Chase and the Buttermilk Sky

By Rose Marie Lambert DeHart

Retired police officer Chase Harlow from North Carolina receives a call from his old friend and fellow policeman, Andy Toler. Andys granddaughter, Emily, went with some friends to a small island for one last summer fling before the start of schoolbut she never came back.

Chase agrees to check into things and heads to the island. As soon as he arrives, he learns about the murder of a young girl. Its not Emily; as it turns out, Emily has returned home safe and sound. Even so, Chase cant ignore his police instincts, and he decides to find out what he can about the girl who was killed.

One night at a bar, he meets a beautiful woman named Adrian who tells Chase that she saw the murdered woman at Rainbow Island, an isolated island far out in the Atlantic Ocean. Home to an elite private club, it boasts that it can make all your dreams come true. Chase isnt so sure about that, but he heads out to the island to see if he can uncover the villain.

What he finds, however, is romance, intrigue, and a killer who isnt going to come quietly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475940534

Rose Marie Lambert DeHart

Rose Marie Lambert DeHart is a native of Asheboro, North Carolina. She is retired from the United Methodist Foundation. Her first novel, The Giveaway Girl, was published in 2011. DeHart lives with her husband in Raleigh, North Carolina.

Book preview

Chase

and the

Buttermilk Sky

A Novel by

Rose Marie Lambert DeHart

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Chase and the Buttermilk Sky

Copyright © 2012 by Rose Marie Lambert DeHart

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-4052-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4054-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4053-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913535

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Other books by Rose Marie Lambert DeHart

The Giveaway Girl

Chase and the Buttermilk Sky is dedicated to ‘All My Sons’ and their families and to all the Lamberts, those still on earth and those who have passed on.

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Chapter One

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I am first in line to exit the ferry and drive ashore onto the small island that lies in the inland waterway. There’s a bridge farther down the coast, but I’m a romantic … there’s something about a ferry crossing. The Atlantic Ocean laps the eastern coast of the small North Carolina island. I continue along the deserted road, keeping one eye on the clouds and the other on the choppy surf, until I reach the small fishing village called Blue Fish Landing. I follow Andy Toler’s directions to a brightly lit neon sign up ahead. The border of small light bulbs flashes around the name, Duck Inn. It’s probably a dump, I think, as I pull to a stop beneath the sign.

The Duck Inn is one of those old fifties style motor inns, such as I used to see on highway 301, down east, as we say in Wake County. It’s a sprawling, flat roofed, no frills motel that sets on the side of the road. After all, I only need a bed and a bath, so The Duck Inn serves my purpose, if it’s clean enough and air conditioned.

I step out of the Toyota Cruiser. After three hours of non-stop driving, it feels good to stretch the muscles in my gimpy leg. I retrieve my bag from the rear seat and set out along the gravel path to the entrance.

I enter a small lobby and call out, Hello.

There’s no answer.

I see an open registration book on the check-in desk and a key tagged with my name and room number, Chase Harlow, room Number 1. I sign the register, pick up the key, return to the parking lot, and proceed to Number 1.

The key fits and I am soon in a warm, sparsely furnished room. There’s a bed that I’m certain won’t comfortably accommodate my six foot-two frame, a desk, a chair, a small dresser, an ancient TV set, and a sofa that makes into a bed. All the comforts of home. The bathroom is small and built across a corner. This place gives new meaning to the word ‘dump’. The only light in the room is a forty-watt bulb in a 60’s style lamp on the desk, or is that a sixty-watt bulb in a 40’s style lamp. Whatever, the lamp is tacky; even I can see that right off the bat.

After I pay a visit to the john in the corner, I open up my leather kit, remove the toiletries, and line them up on the dresser. I bend to the mirror and run a brush through my black hair in an attempt to hide the strands of gray that seem to increase daily. I do the wide grin thing, check out my pearly whites, straighten the tie and collar of my blue denim shirt, and head out the door.

I make my way to the restaurant across the parking lot, enter, and look around. The tables that set in the center of the floor are covered with red and white checkered cloths. The bottle blond, her nametag identifies her as Pearl, follows me with a glass of water and a menu.

Pearl, is it? I ask, as she scans me from head to toe. I imagine she thinks to herself, Man, he’s a tall drink of water.

You got it, Pearl responds.

I take a seat in the first booth. She sets the glass of water on the table and hands me an open menu.

