Under The Bridge

Chapter One

Detective Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson TJ Locke drove up the shell-encrusted driveway and wondered how much it cost to maintain. Probably a small fortune. Oak, maple, and scrubby pine branches leaned into the drive. More than one limb scratched the side of the Ford.

This interview with the psychic was not something he wanted to do. However, the Captain made the request sound like an order, much to TJ’s displeasure. Send one of the kids, TJ had said. He had no desire to talk with a clairvoyant, they were all charlatans, and he figured one of the junior detectives would jump at the chance to get out of the office, but his boss gave him the eye.

Look, we have no leads, Lipinski said. We need to get something, anything on this murder before the Feds come in. The state wants to get this bridge finished.

But Carl, a psychic? TJ asked. The press will have a field day if it ever gets out.

"Look, TJ, I know what it sounds like, but my wife swears by her. And from what I’ve heard, she was instrumental in helping find a couple of missing persons when she lived in Cally. Lipinski sighed. I know this is totally outside regs, but at this point I’ll talk to Bozo the Clown for just one single break."

It had been ten days since the construction crew had found Joseph Forrester with a bullet hole in his head hanging from an eight foot cross underneath the newly built bridge abutment. Forensics had scoured every inch of the construction site, but found nothing. TJ had poured over Forrester’s office, questioned friends and family members, looked through stacks of financial records, and couldn’t find a single reason why someone wanted the man dead. Joseph Forrester was an upstanding member of the community, his church, and belonged to several civic associations. Everyone loved him. Except the person who killed him.

TJ steered the borrowed black Crown Vic through the last of the trees and turned into a large empty courtyard. Great, she wasn’t even here. Now he would have to come back. He put the car in park and stared at the house—a pretty Victorian with a large front porch decorated with hanging baskets and bird feeders—looked like the bed and breakfast he had taken his late wife Janice to on their third anniversary. The front door was open behind the screen.

TJ shut off the engine, got out of the car, and cracked his back. He took the steps to the porch and knocked on the screen door.

A faint, Be right there, echoed through the house. The sound of a woodpecker caught his attention and he turned toward it trying to locate the bird. Ingrained through years of traipsing through the Berkshire Mountains with his amateur bird-watching father, TJ looked to the left of the miniature machine-gun blast.

Yes, can I help you?

The velvety voice caught him unaware. TJ turned. He hadn’t heard her walk through the house and the sight of the woman almost had him gasp. She was gorgeous—maybe his age, fiftyish—with an upturned nose, high cheekbones, and long blonde hair that hung in cascading waves. TJ couldn’t decide who she favored more—Stevie Nicks or Dyan Cannon. His heart thumped in his chest. However, now seeing her in her house, he sized her up as pampered and pedigreed. Not that he was looking for a date, but as a single man it was encoded into his DNA to know when to give up. She was definitely out of his league.

Ms. Mallory Pope? TJ asked.

That’s me. She smiled.

TJ noted her dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes. Was she stoned? Had she been crying? He pulled his badge and showed it to her. I’m Detective Lieutenant Thomas Locke from the Nannaquonset Police Department. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk.

Mallory Pope raised her brows in surprise. Have I done something, Detective?

No, not at all ma’am. He shoved the badge back in his pocket. My Captain wondered if you’d be able to spare us a few minutes for a case we’re working on.

Your Captain? she asked.

Yes, ma’am, Captain Lipinski.

Mallory Pope smiled. Of course, Lucy’s husband. Come in, please. She unlatched the screen door and preceded him into the house. Please don’t mind the mess, I’ve been cleaning.

TJ looked around at the spotless living room. Nothing seemed out of place save one magazine that was on the sofa instead of the coffee table. Nice room, TJ said.

Thank you, she said. I’ve been working on the color for the last five years. I think I finally have it where I want it.

Bright coral walls and large white crown molding gave the room a tropical feel. Heavy, over-stuffed furniture mixed with antiques, and a large, ceiling fan, gave the room that B&B feel again. Plants took over most of the window space. There were no curtains. The fireplace held new logs and kindling.

If you wouldn’t mind, she said, could we talk in the kitchen? I’m baking bread and don’t want it to burn. She led him down a short hall.

He couldn’t help notice her long shapely legs encased within skin-tight black yoga pants. The cropped sweater she wore swayed as she moved. Why did women have to dress in such a provocative manner?

