask to borrow the boat. It wasn’t just in his eyes, but oozing from his pores, singing through his veins. His vibe was full of energy, hope and joy for a future, undoubtedly one he wanted to share with Sophia.
“Stevie?” Sandwich eyed me with a critical glance, cocking his head.
Wrapping Whiskey’s leash around my wrist, I tugged him to my side, his wet fur and bulk bringing comfort. “I’m fine. Forget about me. But who would…?”
My words hitched, but I kept thinking who would do this to someone so kind—so sweet and gentle? Who , by goddess?
Sandwich shook his head, running his beefy fingers over his chin, his eyes tired, his tone defeated. “Danged if I know, Stevie. Though, I’m sure sorry. She was one of the nicest ladies I know.”
“Does Dana know yet?” I asked, afraid of the answer as I pressed the cold bottle of water to my throbbing temple.
“He was out on a call. No one’s told him yet.”
“Maybe it’s better he doesn’t see…this…her…” Goddess, please don’t let him see Sophia like this.
“So you didn’t see anyone? Hear anything?” Sandwich asked, pulling out his notepad.
“I sleep like a rock, Sandwich. I didn’t hear a thing last night.”
Sandwich stopped writing, the beads of sweat on his brow almost disappearing when he frowned. “What does this have to do with last night? How could you know when this happened?”
I rolled my eyes. I was too wrecked to play this game today. “Don’t give me that suspicious look, Lyn Paddington. I think we’ve established I’m not a killer after Madam Zoltar and Tito. But if that didn’t cinch the deal, for sure my stepfather’s murder should have. Would I really blatantly kill people and continue to reside in Eb Falls while I did it? I’d have to be a sociopath—which I’m not.”
He gave me a sheepish glance. “Sorry, I’ve been watching too much Sherlock Holmes . Trying
In my head, I heard the question Win would surely ask if I’d spoken the request out loud. “Would old man Hinkle be in a peach sweater with a matching clutch? Come now, Stephania,” he’d chastise.
I pushed my eyes open and forced myself to look at who was in our rowboat.
And then I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes as sorrow filled my chest until I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, Dove. How tragic,” Win whispered in my ear, his warm aura instantly cloaking me in sympathy.
“Yeah,” I whispered back, as I dropped the picnic basket and inhaled a gulp of steamy air to keep from passing out.
Almost on auto drive, I flipped the top of the basket open and felt for my cell to dial 9-1-1. Wrapping my shaky fingers around it, I yanked it out, ran my finger over the screen, hitting the appropriate numbers, my heart so heavy I thought it would drop out at my feet.
As the ugly-hot sun beat down on my head like a bongo player wailing on his drums, I heard the operator say, “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
Licking my dry lips, I answered, forcing my voice to remain steady, my information clear and concise. “This is Stevie Cartwright. I live at 711 Samantha Lane. I’m on my private beach as we speak. I’m not in any danger, but I’ve happened upon a dead body as I was taking a walk along the shore with my dog. It’s Sophia Fleming.”
Chapter 3
S andwich, one of our local law enforcement officers, handed me a bottle of ice-cold water, his enormous body blocking the sun as the police milled about in every direction with crime scene tape and evidence bags. “You okay, Stevie?”
No. I was never going to be okay again. But forget me. Forget all about me and how I felt. That was insignificant. As small as the smallest concern ever.
How was Dana going to feel?
His face, his typically hard grrr-face, gone all soft and gooey yesterday, kept flashing in my mind’s eye. He’d been almost euphoric when he came to ask to borrow the boat. It wasn’t just in his eyes, but oozing from his pores, singing through his veins. His vibe was full of energy, hope and joy for a future, undoubtedly one he wanted to share with Sophia.
“Stevie?” Sandwich eyed me with a critical glance, cocking his head.
Wrapping Whiskey’s leash around my wrist, I tugged him to my side, his wet fur and bulk bringing comfort. “I’m fine. Forget about me. But who would…?”
My words hitched, but I kept thinking who would do this to someone so kind—so sweet and gentle? Who , by goddess?
Sandwich shook his head, running his beefy fingers over his chin, his eyes tired, his tone defeated. “Danged if I know, Stevie. Though, I’m sure sorry. She was one of the nicest ladies I know.”
“Does Dana know yet?” I asked, afraid of the answer as I pressed the cold bottle of water to my throbbing temple.
“He was out on a call. No one’s told him yet.”
“Maybe it’s better he doesn’t see…this…her…” Goddess, please don’t let him see Sophia like this.
“So you didn’t see anyone? Hear anything?” Sandwich asked, pulling out his notepad.
“I sleep like a rock, Sandwich. I didn’t hear a thing last night.”
Sandwich stopped writing, the beads of sweat on his brow almost disappearing when he frowned. “What does this have to do with last night? How could you know when this happened?”
I rolled my eyes. I was too wrecked to play this game today. “Don’t give me that suspicious look, Lyn Paddington. I think we’ve established I’m not a killer after Madam Zoltar and Tito. But if that didn’t cinch the deal, for sure my stepfather’s murder should have. Would I really blatantly kill people and continue to reside in Eb Falls while I did it? I’d have to be a sociopath—which I’m not.”
He gave me a sheepish glance. “Sorry, I’ve been watching too much Sherlock Holmes . Trying
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