Get settled in? Pearl asks, as she nods in the direction of the motel.

Sure thing, I reply.

Pearl is small, five feet tall, I guess. She’s about a foot and a couple inches shorter than I am and weighs about a hundred pounds. A large rhinestone brooch anchors a frilly pink handkerchief to the breast pocket of her uniform. She doesn’t miss a crack on the chewing gum, as she hands me the menu. Her manicure is fresh, medium length red nails. My guess is it’s OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress—same as my ex-wife used to wear.

Pearl gives me a moment with the menu and returns to take my order—medium well rib eye, baked potato, salad with oil and vinegar, and sweet tea. I watch as she saunters back to the counter and stabs my order on the spindle near the grill. A large, dark guy wearing a toque blanche retrieves the order and enters the kitchen to begin preparing my dinner.

I check out the juke box—it’s one of those old fashioned ones with loud colors and flashing lights—narrow my choices to Conway’s Hello Darlin’ or Glen Campbell’s Rhinestone Cowboy, oldies but goodies. I decide on Conway, insert a coin, press the button, and his voice fills the air.

I return to the booth and take out the note pad with my sketchy notes. My old friend, Andy Toler, telephoned me early this morning. His granddaughter, Emily, came to the island ten days ago with a group of young folks who wanted a last fling before starting their summer jobs. They were to stay at a cottage that belonged to ‘somebody’s’ friend. Andy reminded me how vague some of these young folks are. If you ask a question, they immediately accuse you of a lack of trust. The family hasn’t heard from Emily, and she doesn’t answer her cell phone. He asked me to come to the island and look around. He promised my usual fee, plus expenses. I promised to look into Emily’s disappearance.

Andy and I go back a long way. We worked together on the police force of a small town near Raleigh, North Carolina. I was a rookie and Andy was a seasoned police officer. Andy retired as soon as he became eligible but, I … that’s another story.

I have Emily’s high school yearbook picture for identification. Andy was so proud of that girl and her picture, that he passed them out to all of his friends. I remove the photo from my wallet and see a nice looking blonde haired girl with a killer smile. A length of black velvet, with an attached rope of pearls, drapes her shoulders and upper body. I remember my own high school year book picture and those of my classmates—row upon row of the smiling faces.

I learned on the ferry coming over to the island that a nearly nude body washed up on the beach about daybreak this morning. The bullet hole in back of her head ruled out drowning. A cell phone call to the authorities assured me this was not the body of a teenager. For Toler’s sake, I hope they’re right. Even so, there could be a connection. I learned long ago that young girls don’t need to look far for trouble. Trouble finds them.

Had any excitement around here in the last few years, darlin’? I quiz Pearl when she returns with my food, trying for just the right amount of sarcasm. Before answering, she makes out my check, rhythmically cracking the gum.

Nah, I can’t remember any, she replies, as she starts toward the kitchen.

Halfway there, she turns and heads back toward my booth.

Oh, yeah, a body washed up on the beach this morning, Pearl adds.

She is obviously unimpressed, as she sticks the order pad in the back of her tight pants and the pencil into the 70’s style beehive on her head.

Pierre, she begins with a jerk of her head toward the large guy in the kitchen, Pierre saw them pulling her out of the water. Pierre, he’s cool. It didn’t bother him a bit. He just came on in and started breakfast. Ya see, we got a bunch of fishermen here this week. They want their breakfast early so’s they can get out on the water before all the fish get away.

She slides into the booth across from me and pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her uniform.

Do ya mind if I smoke? Pearl asks. Her long, skinny fingers wrap around the lighter as she clicks it open.

No, I lie.

I can’t stand the things, but she’s currently my only hope of finding out anything in this seemingly deserted fishing village.

I take it Pierre’s the cook? I ask.

Don’t let him hear you call him ‘cook’. He’ll tell you right quick that he’s a chef. Trained in some fancy cooking school. I can’t remember where, but I think it’s up north. All I’ve got is a beauty course and a cosmetologist license. I got that right here in the county. On the mainland, of course. I left the area for a while. That’s when I met Pierre. We came back here and bought this place, hoping to fix it up a bit. All we get is fishermen from the mainland and they’re getting few and far between. The ones that come don’t care what the rooms look like. They just want a place to sleep. Most of them don’t want a shampoo and set, so I wait tables.

