Death Runs Adrift (The Gray Whale Inn Mysteries) by Karen MacInerney Read Free Book Online

house.
    “Why don’t you just stay here, then,” Detective Johnson said. “I probably won’t be too long. I may have to stay until victim services arrives if they’re too upset; if so, I’ll let you know.”
    John reached for my hand as we watched him mount the steps to the front door. A burly man answered the door, and his face turned grim as the detective shared the news. A moment later, the detective was inside the house, and the front door was shutting behind them.
    “That’s got to be the worst part of the job,” I told John.
    “I imagine so,” he said. “I’m glad it’s not down to me.”
    “Nice little house, though,” I said as we sat and waited for the detective to finish. “One of them is quite a gardener. Do you know if Derek was staying here?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “I know almost nothing about the young man, unfortunately.”
    I studied the clean windowpanes and the small but swept front porch. “It looks bright and cheerful, but you never know what goes on behind closed doors.”
    John gave me a look. “You thinking they may be suspects?”
    “I don’t know enough to say, but don’t the police look at family first?”
    He nodded, and both of us stared at the little house, wondering what was going on inside—and if the grim-faced man at the door might have been responsible for his nephew’s death.
    It was twenty minutes before Detective Johnson emerged, looking solemn. The bright sun and cheerful flowers seemed too gay, some how, considering the tragic news he’d had to deliver.
    “No victim services?” John asked as he reclaimed his seat in the van.
    “I gave them a card in case they need it, but I doubt they’ll call. The wife was quite upset; she left the room almost immediately. She looked pretty shaken up to me, but her husband seemed to think she’ll be all right.”
    “Any potential leads?” John asked.
    “It doesn’t look like it,” he said. “He wasn’t staying with them, either. Which reminds me, I have a quick call to make.” Detective Johnson picked up his cell phone and called his team, directing them to a small house not far from the pier where Derek had apparently bunked while he was on the island. If his aunt and uncle were close with him, I thought as John steered the van toward the co-op, it didn’t extend to opening their home to their nephew. After a moment, the officer put away his phone and asked about Adam.
    “He’s been dating my niece for two years,” I told the detective as the van bumped down the narrow road toward the town pier. The gardens in front of the small, clapboard houses were filled with the purples of tall delphiniums and bright pink roses, with the occasional burst of yellow from Black-Eyed Susans. A line of tomato plants bore little yellow blossoms. The arrival of the farm, I thought to myself, had inspired the vegetable gardener in more than one islander—and revealed a few green thumbs.
    We passed by the school, a two-story building painted bright blue, with a small playground in front of it, on the way to the co-op. Two elementary-aged girls swung lazily on the swings, heads bent in toward one another as they chatted. The new teacher in town had brought a fresh jolt of excitement to the school; she and her lobsterman partner had moved to the island only six months before. I hoped she was able to fight Murray’s bid to close it down successfully. Much of what kept the island vital was the young families who lived here and raised their children—and without the school, many of them would be forced to leave. In the shadow of a lilac bush beside the building, I noticed a trio of teens slouching against the wall. I caught the eye of the tallest, and the three seemed to dissolve into the bushes.
    “Thrackton is his last name, right?” Detective Johnson asked as he wrote the name down, drawing me back to more immediate concerns. “Tell me more about him.”
    I turned away from the school and focused on the road—and