“Are those vampire marks?” he asked, his back to the beach.
I tucked my dolphin beach towel tighter into the straps of my coral one-piece suit and cocked my head. “You think they aren’t?”
He shrugged. “Not even a vampire would shoot a body then try to drink from it.”
I gaped. “Yolette was shot?”
“Yolette? You know the victim?”
I nodded. “She’s the bride who took my tour Monday and Tuesday night. The one who hit on me.”
“Shit. That won’t look good.”
No, it wouldn’t, and my stomach knotted with worry. I took my hair out of its ponytail, scraped it back with my fingers, and tied it up again. “Neil, go back to the shot part. I didn’t see another wound.”
“It’s in the back of her head, just above her hairline. I felt the entry wound when I turned her over, but I didn’t find an exit wound.”
“Which means what?”
“Small-caliber weapon. Maybe a .22.”
Gun calibers were a mystery to me, but I shuddered. “Did she look like she’d been in the water long? I mean, she’s puffy, but she’s not as swollen as I thought she’d be from the movies I’ve seen.”
“Hollywood distorts forensics.”
“But mystery novelists are obsessive about details. From what I’ve read, bodies aren’t supposed to float for days and days after they’re dumped—sometimes weeks—depending on water temperatures and a bunch of other stuff. Neil, that woman was alive on Tuesday night. This is Thursday morning.”
I don’t know if he was thinking it, but I had to wonder if she ’d been dumped so the morning surfers or beachcombers would find her. Tricky, considering the tides, the storm, and the rip currents. Possible? Heck if I knew. Two things
were
becoming eerily clear to me. Yolette had not died by accident, and I would be answering questions about the fang marks.
Fifteen minutes later, two plainclothesmen—one youngish, one middle-aged and slightly overweight with bags under his eyes—headed toward the boardwalk. The young one stopped where the other surfers stood, the older one trudged up the boardwalk stairs to us.
“Neil Benson and Francesca Marinelli?”
“Not
Chess-ka,
” I corrected. “
Cess-ka.
”
The man blinked, and Neil rolled his eyes.
“Okay, then. I’m Detective March of the St. Johns County Sheriff’s Department. You two found the body?”
“More like it found us.” Neil gestured down the beach where more official cars had now parked. “We told the other officers what happened.”
“Yeah, and they should’ve separated you, but we’ll work with what we have.” The detective paused and gave me a look.
“You’re the vampire?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw the marks on the body?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You kill her?”
“No, sir.”
“Figured it wouldn’t be that easy.” March actually cracked a weary smile. “Tell me what happened.”
Neil recounted the time we arrived, the approximate time we entered the water, and how long we’d surfed before the body floated up between us. I nodded a lot, nice and cooperative.
“So you towed her in,” the detective said, looking up from writing in his small notebook. Neil shrugged. “I didn’t think you had much of a crime scene in the water. Not in this weather.”
“You decide that from watching
CSI
?”
“No, I’m an anthropologist with forensic training.”
The detective grunted. “Good for you. Here’s the bonus question of the day. Either of you know the victim?”
Was that my future cell door creaking, or did the wind whistle especially loudly? Didn’t matter. I had to tell him now or be under more suspicion later.
With Neil reassuringly stationed at my shoulder, I said, “I don’t exactly know her, but I know who she is.”
“Name?”
“Yolette.” March stared at me, but I’d learned a thing or two from reading. Rule one: Don’t volunteer information to fill the silence.
“Last name?”
“I don’t remember.”
He frowned. “Then how do you know her?”
“She took two of my ghost tours. I’m a guide.”
“When was this?”
“Monday and Tuesday nights.”
“Time?”
“Eight to nine forty-five and nine thirty to ten thirty.”
“Tuesday’s tour was shorter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We, uh, didn’t tour the haunted buildings.”
Detective March scribbled in his notebook. “She with anyone? And, please, don’t be afraid to give me more than a tenword answer. This wind is hell on my sinuses.”
Yep, March was on to my say-nothing strategy, but he’d cracked a joke. I struck a balance with my next answer.
“She was with a man I understood to be her husband. They ’re French, and I think they ’re on—were on—their honeymoon.”
