Killer Coin Page 8

  “Nice,” he says, when we pause for breath. He smiles down at me, his eyes shining. “What was that for?”

  “I just felt like it.”

  “Mmmm, well, I feel like this.”

  Our next kiss leaves me dizzy.

  We start to walk again, both of us grinning.

  A bend in the trail reveals an old log cabin with a low front porch and a sagging roof. While Mom described it as rundown, I’m still surprised by the state it’s in. Because of the Danes’ great wealth I’d expected something much grander. This place looks derelict, the front porch littered with dead leaves and pine needles. There’s a dusty table and a few hard-backed wooden chairs. The welcome mat looks rotten.

  “Yikes,” says Josh. “You ever see that movie, The Cabin in the Woods?”

  I shake my head. “A love story?”

  Josh laughs. “Yeah, if you find zombies romantic.”

  We both slow down. I shiver. The cabin’s small dark windows remind me of staring eyes, its gaze sullen. I’m glad to be holding Josh’s big, warm hand. This place is creepy.

  My feet feel heavy. I force myself to keep pace but can’t shake my misgivings. I tell myself to get a grip. It’s just an old, unused cabin. I’m being ridiculous. But with each step, my chest tightens.

  Before stepping onto the sagging porch I call out. “Hello?”

  “Hey? Anyone home?” calls Josh.

  For a beat there’s dead silence. A sparrow shoots out of a chink between the logs. I jump. The bird darts into the trees. I stare after it, feeling shaky.

  Josh releases my hand and walks to a front window. He presses his forehead to the glass and raises his hands as blinkers. I join him.

  When my eyes adjust, I see a dark room. Everything is brown. Unpainted wooden floors. Fake-pine-paneled walls and ceiling. A sagging brown couch. Even the mug resting on the wooden coffee table is brown, as is the man’s shoe discarded in the middle of a brown rag rug. A shiny brown dress shoe.

  While there’s nothing scary about a shoe, the sight of it fills me with horror. I see a man spin around and cry out. I close my eyes, feeling dizzy.

  “Toby?” Josh grips my elbow. “Hey? You okay?” His tanned forehead creases.

  I realize I’m bent double. I grip the window frame. “I . . . Yes.” I say. “I’m just a little lightheaded.”

  He frowns down at me. “Maybe you’re hungry.”

  I nod, but the thought of food flips my stomach. I’m not hungry.

  Still holding my elbow, Josh leads me to a chair on the rickety porch. I sink down gratefully and rub my forehead. What just happened?

  He crouches beside me and holds my hand, blue eyes dark with worry. “You’ve gone all pale,” he says.

  I look at the front door, then look away. It’d be better to leave, as fast as possible. But we came all this way. I should look inside. What if my mom’s right and something’s happened to Daphne? What if she came here and met some accident? That brown mug niggles at me. It’s like someone just left it there. And that shoe . . . My mom’s fretful voice floats into my head. “The turquoise . . . be careful.”

  I rub my forehead as if to scour this thought away. If I don’t watch out, I’ll end up as loony as my mom. Don’t they say girls end up like their mothers? It might be genetic.

  “I better look inside,” I tell Josh. “Just in case.”

  He looks skeptical, but shrugs. “Okay. But it looks empty.”

  When I stand, he does too. We both walk to the peeling front door. It’s locked. I rattle the handle.

  Part of me wants to give up. I can say I tried. But I know I could try harder. I check under the front mat, just in case. No key. Now Josh looks uneasy. “Want to get going?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I’m going to try the windows. Something about this place has me repulsed but curious. I need to see what’s in there.

  CHAPTER 10:

  IN SHOCK

  We walk around to a side window, obscured by olive-green curtains. A tug on the glass reveals it’s unlocked. Josh raises an eyebrow when I slide one pane behind the other. “Toby?” He sounds incredulous. “What are you doing?”

  “Climbing in,” I say. I explain about Walt’s gold coins, which might be out here, forgotten in some hidden safe. I want to check if anything’s been disturbed. And I want to be sure Daphne’s not inside, ill or injured. “Can you boost me?”

  Josh glances around, like he’s worried we’re being watched, then steps closer. He looks both amused and disbelieving. “Really?”

