"Interesting," I said. "What prompted that, do you think?"
"Maybe something about Cal’s will? I don't know. The divorce is done... you'd think that would be ancient history by now."
"Maybe," I said. "But that stuff lingers... maybe his death just stirred it up."
"Maybe," Denise said, but she didn't sound convinced.
I hung up the phone, still thinking about Gretchen Parker, and busied myself filling Winston's food bowl before he started throwing it around the kitchen floor. He scarfed down his kibble in no time flat, and I leashed him up and put on my walking shoes. Together we stepped out onto the back porch into the cooling evening air. I wasn't sure I was ready to go back down to the beach just yet, but I had to do it eventually. Besides, I told myself, maybe there was a clue the police had missed. And maybe I'd catch a glimpse of the woman I'd seen yesterday.
I kept Winston well clear of the place I'd found Cal's body, scanning the rocky shore as we walked. Winston seemed unconcerned, more focused on the lone sea gull who hadn't found a place to roost for the night (if that's what they did—where did they go, anyway? I wondered briefly). I found nothing out of the ordinary... just a piece of styrofoam cup that I picked up to throw away, and a gazillion mussel shells that glinted blackish-blue in the fading light.
A cool breeze was kicking up as we walked the beach; the tide was going out, exposing the sand bar, and I scanned the darkness under the trees on Snug Island. Apparently there had once been a few houses over there, but they'd been torn down decades ago, and nobody lived there now. Occasionally someone got stuck on the wrong side of the water, or a few people got brave and decided to camp, but except for day trippers and the occasional intrepid backpacker, the ospreys were the only ones I knew who lived there.
As I walked, the breeze riffled my hair. I walked past the backs of a few houses and shops, the grass sloping down to the coast, and then the well-lit shoreline restaurants, the smell of cooking lobster and melted butter and rolls drifting down to Winston and me as we made our way down the beach. The juxtaposition of the dark, wild island just across the water to my left and the happy burble of voices and clang of dishes up on the restaurants' lit decks made me feel strangely adrift between wilderness and community.
This was my home now, I thought to myself. And I was going to do everything I could to make sure it stayed that way.
As Winston and I climbed over a jumble of boulders, I heard the sound of angry voices.
"I don't believe you," a woman’s voice said.
"I promise, sweetheart. I had nothing to do with it."
"Then where did you go that night? I know you weren't at home."
"Josiah called," the man said. "I went to his place to have a few beers. I promise. That's all."
"Sure," the woman said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "I've told you a million times that nothing happened between Cal and me, but you never believed me."
"Let's not drag this up again," he said.
"I have to," she said in a husky voice. "I have to know that you had nothing to do with what happened to Cal. I… I can't live with a murderer."
"A murderer?" The anger in the man’s voice made the hair rise on the back of my neck. "If you don't believe that I didn't touch a hair on that scumbag's head..."
"But he was going to ruin our business! And the whole bar heard you threaten to kill him just last week!"
"I swear I didn't kill him," he repeated.
The woman made a choking noise, and I heard the sounds of footsteps.
"Sylvia! Come back!"
I peeked over the boulder, watching as they ran down the beach, her running unevenly, him sprinting to catch up. It must be Jared and Sylvia Berland, the owners of the Salty Dog.
I looked down at Winston, who had spent the time sniffing dried kelp. "Good boy," I told him, thankful he had remained quiet.
Had Jared Berland killed Cal Parker?
And, I wondered with a feeling of foreboding, was Sylvia Berland in danger?
I waited for the couple to disappear before continuing on my walk, thinking about the exchange I'd just overheard, and wondering who else Cal Parker had angered enough to threaten him with murder. Although several tourist families walked by with ice cream, I resisted the urge to head up to Stewart's Scoops, instead turning back toward the shop once the path curved toward town. The sun continued to drop as Winston and I picked our way among the rocks, heading back home. The first stars were starting to twinkle above as we walked, mussel shells crunched under my sneakers as we found our way back. Soon, we left the busy restaurants behind, and the windows of the cottage book shop glowed invitingly as we turned up the short path away from the beach. Whatever happened, I felt a rush of gratitude that I was here at this moment.
I took my shoes off next to the door, enjoying the homey, lingering scents of garlic and butter, and settled Winston in with a treat as I headed downstairs to double-check the locks. The front door was bolted tight, as were the windows, and I double-checked the back door before scurrying back up the stairs to my cozy retreat.
Once I slid the deadbolt of the upstairs cottage apartment, I filled the clawfoot tub with warm water and Epsom salts, added a few drops of