“The husband’s name?”
“Etienne.”
“You know where they were staying?”
“Some house on the beach. I don’t know where.”
“How’d you know it was on the beach?”
I frowned. Had Holland said so? Yes, but so had Etienne. “The husband mentioned it during a tour.”
“Did you see the victim at any other time?”
I hesitated, not wanting to talk about the embarrassing scene at Scarlett’s. “I saw them at Scarlett O’Hara’s Monday night after the tour. They were having dinner.”
“And you haven’t seen the woman since Tuesday night?”
I shook my head and pulled my slipping beach towel tighter again. How sad that the honeymoon was well and truly over.
“What’s your relationship?”
“Hunh?” I said, thinking he referred to Yolette.
March pointed his pen at me then Neil. “Your relationship. You two just surf buddies or what?”
Points for Neil. He didn’t gag at the “or what.”
“I’m teaching Cesca to surf,” he said. “My girlfriend is her sponsor and roommate.”
“Your girlfriend’s name?”
“Maggie—Margaret—O’Halloran.”
“Address?”
We’d given our names and numbers to the deputies, but March took Neil’s information again, then mine. Address, home, cell and work phone numbers. My boss’s name and number at the tour company.
“Oh, wait,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Yolette’s last name. It’ll be on the incident report.”
March’s eyes narrowed on me as if I’d just confessed to the crime. Maybe an
aha!
moment shouldn’t be shared with cops predisposed to suspect the worst.
March’s voice rumbled. “What incident report?”
The hell with it. I hadn ’t done anything wrong, had nothing to hide. Besides, the cops needed to notify Etienne, and Yolette’s killer needed catching.
“Ms. Marinelli?”
“On the Monday tour,” I said, measuring my words, “this guy I’m pretty sure belongs to the Covenant made a scene. The people who were still with me when it happened gave us their names and numbers for the incident report we filed. Yolette and her husband were two of those tourists.”
“Who is we?” I must’ve looked blank because he added, “You said the report ‘we’ filed. Who else are you referring to?”
“The other tour guides. Janie Freeman and Mick Burney. The supervisor was notified by phone. The written report was turned in Tuesday.”
“So your boss at the company—” He looked down at his notes. “—Elise Williams will have the names and contact info?”
“She should.”
“All right, thanks.” March stuffed his notebook and pen in his jacket pocket. “Ms. Marinelli, when did you realize you knew the victim?”
“When I saw her face.”
“And that was?”
“After I called 911 and went back to the beach.”
“You didn’t recognize her in the water?”
“No. We towed her in facedown.”
Detective March shook his head as if looking for holes in our story, which he probably was.
“Anything else you noticed this morning? About anything?”
“I thought I saw a boat past the breakers before we got in the water.”
“What kind?”
“A little one. Like a kayak.” He raised a brow, and I shrugged. “Or it could’ve been a pelican.”
“Did you see it fly off?”
“I didn’t pay attention.”
“Then that’s it for now. We’ll need you to come to the station to make and sign complete statements.”
“Fine,” Neil said. “I can come now, but Cesca will have to sleep first.”
“That true?” March asked.
I shrugged. “I can only be up a few hours after dawn.”
“All right, but don’t leave town. Either of you.”
“I’ll have to go if I get a call on state business.”
“If that happens, Mr. Benson, let us know.” March frowned and looked at me. “Ms. Marinelli, when can you come in?”
“At four or five this afternoon.”
“Good. Maybe the ME will have a report by then.”
I nodded and shut out the mental image of cell doors slamming on me.
“Detective,” Neil called as March turned to leave. “Do you still need our surfboards?”
“For now.” He fished two cards from his shirt pocket and handed one to each of us. “Call, and I’ll let you know about your property.”
When Detective March plodded back down the boardwalk stairs, Neil raked a hand through his hair.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said, heading for the parking lot.
I fell into step behind him, wondering how much longer I’d be a free vampire.
“Here’s the plan,” he said as we walked. “You go on back to the penthouse and sleep. I’ll call Maggie at work and fill her in. We’ll get you an attorney.”
“I need a lawyer right now?” I squeaked.
