TROUBLE IN PARADISE
by Jan Christensen
Two roseate spoonbills landed beside Paradise Pond, and one snaked its neck into the water to grab a fish. A snowy egret looked on with interest.
Someone screamed. Stacey jumped up as the birds fluttered into the sky. She saw movement near the front end of the boardwalk and caught a glimpse of an orange shirt, then heard feet pounding toward the exit of the beautiful, usually peaceful, sanctuary.
She ran toward the now-silenced scream.
On the deck overhanging the pond, she found a young woman, around thirty, in a heap in the corner. Shocked to find someone of about her own age in such a situation, Stacey quickly checked for a pulse. She couldn't rouse her, so she dialed 911 on her cell, sat down on the planking and chaffed the woman's wrists while she waited, murmuring to her. Bruises an ugly shade of purple marked the woman's neck. Hearing running footsteps again--Stacey stood up, waiting tensely. Was the attacker returning? There was no other way out of the sanctuary, and nowhere to hide. As she looked around for a weapon, the police and paramedics rushed onto the small deck.
There were quick questions while the paramedics placed the woman on a stretcher and took her away.
One of the policemen led Stacey to the middle observation deck, and they sat on the bench. Two others were left at the scene to look for clues.
"Tell me again, slowly, what happened," Sergeant Petrie said. He was early thirties, she thought, even-featured, fit, with a nice tan.
Stacey noticed most of the birds had disappeared. Only two white ibises remained.
When she finished telling what she knew, he asked, "You're here on vacation?"
She nodded.
"What do you do back home? And where is home?"
"San Antonio. Port Aransas is my favorite place to vacation. I love driving on the beach. And the birds. Everyone's so friendly, too." She wondered if it would ever be the same again. "I teach writing at a small college in San Antonio, and the rest of the time I write romances."
"A writer," he murmured, his blue eyes looking at her with renewed interest. "Do you think the couple was aware of you?"
"I'm pretty sure they weren't. They were here when I arrived, having a pretty tense conversation when I walked by the first observation deck. Both had their backs to me. Oh! I saw the car. It was the only one in the parking lot. It was light blue." She closed her eyes to concentrate. "Two doors, small, but I don't know the make because I'm not good at that. There was a Bichon in the front seat."
"A what?"
"A white Bichon Frise¢ dog. Small and cute. Looks like a powder puff."
"Oh, yeah. I think I've seen them. Never saw them when I was a kid. Why can't they have English names for dogs anymore?" The sergeant wrote a few words in his notebook, then snapped it closed. "If you think of anything else, here's my card."
Stacey stood and followed Sergeant Petrie toward the first deck. She didn't look at it, just continued down the boardwalk to where it became a cement sidewalk, and then to the small parking lot, now packed with police vehicles and curious on-lookers. Stacey maneuvered her car out of her space and drove to her condo near the beach. In her fifth-story room, she collapsed onto the couch, kicking off her shoes.
She couldn't turn her mind off, as much as she wanted to. The ringing phone made her start. She grabbed it and heard a strange voice say, "Don't talk to the cops anymore if you know what's good for you. Forget what you saw at Paradise Pond." A click, then the dial tone.
Slowly, she hung up. She stood and began to pace. Maybe she should go back to San Antonio. But it made her furious that some piece of slime could get her to give up her vacation and slink home.
Think, she told herself.
The phone rang again. She hesitated, then grabbed it and said, "Yes?"
"Ms. Marrow?" a different voice asked.
She sank down onto the couch. "Yes," she said in a less belligerent tone.
"This is Sergeant Petrie. I have news, and I'm afraid it's not good."
"Go on."
"The woman died soon after they reached the hospital, never regaining consciousness. We haven't been able to identify her. Yet."
"I see," Stacey said, biting her lower lip. "I just received another call, Sergeant. A man told me not to talk to you anymore and to forget what I saw."
Silence on the other end.
"Do you have any idea how that man could have found out who I am and where I'm staying?"
"I'm afraid I don't. Maybe you should return to San Antonio."
"And let him spoil my vacation?"
"Seems he already has. And it will be more ruined if anything happens to you."
Stacey sighed. "You have a point. But I don't like being bullied."
"I understand. But please think of going home or to another vacation spot. How about South Padre Island?"
"It's a good thing you don't work for the Port Aransas Tourist Bureau, Sergeant," Stacey said with a small laugh.
After they hung up, inspiration struck. What if the man had seen her car in the lot, waited in a nearby parking area, and followed her to the condo?
She took the elevator down to reception. A young man behind the desk straightened up when he saw her approach. "May I help you?" he asked. He seemed nervous.
"I believe so. How much did a man pay you to give out my personal information?"
"I never . . . never would . . . do that, ma'am."
Stacey pounded her fist on the desk. "I think you would. And did." Too furious to say more, Stacey strode out to her car.
Restless and a bit scared, she decided to go to the beach to calm down. She watched her rearview mirror all the way for the blue car, but no one followed her. Parked on the packed sand, she called the Sergeant and told him about the desk clerk. Then she took a folding chair and umbrella out of the back seat and settled down to watch the waves and the people. A fisherman waded in the water, a Great Blue Heron nearby, waiting for the fisherman to provide dinner. Stacey grinned at the scene. This was one of the things she loved about Port Aransas.
