A Body on the Beach, page 13
“Where?” I asked.
Again, she pointed out the window and straight down. Suddenly, I realized where she was pointing. She was indicating the exact spot where I had stood and talked with Martin Little less than an hour before.
“He had a shovel,” I said out loud, unable to stop myself. “He was coming to dig it up. Was Martin Little the man you were talking about? The man who can’t find the treasure?”
She nodded, and then pulled the curtains closed.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Harris,” I said, moving toward the door. “You are a genius.”
“My daddy said geniuses aren’t born, they’re made. That’s why I make sure to do all of my studies.”
I turned back, confused, and then saw her face. She was smiling a sweet, naïve smile. Her eyes were foggy and distant. She was gone. She’d delivered the message she’d needed to deliver, and then she’d gone.
I smiled at her. “Yes, your studies are very important.”
She beamed at me, balling her hands into fists over her stomach, practically spinning on the spot.
I left her room and then sprinted down the stairs and out the front door, heading directly for the shovel.
Chapter 16
The sun had already begun to set, casting the house and yard into a world of grays and inky blacks. And if that wasn’t enough, Mrs. Harris’ gesturing out the window, while able to provide a general search area, was anything but specific. I had no idea where the treasure had been buried or how long ago it had been buried. Was I looking for freshly moved earth or a natural marker of some kind—perhaps a stone or a specific tree? Also, was it actual treasure or something else entirely? How big was it? As I stumbled around in the ever-growing darkness, I realized I had no clue what I was even looking for.
I went back to where Martin Little had broken through the bushes earlier that day, shovel in hand, and tried to guess where he could have been heading. I squinted against the shadows, scanning the ground all down the side of the house and along the fence, trying to spot anything even slightly unusual. Just as I was set to give up, abandon my search until there was better lighting and, perhaps, until I could get a little more information out of Mrs. Harris, I noticed a small mound just along the foundation of the house. It was barely noticeable, but it was noticeable. And, considering I had no better place to start my search, I jogged over to it and plunged my shovel into the dirt.
The ground was softer than I’d expected, and I found the digging to be easier than I’d thought. As I dug further and further down, I began to doubt myself. It was dark, and the ground had been only slightly raised in this spot. It could have been like that for a million different reasons. Was I even digging in the right place? And, more importantly, was there anything to even dig up? Maybe Martin really had been returning a worker’s shovel and maybe Mrs. Harris was as entirely loony as everyone thought. I had to admit, that seemed much more likely than my theory. However, this doubt was short lived. I had dug a hole roughly two feet across and two feet deep when my shovel clanged against something metal.
At first, I assumed it was a pipe or part of the house. However, as I scraped dirt off the top, it became clear the metal object was a box of some sort. I dropped the shovel and fell to my hands and knees, cupping my palms to scoop dirt out of the hole and unbury the box. As I did this, a creepy kind of déjà vu washed over me. I remembered shifting the sand off of Nathaniel’s body, uncovering him piece by piece until his corpse was laid bare. I tried to push the image out of my head and focus on the task at hand. Finally, the box was uncovered enough that I could wedge my fingers around it and pry it out of the ground.
The box was slate gray with a significant amount of rust eating at the corners and across the lid. I set it on the ground in front of me and worked at the latch. It was stubborn, junked up with mud and debris, but it finally flicked open, and the lid fell back.
It wasn’t a movie moment. One in which the lid popped open and a light poured forth from the box, washing over my face and filling me with its knowledge. No, in truth, the moment was rather lackluster. The “treasure” Mrs. Harris had been talking about turned out to be nothing more than a box full of paper—envelopes, newspaper clippings, photographs. No gold or jewelry or weapons.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and turned the screen on, which offered a modicum of light, just enough for me to read by. I pulled out a small stack of photographs first. The first photo was of a girl sitting on a porch swing, a floral dress swirling around her feet in the breeze, her hand holding up what looked like a glass of iced tea, as if she were trying to cheers with the camera person. It seemed like the kind of picture anyone would have lying around their house. A snapshot of life. Nothing particularly noteworthy or scandalous about it. Just a pretty girl on a summer day. However, upon closer inspection, I realized I recognized the girl in the photo. It was David Summerfield’s daughter, Maggie. Her brown hair was cropped shorter in this photo than it had been in the one David kept on his side table. It barely reached her chin, which only served to emphasize her prominent cheekbones and delicate chin. She was beautiful.
