Secrets of Sandhill Island Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Secrets of Sandhill Island

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  All Evan wanted was to be with Meg.

  He would provide for her and the child, or children as the years went by. He was still unsure why she chose him—a fisherman—over anyone else in the world, but she did. Her family didn’t like him, but they were just going to have to get used to him.

  He struggled pulling the nets in alone. The pulley did most of the work, however it still would have been nice to have some help. The hair on the back of his neck stood up when he sensed the presence behind him. He turned around. The man stood almost close enough to touch. The dark ski mask pulled over his face sent a shiver up Evan’s spine. Where did he come from? But, most of all, why did he hide his face out here on the open ocean? And then he saw the giant meat hook in his hand.

  “Who are you and how did you get on my boat?” Evan stepped toward the intruder despite the danger. He never expected what came next.

  “This is from Graham.” The man plunged the hook deep into Evan’s chest. Blood spurted every direction as Evan’s eyes bulged and he gasped only once. The man in the ski mask quickly pushed him over the side into the dark, churning water.

  Secrets

  of

  Sandhill Island

  by

  Peggy Chambers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Secrets of Sandhill Island

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Peggy Chambers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-679-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-680-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  I wish to dedicate this book to my husband, Don,

  and his encouragement.

  Prologue

  May, 1983

  Evan was used to the waves that rolled his small boat from side to side. He had sea legs, his father would have said. He was so used to the rolling of the boat that he sometimes forgot how to walk on dry land. He leaned over the edge and looked out at the current. The channel always ran southwest this time of year, and moved even faster when a storm approached. The red snapper would be in the channel just waiting to be caught.

  Storm clouds gathered in the distance, but he had plenty of time to get his catch in and make it back to the dock before it became too rough. He seldom went out alone, but Rowdy was still down with the flu. Rowdy was getting older and Evan knew the day would come that he should retire. However, Evan doubted that Rowdy would ever retire. He doubted that he could, financially or emotionally. He always said that the sea was his life—and might be his death too.

  But, Evan needed to go out today with or without Rowdy. He needed the catch, and the fish were always most active just before a storm. With Meg pregnant, it was time he confronted her father and stood up like a man. The pregnancy wasn’t planned. He would have preferred to have a proper wedding and a proper home for both of them before the birth of a child, but nature took another course. Besides, her father was never going to approve of the relationship, but maybe a grandchild for Grandpa Graham might soften the old man. After all, he wasn’t in charge of the world, he only thought he was.

  All Evan wanted was to be with Meg. He would provide for her and the child, or children as the years went by. He was still unsure why she chose him—a fisherman—over anyone else in the world, but she did. Her family didn’t like him, but they were just going to have to get used to him.

  He struggled pulling the nets in alone. The pulley did most of the work, however it still would have been nice to have some help. The hair on the back of his neck stood up when he sensed the presence behind him. He turned around. The man stood almost close enough to touch. The dark ski mask pulled over his face sent a shiver up Evan’s spine. Where did he come from? But, most of all, why did he hide his face out here on the open ocean? And then he saw the giant meat hook in his hand.

  “Who are you and how did you get on my boat?” Evan stepped toward the intruder despite the danger. He never expected what came next.

  “This is from Graham.” The man plunged the hook deep into Evan’s chest. Blood spurted every direction as Evan’s eyes bulged and he gasped only once. The man in the ski mask quickly pushed him over the side into the dark, churning water.

  ****

  The body thrown overboard, the man with the meat hook went below to shut off the engine, then reached in and cut the fuel line. Gasoline spewed across the floor. He ran for the exit and quickly climbed back up the steps where the life raft was ready. Just before he stepped in the raft, he threw one lone burning match into the hold. When it met the fuel, it blew and burned brightly. He knew the boat would burn and sink. Any debris would be caught up in the current and head out to sea so nothing would ever be found; just another fisherman who got caught in a storm and never came home. He hoped Graham would think it was worth a bonus that neither the boat nor the body would be found. He started the little engine and headed for home after rinsing the bloody hook in the dark, briny water.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Blue-green waves tumbled over each other in unison foaming up on sugar white sand, leaving tiny crabs and fish behind in the tide pools. The next high tide would carry them back out to the deeper water. In their tiny world, life would go on as it should without the giant ocean reclaiming it. With her skirt tucked up in her waistband, Meg Stanford loved to wade in the tide pools, imagining that she was part of their world some days. But not today. Today she worked in her garden. Her dilapidated beach house sat sentry between the garden and the sea she loved so deeply.

