Writing All Wrongs (9 page)

The bell rang again, fainter this time. The sound reminded Olivia of a large ship’s bell. It was old-fashioned and lacked the clarity of modern-day bells and horns, which were often automated. However, Olivia saw no lights out in the water.

Following the direction of Haviland’s stare, she spotted a smudge of white farther up the beach toward Land End Lodge. Olivia realized that the white object was a dress. It billowed around a woman’s legs as the wind from the ocean filled it like a sail.

Or a nightgown
, Olivia thought.

She was tempted to step out onto the deck and get a better view of the woman who’d decided to wander the beach in the middle of the night, but she was tired and the bed was
comfortable, so after calling Haviland away from the window and inviting him to curl up by her feet, Olivia went back to sleep.

*   *   *

The next morning, she rose with the sun. Leaving Rawlings contentedly snoring, she and Haviland went downstairs. While Haviland breakfasted, Olivia brewed coffee and sat in the sunroom, where she watched yellow seep into the lower half of the sky like spilled honey.

The ship bell still echoed in her mind. It had been a haunting sound to hear in the dead of night, as was the sight of the woman in white.

“Where was she going?” Olivia asked Haviland. “And wasn’t she cold?”

Olivia sipped her coffee as the sun slowly rose over the water. When Haviland pawed at the deck door, she put on her sneakers and the jacket Rawlings had left on the sofa and followed her poodle outside. She didn’t wait while Haviland busied himself in a cluster of sea oats, but walked down to the beach. She turned west, looking for footprints, but all traces of the woman had been washed away by the waves.

“Was she a dream?” Olivia murmured to herself. “The woman and the bell?”

She passed the lodge and the place where she’d met Emmett’s greyhounds. Haviland sniffed at a dozen different scents and didn’t seem too interested in any of them until he suddenly let out a sharp bark of alarm. Farther along the beach, Olivia spotted a figure lying in the sand.

As Olivia got closer, she could see that the person was a woman. She was stretched out on her back, staring up at the sky. Her blue lips were parted, and the whites of her unblinking eyes had a blue cast. Her long dark hair looked to have been pulled into a loose bun high on her head, and several strands had escaped, framing her face with loose curls. Her
arms and legs were spread like someone paused in the act of making a snow angel.

She was not wearing a nightgown, but a white dress with an empire waist. The dress appeared too small for her tall frame and looked antique. Olivia’s gaze swept over the woman’s body and then returned to the flaccid skin of the woman’s face.

“Leigh Whitlow. What happened to you?”

Olivia reached into the jacket pocket for the cell phone she’d left on the table back at the rental house.

“Damn,” she muttered. Seeing no obvious clues around the body, Olivia could think of no recourse but to return to Lifesaver, alert the authorities, and send Rawlings to stand guard over Silas Black’s dead girlfriend.

“Where were you going?” Olivia asked the lifeless woman.

Leigh had no bag, no shoes, and no flashlight. The moon had lit her way.

“It was cold last night. Did you leave in a hurry? Were you scared?” Olivia remembered what she’d seen from her bedroom window. “You weren’t running. It seemed like you were listening to the ship’s bell—following it—but where did the sound come from? There were no boats on the water.”

Leigh’s corpse offered no answers, so Olivia told Haviland to heel and jogged back to Lifesaver.

Rawlings was in the kitchen, a coffee cup in one hand and a piece of toast smeared with a thick layer of cream cheese in the other. He smiled warmly when Olivia entered the room.

“You went out early. I thought . . .” He stopped midsentence. “What’s wrong?”

“Leigh Whitlow is dead,” Olivia said. She’d meant to sound calm, but her voice wavered. “Her body is on the beach, about a quarter mile past Land End.”

Rawlings scooped his phone off the counter. “I’ll make
the call while I get dressed. You’d better leave Haviland here. The locals could show up with K9 units.”

Already dialing the Riverport Police, Rawlings rushed upstairs.

By the time Olivia led him to Leigh’s body, the morning sun had risen above the waves and the haze of dawn was gone.

Rawlings kept his distance from the dead woman. He stood very quietly for several minutes, looking at her, and then he glanced at the sand around her body.

“No drag marks. No deep depressions to indicate she was carried.” Though he spoke out loud, Olivia knew that he wasn’t addressing her. Everything but the scene had ceased to exist for him. “I think you drowned. So how did you end up in this posture? Who arranged you like a human starfish?”

