Connor Harrison eased the Dodge Durango down the slope of the bridge at the West end of Emerald Isle, and made the turn at the Coast Guard Station before waking his sleeping passenger. It had been about a three and a half hour ride and Andrea Nicholson had been quiet most of the way.
“Hey, wake up, we’re here.” She sat up and looked around at the passing scenery.
“Jim’s place isn’t too much further, is it?”
“It’s about a mile and a half from here.”
“And just think,” she offered, “I don’t have any patients to deal with, no schedules, in fact no nothing for the next two weeks. It’s going to be glorious.”
“Right, and you can let your PhD have a vacation as well. Your practice can probably survive without you for a couple of weeks, don’t you think?”
She stretched and looked over at her companion. “Yes, probably, and of course, you don’t have an office to go to, do you? In fact, I guess you’re on vacation all the time.” She referred to his early retirement from the Raleigh Police Department as a homicide detective because of a knee injury he had sustained in the line of duty. It was during a shooting incident that had almost crippled him.
He smiled at her and said, “And don’t forget, no mysteries, murders or mayhem to deal with either. I think that will be a joy after the last adventure.” Andrea thought back to the murders and mysteries the two of them had been through together.
She was quiet for a moment then opened her purse and removed a sheet of paper. “And speaking of adventures, I have just the right one for you.” She held the paper up as she continued. “Last night, before I went to bed, which at your request was early, I made a list of some of the things we’ll need for this week. I checked on the Internet and there’s a Food Lion not far from Jim Burton’s place. I’ll unpack all our stuff if you’ll go to the store. Does that sound like a deal?”
“I guess so, since you had to get up so early to get to my place in Garner on time.”
“Yes, and at that hour of the morning there’s not much traffic from Tryon Hill to there, especially since I was able to bypass Greensboro.”
“You’re not telling that you need a nap, are you?”
“No, I’ll have enough to do to get us settled in. Jim said he hadn’t had a chance to get down here this season at all. I suppose his auto body shop must be doing well, so who knows what I’ll find that I have to do, and later,” she said, as she looked toward the ocean, “I intend to try to work on my tan, even though it is November.”
“Well,” he added, “hurricane season is almost over, officially, that is, but I don’t think you should count on much in the way of sunshine anytime soon.” He looked toward the clouds on the horizon, in the fading sunlight. We might have some rain tomorrow.”
“Connor, don’t be a spoil sport. There’s nothing that can ruin this vacation.”
“Sorry about that, I guess I did promise to be nothing but positive on this trip, but even if it does rain, there are lots of inside things we can do,” he said, winking at her, but he received only a frown in return.
“Connor, I’m serious, you know how I would hate to be cooped up for these next two weeks.”
“Well...” he began, “did you put in your order for good weather with the right weatherman. If you did, I’m sure we’ll have nothing but glorious sunshine for the next fourteen days.” Connor took a right turn off Emerald Drive, drove the two blocks toward Ocean Drive and located Jim Burton’s place. The house they were seeking was beachfront with a private walkway across the dunes toward the surf. The former detective stretched his six foot two inch frame as he stepped out of the Dodge.
“This place is not too bad,” he said, surveying the beachfront house.
“Not too bad?” Andrea exclaimed, producing the key to the cottage. “It’s perfect, and, you’ll notice, I’m turning off my cell phone so my psychology patients can’t contact me, although I don’t guess they’ll even try. I gave them an associate’s number if they were having any real problems.”
“Yes,” Conner inserted, “but you probably should leave it on. I might need to call you from the grocery store if I have any problems with your list.”
The tall blonde nodded and the pair began unloading the car. Connor was soon on his way to pick up the groceries, knowing nothing of the adventure that awaited them, just around the corner.
He had been staring at the bottle of scotch for at least five minutes, trying to muster the courage to pour himself a drink. He could still hear his new assistant’s voice telling him, just before she left, that she would hold him to his promise to stay on the wagon for a least a week.
“Humph, what does she know about what I need?” He spoke out loud, but without an audience. “One drink won’t hurt, just one.” He looked up at the sign painted on the glass door to his office, ‘102, Harry Miller, Private Investigator’. In his line of work, and just beyond the age of sixty, he needed a little support to keep him going.
He poured a small amount into the glass and held it up to the light from the window. He loved the color, he loved the aroma, he loved everything about it, especially the part where he took the drink and downed it, but this time he hesitated, but only for a moment. The glass was emptied in an instant as he turned in his chair and leaned back to gaze out the window at the ocean in the distance. He spun around quickly, though, when he heard someone tapping on the glass of his office door. It was only the cleaning lady, Mrs. Arnold, with her mop bucket and broom.
“Come back some other time, I’m busy now.” He began rearranging the papers on his desk in a show of a man hard at work. “Do it tomorrow.” He slipped the bottle into an open desk drawer and slowly closed it, while watching the old lady shuffle on down the hall toward the next office.
It was an hour later when she returned from her rounds of sweeping and mopping, that she saw him, still seated at his desk; but with his head on a pile of papers and an empty bottle beside him. She supposed he was off the wagon again and shook her head as she slowly continued toward the service closet down the hall to store her supplies and then went out the door toward the street.
As the cleaning woman left the building, another figure emerged from the shadows of the darkened office carrying a pistol. He looked down at the man, slumped over his desk. The intruder took hold of the collar of the man’s shirt and pulled him into an upright position, studied him for a moment, then let his head fall back on the pile of papers. He slid the pistol back into his jacket pocket and left the office.