Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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she was trying to devour a four-headed balloon animal. Boone gave her a sidelong glance. “First body?”
“No, but first day in charge. Some timing.”
“Shoulda stood in bed.” He chuckled to himself and narrowed his eyes in assessment. “Craziest saying. Don’t know what the hell it signifies.”
With straightened shoulders, Chipper had returned to the periphery and was studiously avoiding any connection with the body, his dark glance following a bald eagle high overhead, its feeble peeping cry belying its reputation as king of birds. From far away, Holly could see inquiring heads in the underbrush and hear fragmented comments. Walking over, she directed Chipper to keep away the onlookers, who, now that the coroner had arrived, sensed a melodramatic story to take home to Anacortes or Kamloops. “This looks straightforward enough. Maybe we’ll get lucky and avoid complications,” she said, back at Boone’s side.
“We’re already luckier than she was. And besides, complications make life interesting. Doncha like no challenges?” Boone rotated the neck and head, then parted the hair, frowning. “Serious blow to the side of the head. From a dive or a fall. At the edges of the cove where the rocks meet the water.” Then taking out a thermometer, he positioned himself to shield the body and turned Angie onto her side with a gentle “Up we go, darlin’.” Holly followed an instinct to flinch and turned away as if to keep an eye on the crowd. Squeezing her fists until the nails bit the palm, she knelt next to him. The girl wore a bikini, and wore it well. Not an ounce of fat, and a neat six-pack revealed long-term toning, if not avid body building. An athlete? The shoulders were broad, the hips slim. Her legs and arms had been shaved. A swimmer? Odd that she hadn’t worn her hair short, but she’d probably used a cap. On her shoulder was a tasteful blue rose. How many teens didn’t have a tattoo?
Boone then placed the thermometer in the water for a short while, retrieving it with a nod. “Nearly water temperature. Not surprising. Plays hell with rigor and time of death. Not as bad as being in an air-conditioned or heated room, though.” He looked up, breaking into Holly’s thoughts. “You and the rajah could give a gander to the area. We’re not going to be able to hold this scene for long. Wind and waves wait for no man.” Holly bristled at the unexpected racial jibe, nor did she appreciate the directives. They were more or less equals, each with a job. “How about watching your language, Mr. Boone?”
He grinned and poked her leg. “Just kidding. Lighten up. My late wife of forty years was born in Bombay or Mumbai, whatever. One hell of a cook when it came to pilafs and curries. And it’s plain Boone to my friends.”
Holly looked down and toed away a string of kelp affixed to her boot. Now she’d alienated the coroner. Things had been so different when Ben Rogers called the shots. “So, does there have to be an autopsy? Is it at the discretion of the parents?”
“Not always, but no to your second question. It’s my call. Vic Daso at the Jubilee will probably take this one. He’s a crackerjack. Help if we could find some witnesses so we could figure this out,” Boone added, rocking back on his bulging haunches. In the distance, a siren was wailing.
Holly had seen a couple of drownings in The Pas, when snowmobilers had gone down crossing the narrows on fickle Cedar Lake. March was the worst month. People got cocky about conditions, especially when alcohol was involved. Men in their twenties were the prime offenders, thought they were invincible and rejected flotation suits and hand picks as sissy gear. She searched her mind for the few training classes on autopsies.
“He’ll check for water in the lungs, though there is such a thing as a dry drowning.”
“That seems like a conflict in terms.”
“Not really. Ever jumped into icy water? Shock makes the throat constrict. So the victim dies from lack of air. Suffocation, to be exact. He’ll run a toxicology report. It’s fair to believe that there’s been drinking at this party, if not drugs. Pot. Cocaine. Meth, I doubt.”
In the recesses of the tidal pool flats, a round, pinkish shape shimmered in a half inch of water. Anemone. She touched it with her finger, and it shrank into itself. Odd that it knew exactly where to move and where to stay. Up nearer the tide line, it would find itself dry, if only for a few hours, and die. But then, perhaps some of the fairy-like creatures had done just that and exited the gene pool.
“Penny for ’em. Make that a loonie. Flying higher than the eagle these days.” Boone stared at her in some amusement.
“Wool gathering, as my grandmother used to say. What was that about meth?” A rare frown cut the space between her eyebrows.
He stuck out his lower lip in cogitation. There was a slight scar on one end. “In more urban areas, we’re starting to assemble a nice mix of stats on meth overdoses, but Notre Dame Catholic Academy? Probably not.”
Notre Dame. Ann hadn’t passed on such specific information, and why would she? Holly felt the beginnings of an ugly trip down memory lane. Fourteen years ago, she’d said a joyous goodbye to that private school in Sooke and its snobs and cliques. She’d been a maverick and proud of it. The only faculty member she’d respected was the crusty librarian, Sister Dympna. How often she’d hidden out there and buried herself in books on trees, flowers, birds and animals of the island. At that time, the school had been all-girl, a deadly species, gatekeepers to a private hell. Her one friend Valerie, a natural comic and troublemaker, had joined the army and hadn’t been in contact since.
“How did you know which school it was?”
He rubbed his chin, making a rasping sound. “Ann said when she called me.”
Two paramedics made their way down with a stretcher. “Sorry to take so long. Hydro was taking a leaning tree at the Shirley curve. About time, but traffic was backed up for miles.”
“That’s all right, boys. She’s in no hurry.” Boone packed away his kit and motioned for the stretcher. “Good to go. Time of death’s not going to be easy. First in the water, then in the sun. Sure hope someone saw her somewhere sometime. Stomach content will be a helpful factor.”
Holly stripped off her gloves. “That’s what bothers me. Was she here alone? That seems strange.” Not for herself, though. She’d spent many quiet evenings on a beach, beside a small driftwood fire, thinking her own young thoughts as she grilled hot dogs.
Chipper had assembled a collection of paper evidence bags as they joined him. “Lots of trash. An open condom foil. Probably means nothing. It’s a beach, a place for partying.”
“Cleaner than most,” Holly said. Volunteers patrolled on a regular basis to polish their world-class jewel.
As Boone walked off and the paramedics knelt to attend to the body, Holly checked the boundaries. Chipper had done well, but if something had been overlooked, now was the time to find it. She passed a clump of Saskatoon berry bushes, generously dangling their luscious, supersweet fruits. A tall bunch of innocuous-looking plants threatened to brush her sleeve, and she pulled away. Stinging nettle. Fine in soup but painful to even the slightest brush. Then under a bush she saw a loose braid of greenery. To anyone else it might have appeared natural, but Holly’s trained eye spotted the anomaly. She inhaled its pleasant herbal aroma. Common sweetgrass, used in purification ceremonies among aboriginal North Americans.
At the parking lot, she took a fresh bag from Chipper, then watched Boone drive off in his rusty Land Rover, the tailpipe held in place by wire, nodding fractious acquaintance with the gravel. “What’s that?” Chipper asked, searching her eyes in a gesture of uncertainty.
“Sweetgrass.”
He considered the bundle, wrinkling his nose. “Like weed?”
She tried not to laugh. “No, First Nations people don’t smoke sweetgrass. They burn it like incense.”
His face brightened. “My mother loves sandalwood. She has a shrine to Ganesh. So what’s your take on this?” he asked.
“A blank slate. Safest that way. Let’s go talk to everyone.
They’ve