Olivia stared at Leigh. She no longer resembled the embittered woman Olivia had seen at the ferry dock or the library. That woman’s cosmetics had been applied with skill and care. She’d worn false eyelashes and obviously taken pains with her long hair. This woman’s face had been scrubbed clean. With her dark hair pulled back into a bun, she looked younger and far more vulnerable than the person who’d gained fame for being Silas Black’s jealous and unpredictable girlfriend.

“Theodosia Burr,” Olivia whispered and felt a shiver of horror over the coincidence. “That dress. The hair. The drowning.”

Rawlings stopped examining the sand. “Who’s Theodosia Burr?”

“The daughter of Aaron Burr. She was lost at sea somewhere off the North Carolina Coast. Emmett mentioned her in his talk on haunted landmarks. He showed us her portrait.” Olivia gestured at Leigh’s body. “In the painting, Theodosia wore a dress just like that.”

In the morning light, the dress didn’t glow as it had the
night before. It clung to Leigh’s legs in damp, wrinkled folds. Clumps of sand stuck to her bare arms and feet, but there wasn’t a grain of sand on her face. It was as though someone had carefully wiped off her cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose before leaving her to face the sunrise alone.

“Over the years, many people claim to have seen Theodosia’s ghost,” Olivia said quietly. “She walks along the beach, apparently searching for something or someone. And though Theodosia was younger than Leigh when she died, the two women could have been twins. Harris and I both noticed the resemblance right away.”

“Another ghost story come to life,” Rawlings said. “Maybe we need to pay a visit to the Allens.”

Olivia studied his face. “You don’t think they had anything to do with this, do you?”

Rawlings shook his head. “No, but I’m hoping George can shed some light on these seemingly random occurrences. I still can’t figure out what message the person responsible for these events is trying to send.”

“I think it’s safe to assume that the message is meant for Silas Black,” Olivia said. The dead deer was a warning that the island would seek revenge if he went through with his development. Directing the boat containing archaeology equipment into the shoals undermines the project Black is helping to fund, and putting a burning boat in the path of the tall ship indicates that the perpetrator isn’t a fan of pirates. Or of books or television shows featuring pirates. Remember, Black plans to film on this island.”

Rubbing his chin, Rawlings fixed his gaze on Leigh’s face. “Those acts were done from the shadows. They were both theatrical and cowardly. They were also carefully timed and meticulously executed.”

“The culprit is getting bolder. Killing that deer was awful, but . . .” She trailed off, raising her hand to indicate Leigh’s inert form. The wind swept in from the water and ruffled the
puffed sleeves of the white dress. Once again, the sight reminded Olivia of an untrimmed sail flapping in the breeze.

Your journey has ended
, she thought and wished she could close Leigh’s eyes.

Rawlings reached for Olivia’s hand, and together, they stood silently over the body until Peterson and his team arrived.

Peterson briefly shook hands with Rawlings and then assessed the scene.

“Aw, hell!” he exclaimed as he looked down at Leigh. “We don’t find dead bodies on Palmetto Island. The worst that happens here are B&Es in the winter and drunk and disorderlies during the high season. Our first suspicious death and it’s a goddamn celebrity!” He rubbed his forehead. “Goddamn it.”

“It’s a tough situation,” Rawlings said sympathetically. “I’d be glad to assist in any way that I can. The footprints closest to the victim belong to my wife. She found Ms. Whitlow while walking our dog this morning.”

Peterson grunted.

“I canvased the sand, moving in an outward circle from here”—Rawlings walked closer to the body, made a line in the sand with his foot, and then backed up and repeated the motion—“to about here. I didn’t find a thing. No cigarette butts. No drag marks. No foot or shoe prints. I think the killer carried her to this spot from the water, and then used something to clear off his tracks. Either that, or the wind and water did it for him.”

“You think she was drowned?” Peterson asked. “Maybe she got wasted and stumbled into the water. Someone else came along and found her floating there, so they pulled her up the beach and laid her down. Maybe this person didn’t want to get involved, so they took off.”

Rawlings nodded respectfully. He always listened to contradictory theories with an open mind, but Olivia knew Peterson was wrong. She’d seen the bruising on Leigh’s neck. The blue oval marks indicating that someone’s fingers had dug hard into the soft flesh.

“Someone held her under,” Rawlings said. “Look at her neck.”

Peterson squatted beside Leigh and cursed. “It had to be a goddamn celebrity.” He straightened and started barking orders at his men.

Rawlings and Olivia retreated. As Peterson’s men erected a tent over the body, a female officer took their statements. When they were done, Peterson asked for a summary and then looked at Rawlings.