  “Really,” I say. “It’ll only take two minutes. Just so I can tell my mother.”

  With a shrug, he knits his fingers and extends his joined hands to form a step. His blue eyes twinkle. “Did Nancy Drew have a boyfriend?”

  I smile. “Yeah, Ned Nickerson.”

  Josh snorts. “Ned Nickerson? What kind of name is that?”

  “Ned and Nancy,” I say. “I bet those were super trendy names in the 1930s.” I step up onto his hands and hold his shoulder to steady myself. After finding my balance, I clamber from his hands to the window frame. Perched birdlike on the windowsill, I pull back the dusty curtains.

  The room looks dim and dusty. There’s a saggy bed with an orange crocheted cover, two 1970s-style bedside tables, a lamp with a tasseled mustard shade, and a brown and orange shag rug.

  I jump down, as lightly as possible. As a kid I did gymnastics. But I’m rusty. I land on my feet but fall forward.

  Josh sweeps the curtain aside and peers in. “You okay, Nancy?”

  I get up and brush off my knees. “Yeah, super. Thanks Ned,” I say. Except it’s a lie. I feel like one of those oblivious kids in a horror movie, the ones determined to explore places that are obviously haunted. The audience in my head is covering their eyes, just waiting for some ghoul to grab me.

  I try to shake off this feeling. As a teen, I watched way too many crappy mad-slasher films. And I ought to lay off the late-night, true crime podcasts. This is just an old, empty shack. On a peaceful island. In a peaceful land. There’s nothing to be scared of.

  “Let me in through the front door, okay?” says Josh.

  I nod, relieved to have a partner in crime. “Sure thing.” It’s an effort to keep my voice steady.

  Exiting the bedroom, I turn left. A dark narrow hall leads to the front room, with its brown couch and rag rug. I give the dress shoe a wide berth, like it’s a grenade, or could come alive and fly at me—a possessed shoe, à la Stephen King.

  I unlatch the front door. In true haunted-house style it creaks open.

  Josh is waiting on the porch. Seeing me, he smiles, then, wrinkles his nose. “Ew. What’s that smell?” he asks. He puts a hand to his face and steps backward.

  As soon as he says it, I don’t know how I didn’t notice. I must have been too intent on the sick feeling in my stomach. Now, like Josh, I cover my nose and mouth. The smell is sour yet sickly sweet, like damp fabric and rotting food. Whoever was here last must have forgotten to empty the garbage.

  “I’ll be quick,” I say. Behind my hand, my voice is muffled. With the smell, I don’t expect Josh to follow but he does. I love him for it. Who’s got my back now, Quinn? I think. He follows me down the dark hallway.

  Past the first bedroom lies a door. I force myself to open it and flick on the light. A dim bulb reveals an avocado-colored toilet and a tub with a moldy gold shower curtain. Ugh. No wonder Daphne doesn’t come here anymore! This place is disgusting. It must have been overdue for a renovation even when the Dane kids were little.

  Josh peers over my shoulder. “Yuck. They need to tear this place down and start again,” he says. “It’s a great piece of land.” His voice is pinched, like he’s holding his nose. “It must be worth a fortune.”

  I flick off the light. We continue down the dark hall. Another door lies to my left. It’s partly closed. I pause before pushing it, my chest tight as a drum. If Josh weren’t behind me I might turn and bolt. When I grab the doorknob, my hand tr
embles.

  Another bed, another orange cover. Another tasseled lamp. Another shag rug. In the middle of this rug lies the other shoe—shiny and beetle brown. It looks expensive.

  I blink. Not far from the shoe lies a dark blue sock. It’s half inside out. I turn my head. Some steps away lies a large, bare foot. It’s sticking out of a mirrored closet. My breath scrapes the back of my throat. Oh my god. Is it Daphne?

  Josh steps into the room behind me. I see his face reflected in the closet’s speckled mirror. His mouth sags open with shock. He clamps his hand to his mouth, gagging.

  My legs turn to badly set Jell-O. I take a tiny step forward. I reach for the closet’s door and pull it back. Another bare foot comes into view, the toes white and uncallused. I blink and edge forward. Two long, strong legs are clad in navy blue dress pants.

