Murder on Spyglass Lane

By JM Griffin

Trying to escape her psychic ability, artist Sarah McDougall flees New England to settle on Florida's west coast. She know she's wrong after finding a dead body buried beneath the sand trap on the golf course behind her house. She turns to her neighbor, the swashbuckling pirate-like hunk across the street for help. Psychic or not, Sarah finds she's in more danger than ever. Can she be saved?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JM Griffin
• Release date: Dec 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465951250

JM Griffin

JM Griffin is an author and artist. She has six novels published in paper and ebook form. Her love of mystery novels began at an early age with the Nancy Drew series. JM lives in rural Rhode Island with her husband and two crazy cats.

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Murder on Spyglass Lane

J.M. Griffin

Copyright 2011 J.M. Griffin

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

Eerie owl hoots echoed across the thirteenth green. A full harvest moon spilled its golden glow across the golf course. I walked Sparky on our nightly stroll along the cart path. We were near Spyglass Lane, the cul-de-sac, where I lived. My house loomed in the shadows a short distance away.

I was new to the neighborhood, and my unsettled state of mind left me wondering if the move was the right one.

Frequent stops were the order of the late evening as Sparky, my pudgy Bassett Hound, investigated everything he came across. I glanced to the right when something caught my eye. Sparky turned in the same direction and waited. I could have sworn a shadowy figure dodged behind a cluster of trees. Was it my imagination or a trick of light and dark?

The eerie hooting continued and spooked me. With a light tug on the leash, Sparky turned from the shadows and scooted across the crunchy Florida grass, pulling me off the cart path and along the side of my house, to the front door. I was more than anxious to get inside. My heart thudded against my ribcage.

Pale, creepy images crept into my mind, blurring my vision. Sensations spun in my head. Not again. Knowing what was to come; I sagged against the wall of the portico and tried to brush aside the unwelcome imagery. I angled further into the stucco entryway ‘til the front door was before me. I unlocked it with moist, shaky hands, sensations niggling at me again.

I slumped to my knees, aware a car swept into the driveway across the street.

A car door slammed and distant footsteps pounded toward me. I made an effort to thrust the feelings away. Sweat prickled my skin as ghostly forms swam before my eyes. I used the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe my face until my vision cleared. I struggled to breathe normally.

A rich, masculine voice echoed through my consciousness. Are you all right?

Sucking in deep breaths, I pushed myself off the ground and stood on wobbly legs. Before me was a man, who in any other circumstance, would have set my pulse racing. But since it was already in race mode, I couldn’t credit him with that. His dark gaze and lazy slouch reminded me of a pirate holding his balance on the deck of a sloop. My mind wandered.

Yes, I’m fine... thanks. I-I stumbled, trying to get the dog unleashed. Good Lord, that’s pretty lame. But I can’t tell him I have visions. Nobody else can know. Not ever.

Overhead lights illuminated the small portico. I watched his eyes narrow as he took in my appearance from head to toe. True enough, I didn’t look like I’d just stepped from Elle Magazine, but it was late. I was tired and, as an artist, I generally dress in whatever comes to hand.

If you’re sure everything is—

I’m fine, really.

My heart thumped hard in my chest for fear he’d see more than I wanted him to. I turned toward the door and opened it for Sparky. With a glance over my shoulder, and a half smile, I murmured goodnight to the handsome devil that didn’t appear to believe me, and closed the door, locking it behind me.

I knew that look so well. After all, I’d been doubted, ridiculed, and suspected before.

Sparky bounded into the foyer, and raced across the room. Well, bounded might be too strong a word; speed-waddled might be more apt. Yeah, he definitely waddled as he made his way across the screened in patio and the softly lit pool. His short legs and elongated body made him scrunch and stretch like an inchworm with a purpose. Sparky’s long snout snuffled over the surface in vacuum-cleaner fashion. I wondered what new scents he’d found that hadn’t been there earlier.

