Murder in the Mist Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Other Books by Loretta C. Rogers

  Murder in the Mist

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  If you enjoyed MURDER IN THE MIST, you’ll want to read the sequel, SHADOWED REUNION, coming soon from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. Here’s a sample:

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Mitch, line one. It’s Bryan Cole. Sounds urgent.”

  He pushed the button. “Ranger Cole?”

  “Got an emergency at Thunder Hole, and it’s a hellish nightmare.”

  Mitch stopped smiling and listened. “Close off the area to spectators. We don’t need a panic. Don’t touch anything. Try to preserve the scene as much as possible. As for witnesses, isolate them from each other. It will keep them from feeding off each other’s recollections. Get them coffee, and pencil and paper to write down everything they can remember. I’ll get there asap!”

  “Will do.”

  As Mitch hung up the phone, he issued instructions to Louise. “Call Dr. Musuyo, tell him he’ll need his forensics kit, an EMT, and the ambulance, and to meet me at the main entrance of the national park. Musuyo is to ask for Ranger Jane Dorsey. She’ll direct him to the scene.”

  Louise adjusted the eyeglasses that had slipped down on her nose. “What is it, Mitch? What’s happened?”

  His voice brooked no nonsense. “In a minute, Louise. Right now, do as I’ve asked.”

  He punched auto-dial for Laura’s number and was relieved when she answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Mitch, I’ve been meaning to call and thank you for telling me about Elio—”

  He didn’t have time for platitudes. He glanced at his watch. Eleven fifteen. “Friday, I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Bring your camera.”

  Other Books by Loretta C. Rogers

  CLOUD WOMAN’S SPIRIT

  LADY ADEL’S CAPTAIN

  THE WITCHING MOON

  FORBIDDEN SON

  BANNON’S BRIDES

  MCKENNA’S WOMAN

  ISABELLE AND THE OUTLAW

  All are available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Murder

  in the Mist

  by

  Loretta C. Rogers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Murder in the Mist

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Loretta C. Rogers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Mystery Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-832-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-833-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  A little bit of research went into the making of this novel. I needed some experts, and boy, did I hit the mother lode with friends Carol Brennan and Greg Bannon, native Mainers. With their information, I have done my best to create the facilities, culture, and the ambiance of this fictional town located on coastal Maine.

  A special thanks goes to Phyllis Webber and The Friday Sisters Book Club. When these lovely ladies in Palmetto Bay, FL hosted me as their guest author, I promised that if I ever wrote a mystery novel, I would somehow feature them in the story. Happy Reading, ladies!

  Thanks to my favorite physician, Dr. Timothy Peterson, for his invaluable information about forensics and how a forensics team might process a crime scene.

  Any discrepancies in the information these special people gave me is entirely my fault.

  My deepest thanks to Greg Bannon and Carol Brennan, who made cameo appearances in this novel.

  To all my faithful readers, I hope you enjoy Murder in the Mist, and forgive me for writing out of my usual historical western romance genre.

  Finally, to my wonderful editor, Nan Swanson. You are the best.

  Happy Reading!

  Loretta C. Rogers

  Prologue

  We are so accustomed to disguising ourselves to others, that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves.

  ~Francois La Rouchefoucauld

  It wasn’t the dense sea fog or the cool air that prickled the hairs on Lynnette Braswell’s neck, but the sound of footsteps that accompanied it. She stood still and listened. “Who’s there?”

  Goosebumps rippled up and down her arms beneath her sweater. She squinted to see through the thick white mist. Her heart kept pace with the adrenalin shooting through her veins. Glancing over her shoulder to discern the source of the sound, she noted the bank’s parking lot stood empty. She chided herself. Of course the bank was closed. It was Thursday and nearly midnight. Her shift at the hospital had ended, and before walking home she’d decided to stop at the ATM to get enough cash for her long weekend trip into the city. She loved Cole Harbor, but spending party time in Bangor with her best friend was to die for. Lynnette focused her thoughts on how many Long Island Iced Teas she planned to drink, the laughter she and her friend would share, and sleeping late for the next three days.

  A movement shrouded in deep shadows caused her to glance left and then right. The dim halo from a street lamp provided minimal comfort. In spite of the night’s chill, her palms sweated as she reached inside the zippered section of her purse where she kept the debit card.

  Shrugging off the clop of imaginary footsteps as the aftereffects of pulling an exhaustive double shift, Lynnette relaxed her death grip on the plastic card and inserted it into the ATM’s slot. She leaned closer to punch in her pin number. The seconds it took for the money to roll through the dispenser seemed like a lifetime.

