Sand City Murders by MK Alexander Page B

Earth?”
    “Yes. The Netherlands…”
    “And nothing to do with clones?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.”
     I thought for a second. My reality was crashing in on itself. “Okay, I have a quick question then,” I said. “If you fixed the other murders like you say, why didn’t you fix this one?”
    “A very good question. I have tried many times but I have been unable to prevent it yet.”
    “Yet?”
    “Yes.” Fynn made a face. “I will say however, that I am well-acquainted with this victim.”
    “You know who it is already?”
    “Yes, Lorraine Luis.”
    “I remember that name from yesterday, I think... And she is?”
    “My wife.”
    The inspector and I crossed the bike path and climbed up a few wooden railroad ties up to the park. I had lots more to say, lots more to ask, but my mind was not fully functional. I followed Fynn from behind. He walked slowly, carefully choosing each step it seemed to me. I looked at his left hand, he was indeed wearing a plain gold wedding band.
     
     
    chapter 9
    sunset park
     
    Sunset Park overlooked the bay. It had a different name originally, Wright’s Park, I think. Named after some sea captain from the days of yore. And why it wasn’t Dubois Park is another story completely. It should have been. It was always green at least, and everything there was something Valmont had imported and planted long ago. Sunset Park was its functional name. Almost everyday, somebody was there, and usually many people. They gathered at dusk to sit on the little benches and watch the sun slip below the horizon. Make that every day, weather permitting. It wasn’t more than a couple of hundred yards square. At the entrance was a big hunk of granite with a faded metal plaque commemorating the original founder of Sand City: Joshua Higgins. Why the park wasn’t named for him is also a bit of a mystery to me. Behind the monument was a concentric ring of slates that enclosed a lawn, dotted with tasteful shrubs and flower boxes come May. Most flowers had yet to bloom. Maybe a couple snowdrops and crocuses were peeking their heads up from the ground. The circular path arched along the edge of a hundred foot bluff that faced west more or less. And here they would gather, the sunset watchers, either sprawled out on the grass, or sitting on a sponsored wooden bench if one were available.
    The park was unique and definitely one of my favorite places in Sand City. It was virtually a rhododendron forest. Something about the sun’s angle and the balmy breezes off Great Bay… the acidity in the soil. They were ancient, these trees or bushes, I’m not sure which. And they were thriving despite their gray scraggly branches that twisted in every direction. For the most part they were lush and always vibrantly green, a waxy sort of green. Planted there more than a century ago by Valmont Dubois himself, no doubt. It was a welcome patch of color that persisted all winter from the edge of the park, down to Saint Alban’s and the old sea wall.
    It was raining still, a cold biting rain. My spring jacket was woefully inadequate. I could feel the drops soak through to my bare shoulder almost as soon as they hit, and my hair was already wet. As we approached the park, Inspector Fynn carefully put on a pair of white satin gloves, not exactly latex or nitrile crime scene gloves. He also took a small disc-like apparatus from his pocket. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it certainly looked like an antique, fashioned from wood and metal, now quite tarnished. He studied a dial on it with some dedication.
    Yellow police tape was already strung across the entrance. Durbin was waiting, talking to some uniforms, and then ushered us through. He was wearing a dark blue Atlantic storm-coat trimmed with fake fur around the hood. Seemed like overkill but I suppose he was warm and dry. The victim was laid out on one of the dedicated benches. There was no blood, no signs of violence. It looked like she just curled up and went to