“The handler of our K9 unit is on vacation, so we’re calling in backup from the next county. ME’s on his way too.” Peterson shifted, and Olivia could sense his anxiety. “I assume you’ve overseen murder cases before, Chief. Anything else I should do before I speak with Mr. Black?”

Rawlings recommended that Peterson send men to all the houses between Black’s house and the place where Leigh’s body had been left.

“Last night, I heard the ringing of a ship’s bell. That’s what woke me,” Olivia said to Peterson. “If anyone else heard the sound, they might have gotten out of bed and seen Ms. Whitlow. She was walking as though she didn’t feel the cold, like she was spellbound. Like she was being lured.”

“Her dress is unusual too,” Rawlings added. “I’m not up on fashion, but my wife thinks Ms. Whitlow is wearing a Regency-style dress and a hairstyle that would make her resemble Theodosia Burr.”

Peterson’s eyes widened. “The woman from the ghost story?”

“You’re familiar with it?” Olivia asked.

Peterson nodded. “All the locals are. Women dress up as her for Halloween. Put seaweed in their hair. Paint their lips blue. Try to make it look like they’ve . . . drowned. Jesus.”

“We think someone is taking coastal stories—ghost stories—and using them to send a message,” Rawlings said and repeated Olivia’s theory.

“Silas Black won’t leave,” Peterson said. “He’s not the type to be intimidated.”

“A trashed house is one thing,” Olivia said. “A murdered girlfriend is another.”

Rawlings raised his hand. “Wait a minute. Where
is
Mr. Black staying? His house isn’t habitable.”

“I don’t know,” Peterson said ruefully. “But I need to find him. He should be among the first to know what happened to Ms. Whitlow.”

“Unless he already knows,” Olivia murmured and stole a final glance at the tent on the
beach.

As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,

I too but signify at the utmost a little wash’d-up drift,

A few sands and dead leaves to gather,

Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

—W
ALT
W
HITMAN

“O
fficer Peterson seems a little out of his depth,” Olivia said on the way back to Lifesaver. “I hope he does ask you to help.”

“Me too. As soon as the press gets hold of the news, Peterson will be pressured into solving this case quickly.” Rawlings increased his pace. “Let’s call the gang. They can come over for breakfast—or brunch—and we can put our heads together.”

Olivia glanced at him. “You don’t think Peterson will have cause to arrest Silas Black?”

“I don’t,” Rawlings said. “When I observed Mr. Black during yesterday’s luncheon, he paid almost no attention to Ms. Whitlow. And after the Q&A session, Millay showed me a host of online news articles documenting Ms. Whitlow’s jealous rages. I believe Ms. Whitlow committed these dramatic acts to get her boyfriend to notice her, but I doubt they worked. My impression is that Mr. Black didn’t feel
strongly about Ms. Whitlow one way or another. Perhaps she was an ornament, but he didn’t value her.”

“What if the only reason Silas and Leigh were together was because she had something on him?” Olivia said. “I overheard Leigh accuse Amy of having an affair with Silas. What if Silas actually
was
having an affair and he decided to kill Leigh to shut her up? The night Silas’s house was vandalized, Harris told me that Silas has had multiple affairs. Of course, this is all based on things Harris has read online, but if it’s true, then why has Silas continued to keep Leigh close? They’re not married. Silas could have walked away at any time. So why hasn’t he?”

Rawlings scratched his chin. “You have a point. But if Mr. Black drowned Ms. Whitlow, then why include the ringing bell? Why dress her like Theodosia Burr?” He tapped his temple. “Peterson should try to track down where the dress came from.”

Olivia ascended the stairs to the Lifesaver’s deck, reached for the sliding glass door, and stopped. “If Peterson doesn’t get anything out of Silas, maybe we should talk to someone who’s known him for a long time.”

Rawlings understood at once. “Charles.”

“I’ll invite him over for a cup of coffee,” Olivia said, opening the door for Haviland.

“Then I’d better take a shower.” Rawlings looked down at his sweatshirt and jeans. “Your father will be polished and pressed, while I’m as rumpled as an old sheet.”

Olivia got her phone and scrolled through her contact list until she reached the
W
s. She still didn’t think of Charles Wade as her father. The father she’d grown up with had viewed his role with reluctance and resignation. Willie Wade hadn’t shown an ounce of warmth toward Olivia, but he’d loved her mother and done his best to provide for them. Shaking her head, as though to dispel the ghost of Willie Wade, Olivia dialed the number.

