Free A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) by Mindy Quigley Page A

that’s what’s going on,” Simmy said, her expression darkening. “Her mind seemed as sharp as ever.” Simmy paused and looked intently at Lindsay. “She hasn’t said anything to you? Nothing at all about what’s going on?”
    “Not a word. I need to get out there. Are you okay to drive?” Although Lindsay didn’t relish the prospect of trekking two miles in the sand with a large travel backpack, she wasn’t about to get in the car with a tipsy octogenarian.
    Simmy proceeded to walk straight ahead along one of the wooden floorboards, her steps unwavering. She then held out her arms and touched her nose with the tips of her fingers. “I can say my alphabet backwards, too, if it’ll satisfy you.”
    “No need. Let me just put my stuff in the truck.” Outside, a steady rain had started to fall. Lindsay heaved her backpack into the extended cab of Simmy’s ancient Toyota pickup. She grabbed the tire pressure gauge and flashlight from her car and squatted down alongside the truck. Regular visitors to the 4x4 beaches got used to the constant inflating and deflating of tires; only underinflated tires could be counted on to traverse the sand roads. Lindsay was surprised to find that the pressure of Simmy’s tires was already lowered to the requisite 18 psi. She called out to her, “Simmy! You’ve been driving around on low tires. Didn’t you notice?”
    Simmy walked down the front porch steps and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Goodness me! I must’ve forgotten after I came back from beachcombing the other day. Well, it’s handy that they’re already ready to go, I suppose.”             
    They drove along Highway 12 through Corolla until the road dead-ended. A fence bisected the island at that point, running from the Atlantic Ocean in the east to the Currituck Sound in the west. To the north of the fence lay a wilderness of sand, where wild horses that were thought to be descended from Spanish mustangs roamed among the sand dunes, nature preserves, and scattered vacation homes. Before the fence was completed, the horses had been in constant danger of injury from careless drivers and harassment from overly-friendly sightseers, but the barrier now offered them some measure of protection.
    Lindsay and Simmy continued through the open gate onto the sand, the noise from the tires changing from a crunch to a shushing. The land north of the fence presented an extreme contrast to the southerly beaches. In places like Kitty Hawk, every buildable lot had been developed. An array of grocery stores, liquor stores, and restaurants catered to the tourists’ every whim. Out here, though, the land maintained a wildness—a covering of live oaks and hardy shrubs shot through with tidal marshes. The island was wider here, more than a mile wide in some places, with little fingers of land stretching out into the Currituck Sound. In the darkness, the road seemed to merge with the gray clouds.
    The rain steadily increased, and the pickup’s windshield wipers began to struggle to keep up with the downpour. As they approached the turn off for Aunt Harding’s house, Lindsay saw the headlights of a fast-approaching truck. The 4x4 custom dictated that, where the sand road narrowed, the car with more room to pull off should yield the right of way. This avoided the very real possibility of forcing a fellow traveler into the soft sand at the shoulder. “What does this dingbatter think he’s doing?” Simmy mumbled to herself, using the Outer Banks slang that described fools and mainland dwellers. “Probably one of these numbskulls who thinks that just because there’s no pavement out here that there’s no rules about how to drive.” She shifted into a lower gear. The other driver sped past several easy pull-off points and continued to bear down on them.
    “Simmy, I think you’d better pull off. He’s not slowing down.”
    “Thank you for that helpful observation, honey. But as you can see, there’s no