  Meg looked
up through the lacy shadows of her aging straw garden hat at the sunflowers in front of her. The hat was tattered and torn in places, but still shaded her pale blue eyes from the bright sunlight. She watered her garden again—mostly to wash off the salt that crusted on the plants. She had a series of soaker hoses for the soil. Shore gardening had its own set of problems. Not only was the soil composed mostly of sand—she could add loam to it and improve the texture and nutrients—but there was the relentless wind that blew a wet, salty spray most days. She always said her vegetable stew didn’t need to be salted; the tomatoes brought sea salt with them.

  South Texas was dotted with islands just slightly off the coast of the mainland. Some inhabited by humans, others only by shorebirds. But, Sandhill Island was a community unto itself. Tourists gathered here, mostly in the summer, and lived the carefree life of beach bums for a few weeks each year. Except for Meg and a few fishermen, the island was only populated in the summer. But, it was her home, winter and summer. She was not a tourist.

  Meg picked her garden and placed the produce in the wooden wagon, then pulled them into town to sell each day. Carefully placing the vegetables on the rough wooden planks that served as a table, Meg unfolded the chair she kept behind the shed, hung out the “open” sign and sat down. The Mason jar filled with sunflowers sat in the middle of the table. She hoped someone would need a centerpiece to go with what they bought that day. They mixed well with the sea oats she had gathered. Daylilies, Yarrow, and Lavender would be ready soon. Then, she waited for the first customer of the day. The juicy red tomatoes shone in the sun and the yellow squash curled around each other in a lover’s embrace. Green cucumbers completed the still life portrait.

  “Mornin’, Meg.” Mr. Sanders who owned the hardware store across the street waved as he spoke. Always friendly, he never bought her produce. His wife shopped on the mainland and they probably ate vegetables from a can.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sanders.” She smiled and spoke quietly. If he had a first name, she didn’t know what it was.

  The tourists began to wander down the street—still sleepy from the late night in the bars the evening before. They worked all year to get enough money to come down for a week, and then made a living for the locals while they partied.

  “Good morning. Are these vegetables fresh or were they picked yesterday?” The man in the khaki shorts and black socks stood in front her with a frown on his face. Maybe he was hung over from last night or maybe he was always grumpy in the morning, it was hard to tell. His face was sunburned and his nose was white with a layer of zinc.

  Meg didn’t think he would know the difference in fresh picked vegetables. He just wanted to gripe.

  “I pick my produce fresh each morning. They’re sweetest early in the day.”

  He picked through the vegetables and pinched the skin of the tomato, bruising it.

  “I’ll take these.” He handed her the two squash and a cucumber. The bruised tomato was left behind. She would probably end up taking it back home with her. Heavy-handed tourists were not her favorite, but she took the good with the bad. She handed his change back and he snorted as if she charged too much.

  “Have a good day.” He walked away without another word.

  Sweat trickled down her neck into the bodice of her faded sundress. The wind was thankfully blowing off the water or it might have been unbearable. She pushed up the patio umbrella on her stand. It was really for the produce not her, but she enjoyed the shade too. Sunscreen was not in her bag of tricks and her aging skin was beginning to show it.

  Once the tomatoes left the vine, they didn’t fare too well in the sun so the umbrella helped to keep them fresh. She settled back in her chair, waiting on the tourists to return. The grinding of a key unlocking a door drew her attention and Meg looked up to see a man opening the door to the vacant shop next to her stand.

  With his baseball cap down over his eyes, the man carried easels under one arm as he stepped inside. The empty store next door to her lot was opened for the first time since she moved in. The man with a van carried load after load of stretched canvas and boxes of what had to be paint in the front door of the shop. She liked her lot mostly because there were no close neighbors—no one to have to talk to when she didn’t feel like talking. But, inevitably, she was going to have to talk now.

  He was tall with brownish-gray hair sticking out from under the cap. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but he smiled and nodded when he saw her watching him. She quickly looked away. Soon she heard the hum of the air conditioner—a luxury she didn’t have—and the door closed. At least she wouldn’t have to keep up a conversation with a perfect stranger. Like most people these days, he would close the doors to keep the cool air in.

  The relentless sun beat down and the tourists came back just before dinner. She sold a few more things. Hours passed and most of her vegetables were gone—the sunflowers, however, remained.

  “Is there any produce left?” A deep voice from next door roused her from her drowsy state. The man in the baseball cap stood in his doorway, letting the cold air out.