“It’s just a precaution.” We stopped at my truck, and he tossed the towel he’d used onto my passenger seat. “After all, you haven’t done anything wrong, right?”
“Effing right.”
Both his brows hiked to his hairline at my vehemence. “Effing? Fresca, you don’t curse except for an occasional hell and damn. Are you scared about this?”
“Neil, there’s a body with apparent vampire marks on it. I’d met the victim, I found the body, and, oh yeah, I’m a vampire. If nothing else, I’ll be a scapegoat.”
“But you don’t own a gun.”
“How hard are they to get? The Jag Queens have guns, for heaven ’s sake. I don’t need
Suspects for Dummies
to see where this is going.”
“That’s the smart mouth I know.” He cuffed me on the arm—the right arm that now hurt again. “Don’t worry about it. The attorney will protect your rights while we let the system work.”
He waved and hopped into his jeep. I groaned. Let the system work? Sure. How many times had I read those same words in novels? Enough to know the heroine always had to climb out of hot water by solving the crime herself. So would I…if I had to.
I awoke at three Thursday afternoon to wind, rain, and the shrill ringing of the phone. I rolled over to grab the receiver, but the answering system kicked on before I reached it.
Okay, so I was avoiding the inevitable, but my eyes were gritty and, for the first time since I’d been unearthed, I didn’t feel like bouncing out of bed. Instead, I lay there remembering the morning. Was the gruesome news out? Was I, in fact, the prime suspect? I was supposed to guide a tour at nine thirty, the late shift. Did I still have a job?
The ghost tours ran rain or shine, so I didn’t think a nor’easter would cancel my gig as long as tourists showed up for it. On the bright side, the bad weather would excuse my bad hair, which I probably wouldn’t get completely dry before I had to meet a man about a murder.
On that happy thought, I rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. After a quick wash, I gooped leave-in conditioner on my hair and wrapped it in a towel. Then I hurried to the dorm fridge in the kitchen where I kept my Starbloods. As I had my breakfast, I listened to messages.
One from Neil: Talked to the cops. Detective March seems to be an all right guy, but our boards may not be returned for a while. Call Maggie.
Three from Maggie: Call me. I have attorneys for you, Sam Owens and Sandy Krause. Call me. Two from Detective March: Get my butt to the sheriff’s office on U.S. 1 and Lewis Speedway before five. Not his exact words in either message, but I got the gist.
A call from work told me I needed to sign a waiver form if I wasn ’t going to make a claim on the injury to my arm. Someone from the office or an early shift guide would leave the form at the tour substation for me to pick up tonight. I tossed off the rest of my drink, washed and recycled the bottle, and had tackled drying my hair when the phone rang again.
“Cesca! Thank God! I was beginning to worry,” Maggie said when I answered.
“I’m fine, Maggie. Getting ready to go to the sheriff’s.”
“Have you called the attorneys yet? You haven’t, have you? All right, I’ll call their office and get one of them to meet you. They owe me. I’d be there, but I’m stuck in Gainesville with this new client. Don’t talk to the county cops unless at least one of the attorneys is with you. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“And call me before you go to work. I want to know how the interview went.”
I promised that, too, and hurried to dry my hair a little more while keenly aware that the clock was ticking. When I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, I put my damp hair in a ponytail and dressed in my favorite comfy jeans, a three-quarter sleeve navy and tan sweater, and tennis shoes.
At four thirteen I blew through the double glass doors to the sheriff’s office along with the wind and rain, and my umbrella with now-bent spokes. A woman with curly red hair shot out of one of the chairs against the wall. Her navy suit screamed expensive, her first words branded her as no-nonsense.
“Francesca, right? Sandy Krause, of Krause and Owens.”
She held out her hand and shook mine. Didn’t even flinch when she touched me. Points for her. I didn’t know exactly what to say, but those ingrained manners kicked in. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
“Anything for a friend of Maggie’s.” She released my hand and addressed the woman at the reception counter. “Please tell Detective March that Ms. Marinelli and her counsel are here.”
She turned and motioned me back to the row of chairs where she picked up a black leather briefcase and a tan London Fog trench coat.
“I’ll request a few minutes with you in private before the formal interview, ” she said softly, “but tell me right now if you killed this woman.”