Chapter 3

Tattered black plastic on the construction fencing around the yellow structure danced in the Gulf breezes. Volunteer palmettos that had staked their territory in the front yard bobbed and twisted, and a little dust devil stirred up and made its way toward me from a pile of stones, drywall and timber that formed a monument to days when this had been a more productive worksite.

There was no sign of the sheriff. I looked around, saw no one watching me and squeezed through an opening in the fence. A few skittish buzzards, gobbling up remains of something near the house, darted their beady eyes in my direction but kept on eating.

I worked my way through the construction debris to a door on the lowest level and reached for the knob. It turned, opening a crack to an area that looked like it would be used for storage when finished.

When I was little, my mother was full of warnings. Don’t touch the stove, it’s hot. Don’t cross the street without looking both ways. As I prepared to enter, I could hear her saying, “Don’t go in that door.”

When I did open it fully, bits of foam insulation, cigarette butts and Mountain Dew cans skittered across the cement floor with the incoming breeze. Men at work. You worried for nothing, Mother.

I was surprised to see the newest edition of The Island Sun, the weekly newspaper on the ground, its front page rustling in the wind as I shut the door behind me. It was an indication that the birds weren’t the only recent visitors. I picked it up, stuck it under my arm and headed for a makeshift stairway.

The steps to the next level were on the east side of the house. The scavengers had landed and entered from the west. If they were still there, I didn’t want to disturb them. They are large birds, and they outnumbered me.

Several days ago, Yahoo carried a story about black buzzards killing calves in Tennessee. A sidebar told of vultures attacking feral pigs on the island of Cayo Costa, Florida.

Buzzards are normally nature’s clean-up crew, not the aggressors. Still, I didn’t want to chance ending up like one of the eyeless victims in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds.

The door at the top of the stairs opened to my left, blocking my view of the kitchen where I suspected the buzzards might be having breakfast. Across a hallway were more stairs leading to the third level. I chose to explore what seemed a safer path.

On the top step, I happened to glance down and noticed reddish-brown dots in the construction dust. I pulled out a Kleenex from my shorts pocket, moistened it with my tongue and rubbed it over the area. I felt compelled to do that. Maybe it was because Mother had read too many Nancy Drew mysteries to me when I was a kid.

The first door I came to on the third floor had a lock and a brass handle that wouldn’t budge. The door across from it led to an unfinished bathroom. A dirty green towel was draped over the edge of a sink. Behind a half wall was a toilet, lid up. The area was in need of sanitizing but offered no clues.

In the larger room at the end of the hallway, a row of windows overlooked the island’s North Pass – the gateway to the Gulf. I stood for a minute just for the wonder of where I now lived. I will never tire of it, I said to myself. The view included a shell path that wandered through a mangrove swamp and ended up at a long dock.

The room was empty except for some paint cans stacked in a pyramid along one wall. A few of them had drips of the same reddish-brown color I’d seen on the stairway. I grabbed the thin metal handle of the can at the end to get a better look. It came off the ground so easily, I almost lost my balance. I decided to take it with me.

Satisfied there was nothing else to discover on the third level, I retraced my steps down the back stairway, yelling and stamping my feet in hopes of scaring off any remaining buzzards. For good measure, I reached around the wall and heaved the paint can into the room toward the west side of the house. It bounced, banged and rolled, then fell silent. As I rounded the door, I saw that it had come to rest against a mass on the floor.

The buzzards had vanished, but the stench that attracted them hadn’t; it came from the clumps of yellowish-white fur and bits of red meat clinging to exposed bones.

The mass on the floor looked to be the partially decomposed body of an animal, likely a dog. There were pads on the end of paws, the remnants of a tail, but no head. It appeared sliced off on the spot, hopefully after the poor creature was dead. Everywhere were large patches of the familiar reddish-brown color. There was no question that it wasn’t paint.

In a corner was a blue denim dog collar with two silver tags. I walked over and picked it up. The name Whalen and a phone number were embroidered in white. There was little wear and no sign of blood. As I slipped the collar into my pocket, a sense of fury overtook me.

My God. What sadist did this?

“Whatcha doin’ here, lady?” The voice was raspy, as if the speaker needed to clear his throat. Whoever it was had entered quietly, surprising me. My hand went to my heart.

“Oh, Sheriff,” I gasped as I turned around to see a slight man in matching tan shirt and pants. “You startled me. I-I’m Leslie Elliott. I called about the buzzards. I-I think I spoke with you.”

During my short time as an island resident, I’d never seen the sheriff or any of his deputies. This man had an emblem on his sleeve, a badge attached to his breast pocket and a holstered firearm. He wore no hat, and his slicked-back brown hair was long enough to brush against his shirt collar. His rugged face, lined by excessive sun and years of smoking – I guessed – didn’t look happy to see me.

“Ya shouldn’t be here.” He retrieved a small tin from his pants pocket, opened it and smeared a greasy substance under his nose. Then he thrust the container my direction. “Since ya are, want some? Helps with the god-awful smell.”

I reached my forefinger into the box and smeared some of the substance under my nose. It smelled like Vick’s VapoRub, the substance you see coroners using on TV shows to lessen the stink of death.

“Yer trespassing. Jus’ because you called, don’t give ya the right to be here. I won’t do anything but don’t come back,” he said as he reached for a thin notepad in his back pocket and started writing.

“I wasn’t trying to create problems,” I said.

“Folks here tend to keep to themselves. You’ll learn.” He kept his eyes on his writing as he issued my second warning of the day on island etiquette and minding my own business.

“Since yer here, I’ll ask ya some questions. When did ya see the birds and was there anyone else around?”

“About 8:30. I usually walk by here at that time. There was no one else. So, when did the work stop?”

He looked up and, to my surprise, provided an answer. “Ten months. A year. Nobody paid much attention ‘til the weeds started growin.’ Then we got complaints. How many buzzards did ya see?”

“It’s hard to say. 10, 15. I’m not sure how many were already inside. The owner. Did he die or run out of money or what?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Didn’t you say the house was abandoned?”

“Said the owner stopped work. Didn’t say he was gone. I’ll ask the questions.” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh, sorry, Sheriff. Being new to the area, I’m interested in learning about my neighbors.”

His lips spread into an exaggerated grin that exposed a gap in his smile, a couple of teeth back from the two in front. “He’s not yer neighbor yet, is he?”

I wanted to keep the conversation going to see if I glean any more information from the recalcitrant law enforcement official. I also didn’t want to alienate him completely.

“Do you think it’s a dog? I mean, it seems obvious that it was at one time. Unless it was a coyote or something. Did the owner have a dog?”

He paused and flipped through his notebook. “Yeah. I thought so. Got a call from the pastor about a dog’s head in the church’s trash. Might...