Killer on the Key

By E.B. Loan

Whisked away to tropical Gulf Key to recover from tragedy, Maggie Shoals stumbles into the curse of the Ashland family where the women maintain control over the Ashland fortune and the men die of mysterious causes. Spencer Ashland, the last living male heir, quickly sets his sights on Maggie; and what Spencer Ashland wants, Spencer Ashland gets. Torn between saving her crumbling marriage and starting over in paradise, Maggie soon realizes that things aren't always what they appear; especially when they come with secrets so deep no one dared to dig them up...until now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597051552

Book preview

Prologue

It was the first night of the hurricane. Most of the islanders had already left, taking with them their precious belongings. Maggie Ashland stayed behind. Gulf Key was her home; if she left it would be in a body bag. It was 1973. Having a baby at home was considered risky under good circumstances; a category five hurricane made it downright dangerous.

The storm sirens roared into life and wailed their warnings into the harsh wind. Water pelted against the storm shutters and stray braches smacked the wood and threatened to split them wide open at the first sign of weakness. The shutters held tightly, which was more than could be said about the electrical wires; the power had gone out hours earlier.

The bare floor was hard under her back. Maggie could feel the sweat forming on the nape of her neck under the ponytail tied with string from the kitchen.

Pull yourself up and grab your knees, the nurse commanded cleaning the scissors with some rubbing alcohol from under the kitchen sink.

I can’t! Maggie moaned. Her head moved side to side and she squeezed her eyes shut.

The nurse moved kneeling between Maggie’s legs. Turning on the flashlight she shined the beam between Maggie’s thighs to assess the situation. Quickly she shut the light off leaving them with only the glow of the candle on the mantle.

The baby has moved into the birth canal. It could die there. You need to push, now!

Maggie felt the calloused hands on her belly. She wanted to move the woman away from her, take her hands off her flesh, but before she could utter another sound the nurse shoved her hands down forcing the baby to move.

The shove coincided with a strong contraction and Maggie felt her body bear down against her will. She grunted and pushed while her brain screamed at her Stop! Stop! You have to stop! The pushing brought relief from the searing pain and her thoughts went from make it stop to hurry, get it out.

Then it was over. The nurse picked up the bloody mess that had landed on the flowered sheets, now ruined beyond recognition with fluids of every kind. She cut and tied the cord and cleaned the slippery body from the basin of water pulled from what they had saved in the tub. Finished she handed Maggie her child.

Outside, the storm continued to pummel the house. Maggie leaned forward. Her dark hair fell into her eyes as she examined the tiny perfect bundle resting in her arms. The wide dark eyes peered up at her from the mounds of blanket. She pulled the blanket back exposing a tiny wrinkled hand—remnants of crust caked between the fingers. She touched the hand and it latched on, squeezing like the pulse of a small beating heart. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

Too late now, Maggie thought stroking the tiny fist, you’ve gone and opened the gates of hell.

August 1998

BETTY COULD SEE THAT Eleanor Ashland was dying. Her breathing was slow and labored. The thick bed blankets covered her small frame. Eleanor held the edge of the blanket. Her hands kept opening and closing around the sewn satin trim.

Betty tried to be a good daughter. She’d done what her mother had wanted—she had brought her home. The dim light in the bedroom made it difficult to see clearly. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Eleanor sat; her cloudy irises watched her daughter’s. "Not you, she hissed. She reached out to scratch Betty away. Mongrel, filthy dog...go back to hell where you belong!"

Eleanor thought that Betty was Thomas. Betty smiled. She didn’t know if it was the poor lighting or old age that turned her into her mother’s worst nightmare in her last moments of life, but Eleanor’s terror and confusion amused her. She reached out and patted her mother’s hands into submission.

There’s no need to fight, it’s time.

Betty could see the panic was rising in the old woman who scanned the room for the others.

Where’s Maggie? she asked gripping her covers, pulling them closer to her face.

Maggie is home, she came back years ago.

Eleanor was frantic now. She rolled to her side and pushed away the bedding.