  Another shaky step and I can see him: a big man, lying facedown on the floor. He’s got one arm curled under him, the other outstretched, like he was reaching for something. His hair is neat and sandy blond. He looks very fit. I feel a moment of hope. He might be asleep. Except there’s a black, tarry patch on the back of his head. In the center of this mess sits a large, shiny green fly. More flies circle lazily. Their buzzing fills my head, deafening.

  I jump back and crash into Josh. He yelps and grabs my arm. His fingers dig in. “Is he . . . dead?”

  I blink, unwilling to believe my eyes. My head swims with horror and questions. Should we check for a pulse? Or leave the scene undisturbed? Is there a chance he’s alive? Who is he?

  Josh inches closer. He crouches. Beneath his tan, his face has a weird pistachio tint. With one shaking finger, he touches the man’s bare foot. “Cold,” he whispers.

  I shuffle sideways to get a view of the dead man’s face. Only the left side is visible. On his white cheek lies a red welt, with a cut running through it. His eye is blue and half open.

  My stomach tilts. I start gagging.

  I back away. My foot lands on something that rolls. I stagger backward. Bending low, I see a gold tube of lipstick. I tilt my head: on the base, a tiny sticker bears the name—Scarlet Woman—and a color sample. Blood red.

  I lift my head, feeling dizzy. Sticking out from under the bed is an iron poker. Its tip is gummy. A few strands of fair hair bristle out. A fresh wave of nausea strikes me.

  My gaze lurches around the room. The bed is made. There’s no sign of a struggle. Above the bed lies a painting—a seascape, roiling waves in dark colors. The frame hangs at an angle. I feel a crazy urge to straighten it but resist.

  “Jesus, let’s go,” says Josh. We both back away.

  I follow him down the dark hall and through the living room. We both avoid the shoe. It’s a relief to step through the front door. When it creaks shut behind us it sounds like a reproach: Fool kids, I told you not to go in there. I can practically hear the Scooby-Doo theme song.

  On the porch, Josh skids to a stop. I do too. He raises his hands to his head, grabs two fistfuls of hair and pulls. “Shit. We need to report it.” His voice is shaky.

  I look around, breathing hard. Is the killer still here? This thought strikes me hard, in the gut. But no, the corpse—my mind skitters away from this ugly word—wasn’t fresh. The smell . . . I start gagging.

  Josh pats his pockets, finds his phone. He squints at it, frowning. “No reception.”

  My stomach sinks lower.

  He steps off the porch and paces around the small clearing, trying to find a signal. Finally, it connects. I can hear him talking to the 911 operator. The line must be bad because he’s yelling.

  My legs are liquid. I collapse onto a wooden chair only to jump back up. I can’t sit still. I can’t stay here. But there’s no choice. We’ll have to wait for the police. We found a dead man. A dead body. A murdered dead body.

  As Josh tries to explain our whereabouts, I reach for my phone. Without even thinking, my fingers have found Colin’s number. Except what would I say? One, I’m on a date with another guy. Two, while not exactly breaking and entering, it might look that way. Instead of dragging Josh out here, I should have called Colin in the first place and told him about the conversation I overheard between Gerard and Lukas. I shouldn’t be here.

  I stash my phone and sink back onto the rickety chair. I hang my head between my knees. Colin will be livid. What was I thinking?

  I rub my temples. While Colin’s bound to hear about this case, I can only hope my name doesn’t crop up. If I’m lucky, he’ll never know. My heart lifts a little. I don’t want to lose Colin’s respect. I like him too much for that. His opinion of me matters.

  CHAPTER 11:

  TOUGH QUESTIONS

  The 911 operator instructed us to stay put. Rather than wait on the porch, we huddle under a tree. From here, we can see the trail that, presumably, leads to the road. It looks overgrown. We don’t talk. I want to hold Josh’s hand or, better yet, press him close. But he keeps pacing in erratic circles.

  Earlier, the woods seemed quiet. Now, they’re full of rustlings and slitherings. Branches sway. Twigs snap. I keep thinking I hear footsteps but know it’s only my stressed imagination.

  After what feels like hours, two figures appear on the trail. In front marches a woman. She’s short and freckled, in her mid-fifties. Behind her strides a stocky, freckled man in his mid-twenties. Dressed in matching black uniforms, they have matching expressions of flushed, nervous excitement.

