The Ghost and the Mystery Writer

J
olene Carmichael didn't make
a practice of arranging late night rendezvous under the Frederickport Pier. It was all very spontaneous. While on her way home from the movies, she had decided to stop at Pier Café for a late night snack. The moment she entered the diner she spied him sitting at a booth.

Jolene viewed this as her opportunity to settle the matter. Unfortunately, once she realized Carla was working the late night shift, she knew it would be difficult to say much with the nosey woman hovering about. Jolene suggested they leave the restaurant separately. She would go first, he could wait a few minutes before leaving, and then they could meet under the pier to conclude their business.

Had she been in her prime, Jolene might have described the night air as brisk. But she was no longer a young woman. Her joints ached. The damp salt air savagely permeated her bones. Stubbornly, she continued to wait for him in the darkness, the only light coming from the moon beyond the shelter of the pier. Unable to stop her shivering, wishing she had worn a heavier jacket, she cursed him for making her wait. When he didn't show up within fifteen minutes, she began to wonder if he had stood her up.
He's deluding himself if he thinks he can avoid me indefinitely
, she thought.

Jolene wasn't afraid of the dark, nor of being alone under the pier so late at night. She had grown up in Frederickport, and while she had spent the last few years in New York, the Oregon seaside village still felt like home—and certainly a safer place for a senior citizen late at night compared to a big city.

“Jolene?” a faint voice called out in the darkness.

She turned to the approaching voice. It came from the direction she had recently walked from Pier Café. After a moment or two, she could see the shadow of his figure coming toward her.

“What took you so long?” Jolene snapped. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she hugged her lightweight jacket closer to her body.

“I had to pay my bill. As it was, I didn't get to finish my pie. I don't know why you insisted on coming down here. I thought I made it perfectly clear on the matter. We really have nothing left to discuss.”

Jolene laughed. “Oh really? And yet, here you are.”

“If you do this, Jolene, it's not going to make you look good.”

“As if I really care at this point.”

“What will you accomplish if you do this? What?”

She smiled at the sound of his desperation. “I'm counting on you giving me what I want, and then neither of us will be embarrassed.”

“You don't care how this might hurt Melony?” he asked.

“I'm doing this for Melony.”

“I doubt she'll see it that way.”

Nearby, waves crashed along the shore, and the evening breeze intensified, making it impossible for him to hear Jolene's next sentence. He took a step closer to her so they could talk without shouting. The last thing he wanted was for their voices to carry and for someone on the pier to overhear their conversation.

When he took another step toward her, he felt his foot kick something in the sand. He paused a moment and looked down. Jolene was still talking and hadn't noticed he was briefly preoccupied by something at his feet. She continued to prattle on as he leaned down to pick up whatever it was he had kicked. He found an empty wine bottle.

Jolene turned to face the ocean. The moon cast a shimmering streak of gold across its surface. Determined to get her way, she broke into an enthusiastic rant, explaining exactly what she intended to do and say if her demands were not met in the morning. This was the first time she had issued a deadline. Until now, they had been in negotiations. Jolene was no longer willing to negotiate. She knew exactly what she wanted, and if she didn't have it by tomorrow at noon, she would make good on her threat.

Clutching the bottle's neck, he slowly stood back up while listening to Jolene recite all the nasty things she planned to say about him the next day should he refuse to give in to her demands.

Laughing, Jolene turned from the ocean and faced him, never noticing the bottle in his right hand, dangling limply at his right side.

She sounded pleased with herself. “I really don't know why I let this go on for so long. You're going to give me what I want eventually—you really have no other choice. There's no reason to put off the inevitable any longer.” Jolene shivered. “It's cold out here. No more playing this silly game.” Turning her back to him, deciding to return to her car, she said, “I expect you to give it to me—”

Jolene didn't have the opportunity to finish her sentence. But he gave it to her. It wasn't exactly what she was asking for, nor what she expected. The wine bottle didn't break when it crashed over Jolene's head, but it sent her crumpling to the ground after making a most unpleasant cracking sound.

The bottle slid from his hand a moment later, landing back in the sand. He rushed to Jolene's side, kneeling by the still body.

“Jolene?” he whispered.

There wasn't even a groan.

He placed his fingertips along her neck. There was no pulse. His own pulse raced as he rested his head on her chest, listening for a heartbeat. There was none.

Taking a deep breath, he told himself it was a blessing. Had Jolene been teetering between life and death, another bash or two over the head would be required, and that could get messy.

He hadn't planned to kill her tonight. Hell, he hadn't even intended to see her tonight. Although, he had to admit, the thought of murdering Jolene Carmichael had been lurking in the back of his mind.

Letting out another deep breath, he asked,
Who am I kidding?
The idea hadn't been lurking, it had been driving recklessly throughout his mind for the last few days. He had imagined grinding up oleander leaves and spiking her morning coffee. He considered backing over her with his car and claiming it was an accident, but then he remembered his car had a backup camera.