Charles was delighted by Olivia’s invitation and promised to arrive shortly. “I’m not far from you,” he said. “Silas was able to get me a cottage on the South Beach. I believe you know my neighbor, Professor Billinger. Turns out, he and I are both night owls.”

Olivia felt a prickle of unease. “Oh?”

“I introduced myself to him two nights ago when he was out on his deck with those pretty dogs of his. Last night, he left the dogs behind. He was wearing a backpack, so maybe he was on his way to see a lady friend.” Charles paused, and Olivia could picture him shrugging. “Should I bring anything? Croissants?”

“Sure,” Olivia said absently. “See you soon.”

She stood still for a long moment, taking in what Charles had said.

A backpack? Containing what? And where was he going? Was he involved in Leigh’s murder?

“No,” she said aloud. “He doesn’t know Leigh or Silas. He has nothing to gain from . . .” She trailed off, recalling the image of Emmett washing his hands behind the marina. She thought of the empty gas canister and of the possessive tone in Emmett’s voice when he spoke of the island. He’d moved away, but he grew up in Riverport. He probably knew all the local ghost stories. “He knew them well enough to step in as a last-minute guest speaker.”

“Are you talking to your coffee cup?” Rawlings asked as he entered the kitchen. His hair was wet and slightly tousled, and he smelled of soap and aftershave.

Olivia told him about her brief conversation with Charles.

Rawlings frowned. “Something isn’t right about Emmett. I’m sorry, Olivia. I know he’s your friend. But red flags are popping up all around the guy. I’ll have to mention this to Peterson.”

Nodding in unhappy agreement, Olivia trudged upstairs to shower and change.

By the time she returned, Charles was ensconced in a club chair in the sunroom. He had a coffee cup in one hand and was stroking Haviland’s head with the other. Seeing Olivia, he smiled warmly. “Good morning. This is excellent coffee. Is it Kona?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, accepting a cup from Rawlings.

“The chief asked me to share my thoughts on Professor Billinger.” Charles arched his brows. “Why are you so interested in this guy?”

Rawlings shot Olivia a warning look, but he needn’t have bothered. “You’ll understand in a moment,” Olivia said. She sank deeper into the chair, trying to appear as relaxed as possible.

Charles stopped petting Haviland and gestured at the plate of croissants on the table next to his chair. “Would you like one? They’re quite good. Homemade by someone in that Marina Market.”

Olivia hadn’t had breakfast, so she accepted a croissant as well as a jar of raspberry jam. “Forget about Emmett Billinger for the moment. Tell me about Silas. Now that he’s part of our grand reopening, I’d like to know what to expect. So would Millay. Will he be gracious about sharing the spotlight?”

“I may have called in a favor to get Silas to come, but that doesn’t mean he won’t work hard to sell his books, Millay’s book, and anything else written by regional authors.” Charles folded one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee, and rubbed at a scuff on his Italian loafer. “Silas’s love for the North Carolina coast was the one thing that divided us in school. I didn’t want people to know where I grew up. Most of the kids we met had beach houses where Silas and I lived. The fish they ate on vacation was caught by men like my dad. The T-shirts they bought were sold by people like Silas’s parents. I avoided talking about my roots, while Silas bragged about his town and the area’s history.”

That’s a point in his favor
, Olivia thought.

“Have the two of you visited each other much since college?” she asked casually. “Has he met your family?”

“Only once,” Charles said. “I traveled often on business, which made it easy for me to knock on his door every few years. He lives in California now, but he has more than one vacation home on the North Carolina coast. He just can’t stay away.”

Olivia spread jam on a piece of croissant. “What do you make of Leigh?”

Charles grimaced. “I don’t understand why Silas stays with her. They met during our senior year in college, and she was just as insanely jealous then as she is now. I guess she has good reason. Silas has a wandering eye. And hands.”

“I wonder why they never married,” Rawlings mused.

Charles shrugged. “Silas isn’t the marrying kind. He’s always had a girl on the side. I’ve met several of them.”

“It sounds like he deliberately tried to hurt Leigh.” Olivia shook her head in disapproval. “Why do people linger in poisonous relationships?”

“Because there’s comfort in the familiar,” Charles replied softly and pointed at the ring finger of his left hand. His wedding band was gone. “My wife stayed married to me for years, partially out of habit and partially in hopes that I’d change. Perhaps Silas and Leigh have done the same.”

