Read Online A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) by Mindy Quigley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mindy Quigley
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dollars—a used one would be even cheaper, and obviously a stolen one would be cheapest of all. So whoever killed her wanted to make it look like suicide, but didn’t want to give up a valuable gun.
“So he put a cheap one in her hand,” Lindsay shuddered involuntarily.
“I believe so,” Warren said. “What I’ve gotta figure out is why anybody’d go through the trouble of making it look like suicide.”
“Maybe all he needed was a smokescreen to buy him a little time.”
“Could be,” Warren agreed. “But time for what?”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Lindsay said, “whether we want to or not.”
Chapter 6
Just after 8 p.m. on Christmas Eve, Lindsay pulled her car up to the front of a small coral-colored house in the historic, restored village of Corolla, North Carolina. Like all dwellings on the Outer Banks, the house had a standard postal address—what Lindsay thought of as its Sunday name, little used and reserved for official business. The house’s real name, the name it used for everyday life, was “Sailor Girl.” Such nicknames emerged from the maritime tradition of naming boats, and could change when the house changed owners. Vacation houses tended to make themselves over every few years—this year’s “Sunchaser” could be next year’s “Ocean Breeze.” Sailor Girl, however, had borne the same name, inscribed in tiny seashells on a wooden plaque, since Lindsay first came to the island as a child.
Low, heavy clouds blanketed the sky, and the gentle hushing sound of the nearby ocean filled the air. As Lindsay approached the house, she could hear the high blue notes of Chet Baker’s trumpet pulsing out the front door. She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door was opened by a thin, elderly woman. Colorful, diaphanous scarves and flowing skirts seemed to radiate out from her slender body, giving her the appearance of a maypole. Her youthful white-blonde pixie cut came courtesy of an excellent wigmaker in Florida, and her cherry-red lips were painted with imported French lipstick. “Lindsay! Baby! You’re a sight for my sore old eyes.” She gathered Lindsay into her bony embrace.
“Hi, Simmy.”
During Lindsay’s years living with her aunt, Simmy Bennett had been a welcome presence in her life. She was among the very few people Aunt Harding socialized with, and Lindsay had idolized her. She was a god-awful cook, a hopeless housekeeper, and a spendthrift of epic proportions. Like all ‘Bankers, Simmy was a hard worker, but money seemed to flow through her hands like the outrushing tide. It was only due to the guaranteed income she took in from her several beachfront rental properties that she had been able to avoid bankruptcy.
To Lindsay, Simmy represented a lively contrast to the perpetually sour Aunt Harding. Lindsay had been raised to call adults Sir or Ma’am, not to speak unless spoken to, and to keep her eyes cast down around grownups to show them respect. But Simmy had always insisted that Lindsay call her by her first name. “If we’re gonna be friends, I can’t have you calling me ma’am. I’m not your school teacher, and I’m not your drill sergeant. I’m just plain old Simmy,” she’d told the six-year-old Lindsay the first time they met.
Lindsay and Simmy hadn’t kept in close touch over the years—Simmy never wrote letters, didn’t know the first thing about computers, and was notoriously bad at returning phone calls—but whenever they met, it was as if no time had passed.
Simmy was now in her mid-80s, and when she smiled at Lindsay, her face seemed to crack like an eggshell into a multitude of cross-hatched wrinkles and lines. “What brings you to my doorstep on Christmas Eve? No room at the inn?”
“I’m here for a few days to visit with Aunt Harding. Didn’t she mention I was coming?”
Simmy’s smile remained, but a shadow passed behind her eyes. “No, baby, she must’ve forgotten. Why
“So he put a cheap one in her hand,” Lindsay shuddered involuntarily.
“I believe so,” Warren said. “What I’ve gotta figure out is why anybody’d go through the trouble of making it look like suicide.”
“Maybe all he needed was a smokescreen to buy him a little time.”
“Could be,” Warren agreed. “But time for what?”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Lindsay said, “whether we want to or not.”
Chapter 6
Just after 8 p.m. on Christmas Eve, Lindsay pulled her car up to the front of a small coral-colored house in the historic, restored village of Corolla, North Carolina. Like all dwellings on the Outer Banks, the house had a standard postal address—what Lindsay thought of as its Sunday name, little used and reserved for official business. The house’s real name, the name it used for everyday life, was “Sailor Girl.” Such nicknames emerged from the maritime tradition of naming boats, and could change when the house changed owners. Vacation houses tended to make themselves over every few years—this year’s “Sunchaser” could be next year’s “Ocean Breeze.” Sailor Girl, however, had borne the same name, inscribed in tiny seashells on a wooden plaque, since Lindsay first came to the island as a child.
Low, heavy clouds blanketed the sky, and the gentle hushing sound of the nearby ocean filled the air. As Lindsay approached the house, she could hear the high blue notes of Chet Baker’s trumpet pulsing out the front door. She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door was opened by a thin, elderly woman. Colorful, diaphanous scarves and flowing skirts seemed to radiate out from her slender body, giving her the appearance of a maypole. Her youthful white-blonde pixie cut came courtesy of an excellent wigmaker in Florida, and her cherry-red lips were painted with imported French lipstick. “Lindsay! Baby! You’re a sight for my sore old eyes.” She gathered Lindsay into her bony embrace.
“Hi, Simmy.”
During Lindsay’s years living with her aunt, Simmy Bennett had been a welcome presence in her life. She was among the very few people Aunt Harding socialized with, and Lindsay had idolized her. She was a god-awful cook, a hopeless housekeeper, and a spendthrift of epic proportions. Like all ‘Bankers, Simmy was a hard worker, but money seemed to flow through her hands like the outrushing tide. It was only due to the guaranteed income she took in from her several beachfront rental properties that she had been able to avoid bankruptcy.
To Lindsay, Simmy represented a lively contrast to the perpetually sour Aunt Harding. Lindsay had been raised to call adults Sir or Ma’am, not to speak unless spoken to, and to keep her eyes cast down around grownups to show them respect. But Simmy had always insisted that Lindsay call her by her first name. “If we’re gonna be friends, I can’t have you calling me ma’am. I’m not your school teacher, and I’m not your drill sergeant. I’m just plain old Simmy,” she’d told the six-year-old Lindsay the first time they met.
Lindsay and Simmy hadn’t kept in close touch over the years—Simmy never wrote letters, didn’t know the first thing about computers, and was notoriously bad at returning phone calls—but whenever they met, it was as if no time had passed.
Simmy was now in her mid-80s, and when she smiled at Lindsay, her face seemed to crack like an eggshell into a multitude of cross-hatched wrinkles and lines. “What brings you to my doorstep on Christmas Eve? No room at the inn?”
“I’m here for a few days to visit with Aunt Harding. Didn’t she mention I was coming?”
Simmy’s smile remained, but a shadow passed behind her eyes. “No, baby, she must’ve forgotten. Why
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