I flipped to the next photo, and saw Maggie still in her short hair and floral dress, only this time, the photographer had included himself in the shot. My mouth fell open as I recognized him. His hair was buzzed down nearly to the scalp, but he had the same broad shoulders, same wide chin, and, even with a smile spread across his face, the same subtle threat in his eyes. It was Martin Little.
The rest of the photos were either of Martin or Maggie or both doing everything from cooking in her father’s kitchen to swimming in the ocean to swinging on the front porch swing. And in every photo they had together, Martin had his arm wrapped around Maggie, pulling her into him, dwarfing her petite frame with his sheer mass.
I sat the photos in the corner of the box, and pulled out a stack of envelopes. There were no stamps or return addresses, only a single name—Martin, written in a swirly cursive, the “i” dotted with a heart. I tore into one, my eyes scanning the page, reading the delicate script.
July 3rd
Martin -
Last night was a whirlwind. It was beautiful, and I do not regret it for a second, but I also know it cannot go on. You work for my father. He sees you as a son. Imagine if he discovered his son and daughter doing what we were doing? Not to mention Mason. I know you aren’t incredibly fond of him, but he is kind to me, and doesn’t deserve this level of betrayal. I hope you can forgive me for saying this through a letter. I feared what would happen if I tried to say it to your face.
- Maggie
Martin and Maggie had an affair? I held the letter in my hand and read it several more times, searching for any other explanation, but there was none. Martin and Maggie had an affair while she was dating Mason. Enraptured, I shoved the letter back in its envelope and picked up the next one.
August 15th
Martin -
I loved the flowers you left for me. Father asked where they came from, and I told him Mason sent them, though I wish I could have told him the truth. I know you think he’d understand, but I’m not so sure. It seems best that we keep everything between us a secret until the timing is better. You mentioned in your letter that you want to go away this weekend, but Mason has an art showing on the mainland Saturday and Sunday. I promised I’d be there for him. I hope you can understand. Thank you again for the beautiful flowers. You are too sweet to me.
Love,
Maggie
It was clear that Martin and Maggie had repeated their original mistake. Not only that, they seemed to have turned it into a full-blown relationship. Well, a secret relationship, at least, and from the sounds of it, Martin didn’t want it to remain a secret any longer. It felt as though I were reading a romance novel, though I would have loved to see the letters Martin wrote to Maggie. The story felt incomplete with only Maggie’s viewpoint. Still, I pulled out the last letter and slid it from the envelope.
September 7th
Martin –
I wish I could give you what you want, but I just can’t. This summer has been lovely, and I’ve had such a good time with you, but as the season is changing, I realize, so are my feelings. As kind and wonderful as you are, I don’t see us being together long-term. I know this may come as quite a shock but I hope you know how deeply I really do care for you. Unfortunately, I care for someone else a bit more. I hope we can continue being friends, as I truly enjoy your company.
Your friend,
Maggie
I dug through the box for another letter, but there wasn’t one. It seemed as though Maggie and Martin’s romance had been nothing more than a summer fling. But why would Martin go to such lengths to hide it? I had a box of Daniel’s things up in my room. I wasn’t exactly proud of the fact that I couldn’t get rid of the beanie he’d left in my apartment or the photographs we’d taken together, but I wasn’t ashamed enough to bury it in my backyard. Plus, if Martin had wanted to get rid of everything, why not just burn it?