He never really imagined he would have the guts to carry through, yet now Jolene was as dead as her poor husband and his miserable business partner, Clarence Renton. Standing up, preparing to leave, he glanced down at Jolene, her dead eyes stared blankly at him. Suddenly, he remembered Carla.

“Damn, Carla saw me talking to Jolene. She saw me leaving the restaurant.” Now starting to panic, he glanced around and then looked back to Jolene, trying to figure out what to do next. Dragging the body out to the water was one option, but there was no guarantee it would be washed out to sea and not show up on a nearby beach. After a moment of consideration, the only reasonable option—make it look like a robbery gone bad.

Smiling, he remembered the ridiculous number of gold and diamond rings Jolene liked to wear—one ring on every finger. Glancing around to make sure they were still alone on the beach, he knelt beside Jolene, intending to remove her jewelry. He started with the ring on her right index finger, giving it a little tug, but it stubbornly refused to budge. Letting out a curse, he gave the ring a twist and turn, but he couldn't get a firm grip. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and used it to obtain a better grip on the ring. Finally, it slipped off the dead finger.

One by one he removed her rings. It took a great deal of twisting and tugging. When the dead woman's fingers were bare, he stuffed the jewelry in his coat's pocket with his handkerchief and reached for Jolene's purse, which lay abandoned by her side. Rummaging through the purse, he grabbed all the cash he could find and then tossed the purse aside.

Standing up, he looked down at Jolene, whose lifeless eyes continued to stare up, the angle of the moon now casting light over the gruesome corpse. A shiver ran down his spine. On impulse, he leaned down and rolled Jolene over onto her belly, and then he frantically began shoveling sand over the body in an attempt to conceal it. Whether the morning tide would undo the camouflage, he gave it no thought. Instead, like a dog furiously digging for a bone, he shoveled sand, sending it flying in all directions, until all that appeared to be left of Jolene was a suspicious sand dune.

He remembered the bottle. Hauling it away from the crime scene was one option, but he was afraid someone might see him carrying it. Since he had only touched its neck, he quickly retrieved it and used his handkerchief to wipe his fingerprints from the bottle's neck before tossing the murder weapon back onto the beach. With the toe of his shoe, he kicked sand over the bottle.

Turning from the grizzly scene, he dug his hands into his coat pockets—and then he felt them—Jolene's rings. “Damn, I don't want your rings. And I sure as hell don't want anyone to find them on me.”

He considered throwing them into the ocean, but he was never much of a pitcher, and with his luck, they would wash up on shore and the cops would find them when investigating Jolene's murder. Tossing them in some trash can was not an option. If anyone found the rings and turned them in to the police—and if someone identified them as belonging to Jolene—the police would realize this wasn't a mugging gone bad. What mugger steals jewelry, kills the victim, and then dumps the loot? No mugger.

Walking faster, putting distance between him and Jolene's lifeless body, his mind raced, trying to come up with a solution to the unwanted rings weighing down his coat pocket. Just as he reached the sidewalk, the solution presented itself.

“You idiot,” he mumbled. “Toss them off the end of the pier. It's deep. They'll sink. No one will ever find them.” Tugging the brim of his hat down over his eyebrows and his coat collar upward in an attempt to conceal himself, he turned in the direction of the pier. If he passed anyone who had seen him leave the area earlier, he would just say he had taken a walk along the beach.

Moonlight cast a muted golden glow across the weathered planks of Frederickport Pier. He stayed to the right of the wooden walkway, avoiding the doorway leading into Pier Café. He didn't want Carla to see him.

Hastily, he made his way toward the end of the pier, passing a few fishermen along the way. Fortunately, they were preoccupied and gave him little notice. One was busy reeling in a fish while another was cursing his tangled line.

Before he reached the end of the pier, he passed a young couple holding hands in the moonlight. They, like the fishermen, were preoccupied with their own business and didn't seem to notice when he walked by.

Now standing at the far end of the pier, his hand dipped into his pocket and scooped up the rings, clutching them tightly. Nervously, he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. The handholding couple was some distance away, their backs to him. He couldn't see the fishermen now concealed by shadows of the night.

Slowly, he removed his hand from his pocket and glanced behind him one more time before reaching out beyond the rail of the pier and opening his hand. The rings slipped out, falling to the water below. He didn't hear a splash, but he assumed the ocean beating against the pier muted the sound. He was confident they had found their way to the bottom of the ocean's floor beneath the pier.

Dipping his hand back into his pocket to make sure it was empty, he froze when he felt one more ring.

“Damn,” he muttered. Again, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Certain no one could see him even if they were looking his way, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and dropped the last ring into the ocean. He heard a splash.