Chapter 8
I’d managed to fritter away the rest of Monday with chores, pet care, and binging episodes of Bump in the Night on my laptop, scaring myself silly in the dark of my turret bedroom.
Sleep was fitful, broken up by dreams of a peacock-haired stalker with camera lenses for eyes and Tubbs’ cold, slack face staring up at me from every surface I glimpsed.
Damn ghost hunting shows.
I was still twitchy when Charlemagne decided to sing me the song of his people at half past five in the morning, summoning me downstairs and demanding food.
Which set off the dogs. Which meant I might as well stay up and, two cups of coffee from my secret stash later, I finally mustered the attention span to check my messages.
Nothing from Paul, but there was an alert on my name that took me to Tea and Tinsel.
A picture of me walking Muffin yesterday next to a picture of the charred remains of the Old Yacht Club and a link to the Lester Cove Sentinel and another to the Boston Glone.
Explosion at small town yacht club linked to dead movie producer.
What the hell...
Stomach twisting into balloon animals, I clicked the link to the Globe.
Small Maine Town Faces Another Infamous Death
Lester Cove, Maine is barely a spot on the Maine coast—
“Okay, screw you too buddy,” I muttered, skipping down the intro paragraphs.
I swear, some of these writers were as bad as recipe bloggers with unnecessary, pedantic, and just plain ugh paragraphs of useless info before finally getting to the meat of the matter.
Why do I need a summary of Lester Cove’s history as a fishing village?
I don’t. Just tell me about the dead guy, damn it!
—Tubbs was found on Friday night on his personal yacht.
Local authorities deemed the death an accident but a fire at the Meachum Shaw Memorial Yacht Club, locally known as the Old Yacht Club, might turn this into a murder investigation.
Items belonging to the deceased Gerald Tubbs were discovered in the debris of the fire by authorities from the state arson investigation unit.
Heath Nichols, sheriff in Lester Cove, has not issued a comment at this time but has acknowledged the local law enforcement is working with the state authorities to ensure Gerald Tubbs Junior’s death is treated with dignity and respect.
Gwendolyn Terhune and Pamela Sommers, former stars of the hit long-running series Ladies Who Lunch are also in Lester Cove for the town’s autumn regatta.
Long-time friends of Gerald Tubbs Junior, they issued a statement after the memorial held for him on Monday at the Meachum Shaw Yacht Club of Lester Cove, locally known as the New Yacht Club.
“Gerry was a complicated, passionate man who loved his work, loved helping others succeed, and loved all of his friends fiercely. This accident was a shock—as all are—and we thank the people of Lester Cove, particularly the law enforcement officers and emergency medical professionals who responded to the 911 call. We ask for privacy at this time and, if you are so moved, take some time and watch one of his movies this week to remember a man made in the last throes of Hollywood’s Golden Age. ”
I sat back, staring at the screen of my phone blankly. “I need my murder board.”
***
TOO MUCH TIME ON MY thinking board made me feel stoved up.
Desperately needing fresh air, I made sure the animals were fed and grabbed my jacket, heading out on a walk down Bluff Road and into town.
Most everyone was at the beach or the marina, watching the regatta’s morning run around some colorful buoys, so the main drag was pretty empty.
It gave me time to think. Or dwell, rather.
Had Tubbs really been intending to race the Beth?
I know people had hidden depths but Tubbs being a proficient yachtsman was bridge too far for me to believe.
He’d been comfortable enough on the boat to intend to stay on it, though. And it’d definitely looked lived in...
Heath had mentioned it’d been towed out of the marina to an old slip by the light house, waiting for some company or other to come get it and take it who knew where.
To sell maybe, or pass along to the next wealthy person who wanted to pretend to be a sailor.
I told myself it was pure coincidence I was meandering towards the shore but instead of veering left to go to Shore Drive and the short way back to Witte House, I went right, towards Mariner’s Rest Memorial Park and the narrow walking path that led towards the old lighthouse.
The lighthouse had been unused for years aside from being a small, fussy tourist stop and popular site for locals to take school photos and wedding pictures.
It was a narrow spit of land leading to the lighthouse, few trees lining the path and those that were there were scraggly, battered by salty winds and stunted by sandy soil.
It was a great place to see most of the cove, though.
Especially the race that should be wrapping up in the hour.
It took less than twenty minutes to make my way from the New Yacht Club to the lighthouse overlook, passing by only a handful of people who could’ve stepped out of one of those early 1900’s paintings of a scrubby, gray coastal town.
Why would anyone want to watch a bunch of rich people zoom around the cove on a cold, rainy day I wondered, picking my way down the uneven old path.
It had been paved once, but time and wear and a lack of funds had left the once-smooth walkway jagged and a little risky, at least if you weren’t paying attention.
Like the person barreling towards me, a fast-food sack from a franchise nowhere near Lester Cove clutched in one hand, a laptop case dangling from the other.
They were larger than me, but with weirdly skinny legs propelling their thick upper body at an angle, like it was too heavy for those toothpicks to handle.