They entered a monstrous kitchen. TJ was no student of architecture, but even he knew that the center beam had to be at least twenty-five feet long to get the over-sized space. White wainscoting, bright yellow paint, and large white crown molding adorned the walls. More plants, or were they trees, blanketed the four French doors that led out to the patio.

Would you care for something to drink? she asked. Lemonade, a cup of tea, iced coffee? She had her hand on the refrigerator door.

Nothing, thank you, TJ said. He stood at the end of the enormous marble island and took in the clutter. Bowls, mixing instruments, flour, and a tin of oatmeal stood in disarray on the counter. The only thing out of place was a crystal bowl with several flicks of ashes inside. He didn’t peg her for a smoker.

Why don’t we sit over here? Mallory Pope walked to a rattan seating area. She lowered herself gingerly onto the loveseat.

TJ eased his long frame into a chair, the wicker squeaking as it took his weight.

So, how can I help you, Detective? She winced as if sitting were painful.

Are you all right? TJ asked.

Oh, yes, perfectly fine, thank you. She dismissed his question with a wave of her hand.

TJ said, As you know, the state is building a new bridge along the coast road for easier access into Jamestown. I’m sure you’ve heard there’s been a murder there. Unfortunately, we have no clues as to who the perpetrator is. Captain Lipinski asked me to stop by to see if you could shed some light on it.

Mallory Pope closed her eyes and sighed.

Were psychic abilities that simple?

Mallory opened her eyes. I’m not sure what you’re asking, Detective.

TJ shot her a weak smile. I’m not sure what I’m asking either.

I’m presuming you want my help as a seer.

Well, yes, I think so. The Captain didn’t really say what he wanted from you.

"I’m afraid I just can’t envision the way I used to, Detective. I don’t think I’d be any help and I don’t wish to lead you down the wrong path."

TJ hmmmed. He hadn’t meant to do it aloud. The lady said no and there was no use beating a dead horse. He hadn’t wanted to ask her in the first place. He rose from his chair. Thanks for your time.

Detective, she said. I’m sorry. I would love to help you, but my second sight has dimmed due to the medication I’m taking. I can read the tarot cards and divine astrological charts, those are finite numbers, but as for my gift, I’m afraid that’s lost.

The timer on the island dinged.

She pushed herself forward on the loveseat, gripped the arm, and struggled to get up.

Can I help you? TJ asked.

Mallory Pope smiled at him through her obvious pain. Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. She reached both hands out to him. It’s my back.

TJ took both of her hands and gently pulled her up. She swayed as she stood.

Are you all right? he asked.

I will be. Thank you. She limped to the oven and opened the door.

A large mounded loaf of bread had his mouth watering. That smells fantastic.

She smiled. Thanks. It’s the leeks. She put on oven mitts, took the loaf from the oven, and set it on a wooden cutting board. I boil leeks and use that water to bloom the yeast. Sautéed chunks of garlic, crushed dried rosemary, and one-third oatmeal to two-thirds flour. My secret recipe. She opened the fridge. Would you care for a slice? She pulled out a glass-covered dish and set it down. Fresh butter from the organic farm. Her throaty voice teased him.

TJ smiled. How could I refuse?

Mallory opened a drawer, pulled out a bread knife, and sliced the loaf in half. Steam rose from the middle. If you wouldn’t mind grabbing two plates. She pointed to the cupboard with her knife.

TJ found the plates and placed them on the counter.

Mallory slid two slices onto a plate and one on the other. She opened another drawer and pulled out a butter knife. Help yourself.

TJ buttered his bread and took a bite. He thought he’d died and gone to bakery heaven. This is the most amazing bread I’ve ever had. Light and airy, the garlic and rosemary gave it zest. You should sell this. You’d make a fortune.

Mallory brushed her slice with a tiny bit of butter and took a bite. I already have a fortune, Detective. I don’t need anymore.

He tried to curb his detective side. It didn’t work. What happened to your back? TJ asked.

I had a terrible car accident about ten years ago and broke nearly every bone in my body.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry, it wasn’t your fault. She placed her hands on the countertop as another wave of pain flashed across her face.

I’m sorry I asked you. It must be hard to think about. He was a jerk for bringing it up.

I try not to. During my surgeries and recovery, I had about ten thousand hours of therapy. I finally had to admit I’ll never be who I used to be.

No. You’re better. Now why on earth did