Murder on the Cliffs

Excerpt

The storm led me to Padthaway.

I could never resist the allure of dark swirling clouds, windswept leaves sweeping down cobbled lanes or a view of the sea, its defiant nature stirred up. The sea possessed a power all its own, and this part of Cornwall, an isolated stretch of rocky cliff tops and unexplored beaches, both enchanted and terrified me.

It is not a lie to say I felt drawn out that day, led to a certain destiny. As I shut the gate to Ewe Sinclaire's cottage, I was struck by a sensation of expectancy. For what, I did not know.

Walking with the wind, I allowed it to determine my direction. The grassy coastline, pointing toward the southern headland, formed my corridor. Along I went, mesmerized by the rising, angry ocean, its snarling waves lashing against the shapeless boulders.

I soon came upon a cove. A beautiful, magnificent, dangerous cove. The steep decline down did not deter me, nor did the advancing treacherous tide. Danger only energized me.

Groaning thunder gripped the sky and the rain began to drizzle. The drizzle transformed to droplets and the droplets to pelts. Undaunted, I headed toward my target- the largest boulder at the end of the cove- and walked quickly to beat the incoming tide.

And then I heard it.

A scream of terror... up ahead.

I hurried on, glimpsing a girl not far in the distance, a body sprawled at her feet.

Reaching the sight, I forced back sickness. A young woman lay there, her abundant black hair splayed across the sand, eyes wide open . . . still, lifeless. Waters lapped about her, wanting to draw her to the sea. Shutting my eyes, I fought the urge to run.

I squinted at my silent companion, the salty spray stinging my eyes. "We have to move her," I shouted. "Or else . . ." I gestured to the fierce waves behind.

The slight girl, fifteen or so, nodded, frantic. Directing her to the feet of the woman, I took the arms and together we dragged her up the beach.

Lightning danced and thunder roared across the sea. My companion screamed again, shoving her hands over her ears.

"We've got to get help," I pointed to the body.

The girl stared at me, new fear haunting her pale, thin face.

"What's your name?" I asked, checking the body for a sign. My attempts were futile, for no life stirred within the chilled veins, the diamond ring on her finger a grim reminder that she'd been loved. Dressed in a cream nightgown, the only hint of the woman's identity rested with the girl who struggled to find her voice.

"Lianne," she managed with a deep swallow. "Is she... truly dead?"

"It appears so." I brushed wet sand off my shaking hands and charged up the embankment.

Lianne followed. We had to find shelter from the rising storm, and quickly. Spying a rusted, broken- down boathouse a few yards up, we ran to it and once under its meager protection, Lianne and I gaped at each other.

From: MURDER ON THE CLIFFS by Joanna Challis, copyright (c) 2009 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Press, LLC.