  She thought about her own stupidity in turning down a ride home, opting instead to walk the four blocks to her apartment. This was Cole Harbor—crime free, mundane, where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, not even during the annual Lobster Fest that drew several thousand sailing enthusiasts and a few weird
oes from the mainland.

  Weirdo. The word plucked at her brain. Stuffing the money inside her purse, Lynnette searched until her fingers wrapped around the keychain. Chill bumps prickled her skin as she moved away from the building, and she picked up her pace as she crossed the parking lot to the sidewalk. The ghostly shapes of closed businesses and the lights inside them calmed her. Never had she feared walking home after her shift. This feeling of trepidation was a puzzle.

  “Lynnette?”

  For a split second, her heart stopped. She blinked to clear the moisture from her eyelashes, to bring the dark figure into focus. Murky lamplight revealed his hair was pulled back from his face. She imagined he wore it in a ponytail.

  She ran his voice through her mind and drew a blank. Swallowing hard, she looked up at him. Way up at him. Over six foot, he towered above her diminutive five-foot frame. “Do I know you?”

  A lurid grin curled over his lips. Something about that smile, the dark anticipation that filled his weasel-eyed features, produced icy fingers of terror in the pit of her stomach.

  One thought registered—shit!

  ****

  Night after night, he’d watched Lynnette leave the hospital, hoping to gain enough courage to approach her. Each time, his nerve let him down. Not tonight. He’d fortified himself with two joints and a couple of boilermakers. Yeah, he was on top of his game. Mr. Irresistible. Conqueror of women.

  She was pretty. And small. And seemed to radiate innocence. He hesitated.

  “Pretty lady like you shouldn’t be out alone. ’Specially on a night like this.”

  Lynnette moved a step backward. “Yes, of course, you’re right. It’s late and I’m meeting some friends, so I should go.”

  “Sure, no sweat. I’ll walk with you…to make sure you’re safe.”

  Lengthening her stride, she said, “Were you a patient at the hospital? Is that how you know my name?”

  He snorted. “I really didn’t expect you to remember me. A girl raised with everything—money and beauty, and never knowing what it’s like to have highfalutin’ people look down their snobby noses at you.”

  Her tone turned arctic at the insult. “I am none of those things. How dare you judge me, whoever you are!”

  “Ben Wiener. Now do you remember?”

  “Beenie…” She stopped abruptly.

  “Yeah, go ahead and say what you’re thinking—Beenie with the little weenie. I’ve been away ten years, and nothing’s changed. Except I’ve taken my mother’s maiden name. No one here knew her because I lived with my grandpa. I’m Benjamin…” He hesitated, deciding not to reveal his new last name. “Anyhow, Beenie Weenie died in the hospital when they treated him for paranoid schizophrenia. Stuck him with all kind of needles and electrodes. Ice water baths.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Poof, Beenie Weenie disappeared like a puff of smoke.” The expression she wore caused him to hasten on. “I’m better now. The doctors said I’m no longer a menace to society. So, see, you don’t have to be afraid.”

  “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me. It just slipped out. You were sixteen when you…when you were sent away.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt that girl. Sh-she shouldn’t have taunted me, but I’m okay as long as I don’t forget to take my medication.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “You were nice to me when nobody else in this stinking town was.”

  Lynnette struggled to break the viselike grip. “Then why did you come back?”

  He stared at her with those empty eyes. “For you. I thought about you every day while I was locked up. The doctors said I was mentally unstable, but, like I said, I’m better now. All because of you.”

  Dizzy with fear, she shuddered. “You’re hurting me. Please, my friends will worry if I’m late.”

  He stood, towering over her, imposing. “I’ve watched you every day since my return. You live alone. Your parents are dead. You like one cream and one sugar in your coffee. You’re a workaholic, and when you’re not working, you spend most of your time alone.”

  Lynnette made a one-punch move. Surprised, he released her. Arms now free, she kicked upward, her knee connecting with his groin.

  Air swooshed from his mouth as his knees sagged. He cursed, trying to regain his balance, and his hold on her. “Don’t run away. I only want to love you.”

  ****

  Options ran through Lynnette’s mind. Blood pumped furiously through her brain. She had to stay calm. Calm enough to think. Her brain agreed with her feet. Run like hell until she reached her apartment. Two blocks. Two blocks to safety.

  Her purse, still unzipped, draped against her hip. She reached for her cell phone. Unable to see the numbers through the grey fog, she prayed her fingers were punching 911. She forgot about the uneven section of sidewalk until she was thrown off balance. The phone flew from her hand, and the stumble cost her what little edge she had gained.