With a final snuffle and grunt the dog sank to his haunches next to the screen. That particular noise he made passed for a bark in Sparky’s case, and always caught my attention. Long, floppy ears pitched forward, and his imperious schnoz pointed toward the golf course. Being a sensitive guy, maybe he picked up on the tension I’d felt earlier when we’d walked on the path.

A disturbing inkling prickled my senses once again. Quickly skirting the swimming pool, I reached the dog as he peered into the darkness. We both stared toward the golf course for a brief time.

Nothing. With a heavy sigh, I tried to get rid of the feeling of doom and gloom settling over me. Though the moon was bright, deep shadows yawned around the edges of the golf course, however, there was nothing to be seen.

I was turning away when I caught the tiny flicker of light that flashed and quickly disappeared, like a firefly. Does Florida have fireflies? My heart thumped, a shiver slid down my spine, and my nerves tingled with electricity. Sparky lay at ease and I was left with the impression that maybe the threat was gone. If there ever had been one. Dogs – mine especially – have a nose for news and find interest in anything.

Sparky rose and followed close at my heels as I walked inside. I slid the heavy glass doors closed and locked them.

Exhaustion crept over me. Since I’d moved into my new house, life had been chaotic between work and getting settled and I had no idea where all the time went.

I wandered into the bedroom and prayed sleep would come soon. After all, tomorrow would be another day on the golf course – with an early tee off – the first tee of the day actually.

In pajamas, I slid under the light covers and pushed my anxiety aside. I listened to the night sounds in an effort to relax. It was pleasant to be in a balmy atmosphere as was so often the case in Florida during autumn. So different from New England. It was like the weather in each was at an opposite end of the spectrum.

Such thoughts tumbled around in my head as I lay in the soft confines of my bed, weary but wide awake. Crisp autumn nights in New England smell wonderful. Those smells were some of the things I missed most. But, there would be no going back.

Sparky lay on the floor next to the bed, emitting short snores from his snout. At least one of us could sleep. The clock on the bed stand clicked over, and I realized it was midnight, the witching hour. With that thought, I groaned, turned on my side, closed my eyes, and prayed for oblivion.

The prayer must have been answered because later, while it was still dark, an odd sound from outside woke me. Shwish, shwish, shwish it went – like a corn broom against concrete. The not-so-distant noise came from the golf course. Not metal against metal, but metal against something.

Tossing the covers aside, I slipped across thick pile carpet to stand before wide windows that overlooked the thirteenth green. Darkness prevailed while the moon hid behind a cloud. I couldn’t see a thing and knew better than to go investigate in pitch darkness.

I headed back to bed but a bout of dizziness caught me. I clutched the nearby chair with unsteady hands. My mind was clouded by images of a shovel sinking into sand. As usual, my breath caught in my throat. Breathe deeply. I worked hard to summon the strength to do so.

No, not again. Not again, please. Would it never end? When the blurry mist cleared, I sank, weak-kneed into the chair I’d been holding onto with a white-knuckled grip. Tears of frustration sprung forth and rolled, unchecked down my face. Trepidation filled my soul.

While I rested my head in my hands, my elbows propped on my knees, replayed images of a quaint New England village crowded my thoughts.

The murder of the old woman had changed life as I’d known it – forever. Memories of Lena Farrell’s death, and that of her killer, were etched in my mind for all eternity. At thirty-three years old, I, Sarah McDougall, wanted nothing more than to live in a quiet neighborhood and lead a simple life with my dog. But that wasn’t to be – even though I’d found a quiet neighborhood – and the realization left me uneasy.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed three – a sure bet that I was up for the day. I’d be absolutely useless on the golf course, but decided I’d go play a round with the ladies anyway, just to get away from these feelings and images.

My flighty next-door neighbor, a nosy woman whose husband seemed to work all the time, had invited me to go golfing when I’d first moved in. I was uninterested in close friendships so I hardly knew the neighbors. Still, it was smart to socialize a bit, instead of living my life cloistered inside the house. After all, I’d moved away to start over.