The bottom of the box was covered with a newspaper. At first, I assumed the newspaper was acting as tissue paper—something to protect everything inside the box. However, as I began arranging the letters back inside the box, a corner of the newspaper lifted, revealing an all too familiar face.
It was the picture of Maggie that David had displayed in his living room. Her beaming smile, her shoulder-length brown hair. Only, this time, there was a headline.
Local Woman, Maggie Summerfield, Missing After Evening Swim
Maggie Summerfield, 27, hasn’t been seen since September 8th when she left her father’s house to go for her routine evening swim. Her father, David Summerfield, said he last saw her just after 7 PM. A missing person’s report has been filed, and police are encouraging anyone with any knowledge of the woman’s disappearance to come forward.
September 8th. The date jumped out at me, and I quickly pulled out Maggie’s final letter to Martin. It was dated September 7th. Maggie had broken up with Martin one day before her “accidental” drowning. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Suddenly, I felt exposed. I should have taken the box back inside the house. Why had I sat outside in the dark filing through the contents? Anyone could have seen me. David or Martin. If Martin knew I’d found this, I had a strong feeling things wouldn’t end well for me. Perhaps, they’d end much as they had for Maggie.
I shivered, and began dumping everything back into the box. I would take it inside, and call the police. They hadn’t listened to me before, but all I’d had was wild theories then. Now, I had actual proof. Or, if not proof of murder, per se, I had proof of probable cause. It was funny, I’d spent the last several weeks trying to solve Nathaniel’s murder, and somehow, I’d ended up solving Maggie Summerfield’s, instead. However, now that I had a good reason to believe Martin had killed Maggie, I had to wonder, was he capable of murder a second time? Had he also killed Nathaniel? It seemed too unlikely for there to be two murderers living in such close proximity. And the bodies of Maggie and Nathaniel were found relatively close to one another. In all likelihood, if Martin had killed Maggie, then he’d killed Nathaniel, too. But I still had no proof of that.
I closed the lid to the box and began scooping the dirt back into the now empty hole. There wasn’t enough dirt to fill it, meaning that Martin could take one look at our yard in the daylight and know that someone had discovered his secret. However, I planned for the box and all of its contents to be firmly in the hands of the police by morning. By the time Martin noticed something was wrong, it would be too late.
I turned to grab the box, which had been sitting just behind me on the ground, but there was nothing there. I swept my hands over the dark ground and rose up to my knees, confused. Then, something solid struck me on the back of the head. Everything went black.
* * *
I heard the ocean before I saw it, the sound of the waves close enough I felt as though I could reach out my hand and touch them. When I tried to move my arm, though, it wouldn’t respond. My body felt like it had been filled with wet cement. My limbs were unresponsive and my head was a useless appendage. As I tried harder and harder to move, I realized I was lying in sand. I could feel it between my fingers and pressed against my cheek. When I inhaled, small granules flew up my nose and made me cough.
“Are you awake?”
The voice sounded soupy and far away, but still familiar. Deep and commanding. I worked hard to peel open my eyes, but my eyelids felt glued shut, and I was vaguely aware of a pulsing ache in the back of my head.
“I hit you pretty hard,” the voice said. “You seem really out of it.”
Hit me? Someone hit me. Yeah, that made sense. I’d never been knocked out before, but I imagined this is what it would feel like. It felt like drowning in my own skin, unable to find the surface.
A shoe kicked my shoulder, and my body lolled and flopped over so that I was on my back. The movement seemed to help me wake up, and my eyes finally opened. At first, everything was blurry, but slowly it began to come into focus as my eyes adjusted. Tree limbs cut across the night sky above me, leaves rattling in the sea breeze, several of them breaking free and falling to the ground. I turned my head with great effort, becoming more and more conscious of the splitting pain at the back of my head, and saw the ocean. The water was dark and disappeared into the sky, the horizon blurred to nothing. Then, a pair of legs moved into my view. Slowly, I trailed my eyes up the legs to the body they belonged to.
Martin Little.
