Surviving Spouse
The crisp air didn’t bother me—not with Patrick’s arms around me. We followed the curve of the beach marveling at the clear navy sky. I’m no astronomer, but Patrick identified almost every constellation above us. The lighthouse and a sliver of moon provided some visibility. Good thing—clumsy is my middle name. I knew better than to walk and watch the sky. When we stopped to admire the waves, Patrick pulled me close and kissed me.
"You made quite a hit with our local gendarme," he said. "I think he’d like to put you in protective custody. His."
"Joe? Don’t be silly. He’s just being nice. We both like books, plus he’s a fan. That’s nice to hear."
He bent down until we were eye-level. "Listen here. I’m your number one fan, Convent Girl. Always have been. You know that, don’t you?" Patrick’s lips brushed my wedding ring as he sucked my fingertips. "I know what a treasure I have." He backed me against a huge boulder, pulling me close to him. "Don’t give up on me. Just you, Darling. Always you."
I averted my eyes. If he saw them he’d also see my vulnerability. My mother often scolded me about that, saying I wore my heart on my sleeve. Someone had made a sandcastle on the dune across from us and I focused on that, admiring the turrets and the thick moat surrounding the structure. It was fantastic—more of a sculpture than a mound of sand. That hadn’t been here this morning. The artist had worked fast. A thin wire fence ringed the artwork providing a temporary barrier from destruction. Too bad the sea would soon obliterate it.
The sculptor must have forgotten his jacket. The sleeve of a rain slicker protruded from one of the mounds.
"Oh look. Someone forgot his stuff. Maybe we should rescue it." I wiggled out of his arms and scrambled toward the hill.
"Grace, forget it. The owner might come back looking for it. Come on. Let’s go home."
I ignored him and continued my trek, cursing my own ineptitude. My cellphone had a camera but I could never figure it out. The boys would have loved seeing this creation. Maybe Patrick had his I-Phone with him.
I should call Gabby. The babies might have her crazy by now. After, Grace. One thing at a time. That slicker was just within my grasp. I reached out and plucked the sleeve. Then I screamed.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’ve found bodies before. I never faint. Hardly ever. When my eyes flew open I realized that tonight was an exception. I was sprawled on the sand with my head in Patrick’s lap while he calmly dialed his I-phone. I tugged on his sweater.
"Is he dead? Leonard Nick. That’s his jacket."
Patrick was unflappable. "Close you eyes," he said. "The police will be here soon." He rocked me back and forth, making soothing sounds. "I’ll take you home as soon as they get here. Don’t worry, I talked with Gabby and the boys are fine."
My eyes flew open again and I turned toward that yellow slicker. "What killed him? I saw lots of blood."
"Grace…" Patrick was counting to ten or something. "You’ve got it wrong."
"What? You mean he’s not dead? I could have sworn…"
His sigh mixed the forbearance of Job with Solomon’s wisdom. "You didn’t see his face, did you?"
"Nope. I touched the sleeve and all that blood…" You will absolutely not get sick, Grace Quinn. Take a deep breath.
Flashing lights signaled the approach of police and paramedics. We needed cops but the medics were rather superfluous under the circumstances. No sirens in this peaceful place—they would have roused half the town.
"Are you okay?" Joe Bourke asked. He moved briskly through the sand trailed by the ambulance crew. "Want these guys to check you out?"
"She’s fine," Patrick answered for me. He copped an attitude whenever Chief Bourke appeared. "I caught her before she hit her head."
"How’d he die?" I asked again. "Did someone shoot him?"
Joe got an odd look on his face. "I think they found the murder weapon," he said.
One of his deputies held some kind of rake aloft. It had very sharp teeth.
"What is that thing?" I asked. "It looks lethal."
"Great choice of words, Ms. Quinn. It probably was." Patrick studied the weapon. "That’s a clam rake, isn’t it?"
"Quahog rake," Joe said. "Sometimes called a Chatham scratcher. Used correctly, it gathers a lot of clams. On human flesh, it can do serious damage."
"What was he doing out here all alone?" I quickly realized that Leonard Nick might not have been alone. After all, Patrick and I were wandering on the beach too.
A strange look passed between Joe and Patrick. They were definitely hiding something from me.
"Okay you guys, what gives?" I scrambled toward the corpse until Patrick leapt up and grabbed me around the waist. "Hold on there. You know better than to disturb a crime scene."
