Page 9 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“What’s up?”

“We found a body. A dead person. In the slough. Can you get Paul on the phone and tell him to come down here? I’ll close the group out.”

“Whoa. Are you—”

“Just go. Now. Please.”

Jack’s grandma had told her it was always good to give men simple instructions in complicated situations.

When Travis came back ten minutes later, Jack had the tour group lined up on the picnic tables by the launch, heavy towels draped over their shoulders. Cops were starting to arrive. Sheriffs, it seemed like. And the coast guard. They appeared to be consulting each other, maybe arguing about who was in charge, pausing from time to time to glance at the group of petrified tourists.

Travis came up next to Jack. “I couldn’t get Paul on the phone,” he said. “Left a voicemail.”

Jack felt tired, cold, and not at all surprised.

“But I did bring hot chocolate,” Travis said, pointing to a large metal thermos and a stack of paper cups. “Want some?”

The warmth sounded good, but Jack didn’t trust herself to keep anything in her stomach right now. She gave him a weak smile, and they walked over to the guests at the picnic tables.

“Who’s in charge here?” a coast guard officer asked. It seemed the jurisdictional pissing match had reached some kind of conclusion and the officers were ready to begin.

The tourists looked at Jack. Jack and Travis looked at each other.

“Our boss is away,” Travis said.

“Who’s in charge of this group?”

“I am,” Jack said.

She knew how ridiculous it sounded. A fifteen-year-old girl, barely a hundred pounds, in a red life jacket and booties, leaning on a paddle.

The officer gave her a hard look. “Where’s the body?”

“On the north bank of the slough. About two miles past the bridge. In the mud flats across from Kirby Park.”

“Is there anybody there now?”

“No. I was leading the tour alone. I thought I should bring the group back here safe first.”

“The dead man was on your tour?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. Everyone who was on the tour is here at these two tables. I was guiding, and Travis”—she pointed at the other teenager—“was taking care of the shop.”

“And where’s the owner? Your boss?”

Jack looked over at Travis. He shrugged.

“His name is Paul Hanley,” Travis said. “I tried calling him, but it went to voicemail. He should show up here before it gets totally dark.”

The officer turned back to Jack. “Can you take us to the body?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”