She became angry again, thinking about that man murdering someone, finding out who she was, then threatening her.
Remembering the little dog in the car, she bet herself the dog belonged to the woman. Perhaps a veterinarian would know who they were. Where had she seen a veterinarian? Either on Beach Street or Avenue G. She put away the chair and umbrella, and drove into town. After driving around for awhile, she found the vet's office.
Inside, two people were waiting, one with an enormous cat, and another with a miniature Doberman. Stacey stepped up to the desk and asked to talk to the vet--Dr. Hillard, she noticed as she took a business card from a holder.
"Name of your pet?" the receptionist asked.
"Um, I don't have one," Stacey said.
"Are you a salesperson?"
"No. I just have some questions."
"About what?"
"I'd rather just talk to the doctor, if I could," Stacey said.
The receptionist sighed. "I'll see if we can fit you in. Have a seat."
Stacey waited more than an hour. Finally, she was called and shown to an office. Dr. Hillard rushed in, white lab coat flapping. She was tall, slender, and had glossy brown hair tied back with a ribbon. Large brown eyes looked at Stacey curiously. She held out her hand to shake, then sat down behind her slightly messy desk.
"What can I do for you?"
"You may have heard about the murder at Paradise Pond?"
Dr. Hillard looked startled. "Yes."
"I was there--on another observation deck. I heard the woman scream and the man run away. I also saw the car they most likely arrived in--the only other one in the parking lot." Stacey paused. It was harder to tell than she'd expected.
Dr. Hillard raised her eyebrows. "And?"
"There was a Bichon Frise¢ in the car. I thought if they were residents, perhaps you knew who they were. The woman died at the hospital, with no identification, and someone threatened me." Stacey swallowed, suddenly feeling helpless and vulnerable. The shock was wearing off--the shock which had kept her steady until now. Her hands began to tremble, and she squeezed them in her lap.
"I see," Dr. Hillard said. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't discuss my patients with anyone, but under the circumstances. . . .
"Please," Stacey said, leaning forward.
"I only have one Bichon Frise¢ patient. Can you tell me what the woman looked like?"
Stacey described her, and Dr. Hillard nodded. "Sounds like Emily Cunningham. After she bought little Tiger, she
brought him in for a check-up and his shots. I never saw a husband or boyfriend, though."
"Oh," Stacey said. "I wonder if she's listed in the phone book."
Dr. Hillard stood and reached for the Port Aransas phone book, about the size of a Reader's Digest, on the file cabinet behind her desk. Quickly, she found only one Cunningham and showed the listing to Stacey. Not an Emily, but a Hank.
"This is a big help," Stacey said. "I have a map in my car."
"You're not going there by yourself, are you? I think you should call the police."
Stacey stood up. "I'll just drive by, see if a car like the one I saw at Paradise Pond is perhaps parked in the driveway. Or little Tiger, running around the front yard."
"Then you'll call the police?"
"Yes, of course."
They shook hands, and Stacey left, feeling hopeful.
She found the street on her map--only a few blocks away. She drove there and parked across from the weathered gray house on stilts. No car in the driveway. As Stacey watched, deciding what to do, a light blue car drove up behind her. A man climbed out and approached. Quickly, she locked the door and started to roll up the window, but he was too fast for her. He grabbed her arm through the window with one hand, and unlocked the door with the other, then opened it and pulled her out of the car by her elbow, letting go of the other arm.
Too startled to scream at first, Stacey gave a huge yell now. The man hit her with the back of his hand across her face so hard, she fell to her knees. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard a faint yipping, and when she opened her eyes, she saw the little white dog tugging on the man's ankle. He was trying to kick the Bichon away, but Tiger held on tight.
Stacey stood up, turned around, and reached for the umbrella in the back seat. She began battering the man over the head with it. Now he was trying to get away from both her and the dog. Sirens sounded in the distance, and Stacey paused a minute, the umbrella held straight out. The man lunged at her. Stacey moved the umbrella so that he fell onto the tip. He screamed, then crumpled to the ground. Tiger stood, tail wagging, looking at the man, then at Stacey. Then he sat down and began to whimper.
Sergeant Petrie was by her side now, gun drawn. "This must be the one," he said.
"How'd you know to come?" Stacey asked.
"Dr. Hillard called, and then a neighbor. Looks as if you didn't really need us." He grinned at her.
The man groaned and tried to sit up. Some blood oozed from a wound in his chest, but Stacey bet it wasn't very deep. "Why'd you kill Emily?" she asked.
"She was going to leave me. Said I needed to learn to control my temper. I taught her. No one leaves me."
"Well, she's gone now," Stacey said and picked up a whimpering Tiger. "But I'm staying. I'm not letting you ruin Paradise."
"Good," Sergeant Petrie murmured in her ear.
THE END
Jan Christensen has had fifty short stories published in such places as Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, Mysterical-e, Nefarious, Hardluck Stories, and many others. Her first novel, "Sara's Search," was published in 2004. She travels around full-time in a motorhome with her best friend who just happens to be her husband. More about Jan at: www.janchristensen.com. Contact Jan.