Where’s Julia? I want Julia!

Betty watched the scene impassively.

Everyone paid the piper.

Today it was Eleanor’s turn.

One

August 2006

The storm was typical for an August night in the Gulf islands. Julia had tried to get used to the shock of the thunder over the years, but no matter how many she had weathered, they always scared her awake. She shot into consciousness, heart pounding, and sweat dripping down her back. Looking around she cursed the broken air conditioner and mopped her face with the damp sheets. Lightning flashed through the darkness followed by the unmistakable rumble of thunder. Pulling her body from the bed, she crossed the room to close the glass louvers and wished for the hundredth time that she had followed her instincts and installed sliding windows and screens after Bert had died. It wasn’t 1959 anymore; insulated glass was the new standard for keeping out heat and keeping in cool.

She reached the far window, the one that didn’t have the protection of the covered porch and turned the crank. The glass slats sealed shut instantly killing the cross breeze and filling the room with dead air. Turning in the opposite direction, she shuffled carefully toward the covered window. The storm was gaining some strength and the glass slats rattled slightly in protest. The crank was rusted, a result of the salt in the air mixed with the never ending humidity, and both hands working in unison were not enough force to work it closed.

The rain blew sending outside mist into her face. She shook the handle back and forth willing it to move. No luck.

C’mon you piece of crap, work!

Lightening lit up the sky followed by an earsplitting crack. Startled she let go and pressed her nose against the screen. Squinting in the darkness she looked for a fallen branch. Fighting for sight, her eyes strained against the black. Nothing.

Giving up on the window she hauled her old bones back to the mattress and hoped for a few hours of sleep. Summer storms were long and harsh; her hopes were not very high. Lying on top of the sheets she closed her eyes trying to settle her thoughts. She had just reached the early stages of twilight sleep, her brain conjuring up intense dreams of rocky surf, when the muffled crash jerked her back.

Goddamn it, Bert! Why did I let you talk me into all this glass? She cursed, grabbing her cotton house dress off the foot board. Sliding her toes into the slippers at the edge of the bed, she moved to the door and hit the light switch. Mercifully the room flooded with the light from the overhead bulb. Electricity had been one modern convenience she had insisted on when the place had been built, that and indoor plumbing.

Moving through the living room she made her way to the back sleeping porch. In the flashes of lightening, she could already see fragments of the shattered glass reflecting up. Opening the sliders she pulled the chain on the bedside table lamp, just as she had suspected. Glass everywhere. The louvers had held; the back door had not. Peering around the room she searched for the branch that must have shattered the glass. The large banyan tree had grown nearly into the cottage this year. She knew she should have trimmed it, but time had slipped away from her and once the heat of summer hit all thoughts of hard labor had left her mind.

There was no branch, but what she saw made her wish there was.

Alone in the middle of the room there was a rock. Smooth and perfect, probably from the beach across the drive.

Somebody had thrown a rock through her back door into the sleeping porch.

Shit! Goddamn little spoiled rich assholes! She went to the kitchen to retrieve her broom and dustpan from the hooks near the fridge. Returning to the room she marveled for the first time at how glad she was that she hadn’t let Bert talk her into carpeting this back room. Concrete might not be very pretty, but it did the job.

She began the task of sweeping the litter off the floor and took her anger out on the broom.

Don’t these overindulged brats have anything better to do than harass people? She asked out loud swiping back and forth. Satisfied that she had gotten most of the big chunks she picked up the dustpan and turned to leave.

Whack!

Instant pain.

Her hand flew up to the back of her head and she spun around. Another rock, slightly smaller sat at her feet; round, smooth, perfect, just like the one that had hit the door.

Now she was scared. They were still out there, in the storm, watching her. How many?

She called out into the dark trying to keep her voice steady. You think you’re funny? How funny do you think it will be when your parents have to come pick you up from the police station?

The indoor light made it impossible for her to see beyond the porch. She listened through the rain. Nothing at first, then a small orange ember came into view. It grew brighter for a moment and then returned to its smoldering state.

A cigarette.

