Deadly Homecoming. Barbara Phinney
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they’re agreeing with you.”
She looked hurt as she folded her arms. “There’s got to be some rational explanation for all that. Lawson, I didn’t kill Danny. I swear it!”
That was the first time anyone here, except the pastor, had called on him for anything. He’d been on the island for nearly a year and in that time had taken the position of deacon at the church. To everyone, he’d come to de-stress, and he hadn’t offered anything more than that, nor had the islanders asked anything more from him.
Now Peta was looking at him with a raw cry for help. She was a desperate, vulnerable woman. And a beautiful one at that. He couldn’t desert her, but it was going to be hard to help her and keep his objectivity. She’d known both Danny Culmore and Gary Marcano.
He ignored the thought. “I’m sorry you’ve had a scare. Do you think you need to go to the clinic? Maybe get something to help you sleep?”
She shook her head. “I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ll have trouble falling asleep.”
“But you’re alone up here. Want me to camp out on the couch?”
She eyed him silently, her gray eyes darkening again. He knew it was a bit foolish to offer to stay the night. Until a few hours ago, she hadn’t even known he’d existed. Of course she wouldn’t allow him to stay.
Finally, she shook her head. “I’ll be okay. I just won’t look out at the water.” She ran her hand through her shoulder-length hair, messing it in such a way that he wanted to smooth it out. But reaching across and touching her wouldn’t exactly engender trust, and he was beginning to see that she didn’t have any reason to trust anyone here.
“I just need some rest,” she added. “And since I can’t prove my alibi, I should start looking for a lawyer tomorrow.”
That was his cue to leave. She looked too tired to care anyway. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled, forcing his feet to move him out of the way, and out of any temptation to comfort her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He left her, but not the property. At the point closest to the cliff, he stopped the car, and climbed out. Night had fallen, and the fog was now seeping in, though not enough to obscure his view of the cottage. He could see Peta move from room to room, closing curtains, but leaving the lights on. He glanced down at the cliff. It was getting perilously close to the narrow driveway.
The only evidence of Peta’s fall lay in the crushed grass and the clumps of yanked-up weeds, both visible in his Jeep’s headlights. Off to one side sat a short, sturdy log, and beside it, the sleeve of crackers he’d given Peta. He stooped to pick them up, unable to ignore the signs of leftover panic.
There was no way she could have gone into Danny’s gazebo. And no way she’d be foolish enough to leave all that evidence around.
Which meant someone was framing her for murder.
Upstairs in the bedroom, with her eyes closed, Peta shut out the view of the bay, and the line of trees beyond the cottage that stood judgmentally silent, reminding her of all the things she and Danny had done. She hated the memories of the pain she’d caused the people here.
And she felt a sharp pang of loss at Danny’s death, something she hadn’t expected. Danny and she hadn’t parted on good terms, the argument something petty and long forgotten. Though they’d made up several months later, the hard feelings had lingered between them. Now, a sense of regret swept over her.
Once notified, Danny’s cousins would probably come. She could barely remember them. They lived somewhere around Fredericton. One had joined the military and was posted at the nearby base. She didn’t even remember which side of the family they were from.
With tightly closed eyes, she recalled her unique view of the tree line, courtesy of her fall. In the time she’d been gone, a few maples and oaks had grown up. It would be pretty in the fall. And this lawn, more a meadow this time of year, had defied the cool temps and blossomed. Daisies and devil’s paintbrush danced in her mind’s eye, as if trying to calm her leftover terror.
Northwind was the perfect place for photographers and painters. Strangely, though, this small island had never attracted artsy types. The locals had refused to cultivate an openness to that kind of tourist. Why, Peta never knew. The whole island was scenic and pleasant, even with the fog rolling in on cool mornings. Photographers would love it here, but the locals preferred their island to remain quiet and unspoiled.
On the bedside table, the phone rang. She turned and stared at it. Who would be calling her at this hour? And who even knew she was staying here? To be honest, she hadn’t expected the phone to be hooked up. It had to be for Lawson, as he’d already rented this cottage.
The third ring rattled through her and she reached out to grab it.
“Hello?”
A pause. “You gotta leave the island.”
“Who is this?”
Another creepy pause. Her voice rose. “Who is this?”
“Drugs are bad, Peta. Look what happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There are bad things here.”
She tried to focus on the voice, but it was plain, accentless to her ear, slow and deliberate. And though she thought the speaker was male, she wasn’t entirely sure. “You mean the murder? Did you kill Danny?”
“No!”
“How do I know that? Why are you warning me?”
No answer.
“Why are you trying to frame me?”
“I’m not! I saw you fall.” The person let out a squeaky noise. Was this a man? “Those cliffs are bad for you. For everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
There was a pensive pause. Finally, the caller spoke again. “Drugs are bad, rifles are bad. Danny’s bad.”
“This is crazy. You should tell the police if you know something about Danny’s death.”
The tone changed. The voice deepened. “‘Some things are better left in civilians’ hands.’”
Her blood chilled, leaving an icy hand to clutch her stomach. The whole mood switched from concern to something more sinister. Determined to ignore the melodramatic change, she snapped, “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“I can’t tell you no more! Just go.”
The line went dead. She immediately hit the call return buttons, but a canned recording told her that the number wasn’t available.
There was something else, too, something in his—or her—words, bad grammar aside. Whoever it was, one thing was certain. She’d heard that voice before. But where?
Heart thumping, she set down the phone. Should she call the police, tell them what this person had just said? Would they even believe her? Getting this call now seemed a bit too convenient.
Immediately, she thought of Lawson. But what could he do to help her? Did she even want his help?
She did. If he’d opened his arms to her tonight, she’d have walked right into them. There seemed to be a connection growing between them, some kind of odd, indefinable bond, despite the short time they’d known each other.
But that didn’t mean she should call him, no matter how much she wanted to prove her innocence.
Her head starting to pound, she knew what she really needed was to crawl into bed, shut her eyes and pray that she woke tomorrow morning ready to tackle the situation God had just dumped on her.
Peta was surprised to find Lawson at the police station the next day. She’d been up early, just after dawn, a bit too