Free Footprints in the Sand by Mary Jane Clark Page A

living room.
    “They aren’t here for us,” she said. “I’m going out to see what’s happening.”
    P iper joined the small crowd that had gathered on the beach, watching as officers cordoned off an area of sand and foliage with stakes and yellow tape. She noticed Brad O’Hara standing on the periphery of the group. He was shirtless despite the cool breeze. Piper went over to talk to him, getting a clear view of the crying woman’s face tattooed on his arm.
    “What happened?” she asked.
    “Some kids found a body,” he answered flatly, his eyes glued to the crime scene.
    Standing on tiptoe and craning her neck, Piper watched as the officers shoveled, carefully placing the sand they dug up into piles. Two men dressed in street clothes crouched at the edge of the pit looking down into it, while another took photographs.
    “Okay, everybody. Stand back,” ordered one of the deputies. “Stand back!”
    The spectators obeyed, but just barely. Piper separated herself from the crowd and then inconspicuously made her way to a spot where she could get a better view. She noticed that Brad had followed her.
    “Oh, dear God!” cried an onlooker as the sand-covered body was lifted from the hole. The dead woman’s eyes were closed. Her skin was gray, and her matted dark hair hung long and loose. She was dressed in a short skirt and a yellow cotton sweater, which stretched tightly across her chest. Her feet were bare, and her arms were stiff. Piper noticed there were several rings on her fingers and a small tattoo on her left hand in the space between the thumb and forefinger. Piper couldn’t make out the design. She was trying to identify the mark when Brad O’Hara stepped forward.
    “I know who she is,” he said. “Her name is Shelley Hart.”
    P iper stood by and was able to listen while one of the officers questioned Brad.
    “I’ve known Shelley since we were at Sarasota High together,” Brad said. “We hung out. In fact, I was with her when she got that little cupid tattoo on her hand.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I might as well tell you—if you ask around, you’ll find out—I’ve done a stretch in jail.”
    “For what?” asked the deputy.
    “Dealing,” answered Brad. “But that was years ago—I’m totally legit now. You can confirm all that.”
    The deputy showed no reaction. “When had you seen Ms. Hart last?” he asked.
    “Last week,” said Brad. “She came over to the pavilion where I run my business. She wanted to make sure that I had enough kayaks for a wedding group that would be staying at the inn.”
    “When exactly was that?”
    Brad thought back and calculated. “I think it was last Tuesday.”
    “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?” asked the deputy. “Did she seem upset or worried about anything?”
    Brad shook his head. “No, she seemed like Shelley.”
    “Which means what?” asked the deputy.
    “Look, she didn’t stay long or talk to me about much. Shelley spoke to me only if she absolutely had to. After I went to prison, she pretty much washed her hands of me.”
    P iper took out her phone and snapped a picture. Distasteful as it was, a photo of a crime scene would get lots of comments from her Facebook friends.

Chapter 29
    W alter’s heart sank as he stood at his office window and watched the people striding past the inn on their way up the beach. Word had spread quickly. Everyone was curious about the unearthing of a dead body. They wanted to see the site and be able to tell their friends.
    Surely there would be stories on the news tonight and in the newspaper tomorrow morning. While interest in both the event and the investigation would be high in the short run, Walter worried about the long-term effect of the discovery. Would it ultimately be bad for business? Would people recoil from staying at a place so closely associated with something so horrible?
    The phone rang. Walter turned away from the window, went to his desk, and