Whoever was out there was watching her casually, like they had all the time in the world. Then two words, Tick tock.

It was him.

Julia you old fool, run!

She heard Bert's voice commanding from somewhere inside her. She crossed the track that divided the main house from the sleeping porch. She slammed the sliders, latching the lock behind her. There was no safety bar, no blinds or drapes to close him out, just a single pane of glass stood between her and the monster. Crossing to the kitchen she threw open her cabinet doors and frantically searched. Plates, cups, cans of food all fell to the floor.

Finally! Her hand hit the glass bottle shoved into the back corner and covered with dust. Twisting the cap off, she raised it and dumped the contents over her head. The fumes from the toxic liquid burned the inside of her nostrils as the fluid ran down her body.

Matches, where the hell are my matches?

Using the dishtowel at the sink, she managed to wipe her eyes clean enough to allow them to search the drawers.

No matches.

The stone hearth at the far wall in the living room smiled at her—firebox opened wide like a taunting jack-o-lantern at Halloween. Looking up at the mantle she could see them. The small white book proclaiming Eat at the Oyster Shack! sat there just on the other side of the cottage; all she had to do to get to them was pass in front of the glass doors.

The sleeping porch was dark and quiet. She looked for the cigarette tip glowing in the dark. Nothing. Taking small sideways steps she edged closer to the mantle and kept her back on the wall and her eyes, now blurred from the fumes, on the dark.

Five more steps, three more, one more...

She reached up with her hand and felt for the book; instead she hit a vase that had been a gift from Bert when they were dating. The small piece of painted china slipped from its perch and tumbled to its death on the unforgiving floor. She froze, sure that the doors would implode on her at any moment.

The porch stayed quiet. With her trembling hands she found the matches and opened the cover exposing the first one. The exact moment the flame burst into life, the doors in front of her shattered. The force of the rock exploding through the glass sent her body spinning. She lost hold of the match which went out before it hit the floor. The turn was too quick, but once it was set in motion she was powerless to stop it. She hit the ground and the sound of bone on concrete told her that running would not be an option.

Logic told her to grab the matches, try again before he was upon her, but in those final moments primal fear took over and her only thought was escape.

As she crawled across the floor toward the bedroom, she struggled to use her arms to carry the rest of her weight. The leg she had landed on had twisted at an unnatural angle. The pain was bad, but her fear was worse. Crossing the threshold she kicked at the door with her good foot and closed it until it stuck where the wood had swelled from the humidity.

Unable to think of anything better she did what any scared child would do, she crawled under the bed.

It won’t be long now.

One.

I’ve led a good life, haven’t I, Bert?

Two.

You have my love, you have.

Three.

I don’t want to look.

Four.

Don’t look, darling, keep your eyes closed and picture me.

Five.

The door slammed open and hit the windows open louvers. Glass, more broken glass.

Hello, Julia, the voice drawled exhaling sweet smoke into her face. Time to go home.

Two

June 2, 2007

Maggie Shoals Troost tossed in her sleep, in the stage between deep sleep and consciousness, her dreams tortured her soul. Make sense of us they dared; try as she might nothing fit the way it was supposed to. The trip to Gulf Key had been her husband Chris’s idea. He thought it would be a good way for her to rest, recuperate, and bring her back from the abyss she’d crawled into. Under most circumstances she would have agreed; but the recent events of her life weren’t most circumstances. The night before their flight she had tossed and turned until the alarm had blared. Maggie had dragged herself onto the plane, the dreary Chicago weather matching her mood, and wished her insomnia would go on hiatus. No luck.

The plane landed with a thud rolling toward the gate; she was now fully awake. Turning to the window with the shade pulled up, she caught Chris staring with concern. She closed the light sweater across her chest and held his gaze until he looked away.

I’m fine, Chris. She spoke to his back. She watched his shoulders sag in response to her flat tone.

There he goes, sinking under the weight of the world.

The plane halted. Before the fasten seat belt sign had even blinked off she was up; bag in hand she turned to him. You ready?