After I’d accepted Jill’s offer, I found her prying most annoying. Now, I tried to avoid her without being rude and never committed to a golf game with her.

The country club was a small affair and the membership was reasonably priced. After joining, I met a group of retired women who instantly swept me into their golf game. They were kind and most willing to take me under their wing as a newcomer.

In the kitchen, the button on the coffee maker lit as I set it to brew. I wandered through the hall to the studio where I viewed various works of art in progress – until I swayed. I closed my eyes for a moment, again reaching for something to steady me. I clenched the art table. I visualized vague images of blond tresses and diamonds before they faded.

In the mirror across the room I recognized pale skin, sea green eyes, oval face with a short nose, full lips and determined chin. My cropped, spiky, dark hair tipped with blond, made me look as though I’d recently had a bad scare. My fear-filled eyes gave me a haunted appearance.

I scribbled the details of the episode on a scrap of paper and headed to the kitchen for coffee. I could tell something was afoot. I intended to resist the pull to become involved, with all the strength I could muster. But, if past experience was any indicator, I knew that might be futile in the end.

I waited impatiently for the drip to stop. Finally. Rich brew streamed into the cup as I poured it. I took the mug with me and settled in my favorite comfy chair by the front window. Though the chair had seen better days, it was an old family treasure. I couldn’t bear to part with it, so I’d had it refurbished and hauled it with me when I moved. At the sound of tires on pavement, I peered through the lace-curtained window.

A sleek car swung into the pirate’s driveway across the street. As I sat, folded comfortable into my old overstuffed chair, I wondered about the handsome stranger.

Cool air filtered through the open crack of the window. The curtains swayed – seemed as restless as I was. I leaned forward and watched the man leave his vehicle. He glanced around the cul-de-sac, paused a moment when he faced my house, hesitated, and then turned away. Just my luck to have another super-snoop for a neighbor. Why the hell I cared, I didn’t know.

No one here in Florida knew about me, or my peculiar affliction, and they never would if I had any say in the matter.

I watched the tall, rangy figure stretch as he stood by his open car door. The vehicle’s interior lighting silhouetted his body. I noticed muscled arms when he bent to retrieve something from the front seat. His cell phone jingled, jarring the silent neighborhood. When he answered the call, I could see him stiffen for a moment. He turned toward my house and then turned away. I could hear the rich timber of his voice, but not the words he spoke.

The car’s light flickered a second and went out when he closed the door. I heard locks click in the silence. His call didn’t last long, and he headed toward his front entrance with a long-legged stride.

Overhead motion-sensor lights in the arched entryway illuminated him once more. Again, he turned to gaze toward my house before entering his own. Suddenly, the outside lights went off.

What I’d seen of him in the night cemented my earlier impression. Lean and fit, he walked with a pirate-like swagger.

Lights flicked on as the dark stranger wandered through his house. Wide, curtainless windows showed his movements along the hallway.

I’d never seen anyone around his house, which had begged the question: Who lived there? Now I knew. I leaned my head against the soft chair and imagined what he’d look like in daylight and wondered if a Mrs. Pirate lived with him.

Homes in this neighborhood appeared solemn and most seemed deserted. It came as no surprise that I hadn’t seen the pirate before and Jill had never mentioned him. I considered what his true occupation might be.

Mind your own business. I lectured myself on a regular basis. Stay aloof and life will remain simple. Make waves and life will never be the same. I often gave myself these little warnings – especially since Lena Farrell died. Her sudden and brutal death had rushed my senses and left me quaking in my shoes. Before the woman’s murder hit the newspapers, I’d been confounded by the visions. Afterward, I’d ignored them with sheer strength of will. My conscience pushed me to share my visions with the homicide squad. That was my first mistake –I sought out the detective in charge of Lena’s homicide. His reaction had weighed me down.

It hadn’t been the first time I’d had visions, but it was the first time my visions were so intense, or revealed a death.

