Shooting at Loons

“I know you didn’t.”

For the first time since Midge Pope had leveled that accusation, Lev seemed to relax. “For a minute there —”

The rest of his words were drowned out as a helicopter suddenly appeared from nowhere and hovered over the pier where Linville’s body was being loaded onto a gurney. It bore the logo of a Raleigh television station and must have been filming another story in the area to have arrived so quickly. Smith’s men tried to wave it off, but it settled gently in a cleared space on the far side of the house and a cameraman quickly swept the whole area with his camcorder.

Soon as I realized what he was doing, I turned my face. All I’d need at this point was for my family back in Colleton County to see that I was involved in two separate murders down here in Carteret and I’d have to take my phone off the hook if I wanted to sleep tonight.

“We’re going indoors,” I called to Smith, but two seconds after we stepped inside I realized we’d avoided Scylla only to run afoul of Charybdis.

Local news reporters had arrived, along with cameramen from Greenville and New Bern. (We later learned a general had called a news conference to discuss whether or not Cherry Point would be affected by this newest wave of congressional base closings.) They swarmed through the open door as Linville’s body was taken out to the ambulance, and strobe lights and microphones seemed to be everywhere. Fortunately, no one seemed to recognize me or to connect me with Andy Bynum’s death. They were too interested in trying to get to Midge Pope or to get a statement from Quig Smith.

Simon McGuire had blocked access to Midge’s wing and Smith was promising he’d take questions just as soon as he knew a little more himself.

The violent death of a woman this prominent was let’s-go-live news in this area, of course, and if they hurried, they might even slide in a bulletin before the six o’clock report ended, so the first wave of questions was quick and dirty; and by the time they were ready for greater in-depth “details-at-eleven” interviews, Quig Smith had sent someone to escort us behind the yellow tape barrier.

The dinghy returned to the dock and the officer who’d searched the Rainmaker reported that he’d found no guns. Another had found Linville’s gun case, but all the slots were filled and none of the weapons seemed to have been fired that day.

Smith announced we were both free to go and Lev said, “Come with me, Red? I can bring you back for your car after the feeding frenzy’s over.”

“Thanks, Lev, but I really think I’d rather run the gauntlet and go on back to Harkers Island.”

He studied my face a long moment, then his own face cleared. With an air of relief (and surprise at that relief?), Lev gently touched the scratch on my cheek. “Take care of yourself, Red.”

“You, too, kid.”

Then he was gone and I tackled Smith myself. “Are these two murders connected?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he told me candidly. “One thing though. No exit wound, so the bullet’s probably still inside her. We should know by tomorrow night if it’s the same gun or not.”

While he was talking to the reporters, I managed to slip away with only minimum attention.

Linville’s house was on the north side of the point, on North River; Chet and Barbara Jean were on the south side, on Taylors Creek; but their driveways were less than a quarter-mile apart, on opposite sides of Lennoxville Road.

Impulsively, I pulled into the Winberry drive, wound through the tall shrubs and live oaks that shielded them from public view and circled up to the front door.

“Deborah! What a nice surprise,” said Barbara Jean when she answered the bell. There were tired circles under her eyes, but her smile was warm. “Chet said you were going home today.”

“I was, but then Roger Longmire told ‘em I could stay another week.”

“Great. I just made a fresh pitcher of tea. Come on out to the porch and join me.”

We went through the house to a sunny south-facing terrace that wasn’t much smaller than Linville Pope’s. Half of Barbara Jean’s was covered, though; and where the porch roof ended, trellises of weathered cypress continued across the bricked terrace to provide filtered shade in the summertime.

“Oh, Lordy!” I breathed. The beauty was almost enough to ease the horror of finding Linville’s body.

Barbara Jean’s face lit up. “Don’t you love this time of year?” she said.

Her azaleas had taken salty blasts from last month’s bad storm and the leaves still showed large patches of brown although the white, pink and lavender blossoms gamely tried to cover; but her wisteria was drop-dead gorgeous. The thick ropy vines that covered the trellises were in full bloom and dripped with huge heavy clusters of purple blossoms that mingled with the cool salt air and late afternoon sunshine to fill the porch with a bewitching fragrance. Off to one side, an eclectic mixture of Adirondack and wicker chairs circled a wide low table and I sank down into one of them and breathed in deeply.

“How can you bear to go off to work every day and leave this?”

“Sometimes I don’t,” she confided. “I’ve been playing hooky all afternoon. Chet’s off fishing somewhere so I borrowed a friend’s runabout and got out on the water myself for an hour or two. I just needed some time alone for a change.”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you then.”

“No, no, I was ready for company.”

I was overflowing about Linville but waited till she had poured me a glass of tea and assured herself that I had everything in the way of lemon, sugar, napkins, or cookies that a guest could want before I told her.

“Shot? On her own pier?”

She listened in total silence until I finished, then slowly shook her head. “Oh, shit, Deborah!” The embarrassed