Mother-Daughter Murder Night(10)

Travis came up next to Jack. “I couldn’t get Paul on the phone,” he said. “Left a voicemail.”

Jack felt tired, cold, and not at all surprised.

“But I did bring hot chocolate,” Travis said, pointing to a large metal thermos and a stack of paper cups. “Want some?”

The warmth sounded good, but Jack didn’t trust herself to keep anything in her stomach right now. She gave him a weak smile, and they walked over to the guests at the picnic tables.

“Who’s in charge here?” a coast guard officer asked. It seemed the jurisdictional pissing match had reached some kind of conclusion and the officers were ready to begin.

The tourists looked at Jack. Jack and Travis looked at each other.

“Our boss is away,” Travis said.

“Who’s in charge of this group?”

“I am,” Jack said.

She knew how ridiculous it sounded. A fifteen-year-old girl, barely a hundred pounds, in a red life jacket and booties, leaning on a paddle.

The officer gave her a hard look. “Where’s the body?”

“On the north bank of the slough. About two miles past the bridge. In the mud flats across from Kirby Park.”

“Is there anybody there now?”

“No. I was leading the tour alone. I thought I should bring the group back here safe first.”

“The dead man was on your tour?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. Everyone who was on the tour is here at these two tables. I was guiding, and Travis”—she pointed at the other teenager—“was taking care of the shop.”

“And where’s the owner? Your boss?”

Jack looked over at Travis. He shrugged.

“His name is Paul Hanley,” Travis said. “I tried calling him, but it went to voicemail. He should show up here before it gets totally dark.”

The officer turned back to Jack. “Can you take us to the body?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”



Jack climbed silently onto the coast guard motorboat. It felt cramped, with a pilot, two Coasties, and three sheriff’s deputies occupying the bench seats. She stood by the rail and folded herself into her sweatshirt, hunching her shoulders against the wind. The harbormaster was already out on the water with a bullhorn, directing all remaining kayakers and paddleboarders to return to the shore.

Once they got to the mud flats, Jack pointed but didn’t look. She kept her eyes trained on a snowy egret grooming itself on the bank. The pilot re-angled the boat for peak viewing and minimal disturbance of the scene, and the deputies swarmed port side.

Jack traded places with them. She wedged herself on the starboard side and looked south across the slough, searching for the window in the back bedroom at her house. She could just barely see the wedge of mirrored black, glinting between the cypress and eucalyptus trees. She wouldn’t wave. The house was too far away for her to look like anything more than a bug on a boat, even if Lana was sitting in bed with her binoculars like usual. But it calmed Jack’s nerves a bit, knowing her grandma was there.

Jack’s thoughts were cut through by the voices of the deputies behind her.

“Maybe a giant octopus got him.”

“Or rabid otters.”

Jack shook her head. They weren’t marine biologists, but still. Soon these cops would be suggesting a swamp monster had killed the man.

She heard sirens by the bridge and saw another coast guard boat headed their way. Its deck was less crowded. A man and a woman wearing suits, a couple more Coasties, and maybe that old guy who ran the land trust—she’d seen him at the marina sometimes, but couldn’t be sure. All those grizzled enviro-fishermen types looked the same.

The second boat sidled up next to the skiff, and the men started talking to each other across the gap. The woman in the suit took a cautious step from the second boat to the first and approached Jack.

“You found the body?” She was a curvy woman with a warm voice and golden skin, her hair in a tight blond twist that yanked the skin back from her eyes. She reached out a hand to shake Jack’s, revealing bejeweled purple fingernails that looked killer but wouldn’t survive a single day with a paddle.

“Yes. No. I mean, two people on my eleven a.m. tour did. I’m the tour guide. My name’s Tiny. I mean, Jack. Jacqueline. We use nicknames when we do the tours.”

Great. She was babbling.

The woman didn’t seem to notice. “I’m Detective Ramirez, and this is Detective Nicoletti.” She gestured to an older white man standing on the other boat. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Jack went through the story of the father and son, the facedown body, dragging it to the shore, and her attempt at first aid.

“When you first approached the body, you thought he might still be alive?”

“I saw the life jacket. It’s one of ours. And I guess I just immediately assumed it was someone on the tour.”

“You flipped the body over?”

“Yes.”

“Did you touch it in any other way?”

“I pulled him to the bank and checked his pulse. His wrist. I was going to start CPR, but . . .”

Jack shuddered.

“You recognized the life jacket. Did you recognize the person?”