Olivia knew that Charles’s wife had threatened divorce, but he’d been wearing his wedding ring the last time he and Olivia had met to discuss plans for the bookstore. She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he said with a sad smile. “Not because she left me, but because I failed as a husband. And as a father. If there’s a bright side, the divorce has helped open lines of communication with my other children. It’s been a painful process, but it’s also been cathartic for all of us to say what we’ve held inside for years.”

“Does this mean you plan to settle in Oyster Bay?” Olivia asked.

Now it was Charles’s turn to take Olivia’s hand. “For the immediate future, yes. I’m having the time of my life revitalizing this bookstore with you. I couldn’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be.”

The warmth of his big hand made Olivia feel unexpectedly vulnerable. She glanced at Rawlings, silently conveying the message that she didn’t want to string Charles along anymore. Rawlings picked up on her wish.

“Charles, there’s something you should know,” Rawlings began.

“You have bad news,” Charles said, releasing Olivia’s hand. “No one ever starts a sentence like that when presenting a person with a winning lottery ticket.”

At any other time, Rawlings would have smiled, but his face remained solemn. “I’m afraid my news isn’t good. Olivia found Leigh Whitlow’s body on the beach this morning. Silas’s girlfriend is dead.”

Charles gripped the arms of his chair in surprise. “What? How?”

“I believe someone held her underwater until she drowned,” Rawlings answered. “The police are probably questioning Mr. Black as we speak. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“I should say so. He’s staying with me. He moved in after his place was vandalized.” Charles drew his eyebrows together in confusion. “But I didn’t see a single cop on my way here, and Silas left the house over an hour ago to meet with someone about his show.”

Olivia stared at Charles. “Was Leigh staying with you too?”

“She was supposed to have been,” Charles said. “But she and Silas had a nasty fight last night and she left, shouting curses over her shoulder.”

Rawlings looked pensive. “I’ll have to share this information with Officer Peterson. If you don’t mind, Charles, we’ll
wait for him at your cottage. I should warn you now that the police will want to search the premises. They’ll be especially interested in Silas’s clothes. Whoever held Leigh under the water couldn’t have done so without getting wet and partially covered in sand.”

Charles nodded gravely and then turned to Olivia. “Does this have anything to do with your sudden interest in the professor’s nighttime habits? Was he wandering the beach when Leigh was killed? Because that seems pretty coincidental to me.”

The weight of his words sank into Olivia’s heart like a stone. Emmett’s behavior was most definitely odd.

Not odd. Suspicious
, she thought glumly. Emmett might seem sincere, but his actions raised questions. Too many questions.

“Peterson has a ton of ground to cover in a very short amount of time,” Rawlings said, getting to his feet. “Olivia, do you remember Emmett’s address?”

She met his kind and sympathetic gaze. Though he didn’t want Emmett to be involved because that outcome would cause Olivia distress, Rawlings was a cop through and through. He wouldn’t consider withholding information from a fellow officer of the law, even to spare his wife’s feelings.

“I don’t remember the house number, but I remember the name,” Olivia said. “Emmett’s house is called Shifting Sands.”

Charles carried his cup to the kitchen and waited for Olivia by the door.

“This is some predicament, eh?” he asked quietly. “One of our friends might have done something unforgettable.” He held open the door. “Stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen here. People are supposed to come to places like this to leave their troubles behind. People pay thousands of dollars to spend a few days on this island, hoping to slow down, to stop time from rushing by so quickly, to forget about their worries.”

Haviland pushed past Olivia and jogged toward the golf carts. Leaping onto the closest one, he gazed at Olivia, his eyes shining with eagerness.

“People try to run from their problems,” Olivia said to Charles as she joined Haviland in her golf cart. “And from their secrets. But they follow us. They follow us everywhere.”

A shadow passed over Charles’s face. He tried to turn away so Olivia wouldn’t see it, but he wasn’t fast enough.

“Care to ride with me, Chief?” he asked Rawlings, and the two men set off first.

It took fifteen minutes to reach Charles’s rental cottage. A modest, three-bedroom house with a screened-in porch and a plaque bearing the name Sea Haven over the front door, the entire cottage was decorated in blue and white hues. Charles led them into the kitchen, pointed out the ground-floor master bedroom suite, where he slept, and then paused at the foot of the stairs. “There are two bedrooms on the second story. I don’t know which one Silas chose, but I’d rather not be there while you rifle through his things.”

Rawlings put a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “I understand. Would you rather leave? I won’t examine anything but the upstairs rooms and the laundry facilities. And the outside shower, if there is one.”