I pulled out my phone and called the medical examiner’s office to request a rush on the autopsy.Then I called Bree and told her to pull whatever security camera footage existed within a half-mile radius of the harbor, going back forty-eight hours.
Peace and quiet would just have to wait.
CHAPTER THREE
Spencer
Rosa Salcedo lived in a small blue house two blocks up from the harbor.There were window boxes with yellow and purple pansies in them and a welcome mat that said “Bless This Mess.”The side door was open when I arrived, and I could see women moving around inside the kitchen.Casserole dishes and foil-covered plates lined the counter.That was how small towns handled death.They fed it.
I almost didn’t knock on the door.I’d sat with plenty of grieving people in my career, and it never got easier.There was a side to this job that I hated, the part where you showed up at someone’s worst moment with a notebook and asked them to talk.But I reminded myself that Rosa had agreed to see me when I’d called.She’d wanted to share her stories about Eddie.So I knocked.
One of the women in the kitchen, a heavyset redhead, answered the door.She looked me up and down, like I was selling vacuum cleaners.“We don’t want any.”
I laughed.“Good, because I’m not selling any.I’m Spencer Cross.From the Beacon.”
She looked even less impressed at that news.“We especially don’t need any reporters sniffing around asking questions.”
“I didn’t just show up.Rosa’s expecting me.”
She arched one brow.“You sure about that?”
“Yes.I’m writing a piece about Eddie.”I pulled out my small notepad and waved it in front of her.“I promise, Rosa invited me.”
“Hmm.”She squinted at me suspiciously, but she let me in.“You’d better not make her cry.”
I winced, tucking my pad back in my pocket.“That’s certainly not my intention.”
She sighed wearily and then led me through the kitchen to a small living room where Rosa was sitting on the couch with a mug of something.She was a small woman, mid-fifties, with dark hair pulled back and the hollowed-out look of someone who hadn’t slept.
There were flowers everywhere, and the room smelled of gardenias and roses.On the mantel, there were framed photos of happier days.Eddie on his boat.Eddie and Rosa much younger on their wedding day.Eddie and Rosa holding babies, and at birthday parties.The photos painted the picture of a happy, loving family.I got a lump in my throat just looking at them.
“Mrs.Salcedo,” I said.“Thank you for seeing me.I’m so sorry about Eddie.”
She nodded.Her eyes were red but dry.She’d done her crying already, or she was saving it for when she was alone.Either way, I felt awful for her.
“Please, sit.”She gestured to a chair across from her.“And call me Rosa.”
I sat in the armchair, tugging out my pen and notepad.“How are you holding up, Rosa?”
She grimaced.“It still doesn’t feel real.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t.”I wished I had words of comfort for her, but I was drawing a blank.“As we talked about on the phone, I’m going to write a piece about Eddie for the Beacon.I wanted to hear anything you feel like sharing.It helps me paint a picture of who Eddie truly was.I’ve already spoken to some people in town who knew Eddie, but your stories will be the heart of the piece.”
She nodded.“I’ve read a few other things you’ve written.You’re very good.The piece you wrote about Joe Chance when he passed a few months back, it was beautiful.It was so well written, and it felt like you’d spent time with Joe.Like you really knew who he was.”
“Thanks,” I said softly.“I talked to a lot of people.Honestly, I felt like I knew him by the time I wrote the piece.He seemed like a wonderful person.”
“He was.”She smiled.“And so was Eddie.Hopefully you’ll write about Eddie the same way.”
“I’ll definitely do my best.”
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she said in a tight little voice.She swallowed hard, struggling to contain her emotions.“I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”
“Again, I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, still clutching the mug.She hadn’t sipped from it once.It seemed to be more of a life preserver than a beverage.
I cleared my throat.“If it’s not too difficult, can you tell me some of your favorite stories about Eddie?”