Pearl chuckles at her joke and takes a deep drag from the cigarette. Her fingers show the stains of many years of tobacco use.

Where did you meet Pierre? I take the slow approach in my quest for information. ‘Building a relationship’ they called it in a sales course I took once.

Up north, in the city, Pearl replies.

I see in her eyes that she isn’t going to tell me anything more about that and don’t pursue it. It’s probably not important.

After a few more complaints about the beach, the business, and life in general, Pearl returns to her duties, which appear to be weighting down the counter with her elbows.

Suddenly, the kitchen door swings open and a very large, very dark man enters the dining room. He’s wearing a long white immaculate chef’s coat. He could be a bouncer in the roughest dive on the beach, all muscle and shoulder, but the toque blanche gives him away. Believe it, nothing else about this man even hints that Pierre is a chef, trained or otherwise.

He is a giant of a man with huge hands and long fingers that could easily palm a melon. His large ears support the toque blanche that sets on top of his massive head and stringy black hair peeps around the edge of the stiffly starched band of the hat. His hairy arms protrude from the sleeves of his immaculate white coat. His hands and nails are scrupulously clean.

I eat the steak and place a tip on the table, more than my usual double the sales tax, and walk toward the cash register where the management is engaging in a rather heated discussion, which stops abruptly, as I reach the counter.

Good steak, Pierre. Your cooking lessons really paid off, I say.

Hey, man, it doesn’t take cooking school lessons to grill a steak. You should have tasted some of the food I cooked on … he pauses, glances at Pearl and continues, before we came here. Nobody around here appreciates gourmet cooking. They want everything fried. Oh, well, it pays the mortgage on the place.

Yeah, I guess, I reply.

Tell me about the tragedy this morning, I add.

Tragedy? What tragedy? Oh, you mean the drowning. Nothing to speak of. She probably got drunk and fell off one of them boats over to the marina. I cooked on one of them boats oncet and you wouldn’t believe what goes on. His pronunciation of once makes me wonder where he is from.

Oh, I heard she had a bullet hole in her head, I inform him, as I give my check for food, along with a twenty, to Pearl.

No fooling. I didn’t know that. I wasn’t down close to the action. They pulled her in as I was taking my morning stroll on the beach. It was early, just before I opened up the restaurant.

Pearl’s face shows her bewilderment, as she hands me my change. I feel she has something to tell me. Oh, well, mustn’t push it. I still have tomorrow.

I show them the photograph of Emily Toler.

Have you seen this young girl around here? I ask.

Pearl takes the photograph from me, gives it a good look, and passes it to Pierre.

She doesn’t look familiar. We don’t get many youngsters in here. Mostly fishermen, Pearl responds.

Yeah, Pearl’s right about that. We don’t see many young folks. They usually go over to the beach. You might try Trixies, just across the bridge. I think that’s the hangout for the young set. She has games and all that stuff that the kids like.

Pierre consults his watch and adds, Trixie pretty much closes at sundown. You’ll probably need to check her out in the morning.

Thanks. Let me know if you see any youngsters around here. See you in the morning for breakfast, I say as I leave.

It begins to rain and lightning flashes across the sky. The roiling clouds remind me of the old Western song, Old Buttermilk Sky. Gene Autry used to sing it. I remember seeing re-runs on the television of old Gene Autry movies, when I was a kid.

I drive around the deserted fishing village in my Toyota Cruiser. The fishermen have apparently turned in after a long, hard day on the water. The air is cool and damp and the odors of the catch of the day permeate the air. I get on the main highway and drive on down the coast to another village, where I find a western style nightclub, The Silver Spur. The parking lot is nearly full with the usual RV’s and pickup trucks with camper shells that you usually see around a fishing village. I find a place to park and go inside. No valet parking.

It’s every honky tonk you’ve ever imagined—a large barnlike building complete with a hayloft and stall like booths, each booth holding a table and four chairs. In the main area there are long picnic style tables, covered with red and white checkered cloths. Dim lights, loud country music, and a clientele you wouldn’t believe. A trio plays on a small stage. The walls up toward the ceiling are plastered with posters of the old time western movie stars. I recognize Roy, Gene, Tex and Hopalong. The patrons are line dancing and I have to admit, the smooth dance steps these people perform fascinate me.

All of the men and most of the women wear western attire—boots, hats, the works. Some of the couples wear identically styled shirts and matching boots. I slip off my tie, stow it in my