Without waiting for his answer she exited the plane.

THE SARASOTA BRADENTON International airport was hot. Compared to O’Hare it was small, no bigger than a postage stamp. During the off season the crowds never grew to more than a handful of people. Some people preferred to fly into Tampa, but Christopher Troost could not understand why anyone would drive the extra miles to save a few bucks on tickets. Once the plane had landed on Florida ground, he was on vacation. The closer to Gulf Key the better.

Maggie had a rough flight. Scratch that, she’d had a rough couple of months. The flight was just one more moment of agony on her road to recovery. He hadn’t been able to form a single sentence before she disappeared, swallowed by the rest of the passengers ready to begin their vacation. He remembered teasing her while they had been dating. She was long and lanky, legs that stretched for miles; her pace on foot was unmatched by anyone he knew. Rushing to catch her he made his way across the airport. In the distance he caught a glimpse of her shiny black hair.

Damn, I shouldn’t have let her sit in the aisle seat.

He sped up making a pathetic attempt to catch her before she hit the rental car counter. They had ordered something sensible, an economy something or another no doubt. He had wanted to surprise her with a last minute upgrade; a fast convertible, something flashy, out of the ordinary. By the time he reached her, she had the keys in hand and a sour look on her face. Her fingers drummed on the handle of her rolling bag, her lips set in a line.

Excuse me miss, has anyone ever told you that you walk like a gold medal Olympic sprinter? He asked grinning sheepishly.

He watched her eyes. For a moment the thunderclouds that lurked behind the hazel irises parted. As quickly as they had parted, they rolled back in locking the carefree Maggie he loved so fiercely behind their iron gates. He reached out tipping her chin up slightly; she fought him trying to keep her gaze on the ground. He used her pet name thinking it might melt her resolve. Maggot, please don’t.

He wanted her to let go. Let go of the self-inflicted blame, the ever present hatred that boiled below her calm surface.

She turned away from him, the same as she had every day since the accident, and walked into the blistering Florida sun. You coming? she asked over her shoulder.

He followed without answering. She wasn’t listening; what was the point?

THE WHITE SUBCOMPACT sat in a row of fifty other cars, each one an exact copy of the one next to it. The economy vehicles, whatever those might be, had all been rented prior to their arrival. In true Shoals fashion, Maggie had secured the meager upgrade at no cost to them and gained a sun roof to boot. Chris stayed in the background throughout the negotiations. He had watched his wife in action enough times to know better than to intrude. She was ruthless and smooth at the same time, something Chris would never be able to master.

Windows or air conditioning? He asked, slipping on his sunglasses.

Seriously? It’s at least ninety out here...

Alright then, he said turning the key, air it is.

It only took Chris a matter of minutes to maneuver out of the airport parking lot. It was small to suit the size of the airport and easy to commit to memory. He pulled onto University Parkway. The cottage he’d rented for the summer was less than fifteen miles from the airport. Fifteen minutes from heaven, he announced cheerily. Maggie did not respond.

He gave up on the idea of conversation. Light chatter to fill the silence always made him nervous. He turned the radio on, keeping the volume low, and concentrated on driving.

They crossed the bridge from the mainland; instantly things switched from dreary to brilliant. Exotic birds meandered among tropical foliage of every color. Mansions popped up surrounded by blooming hibiscus and swaying palms. The beauty of it unmarred by the rest of the world always amazed him. He turned to look at Maggie. The joy he felt taking in the scene was crushed the minute he saw her face. She was in agony, he could see in her expression. Reaching across the car he took the hand that rested limply in her lap. You Okay?

He dared not make eye contact. Her moods were so unpredictable swinging from sadness to rage and back before he could blink, so he just waited.

This was supposed to be our last little get away before the baby. Her voice was flat. Was she crying? Her back trembled a bit; he squeezed her hand, more waiting. The very last time we would be alone, next time we’d be a family, but now...

Now, he jumped in, We are focused on recuperating and preparing.

She bit her lip. She always bit her lip when she was holding back.

Maggie, you’ll be pregnant again before you know it. Your body just needs a little rest.

