Page 5 of Forgotten Path
No answer came from within. She hopped down to the sandy lot and circled the vintage Airstream. The vehicle was shaped like an oversized bullet. She was sure it had once been sleek and silver. But now it was dented and dingy. The small windows were set too high into the sides of the vehicle for her to peer inside and were covered by bright yellow curtains to boot. A shade screen shielded the front windshield—affording the interior some privacy and a reprieve from the blazing sun that the Florida Keys was known for.
“Come on, Joel,” she grumbled as she scanned the ground surrounding the home. Silt and sand, pebbles, scraggly grass. Not the most inspired landscaping, but nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary had happened here.
And yet. The tight nut of worry in the pit of her stomach that had driven her here was expanding.
She stopped and squatted beside a potted tomato plant. It was a homely, leggy thing, drooping under the weight of the handful of green cherry tomatoes Joel had somehow coaxed it to produce.
She poked a finger into the soil. Dry. Hot.
Frowning, she grabbed the red metal watering can that sat alongside the pot and stalked over to the hose to fill it. As she watered the pathetic plant, she ticked through her options.
Joel’s car—an old Jeep—was parked out front. But the armful of mail she’d scooped up from the box out on the road had postmarks dating back five or six days. And his tomato plant hadn’t been watered recently.
None of these facts pointed to anything sinister. Joel Ashland was, after all, a grown man. She didn’t know his exact age, but it was north of fifty. Maybe north of sixty. He was a full-grown adult with no spouse, no kids, and the freedom to travel as he liked. And anyone who knew Joel knew he was something of a free spirit—an overgrown hippy.
But he was also the county medical examiner, and he hadn’t shown up for work. He had no vacation marked on the calendar for the week, and he hadn’t called in to say he was sick or otherwise unable to come in.
Despite his laidback, easygoing vibe, Joel took his work seriously. He might fulfill his duties while wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, but he fulfilled them. He was a committed public servant, not to mention the only medical examiner for the Keys—he would never leave his office and all the law enforcement departments who counted on him in a lurch.
More than that, he neverevermissed First Responder Trivia Night at the Kooky Conch. And yet, that’s exactly what he’d done. He’d been a no-show last night, and, deprived of his encyclopedic knowledge of sports statistics and U.S. history, the police department had lost its forty-seven-week winning streak. They’d lost to the Sugarloaf Key Volunteer Fire Department, of all the teams.
Feliciatskedat the memory. As the rest of the PD Pedants had drowned their sorrows in half-priced draft beer, she’d called his cell phone repeatedly, her irritation morphing into concern. Then, this morning, when she tried him at his office, and Raven informed her he hadn’t come in, her concern morphed into fear.
If his Jeep had been missing, maybe she’d be able to convince herself that he was off on a bender, had met someone and run off to Europe, or had gotten a call about a family emergency. But his car was here, his mail was piling up, and his prized plant hadn’t been watered. But she knew none of that justified entering his home—at least not as an officer of the law.
But she wasn’t just a detective. She was also Joel’s friend. So she returned the watering can to its spot and stepped back up to the camper door. The door was possibly the sturdiest part of the camper. It looked to be solid steel. Shouldering it open wasn’t in the cards.
She eyed the lock. She could pick it. She shouldn’t, but she could. She could call the department, claim she’d heard a scream from inside, and have them send a battering ram.
Or she could put herself in Joel’s flip-flops and think this through. Joel was apt to have left a key hidden somewhere nearby in case he got locked out. She pursed her lips and studied the weed-choked flowerbed, searching for a fake rock with a hidden compartment or a flowerpot that might have a key concealed underneath. Nothing jumped out at her.
Maybe he’d affixed a magnetic key holder to the camper’s undercarriage. She jumped off the step, squatted on the ground, and peered up at the underside of the motorhome. No key holder.
A sudden thought struck her. It was too ridiculous to work, but there was no harm in trying. She returned to the door, gripped the handle, and pulled. The door swung open with a soft creak.
She laughed in disbelief. Who left their door unlocked these days?
Joel, that’s who.
She made a note to chastise him, but good. Then she pushed the door open and stepped into the dark, stuffy interior of the camper.
“Joel? You in here? It’s me—Felicia.”
She hesitated, ill at ease, in the doorway for a long moment, listening for movement in the back bedroom area. Then she shook her head. In for a dime, in for a dollar. She pulled the door closed and flicked on the lights.
She called Joel’s name once more, louder this time. No response. So she made a quick sweep of the long, narrow living space to confirm it was clear. The galley kitchen, small dining area, postage-stamp-sized bathroom, and the dark, vaguely weed-scented bedroom in the back were all empty. Joel wasn’t here.
She rested a hand on the wall near his small refrigerator and inhaled shakily.
Thank you, Lord.
She’d been half-convinced she’d find Joel, lifeless and open-eyed, on his floor—the victim of a heart attack, a freak fall, or a home invasion. Finding an empty camper was a blessing.
Her relief was short-lived, though. If he wasn’t here, where the devil was he?
She poured herself a glass of water from the jug in the fridge, drank it in one long swallow, and started to search Joel’s home, inch by inch, for answers.
CHAPTERFIVE