  Quick as a whip, he caught her by both arms. Like a giant octopus, he imprisoned her against his chest.

  She struggled and sensed the futility of it. She tried to slow her breathing, to calm herself. Panic might get her killed. Maybe she could reason with him.

  “Hey, Ben. No one has to get hurt here. Let me go, and we’ll forget this ever happened. It’s a big mistake, a misunderstanding. Right?”

  “Right.” The way he said that one word was as chilling as a block of ice.

  Her throat tightened. Her mind sped back sixteen years to the gruesome images of Brenda Alligood’s tortured body, and Bennie Wiener sobbing and apologizing for hurting Brenda.

  Lynnette tried a different tactic. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll scream.”

  “Shh…shh. Don’t scream. Please. I won’t hurt you.”

  His reassurance meant nothing to her. She had lived in Cole Harbor most of her life, and the only real crime the community had ever suffered was from Bennie’s hands. And now he had returned.

  The pounding in her ears was more deafening than the constant waves lapping against pier pylons. Her chest rose and fell faster with each breath.

  She tensed when he leaned down and sniffed her hair. “I like the way you smell.” He inhaled again, as if he were savoring each sniff. “You smell the way a real woman should. Clean and fresh, like a spring day. Nice. Not like a cheap whore doused in even cheaper perfume. That’s what Brenda was—cheap. Every guy in school knew about her.”

  He nuzzled Lynnette’s hair. Her nerves tangled in a frenzy. Rage punched its way past her fear. She screamed, and screamed again. Twisted and squirmed until she broke from his arms. She clawed his face, the backs of his hands. At the hospital, she had seen death. She wasn’t ready to die.

  Out of the gray mist, one large hand wrapped around her forehead, the other around her chin. The crack echoed through her brain, and for one intense moment she had the feeling she could escape.

  “You should’ve listened to me. I warned you. I don’t like screaming.”

  ****

  Ben staggered through the back door of the cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather, closed it, and leaned back, touching the wooden slats.

  Weary, he let his head rest against the door. A dog howled, way off in the distance. The sound rallied his senses. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he walked to the bathroom and switched on the light. With a groan, he turned on the faucet and placed his hands under the warm running water. Looking down, he saw the source of the stinging pain. Streams of crimson ran stark against the white sink.

  He stared into the mirror. Bloody lacerations covered both cheeks where Lynnette’s nails had punished him. Blood had already begun to clot in the deep scratches on the tops of both hands. He lathered his hands with soap and scrubbed his face. He peeled off his bloodstained jacket and let it fall in a heap on the old-fashioned braided rug. Dirt, grass, and leaves clung to the dark T-shirt and jeans he wore. Mud laced the rims of his brogans. He undressed, tossing the clothing and shoes aside. All the time, he mumbled, “She shouldn’t have screamed. I tol
d her, didn’t I?”

  He beat his fist against his forehead. “No…no…no. I promised not to hurt her. She shouldn’t have screamed.”

  He strode to the bed, knelt on the floor, then reached between the mattress and box spring until his fingers found the pouch. In a matter of seconds, he had lit the joint and inhaled until he felt certain his lungs could hold no more of the calming drags. He sat naked, legs stretched in front of him, back against the box spring, until he’d siphoned the stick and nothing remained to hold between his fingers.

  Climbing into bed, he pulled the quilt over his trembling body. Tears sprang to his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  Vrrrr vrrrr vrrrr. Ben crawled from the bed. He shivered as the cold prickled across his body. Vrrrr vrrrr vrrrr. He reached down and plucked his pants from the bathroom floor to extract the cell phone from the pocket. The whirring vibrated his hand. He walked into the kitchen, then lifted the latch on the back door. With quiet reverence, he set the phone on the step. A shovel leaned against the cabin. Gripping the long wooden handle, he smashed the metal end against the piece of plastic. In a frenzy, he hit the cell phone again and again, until broken pieces scattered and rolled to the ground. He’d bury them in the morning.

  He was exhausted. Depleted of energy.

  Sleep.

  All he wanted now was to sleep and to forget about Lynnette Braswell.

  ****

  In the center of the town’s park, Ben knelt in the raw dirt that surrounded the gazebo. He lifted a large plastic pot, turned it upside down, and carefully removed the white rosebush. He used the small spade to dig a hole deep enough to accommodate the plant. Then with his hands he filled in the gap around the roots. He carefully measured the distance and marked the space for another rosebush. A red one, this time.