Page 11 of Secrets Along the Shore
Marge ignored her. “Well, the last I heard, Dereck and Sophia were on again, off again. Her mother’s cousin’s best friend mentioned to me that they’d seen some bruises on Sophia and were wondering if Dereck gave them to her.”
Elsietsked-tskedagain, then said nothing.
“That’s a big leap,” I said against my better judgement. Something about the sound of my voice stilled the chickens’ clucking for a moment and they stared at me like I was the fox that had just broken into their serene little circle. “I mean”—I hesitated, unsure why the chickens made me feel nervous. “Just that—” I bit my tongue.
They stared at me for another long second and then Nancy broke the stillness. “There’s also question as to whether Sophia ran off on her own and then got picked up by some trucker or someone and they killed her.”
Every Wisconsin unsolved crime conclusion. I stifled a sigh.Truckers and bikers got a bum rap, in my opinion. Hadn’t anyone ever looked at Ted Bundy? He was a ‘70’s version heartthrob in a suit and tie.
I reached for a doughnut, the chickens ignoring me. That was all right, because eavesdropping helped a person gather a lot of information and for whatever reason, I still felt the same adrenaline coursing through me this morning as it had after I’d found Sophia.
“What about that snake beneath the window?” Carol presented the question.
I perked up, mostly because I was curious if they’d connect the snake to the Serpent Killer and then to me and then realize how insensitive they were in this moment.
“Oh gosh!” Lisa waved her hand. “Garden snakes are a horse a piece around these parts. You can’t read anything into that!”
“Why were they looking under Sophia’s bedroom window anyway?” Marge inserted. “It’s not like she was stolen from her bed at night.”
“Or maybe she was?” Carol ventured.
Elsie made her familiar sound of censure. But then she added in her thin, reedy voice, “It’s that serial killer. What do they call him?”
“Ohhim!” Lisa’s eyes grew wide in a stereotypical blonde-girl sort of dumbness that was an insult to most blondes.
“My Arnie said he bet that man has come back to kill again,” Elsie concluded.
The doughnut stuck in my throat.
The only one of the chickens to dare a look in my direction was Carol. A sharp awareness entered her eyes and she was quick to interrupt Marge who was about to add her two cents. “I think we’d best get back to work.”
“I can say when we need to—” Marge started in with her lofty power of office manager.
“Good idea.” I offered my emphatic agreement and once again, my voice stilled the chickens. Lisa paled. Marge choked on her doughnut then patted her chest blaming the powdered sugar. Elsie was oblivious.
Only Carol had the kindness to mumble “Sorry, Noa,” as she hurried past me.
At least someone had a little bit of conscience.
I retreated to my own desk and into my own thoughts.
I had a feeling, as time went on, that people were going towantSophia’s disappearance and subsequent death to be at the hand of the Serpent Killer. The fact he had never been identified or caught didn’t seem to frighten as much as intrigue them. There was something oddly intoxicating about a serial killer, to people who were removed from it. I don’t think they had put two and two together and come to the conclusion that if itwasthe Serpent Killer, then Sophia was probably just the first of more to come?
That should scare the heck out of them. It should put them on alert for their daughters who fit the M.O. It should make them more afraid.
It should makememore afraid.
But it didn’t.
I picked up a job order from my desk and prepared to enter it into the database to be scheduled for the A/C installation crew.
The only thing that remotely connected Sophia Bergstrom to the Serpent Killer was a dead snake under her window. How had that tidbit even released to the public anyway?
And why a snake?
It wasn’t an odd line of amateur crime-solving questions. But it was odd for me, because until now, I’d never wanted to think about it.
Until Sophia.