Don’t forget my mind, she snapped, and then she retreated.

Move on, Chris. Give her more time.

He decided to listen to his inner voice.

THE TRAFFIC WAS MILD. June was a peak time for families with children to vacation on Gulf Key, but it was still early June and most of the schools were still in session. Chris had estimated the trip at fifteen minutes; it had only taken twelve. Basic supplies, that was all he wanted; some cold Coronas, a few limes, charcoal and seafood for the grill. Maggie was agitated and supplies would have to wait. He sighed as he passed the Publix.

Go ahead, stop, she said back, still turned.

We’re almost there. I’ll open up the cottage, make sure you are settled and unload the luggage first.

Chris had been vacationing on Gulf Key since childhood. His parents had discovered the Key by accident. His father, Peter Troost, had been given a week stay by a client that owned a condo there as a thank you for services rendered. After that first trip the Troosts made their trips a once a year ritual. Gulf Key was the first and only ocean he had known. In June the water was at least eighty degrees. In his mind everything else was just plain cold.

Never once had he stayed on the bay. His parents had always rented a place with a sleeping porch just so he could listen to the surf as he fell asleep. When he had met Maggie he knew she was the one to share the rest of his sunsets with. She’d never set foot in the ocean.

Never? You’ve never gone swimming in the ocean? He couldn’t believe it, how could that be?

There are sharks in the ocean! Not to mention sting rays, eels, all kinds of nastiness...

He had taken her the first summer they were together. They had gotten married there. They spent every summer after that reading under beach umbrellas, sipping beer, leaving the comfort of their chairs only to eat, sleep, or swim, occasionally even frolicking in the waves the way all young lovers do when the heat of summer sends hormones into high gear. Maggie joked that saltwater excursions were a man’s fantasy, but he knew she enjoyed it as much as he did; half the time it was her idea.

You ready? She’d whisper seductively in his ear before tearing through the sand to the warm crashing waves and daring him to follow.

They had booked their summer retreat before the accident. In the long dark days that followed, Chris had canceled their reservation. The doctor wanted Maggie to rest, but water was out of the question until she was fully healed—an infection could lead to sterility. One night while scrolling through the list of bay side cottages he found one that fit the bill; across the street from the beach, close to shopping and dining, no pool.

Maggie was pissed when she found out.

You changed our plans without even asking me? Are you afraid I can’t be trusted near the water? That I will want to swim so badly that I will forget that I’m not allowed to? I’m not stupid, Chris, I get it; an infection means no baby.

He didn’t completely trust her, but he kept that to himself.

He found their street. The row of lemon cottages lined up behind the sign Bay View in perfect order, each one a cookie cutter copy of the last. Every front porch had a small ceramic flowered number plate. Ten. There were ten in all. He found number six. Pulling in, he noted the warped wooden WELCOME TO OUR BEACH HOUSE sign hanging above the door.

Maggie snorted. Welcome to our beach house, how very original.

Chris exhaled. Smart ass Maggie he could deal with.

Three

June 3, 2007

The sun rose on the bay and set on the gulf. Maggie woke up the minute the sun hit the bedroom window of their cottage. The owners had installed blinds, but they were no match for the brilliance of the sunlight. It would be hours before Chris would even begin to stir. The morning news had promised a typical Florida summer day, flesh searing heat with the possibility of a wicked thunderstorm in the afternoon. She stood at the front window, sipping her coffee, scanning the street already void of human life.

Just 8:35,and already 90 degrees...welcome to summer on Gulf Key.

Her stomach cramped. Heading to the bathroom she checked her underpants. More discharge. She reached down resting her hand on the bloated part of her belly.

Stop torturing me. I don’t need any more reminders.

The anxiety was returning. She needed to walk. The path was only partially shaded. She knew the lizards were there, hiding in among the tropical vegetation, but that didn’t stop her from jumping every time one rustled the leaves.

Christ. Maggie, they’re lizards, not stalkers.

The path wound through a small park ending in front of the Publix. She had forgotten