Chapter 17
My body came alive all at once, and I jerked upright, immediately regretting it as my head swam and the contents of my stomach threatened to come up.
“Easy there,” Martin said, leaning an elbow on the top of a shovel. “No need to rush. You aren’t going anywhere.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, rubbing at the back of my head, feeling blood and sand clumped in my hair.
Martin tsked at me. “Now, don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, Piper. You are the detective, after all. Are you really trying to pretend you don’t understand what is happening?”
I had a pretty good idea why Martin had brought me to the beach. It was where he’d carried out at least one, if not two murders before. Why not make it a third? However, my head was also pounding and I thought I might have a concussion, so I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game. I rubbed at my temples, trying to massage my brain back to normal.
“It’s only a shame you had to keep snooping,” Martin said, pacing in the sand in front of me. “You’re a very pretty girl. I noticed the moment I saw you. I thought perhaps we could be friends, or maybe even more if given time to get to know one another. But then you went and unburied Nathaniel Sharp the very afternoon you moved in. I mean, I knew I’d done a spotty job burying the body—I was running short on time—but I’d assumed he’d be fine there until I could come back at night and dispose of him more permanently. But now, you and your little dog, who has been sneaking over and pooping in David’s yard, by the way, had to dig him up. Very inconvenient.”
His words came to me slowly, as if my brain had to work to translate each one, as if he were speaking in a language I’d once known, but hadn’t used in years. Finally, though, his words made impact. Martin had killed Nathaniel. I’d been right about that.
“You killed Nathaniel,” I said, part question, part accusation. I’d pinned him as a suspect early on, but the idea still felt too bizarre to be real. My next-door neighbor, the live-in nurse, a murderer? Even when I’d been formulating my theories, somewhere in the back of my head I’d been certain I was way off base, positive that I was blowing everything out of proportion. So, discovering that I had been on the right track even when the police weren’t was shocking.
Martin continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard me.
“I thought maybe the police would let it go. They have a tendency to do that around here, you know? Why assume the worst when they can call it an accident and keep everyone on the island calm? Let everyone pretend they live in a safe bubble, protected from the horrors of the outside world? I was right, more or less, but then, once again, you came along. You had to find out who the man was, had to go sticking your nose places it didn’t belong. Of course, I assumed you were more of an annoyance than an actual threat. Surely you were just a bored, single woman playing detective. But then I broke into Nathaniel’s motel room to make sure nothing there would connect back to me, and who should I see running out the front door as I’m leaving the bathroom? My nosy next-door neighbor.” He laughed as he spoke, though it was clear he did not find what he was saying very amusing.
“Do you mind if I keep working?” he asked, using the shovel to gesture to a hole I was only noticing for the first time. Unlike Nathaniel’s shallow grave, this one was deep. He must have been digging for a long time before I’d woken up. “I don’t want this to take all night.”
He was going to murder me. This island, this beach is where I’d breathe my last breath. How would he do it? Would he drown me? Hit me over the head again, but this time not stopping until my skull was cracked in two? I shook the thoughts from my mind, trying to stay calm.
“You were the person who came into the motel room?” I asked, an involuntary shiver racing up my spine. It had been the murderer who’d come in after me. If only I’d caught a glimpse of him. If only I’d been able to connect the dots sooner, I could have taken the information to the police. I could have avoided the life-threatening situation I was now in.
“It’s actually quite impressive, Piper. I mean that. You did what the police failed to do. You discovered who Nathaniel was, where he was staying, why he was on the island. If the police were half as good as you, I might be in a jail cell somewhere awaiting trial. So, congratulations on that,” he said, breathing a little heavier as he dug further and further into the wet sand. “Honestly, I was certain you were going to run directly to the police. I figured I’d been caught, but then nothing happened. The police didn’t come knocking on my door, and you didn’t seem to be acting any differently, so I thought perhaps I had been given a freebie. You hadn’t seen me, and I wouldn’t have to kill you. It was going to work out perfectly. No one was ever going to know what I’d done.”