  Seeing us, the woman waves. She looks friendly.

  Josh and I wait awkwardly as the pair approaches. Ever since we saw the dead guy I’ve felt cold all over.

  The police officers stop. The woman introduces herself as Sergeant Jane Brock. “And this,” she points at the young guy, “Is Pete.” Seeing his frown, she corrects herself. “I mean Constable Peter Gardener.”

  Judging from their similar features, identical coloring and familiar manner, they’re clearly related. Mother and son? Aunt and nephew?

  After asking some basic questions, they tell us to stay put, then vanish into the cabin. They reemerge in record time, looking pale beneath their freckles.

  “It’s a homicide,” confirms Sergeant Brock. She compulsively zips and unzips her jacket. “We gotta call in help.” She gestures vaguely toward the cottage. “Don’t go anywhere.” We both nod. “You got the tape?” she asks the young constable. “We need Doc Cassidy out here pronto.”

  I raise an ironic eyebrow at Josh but he doesn’t seem to notice. Doc Cassidy? While we’re only a short drive from Victoria’s five-star hotels, wine bars, and international airport, this feels like another, much more rustic planet.

  As Sergeant Brock retreats out of earshot, Constable Gardener starts to wind police tape around the old cottage. With his pink cheeks he looks like a kid with a new toy. “Last murder out here was before my time,” he cheerfully informs us. “The Jennings cousins. Drank too much Jim Beam and got into a fight about a downrigger.” I grit my teeth. What are the chances of this being solved? I bet these cops spend their days busting speeders and underage drinkers.

  By the time Constable Pete finishes with the police tape, Daphne’s decrepit cabin resembles an old shoebox held together by yellow ribbons. Sergeant Jane reappears. “The coroner and murder guys are on their way.” The good news is they’ve called in professionals. The bad news is this will take longer.

  I stomp my feet to keep warm. I want to ask where these new cops are coming from but don’t dare. Up island? Or from Victoria? My stomach bottoms out. I certainly hope not. Colin is a “murder guy.”

  Sergeant Jane checks her watch. “They shouldn’t be too long,” she says, cheerfully. “They’re coming by speedboat.” She withdraws a notepad from her jacket. After some patting, she locates a pen in her breast pocket. “I’ll start with the basics,” she says. “Names. Ages. Reasons for being here.”

  I go first. My reason for being here is complicated. Jane has trouble keeping up. When it’s Josh’s turn, his answer is simple. “Because of her.” He jabs a thumb
my way.

  “Right,” says Sergeant Jane. “And what’s your relationship?”

  Again, Josh directs his thumb my way. “Ask her.”

  Jane peers at me expectantly. There’s an uncomfortable pause.

  “We’re friends,” I say. I give Josh a tentative smile, which he doesn’t return. I feel hurt. Is he upset that I brought him to a crime scene? But how was I supposed to know we’d find a dead guy? Or is it the word

  “friends” that’s pissed him off? I think of Nancy Drew’s boyfriend. Even when stuff went wrong, I don’t recall Ned getting narky.

  Jane is taking an awfully long time to write everything down in her tiny black notebook. Finally, she lowers her pen. “Okay. You two can wait on your boat until the detectives show up. Constable Gardener will walk you down there.”

  Thank god. It’s a relief to get away from the cabin. I follow Josh back to the beach. There’s no hand-holding this time. The young constable walks behind us. He talks the whole way, all about his latest triumph—catching a guy who was stealing crab traps. It’s like he found Malaysia Air Flight 370, nabbed JonBenét Ramsey’s killer, and ID’d Jack the Ripper. Normally, I’d admire his enthusiasm, but right now, I have a headache.

  While Constable Pete keeps watch below, Josh and I climb onto the bridge. We turn our chairs to look out to sea, as far from the dead man as we can get. Out of sight, out of mind. Except he isn’t. I keep reseeing that grim head wound . . .

  Neither of us talks. Josh keeps checking his watch. My stomach rumbles. Wherever the detectives are coming from, they’re taking their time. My definition of “not long” does not match Sergeant Jane’s. Luckily, we brought lunch, although I have no appetite. Still, we should eat, to keep our strength up.

  “Want your sandwich?” I ask Josh.