Shaking off the unease the note brought, I walked back to the house. This was a good thing. Right? Floyd must have information about what happened to Earl, information I desperately needed if I was going to get Fern’s name cleared. I still had over two hours until then, so I returned to the kitchen to make my dinner.
Sadly, my appetite had been quashed with nerves. Not that it was going to stop me from eating.
At about a quarter till eight I left for the cannery, plenty early since it was only around a five-minute drive from Fern’s house. I pulled into the cannery’s lot adjacent to the building, then made my way down the side toward the back, where I assumed Floyd would be.
Right as I rounded the corner, an unsettling tingle raced up my spine, halting my steps. I stopped to pull my phone from my purse, holding it tightly in my grip. I really should have taken Preston’s suggestion and bought some pepper spray, or better yet, a taser. Other than dialing for help, my phone was basically useless.
The exterior light on the back of the building flickered, casting a dim shadow over the array of crab pots, crates, and bins. “Floyd,” I whispered loudly. The foghorn blasted nearby.
I screeched, sending my heartrate into warp speed. I took a deep breath.
“Floyd,” I called out in a louder voice. “It’s Charlee.” I took a few steps forward, cautiously looking for any sign of Floyd.
Then I felt ridiculous. It’s not like he was going to jump out from behind the dumpster and say, “Boo!” It was still a few minutes before eight. Maybe he wasn’t here yet.
I considered sitting on a crate for a few minutes to wait, then thought better of it. I didn’t need fish gunk on my jeans along with the frosting, batter, and who knows what other substances they’d acquired during the time I’d been in town.
A stiff breeze rolled in from the harbor, chilling me through my wool peacoat, which still smelled like cigarette smoke. Instinctively, my arms wrapped around myself to ward off the cold.
“Okay, Floyd, where are you?” I checked the time on my phone. 8:04 p.m. “You said don’t be late. Well, I’m here,” I bit out as my teeth started to chatter. Why didn’t I wear a hat? Or gloves?
Fine, I wasn’t going to wait around here all night. Besides freezing in the dark, this place was freaky. Like horror movie freaky. There was probably a pulley with a hook around here somewhere…
My morbid train of thought froze as I spotted something sticking out from the other side of the dumpster. For a second, I thought it looked like a boot. Turning on my phone’s flashlight, I held it out in front of me, slowly inching closer.
Yep, sure enough, it was a boot… dark jeans, a hand with red… Was that blood?
I screamed, dropping the flashlight. Nausea punched me in the gut. Oh, please don’t let this be… I picked up my phone (thankfully it wasn’t broken) shining the light over the body sprawled out on the cement by the dumpster.
“Floyd?” I gulped down the bile working its way up my throat. Summoning courage I wasn’t sure I possessed, I forced myself to shine the light on the man’s face. Sightless eyes stared back. And blood. Lots of blood.
I tried to swallow, then turned quickly, needing to get out of here. I only made it several steps before I stopped, bent over, and threw up. The ghastly image I’d witnessed would be forever stamped on my brain.
Unlike the first body I’d found, where there’d been some blood but nothing too gruesome, this man, who I was pretty certain was Floyd Henderson, was covered in blood from having his throat cut.
Overcome with nausea, I threw up again.
Chapter Nineteen
I really shouldn’t have eaten that macaroni and cheese. It had been one of my favorite foods. Not anymore. After my stomach quit rolling, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my coat (which was due for a dry clean. Forget that; I think I might just burn it. And the jeans.) Then I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman answered, sounding much too cheerful.
“Hi, I’d like to report a murder,” I croaked.
“What’s your name?” she asked, just as friendly.
“Charlee. Charlee King,” I groaned, feeling sick again.
“Charlee!” she said excitedly. “This is Mindy Fetzger. How are you? It’s been forever!”
“Oh, hi,” I replied, trying to remember the Mindy in question.
“I used to be Mindy Bell, but I married Timmy from our second period biology class—”
“Mindy,” I cut her off before she started talking about anyone else from high school. “Would you please send someone down to the cannery?”
“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “The cannery? Are you there with Kenny?” she asked suspiciously. “Because I heard—”
“No, I’m here alone. And there’s a guy with his throat cut open, so would you please hurry?” I’d lost all patience at this point.
“Yes, they’re on their way.” Mindy’s voice was so sing-song, I could practically hear her smiling. I didn’t remember her being that way in high school. Then again, I’d purposefully blocked most of those memories, and I was so wrapped up with Kenny that I hadn’t had many girlfriends.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome! I can chat with you until they get there. So is it true about you and—”
“Mindy, I’m getting another call,” I lied. “I appreciate your help. Bye.” I clicked off the phone and sighed.
Then I dialed Fern. It went to voicemail. Can’t say I was surprised, and hopefully this meant she was having a good time. At least somebody around here
