Outside, I was met with crisp fall air as I traipsed to the back of my aunt’s two-acre lot. Her property was situated on the top of a hill surrounded by several other homes. It was rare to find such a large lot in town, especially now when a postage stamp of bare land sold for over six figures. The home was built in the 1940s, when Rockfish Bay was just a fraction of its current size.
When I reached the alpacas’ pen, I pulled out my phone to snap a few pictures to send to my city friends. Off to the side of the enclosure was a small barn. The alpacas had a covered area, and mostly stayed outside since the weather was pretty mild.
The previous owners had a few horses, so the barn housed several stalls, a tack room, and another space for storage. Lifting the wood latch, I pulled open the large wooden door, and went to find the alpacas’ treats that were kept in the tack room.
I’d only walked a few steps when I noticed the door was partially open, making me hesitate. I was almost positive that Fern had closed it tight when we were finished feeding the alpacas yesterday. I shook off the unsettling thought. It was probably nothing. The place was drafty and sometimes doors didn’t always stay shut. Reaching the doorway, I pushed on the old wooden door and stepped inside.
Then I screamed.
Lying facedown on the floor was a body.
I’d like to say that I was brave and fearless and rushed to the man to check his pulse and see if I could save him. But I didn’t.
I stood in the doorway. Petrified.
“Hello,” I squeaked. “Um, are you okay, sir?” I tentatively took another step into the room.
That’s when I saw it. Blood. My stomach revolted. I shouldn’t have added whipped cream and caramel creamer to my coffee.
I forced my feet to move closer even though I was pretty certain the man was dead. Dried blood was matted in the man’s thinning gray hair. Then I recognized him; it was Fern’s neighbor from last night. Earl.
Oh no. My hand flew over my mouth. What was he doing here? And the bigger question: Why was he dead?
I swallowed, hoping to calm the churning caffeine and sugar in my stomach. Backing up slowly, I made sure not to touch anything and returned to the aisle. I tugged my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket.
I needed to call someone. My first instinct was to call Fern. After all, this was her property, but that could wait. Shakily, my fingers dialed 911. I spoke to the dispatcher, answering the questions I could — there weren’t many.
When the call ended, I left the barn. I needed to put some distance between myself and Fern’s dead neighbor. Maybe then it would seem less real, and my stomach would quit churning. I called my aunt, but it went to voicemail. I left her a message relaying that there was an emergency and she needed to come home ASAP. I figured that was better than shrieking that the neighbor she loathed was dead in her barn.
Around fifteen minutes later, I heard voices and the click of the gate unlatching.
“Hello,” called out a masculine voice.
“Back here,” I yelled back.
Then Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome emerged and came striding toward me. I mean, Sheriff Walker. He wore dark fitted jeans with a dress shirt peeking out of his police jacket, and he looked delicious.
I glanced down at my baggy sweatshirt with what appeared to be a coffee stain (it made sense with how much I drank), and flannel pajama pants with pink and turquoise owls. I inwardly groaned. No makeup, in addition to bedhead with my hair shoved in a messy bun. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth! I snapped my lips shut.
The sheriff’s eyebrows rose as he approached me. Yes, I know I wasn’t a pretty sight, but I was still a heck of a lot better than what he was going to find in the barn.
“Ms. King,” he greeted formally. By his confused expression, he seemed surprised to see me. Or maybe he was just appalled by my outfit. I certainly was.
“Charlee,” I corrected. Ms. King was my deceased grandmother, a cantankerous woman I didn’t care to be addressed as.
“Charlee, I hear you found a body in the barn.” His gaze moved to the building behind me.
“Yes,” I confirmed, nodding. “I’m pretty sure it’s Earl Henderson, the neighbor.” I pointed toward the house next door.
His mouth formed a grim line.
“Sheriff, I got the camera and crime scene tape,” hollered another man.
The man came into view and I grimaced.
“Thanks, Troy.”
The young deputy came to stand beside the sheriff.
“Troy, this is—”
“Charlee! Hi, how are you?” Troy stuck his hand out, grinning like a kid at a candy store.
I couldn’t believe my rotten luck. I should have gone to church with Fern.
“Oh, I know Charlee. She used to date my older brother Kenny way back when,” Troy rambled.
Curiosity flickered in Cole’s eyes.
I was mortified. How was Troy even old enough to do this job? I wasn’t even sure if he was twenty-one.
“Charlee, would you please show us the body?” The Sheriff motioned for me to walk ahead of them.
“Sure,” I didn’t bother with a fake smile. This was a crime scene after all, and with Troy’s appearance, I didn’t have it in me to feign any friendliness.
At the entrance to the tack room, I pointed. “He’s in there.”
Cole seemed to sense my discomfort, and walked around me into the room. Troy followed behind, snapping pictures.
“Charlee, would you please come here a second?” Cole asked.
I poked my head into the room, and made eye contact with the sheriff, who kneeled near the body.
“Is this how you found him?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Did you touch him? Or disturb anything else in the room?”
I shook my head.