The path wasn’t wide enough for two people and we were at the part where the land fell away on either side, the cove to my right and a finger of water to my left.
It was just over a few meters wide but grew broader the closer to the end of the path you went, the rapid change in width and depth making it choppy and probably more of a hazard than I wanted to think about.
A glance showed me it was full of rocky edges and prickly, dangerous things that I didn’t want to meet up close and personal.
“Hey there,” I called, drawing to a halt and turning sideways. “Nice day for it.”
The person didn’t look up, just kept their head down and strode forward even faster, practically jogging now.
I turned sideways, giving them space to move past, and they swerved towards me, just a little jink of their stride that set them moving diagonally across the walkway.
“Hey,” I called again. “Watch out!” I started moving backwards, heart picking up to an uncomfortable rate as they kept heading for me.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I turned and started running, aiming for the head of the walk where there would be, if not a soft landing, at least a landing without rocks and choppy water.
The sound of their steps behind me drove me faster but it wasn’t enough.
Long arms grabbed me from behind, jerking me to a stop.
“Nope,” I growled, twisting in their grip to try and face them, only making it halfway around before they jerked hard on my shirt to pull me back against their torso.
Their very squishy torso. Their coat was heavily padded, I realized, and their hands, that I thought were bare at a distance, were covered in thick, beige leather gloves.
Far too warm for the cool but not biting weather we were having.
Definitely a disguise, or an attempt at one.
I threw my elbow out anyway, hoping enough force would make it through the padding to get them to let go or loosen their hold enough for me to break free.
They just grunted and jerked me in a half-circle, until I was facing the narrow finger of water alongside the walkway.
I went limp, but instead of dropping me they lifted me.
It wasn’t very high, just enough for my feet to clear the ground, but that was all they needed.
A few lumbering, struggling steps brought us to the edge of the walkway.
“Help!” I managed to shout, my voice swallowed by the sound of the waves and the distant cheering for the incoming boats.
“Help!” Scrambling at their arms, I tore at one of the puffy coat sleeves, making them grunt again as they gave me a little shake.
I kicked, my heels hitting their shins but the rubber soled sneakers I wore doing little damage.
In a last-ditch effort at freedom, I worked one hand back and grabbed for their head.
The knit cap slipped off easily and I gripped it like a life preserver as they adjusted their grasp more tightly across my middle, making it hard to breathe.
The memory of a stunt coordinator on Sayles’ Sales Sails, a short-lived sitcom about a department store aboard a massive cruise liner, telling me not to inhale when I was pushed into the pool during a chase scene.
If you breathe in, you’ll get a lungful of water and Jerry will kick my ass, got it?
Breathe out when you fall. I needed to find him online, I thought wildly, and send them a thank you card, because that is exactly what I did as my assailant gave me a heaving shove over the edge.
I missed most of the jutting rocks and broken concrete, but didn’t entirely miss the jagged piece of old sidewalk at the bottom.
The sharp pain of my arm hitting it was almost enough to make me gasp aloud but I clenched down hard, hitting the water with a cold slap.
The pain in my arm was wild, but the shock of hitting the water was a nightmare.
For a moment, I didn’t know which way was up and my lungs screamed at me to inhale, to shout, to drown myself in my panic.
Everything was dark save for a few green-gray blurs.
Something touched me, or maybe I hallucinated it as I fought my clothes pulling me down.
Then, as my lungs burned and screamed with desperation for air, my brain kicked back into gear.
Kick off my shoes. Right. I hated to lose them—they were one of my three favorite pairs, a vintage set of green Chucks I’d found for a steal at a resale shop in Redondo Beach one summer Sunday—but if it was them or me, well I liked myself a tiny bit better than those shoes.
My chest ached and head throbbed as my shoes drifted down.
Struggling out of my jeans would take too long, too much but I could shed my sweater.
A little less weighed down, I aimed for one of the green-gray splotches above and kicked, reaching upward, hoping to feel air.
The current buffeted me, pushing me back down and aside, my broken arm hitting a rocky jut along the bottom of the jetty or maybe it was the slope of land across from it.
But with my good arm, I grabbed for outcropping, scrabbling on the slimy surface, hoping for purchase to push upward.
Finally, I caught a break. My face broke water and I sucked in a lungful of air, the sweet burn of it streaking tears down my cheeks.
It took several more minutes before I was able to pull myself up one-armed onto the rock itself, managing to sit atop it with water to my waist. Above, it was quiet.
Over the rush of the waves, I could faintly hear cheering.
Or maybe it was some more of my brain cells dying from hypoxia.
Belatedly, I remembered my phone. “Shit,” I hissed to the ocean.
“Two in one year.” I closed my eyes and rested my head back against the jetty wall.
At some point, I’d have to climb up. Or hope someone decided to take a walk this way.
In the meantime, I could just sit and breathe, sucking in slowly calming lungfuls of salt-seaweed-fish scented air and think about the fact someone had just tried to kill me.