Phil Edwards - Retirement Can Be Murder

He fixed a quote about Oz. His eyes glazed and he was almost calm again. He asked for a citation for a statement about season two. He argued that a character on the television show didn’t deserve their own biography. He felt full again and leaned back in his chair while he looked at the windows and exhaled.

Then he saw himself in the mirror, sitting there with his shirt and tie on, wearing shorts, the chocolate still staining the corners of his mouth. And the Buffy message boards open. He’d sworn he wouldn’t do it again. Any of it. And there he was. It was late, but he wouldn’t be going to bed soon. He could tell.

Why had it been so hard? Why couldn’t he ask her to have a drink? He looked in the mirror and had the answer. It was because of this. This was who he was. He wasn’t the person in the new suit, a person who deserved Mel. He was still this guy. Answering e-mails late at night. Eating chocolate. Drinking cream soda. Debating the impossible. He put his head against his arms.

Then the phone rang. It was her. He picked it up and started talking as quickly as he could.

“Mel! I’m so glad you called. I had been meaning to call you and I just didn’t feel like I could. But about tonight, I just wanted to say — ”

“Jake,” she said. He stopped. Her voice sounded deeper and quieter.

“Yes?”

“I’m back at Sunset Cove. I drove home and got a call to come here. I thought you should know.”

“What is it?” Here it was. The boyfriend. He wiped the corners of his lips. “Is there…someone else I should know about?”

“Yes,” she said, almost whispering.

“What? Who?”

“Jake, I just can’t say it.”

He waited. She spoke again.

“I got the call and drove back here. It was a pair of teenagers. They were walking along our beach, by the concession building. They aren’t supposed to be here. They aren’t…”

“Are you OK?”

“The teens sneak on to the beach though. They can kiss behind the building. You can’t blame them. They were the ones who found her there. They thought she was asleep at first. But then she didn’t wake up.”

“Who? Who didn’t wake up?” He closed the laptop and looked into the mirror, waiting.

“It looks like it was peaceful. No convulsions. It was just her time.”

“What happened?”

“They found your friend Charlotte on the beach tonight.”

“My Charlotte?”

“Yes.” She exhaled into the receiver. “Charlotte’s passed away.”

He’d thought the heat made sense at night. But now the cool seemed cruel. All the shadows were jagged and the water seemed too large. Near the beach, the winds were too strong. All of it was loud. How could he think that the heat made sense? Nothing made sense. Not now. He felt his feet sink into the sand. He’d be walking for a while.

He’d hung up after telling Mel he’d drive by in the morning. But he knew better than that. Everything would be changed in the morning. At night, he might have some idea of what the beach looked like when Charlotte had died. He’d put on a pair of jeans and started driving out to Sunset Cove. He stopped a full mile from the concession building where they found Charlotte. He hadn’t told Mel that he was coming. But Mel didn’t know that Charlotte had received a threat.

He walked quickly, first near the road and then closer to the shore where the sand was firm and wet. Ruined tennis shoes didn’t matter now. As he started to splash through the sand, he tried to trace everything in his head. When had it happened? And how had Charlotte died?

He ran past a sign to his left. The beach officially closed at 7:00, and he knew they flattened the sand at the end of the day. From the tracks he ran past, he could tell that a few people had walked along the beach since 7:00. One of them had been Charlotte. Except she never left.

So she had died at some point after seven, but before Mel had called him. Judging by the time of her phone call, it had happened before 10:00 PM. Somewhere in that three hour interval, Charlotte had died. Now he needed to know why and how it had happened. Had Charlotte actually been right? He tripped in the sand and almost fell down. He’d have to find out.

As he approached the concession building, he slowed his pace to a walk. Sand had stuck on the soles of his shoes, and his prints were just sloppy ovals in the sand. He pulled out the digital camera he’d brought and kept his notebook in his pocket. He could see it in the distance — the concession building where two teenagers found her body.

It was a concrete rectangle with an overhang. Two large windows were closed up with metal shutters. An old printed sign said “Snacks” on it, but the way the light hit it, only the last two letters showed. The k sliced up the s. No one else was on the beach. Or at least he couldn’t see them.

He walked closer slowly, moving carefully in the dark. The waves were at his back. They crashed loudly and then softened as he walked further up the beach, gradually muting to help him focus. He crouched down and looked at the ground. There were too many prints to be useful — more people than the teenagers had walked by. He took a picture, even though all the footprints meant nothing meshed together in a grid.

But he could see that it had happened near there. Big tire tracks came in from one side, sunk in, and then led off in the other direction. He guessed it was the ambulance they’d picked up her body in. He took another picture. So it had been here.

It was dark by the concession building. The perfect place to hide. He took a picture of it. Even at night, the structure cast a shadow. He started to shiver from the wind. If there’d been any other artifacts, the police or workers would have found them. Or they would have disappeared before anyone arrived. He’d have to ask Mel.

He was starting to shiver when he heard a noise behind him. A hollow noise, like when he’d sat on his car hood. He stopped and didn’t move. It happened again. It was coming from the shutters on the other side of the building. Again. The metal sound died out quickly. There was no echo in a space like this. Just a thump and a pause, abrupt as a challenge.

He turned around slowly and stared at the wall. The door to the building was on the right side, where he was standing. He looked around and only saw the beach stretching out. No one was around to see what happened to him. He got out his keys and put them in his left hand, arranging them in a star between his fingers. It was all he had — his only defense was a trick he’d seen on an old TV show. He put his other hand around the doorknob and started to turn. He gripped tightly on the cold metal.

It was locked.

He breathed out and relaxed his grip. The keys loosened. Then he heard it again. Thump. No echo. Just the sound of something hitting metal. He’d have to walk to the front of the concession building, the side with the shutters. He crept against the wall, staring at the water. He pressed his fingers to the concrete, pocked with tiny holes, and turned the corner.

Seagulls. They’d found a piece of bread stuck on the ledge. He saw one fly into the shutter while trying to retrieve it. Thump. He walked forward and they scattered.

“Stupidest birds on the planet,” he whispered and threw the bread to them. They all gathered around it gratefully. He laughed that they’d scared him. But then he remembered Charlotte.

He leaned against the shutters and thought about it. It didn’t make sense — why had this happened now, to Charlotte? He hadn’t believed she was in danger. She was just a harmless old woman, afraid of her shadow. But maybe she had actually taken a wrong turn. Maybe something had gone sour. And then one night, tonight, she took a walk and didn’t come back. He was supposed to be aggressive, but when she died, he’d been drinking cream soda.