  “A few, if you like squash and cucumbers.” The bruised tomato lay on its side.

  “I’ll be right there.” He stepped back inside, then quickly reappeared with a worn-out billfold in his hand.

  “I’m Alex. I guess we’re going to be neighbors. Lucky me, moving in right next to a produce stand—and what beautiful sunflowers. Do you grow all this yourself?” He fondled the bruised tomato.

  “Yes, I have a garden with vegetables, herbs, and a few flowers. I’ll be here every day. I’m sorry the tomato is squashed. I’ll bring more tomorrow.”

  “It’s perfect. I’ll take all you have. But a pretty lady like you should have the flowers.”

  A blush heated her cheeks. “I have plenty of flowers at home. But, you’re right, they’re lovely in the sunshine.”

  “Then I’ll take the flowers too. I have just the place for them in the shop. I’m an artist and I’ve rented the shop next door. The landlord is letting me set up a place to sleep in the back, so I’ll be here all summer. I guess you live around here?”

  “Down on the shore, yes.”

  Meg gathered the vegetables into a sack and handed them to him, taking the flowers from the Mason jar.

  “Um, can I buy the vase too? I don’t have anything to put the flowers in.”

  “Well, I normally bring my flowers in it, but I might have another at home.”

  “I’ll tell you what, you bring me some more flowers tomorrow and we’ll trade out the jars.”

  “You won’t need fresh flowers every day. It will start to look like a funeral home.”

  Alex chuckled. “You’re right. Maybe every other day or so, when these die. What did you say your name was?”

  “Meg,” she said quietly and began to put down the umbrella. The day’s sales were done.

  “Well, Meg, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance and I am sure I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

  “Tomorrow,” she mumbled, taking down the sign and folding the chair. Glancing back, she saw her new neighbor place the sunflowers in the window of the shop as she pulled her empty wagon back home.

  Chapter 2

  The tugboat “The Mosquito” wound its way through the harbor, watching the depth finder for shallow spots. The harbor was changing daily—not nearly as deep as it used to be. Storms and high tides brought more sand all the time. Last week the tug spent days getting the tourist ship off the sandbar. People who didn’t know the harbor had no business in it.

  The city council tabled the motion for renovation of the harbor at the last meeting. It needed to be dredged again but there just wasn’t enough in the coffers. The tugboat captains would make plenty of money this year—at least until the funds were found for dredging. In the meantime, signs were posted to stay on the south side of the harbor to avoid a tow charge.

  Mike Fitzgerald was the captain of the little tugboat; a man who ma
de no friends. Friends could be a liability. This year in the shallow harbor, he was going to make sure he had the best chance to make some real money.

  Fitzgerald spied Poppy on the dock in the harbor. He had been on this island longer than anyone he knew and he could tell stories about all of the people who lived here. He lived in a shabby apartment in town, but spent most of his time on the dock. Fitzgerald could see him as he guided “The Mosquito” through the harbor. The newcomers—those that weren’t born here—could get stranded and that is where “The Mosquito” came in. He could pull them off the sand and to safer water, for a price. Fitzgerald smiled, thinking the bum probably wished he had a tugboat that would make money, too. Fitzgerald was the king of one-upmanship. He liked thinking he was better than most people. But, Poppy didn’t have a boat. He just managed to make a living doing odd jobs here and there. There were always hand- outs, and the chef at Le Chez never let anyone starve. He made out okay, for a bum.

  From the boat, Fitzgerald saw the woman pulling her wagon back home. Her worn out sundress and sandals lent a Bohemian look to her gray/blonde hair pulled up in a bun. Her brown shoulders and legs made it impossible for a stranger to determine just how old she was. But, she was not a stranger to Fitzgerald. Oh, yes, he knew her. Many people on the island thought she was a newcomer, but he knew better. That broken down beach house she lived in on the shore would have been condemned in a larger city, but Sandhill Island was not a larger city.

  He watched her daily, watering her precious garden, toiling from daylight until dark. Something he would never do. She pretended to be a poor woman who lived off the proceeds of a vegetable garden, but he knew better.

  Sometimes she would pull her wagon down to the dock to trade vegetables for shrimp with the local fisherman. He never talked to her, but often wondered when she would recognize him.

  Then in the evening while he sipped his rum on the boat, he would watch her rocking on her front porch with a glass of iced tea—he was sure she would drink nothing but tea—and dozing until the wind would snap the screen and wake her with a splash of water to her face.