Read Online A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) by Mindy Quigley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mindy Quigley
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don’t you come on inside out of the cold?” In truth, it was far from cold. The salty air was almost balmy, and thick with the promise of rain.
Lindsay entered the house and took in the familiar sights—a disused fireplace filled with half-melted pillar candles, a jumble of artwork covering every wall, scarves draped over the lamps, empty wine glasses on the floor. Lindsay shifted a pile of magazines and took a seat on the sofa. “Aunt Harding was supposed to meet me at the bait and tackle store, but she’s not there. I tried calling her, but there’s no answer.
Aunt Harding lived in the northernmost part of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, in the 12-mile long stretch of land between Corolla and the Virginia State line known as the 4x4 beaches. When Lindsay moved to the Outer Banks as a child, Highway 12, the main north-south artery, had just been extended from the town of Duck to Corolla. Until that time, there was no real road linking the northerly settlements with the larger enclaves of Nags Head and Kitty Hawk in the south. Before the highway came, Corolla could only be reached by a rutted, clay and sand track that ran parallel to Currituck Sound. The road became impassible in wet weather, and the sugar-fine sand that covered it during dry spells slowly tore apart any cars that it didn’t manage to trap outrigh t . The areas to the north of Duck had been populated by hardy locals and intrepid tourists—all united in relishing the inaccessibility of the place. Once the road was completed, however, gargantuan wooden beach houses, strip malls, and real estate offices spread north like a tropical rash.
A number of real estate speculators had predicted that Highway 12 would eventually be continued up to the Virginia State line, and they laid out a grid of sand roads and housing sites in anticipation. However, the fragile geography and constant flood risk nixed the prospect of a road link once and for all, leaving the isolated northerly settlements accessible only on foot or by four-wheel-drive vehicle.
Despite this, the area continued to be developed in the intervening decades, and hundreds of houses now dotted the strange, roadless landscape. Aunt Harding’s house, squatting behind a row of dunes in the 4x4 area north of the disused lifesaving station at Penny’s Hill, predated the road and the new developments. Her family had been duck hunting guides in Corolla since at least the early 1900s. As far as Lindsay knew, Aunt Harding and her little weather-beaten house had emerged fully formed from the primordial ooze.
Lindsay had waited for Aunt Harding at their accustomed meeting place, the little fishing shop on the edge of town. Her battered Toyota Tercel had met an untimely end the previous summer, and she was now driving an equally ancient Honda Civic that she’d bought from one of her father’s elderly parishioners. Neither car had the capacity to traverse the sand roads in the 4x4 area, so on the rare occasions when Lindsay visited, she either hitched a ride with a passing tourist or waited for her aunt to pick her up in her battered Chevy Silverado. When Aunt Harding still hadn’t appeared more than an hour after their arranged meeting time, Lindsay decided to drop in on Simmy.
“Can I get you anything? I was just having my Christmas Eve dinner,” Simmy said indicating a bottle of wine on the floor.
Lindsay lifted the bottle and saw that it was half empty. “Hmm...Well, I was going to ask you to drive me to Aunt Harding’s in your pickup, but judging by this, I think I might be better off walking.”
Simmy dismissed her objection with a pert wave of her hand. “Oh please, honey. You know that I could perform open heart surgery this very minute.”
Lindsay had to admit that Simmy had an amazing tolerance for alcohol. She had seen the woman out-drink a group of UNC football players who’d rented one of her beach houses one summer. While they were all splayed out on the patio furniture the next
Lindsay entered the house and took in the familiar sights—a disused fireplace filled with half-melted pillar candles, a jumble of artwork covering every wall, scarves draped over the lamps, empty wine glasses on the floor. Lindsay shifted a pile of magazines and took a seat on the sofa. “Aunt Harding was supposed to meet me at the bait and tackle store, but she’s not there. I tried calling her, but there’s no answer.
Aunt Harding lived in the northernmost part of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, in the 12-mile long stretch of land between Corolla and the Virginia State line known as the 4x4 beaches. When Lindsay moved to the Outer Banks as a child, Highway 12, the main north-south artery, had just been extended from the town of Duck to Corolla. Until that time, there was no real road linking the northerly settlements with the larger enclaves of Nags Head and Kitty Hawk in the south. Before the highway came, Corolla could only be reached by a rutted, clay and sand track that ran parallel to Currituck Sound. The road became impassible in wet weather, and the sugar-fine sand that covered it during dry spells slowly tore apart any cars that it didn’t manage to trap outrigh t . The areas to the north of Duck had been populated by hardy locals and intrepid tourists—all united in relishing the inaccessibility of the place. Once the road was completed, however, gargantuan wooden beach houses, strip malls, and real estate offices spread north like a tropical rash.
A number of real estate speculators had predicted that Highway 12 would eventually be continued up to the Virginia State line, and they laid out a grid of sand roads and housing sites in anticipation. However, the fragile geography and constant flood risk nixed the prospect of a road link once and for all, leaving the isolated northerly settlements accessible only on foot or by four-wheel-drive vehicle.
Despite this, the area continued to be developed in the intervening decades, and hundreds of houses now dotted the strange, roadless landscape. Aunt Harding’s house, squatting behind a row of dunes in the 4x4 area north of the disused lifesaving station at Penny’s Hill, predated the road and the new developments. Her family had been duck hunting guides in Corolla since at least the early 1900s. As far as Lindsay knew, Aunt Harding and her little weather-beaten house had emerged fully formed from the primordial ooze.
Lindsay had waited for Aunt Harding at their accustomed meeting place, the little fishing shop on the edge of town. Her battered Toyota Tercel had met an untimely end the previous summer, and she was now driving an equally ancient Honda Civic that she’d bought from one of her father’s elderly parishioners. Neither car had the capacity to traverse the sand roads in the 4x4 area, so on the rare occasions when Lindsay visited, she either hitched a ride with a passing tourist or waited for her aunt to pick her up in her battered Chevy Silverado. When Aunt Harding still hadn’t appeared more than an hour after their arranged meeting time, Lindsay decided to drop in on Simmy.
“Can I get you anything? I was just having my Christmas Eve dinner,” Simmy said indicating a bottle of wine on the floor.
Lindsay lifted the bottle and saw that it was half empty. “Hmm...Well, I was going to ask you to drive me to Aunt Harding’s in your pickup, but judging by this, I think I might be better off walking.”
Simmy dismissed her objection with a pert wave of her hand. “Oh please, honey. You know that I could perform open heart surgery this very minute.”
Lindsay had to admit that Simmy had an amazing tolerance for alcohol. She had seen the woman out-drink a group of UNC football players who’d rented one of her beach houses one summer. While they were all splayed out on the patio furniture the next
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