Free Murder in the Mist by Loretta C. Rogers

and drew out a large manila envelope and labeled it “Prank.” A good reporter always kept evidence. She closed her eyes as her head leaned against the office chair.

Chapter Ten
    To Laura, Cole Harbor always smelled like a freshly mowed lawn, green, sunny, and bright. This morning was no exception. Dressed in a pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt, with orthopedic lift sneakers, sunglasses, and a ball cap, she followed her aunt down the wooden dock to where a man stood holding the rope to an aluminum boat.
    She lifted the camera and clicked. In college her secondary major had been photo journalism. Perhaps one day she would publish some of her pictures.
    Phyllis called out, “Morning, Harmon. Got ’er ready?”
    “Ayuh. She’s got a full tank of gas. Put a new spark plug in this mornin’. Motor purrs like a kitten. The tide’s runnin’ low. Stay in the channel, and you’ll do fine.”
    Phyllis set the cooler of food and drinks on the dock. She accepted the old boatman’s hand to help steady her as she stepped into the skiff. Once in, she looked up at the sky. “Fair weather. We plan to stay on the island all day. Should return before nightfall.”
    Laura grasped the man’s hand. He was an old salt, for sure—weather-wrinkled skin, and ripcord tough. His strength surprised her. “Don’t worry ’bout fallin’, missy. You just take your time to get your footin’, ’cause I got yah.”
    She found it awkward, reaching down with her shorter leg. Phyllis gripped her by the hips. Laura hoped she wasn’t blushing for all the help. A grown woman who couldn’t master getting into a boat was embarrassing.
    “Got it. Thanks to both of you. I guess you can tell how much of a rookie I am.”
    “Don’t you worry, young missy. I’ve known your auntie for nigh on her entire life. She’s as good a sailor as they come. She’ll teach you a thing or two.”
    “Oh, stop your confabbing, Harmon, and hand me the cooler and the lifejackets so we can get on our way. Laura, you sit on the bow seat.” She pointed. “It swivels. You'll have a bird's eye view from all angles."
    The cooler secured in the center of the boat, Phyllis fastened the buckles on her lifejacket. “Cast off.”
    Harmon handed her the rope. She primed the starter, gave one strong pull on the cord, and the old kicker roared to life. Laura turned and watched her aunt, hand on throttle, guide the little craft into the channel. The woman was full of surprises.
    “How far, Aunt Philly?”
    “About fifteen minutes, if we putz along. Keep an eye out for whales or seals. Sometimes seals will swim so close you can reach out and touch them.”
    “What about whales? Aren’t we in danger of them capsizing our boat?”
    Phyllis laughed. “If one does approach us, I’ll shift into neutral gear until it surfaces and then swims clear.” She abruptly stood and pointed, then reached down to idle back the motor. “Port side. Left, Laura. Off to your left. Thar she blows.”
    A whale breached about two hundred yards ahead of them. Laura zoomed the lens and adjusted the camera's angles as she shot picture after picture. “Oh, man, that was awesome.”
    “Ayuh, awesome.” Phyllis put the boat in gear.
    The skiff sliced through the crystal calm water. Laura lifted her camera to click shots of a group of low-flying brown pelicans, all thoughts of spirits, gangsters, the rose, and its anonymous note forgotten. She felt as free as the wind.
    Phyllis pointed. “We’ll land there.” She aimed the boat toward the shallow waters of the island, cutting the motor, and the boat slid up on the beach. She swung her feet over the side into ankle-deep water and grabbed the bow rope. “You sit while I pull her up a bit further on the shore.” She secured the rope with a sailor’s knot around a tree.
    Laura waited until her aunt gave an “okay” nod. “You make getting in and out look so easy.”
    “Tell you what. Turn around and step out of the boat backwards, with your