All my life I’d been the recipient of what I considered strange coincidences, scenes that presented themselves in a misty, ethereal fashion. My mother regularly dismissed them as daydreams and fantasies of an only child.

When I was young and innocent I believed her. I wasn’t so sure when I grew older.

When Lena was murdered, the horrific pictures surrounding her death, dominated my life. I couldn’t escape them. I realized they weren’t fantasies or daydreams, but a horrible reality for me – and her.

****

Day broke as I sat there thinking and the first inklings of gray light filtered through the window. Sparky tap danced in place, his toenails clicking against the tile floor. He wagged his tail in anticipation of our early morning jaunt.

I left the comfort of my chair, changed into shorts, a Red Sox T-shirt, and sneakers for a ramble around the golf course.

Absent-mindedly I grabbed a plastic bag and tucked it into my pocket for doggy-do pick up.

We strolled along the side of the house then onto the golf cart path – Sparky’s favorite place to ramble. His tail swished in excitement whenever he had the opportunity to scare the daylights out of egrets and cranes. I smiled as they high-stepped over the greens to escape him.

We hadn’t gone far when Sparky deviated off the path and scrambled onto a sand trap. His long nose snuffled over the smooth surface. Then he turned his woeful, brown-eyed gaze toward me and moaned.

I ignored him and said, Do your duty and let’s get back to the house. I look like the wreck of the night and—

My voice trailed off as my body began to sway back and forth. Moisture prickled my skin, and I realized I’d likely pass out soon. I took a squat position, leaned forward, lowered my head past my knees, and gulped in breaths of air. Why is this happening here?

Without warning, I slumped forward, my hands and knees pressed into the sandy surface.

My vision fogged while blond tresses and diamonds became crystal clear in my mind. Concentrating hard, I shook my head free of the fog, and scanned the ground and mound of sand. Mound of sand? Sand traps are smooth. Damn. I peered at the surrounding area. The rest of it held a swept appearance.

The dog strained against the leash wrapped around my wrist – his enthusiasm dragging me forward. The heels of my palms dug deeply into the hump of sand. That was when the unbidden vision returned. Bolder. Clearer. It revealed blank staring eyes.

I gasped. My fingers clawed into the moist, gritty ground. My anxiety mounted. Something cold touched my skin as my hands sank further in.

Holy shit. That brought me around. I scrambled backward, crab-like, on all fours.

A choking noise and low moan from Sparky’s throat pulled me back to reality. The entangled leash was too tight around Sparky’s neck.

I reached out and loosened the leash, then patted the dog’s head – the whole time uttering an apology for my brutish behavior. His sad, droopy stare was trained on me with understanding. At least I hoped so. The dog snuggled closer. His long, warm body curved against me as he licked my cheek. His affection calmed my strained nerves.

Shaken, I rose to my feet. Without hesitation I urged Sparky toward home. In a whisper, I told him to keep up, and we slowly jogged back toward the cul-de-sac. I hurried the dog into the house and watched him settle near the pool, his gaze upon me.

I stayed within the safe confines of the house and paced the floor. Back and forth, back and forth I went, all the while considering different courses of action. What if I called the police and there was no body? Then I’d be viewed as a nutcase... again. On the other hand, if there was a body, I’d take the position of suspect numero uno. Not a great choice in my opinion.

Across the street, the pirate’s house lay as silent as the rest, though a single light glowed from within. It seemed to call to me and it seemed right that I tell someone what I had found. Why I chose this stranger as a confidant, I couldn’t say. I just knew that I didn’t want to discuss this experience with the ditzy woman next door, or the police.

The visions were certainly too strong to ignore. If I didn’t share my knowledge, things would worsen. I’d learned that lesson well – in other circumstances. This is no time to be a chicken. Bucking up, and walking over was my only course of action.

I smoothed down my frantic hair, wiped the rivulets of sweat from my face, took a deep breath,