Pugs, Thugs, and Murder by Gayle Susie

Author:Gayle, Susie [Gayle, Susie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Cozy Mystery
Published: 2017-02-27T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 10

* * *

“This feels wrong,” I tell Sarah as we look up at the Weatherby house. “If the cops haven’t told her, why should we?”

“Look, if Whitney was a… you know, regular person, she would’ve heard about it by now from the rumor mill anyway,” Sarah says. “Really, we’re doing the cops a favor by softening the blow when they later confirm it was Julia.”

When Diego told us that Whitney Weatherby lived in “a house by the jetty,” he neglected to mention that it was the only house by the jetty. And that it’s downright creepy.

Juxtaposed against a backdrop of Angler Cove’s bright buildings and quaint style, the Weatherby house is a large colonial-style place that at some point used to be white. I have to say “used to be white” because the paint is peeling in long curls from the wooden siding and in many places has turned a greenish hue from algae, likely due to humidity and the house’s proximity to the ocean. Even the waves crashing against the jetty not more than a hundred feet away and the sound of gulls squawking overhead seem out of place as Sarah and I stand before the house. It looks more like it belongs in an eighties horror movie than on a beach in North Carolina.

“Jeez,” she practically whispers. “Did Diego say she’s been a hermit for three years, or three hundred?”

“I’m guessing renovations aren’t high up on her priority list,” I murmur. “You realize she’s not going to answer the door for a couple of strangers, right?”

Sarah purses her lips and nods. “We’ll just have to say all the right things, then.”

“Oh, boy.” I follow up her up the walkway to the creaking front porch, Rowdy at my side on his leash.

The front door of the house is yellow with age and badly chipped. A few brown paper bags sit off to one side of the entrance; I’m guessing that Whitney has all her food delivered.

Sarah knocks three times on the door and waits. After about thirty seconds, she knocks again. No answer. She tries a third time.

“Miss Weatherby?” she calls out. Knocks again. “Miss Weatherby, we know you’re home.” Another minute ticks by. Sarah knocks again.

“Just leave the package by the door.” The voice that comes from inside is not at all what I expected. For some reason, I imagined Whitney Weatherby to sound like an eighty-year-old woman; I guess I forgot that her sister disappeared only three years earlier. Her voice is loud and clear and somewhat deep, yet still feminine.

“Miss Weatherby, we’re not here to deliver a package,” Sarah calls back.

There’s a pause, and then Whitney asks, “We?”

I wince.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Sarah Cummings. I just want to talk to you for a minute. Will you please open the door?”

“No.”

Sarah blows a breath through her nose. I can tell she’s getting frustrated. “Whitney,” she says, “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll be waiting quite a long time, Miss Cummings. There’s a rocking chair on the porch; feel free to make yourself comfortable.

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