Page 8 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

Chapter Five

Jack promised herself her shift on Sunday would be different. By the book. Calm. The early-morning fog matched her mood, wrapping a silvery blanket of stillness around her as she pedaled to the marina. She arrived to a silent shop. The green road bike had disappeared, either reclaimed by its owner or taken by someone else. No one was around. Apparently Paul’s private guiding gig was still going strong.

Jack opened up the Kayak Shack on her own, securing waivers onto clipboards and hauling boats down to the shore. Jorge, one of the older guides, rolled in and took the 9 a.m. group out—six people, quiet and manageable—while Jack ran the shop. Before Jack knew it, it was time for her 11 a.m. tour.

None of them looked like trouble. There was a German family of five, a father and son, a young couple, and a serene older woman with a deep tan. By 11:05, Jack had the group lined up at the beach, repeating after her as Jack ran through the safety and wildlife protection procedures in her most responsible voice. There were no shark songs. No booze. By 11:10, they were in the water.

The tour was just what Jack needed. The kids liked her nickname, the adults appreciated her knowledge about the migratory patterns of herons, and even the otters seemed to be on their best behavior. Jack’s gaggle of kayaks traveled quickly upriver, most of them pausing at the narrow beach by Kirby Park, where harbor seals clustered to sleep the day away. The boy and his dad in kayak 33 went farther, exploring the mouth of one of the fingers of the slough. The couple in kayak 9 was obsessed with sardines, taking picture after picture of the shimmering schools swarming the kelp beneath their hull.

The wind picked up, and Jack corralled everyone into the bright line of smooth water that would take them back to the marina. She got all her boats moving west, except 33. The father and son. Jack looked around and frowned. Where were they?

Shifting her weight to a crouch, Jack squinted across the water. She saw their kayak over in the mud flats, bobbing in place. Were they stuck? Jack signaled to the rest of the group to wait and started paddling across the slough.

The dad was out of the kayak, down in the shallow muck. The kid was looking over the side, rocking the boat. Had they lost a paddle?

“TINY!”

The kid was yelling.

Jack took sharp, decisive strokes to close the distance between them. They looked okay, not bleeding or anything, but anchored in place. Maybe they got too curious and a jellyfish stung one of them. Jack moved faster, using her feet to nudge the first aid kit out from between her legs as she windmilled her paddle forward.

“TINY! TINY!!”

The kid was screaming something awful now, like a high-strung foghorn. Jack came right up alongside them, the kid’s voice unrelenting, the sound of it drowning out the chatter of the birds overhead.

“Tiny.” The dad’s voice cut through his son’s screams. “Look.”

There, floating in the muck where the culvert hit the slough, was a person. A mud-covered balloon of a person. Facedown in the water. Not moving. Kelp-ruffled pullover, dark pants, hiking boots. And a red Kayak Shack life jacket.

Jack dropped into the frigid mud and charged forward, one hand on her kayak, one reaching out in front of her, as if to steady herself in the water.

“Hello?” she yelled. Even in her wet suit and booties, she felt numb. “Are you okay?”

No response. Closer up, she saw long brown hair swirling around the head.

Jack took a deep breath, reached forward, and grabbed one of the straps on the life jacket to flip the person faceup. It was a man. She didn’t recognize him. Or maybe she did. Was he on her tour? When had he fallen in?

She told herself to breathe, to push aside the questions and focus on what was in front of her. The man needed her help. Jack tried to attempt resuscitation right there in the marsh, but as she started to unclip his life jacket, she realized there was no way she could manage chest compressions with everything bobbing around. She had to get him to the bank.

She squelched through the mud, dragging him with her, running through the CPR steps in her head as she did so. But as she got closer to the bank, she started to notice how still the man was. His skin looked wrong, slippery and taut, and a thin film of silt coated his entire body.

Jack hauled him up onto the shore. She grabbed his wrist. No pulse. The man’s eyes were bulging out, his dark, dilated pupils swimming in a yellowed, leaking sea. His skin, which looked like it ought to be amber-brown like hers, was mottled greenish-white. The side of his head looked caved in, and there was something gummed up under his hair. The pieces clicked together. And the whole horrible fact of it became clear.

Jack let go of the man’s wrist and twisted her head away. She doubled over in the mud, trying not to retch. Then she splashed her way back to her kayak, filling her eyes with the calming sight of its orange hull, plunging her hands into the freezing water to wipe away the feeling of his slick, clammy skin.

Before she got back in her boat, Jack looked one more time at the dead man lying on the bank. His eyes were wide open, as if he couldn’t believe how far the clouds stretched today.

For the first time ever, Jack wished she was far from the water, anywhere but the slough.

Chapter Six

After a stunned moment in her boat with her head between her knees, Jack snapped into efficiency mode. She had responsibilities. She radioed the coast guard, and then wrangled the father and son to rejoin the group. She did a count. Everyone on her tour was there. And they were going back to dry land now. The dead guy was on the bank, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The father looked nauseous, the son a spinning top of adrenaline and fear. But Jack kept her voice calm and firm, and they followed her directions.

Jack led the group back to the Kayak Shack in a ragged line, her paddle churning through the water like a quiet, determined dishwasher. The tour group passed under the highway and across the chopped-up ocean. The news spread from boat to boat in whispers and heads whipping around to look back, as if to accuse the slough of ruining their day.

The boats approached the shore. Travis was on the boat launch ramp, waving his arms like a girl at a drag race, too smiley by a mile, and Jack realized she hadn’t called Paul or told anyone at the Shack what had happened. As far as everyone at the marina was concerned, this was just another group of tourists to unload. She shot a glare at Travis, who was trying to tease a smile from the older woman along with her paddle. He didn’t get it. Jack hauled her kayak up and stomped over to him.

“Travis. You’re not going to believe this.”