Page 19 of Unalive On Air

“This is where Trystan’s body was discovered,” Helga says quietly. Respectfully.

A surfboard’s propped against the wall. It’s one of the few things in the room besides the furniture not hidden behind glass. Beside it, there’s a signed cover of Amped, presumably a surfing magazine. The artful photo on the front shows a very handsome blonde‑haired man smiling and looking off to the right of the frame. He’s wearing a pink and red Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, a shark’s tooth on a string around his neck, and I cannot take my eyes off him.

“That’s Trystan Retallack,” Helga says, watching me carefully.

I’m unable to shift my gaze. He’s all tanned skin and blinding white smile, and there’s a weird, dull ache forming in the pit of my stomach.

The issue’s heading reads “Making Waves.” And then under that, “Can our local legend take the international title for a fifth year?” The date is April 1998.

“He’s dead.” It’s not a question. I read the list Helga gave me. I did a little research beforehand. It’s more a reminder to myself that I shouldn’t, even for a second, entertain the notion of developing a crush on him.

He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead. Beautiful, but D E A D, dead.

Anyway, even if he were alive, he’d still be a million miles out of my league. So far out of my league that his league would seem like a speck on the horizon to mine.

Helga answers as though it had been a question. “Yeah, such a tragedy. He grew up in this very town. I . . . remember him as a youngster. Drowned while surfing. Then his body was brought here to this room.” Her speech is stilted and unnatural. She’s holding herself back, stopping herself from embellishing, and I think I know why.

How does a four-time international surf champion, who is no doubt a highly competent swimmer and also no doubt an expert in ocean currents and whatnot, drown in waters he presumably learned to surf in? Something doesn’t quite add up.

“Who brought his body here?” I ask. “And why here? Why the trophy room?”

Helga simply shrugs. “Franny found him one morning.”

“And Franny is?”

“Head housekeeper. Has been working at The Paragon since . . .” Helga puffs out a breath while she thinks. “Eighty-three, maybe.”

“Nineteen eighty-three?” One year before Peter died. “What’s Franny’s surname? And is it possible to arrange a chat with her . . . you know, so I can learn more about the ghost activity?”

“It’s Driscoll, and yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Excellent.” I spare the magazine one last glance and turn towards the door. “Where might I find her?”

“Oh, she won’t be on shift until the morning. I’ll set up a meeting with her tomorrow for you,” Helga says.

I do a terrible job of hiding my disappointment, but I’m very aware of the clock ticking down to my final episode. I still don’t have any decent leads, or any groundbreaking new angles to pitch my case from yet.

“So, Trystan drowned, but somebody had dragged his body from the beach to this room and left him here?” I ask. Helga nods. “What did the police have to say about that? Did it not seem odd to them? Bodies don’t just magically pull themselves out of the ocean and into a trophy room.”

“It wasn’t a trophy room back then,” Helga says. “It was . . . partly my office. And Sergeant Davies attended the scene, dismissed Trystan’s death as an accident, and stated that the body had undoubtedly been brought here so as not to distress the other guests.”

“Davies?” Alarm bells are ringing again, not only because of the caginess around a corpse being found in her office, but also, “The same officer who attended Peter’s death?”

“Helzephron police station is very small. A handful of officers at most. Davies is on the cusp of retiring now. I wish I could say his lackadaisical attitude stems from the fact he has few remaining days left on the force, but the man has always been operating as though his last day is tomorrow. I expect he thought a tiny parish by the sea wouldn’t garner much trouble and that he’d have a cushy life here. But that’s not Helzephron. Never has been.”

“Davies with an I S or I E S?”

“I E S,” Helga confirms.

On my piece of paper under the scribbled “Angel,” I also write “Franny Driscoll” and “Sergeant Dave Davies.”

Four potential suspects and only an hour or so into the investigation. Nice.

I steal another peek at the smiling Trystan Retallack. God, he was unfairly beautiful. If it just so happens that Imogen’s disappearance and the surfer’s death aren’t connected, nothing’s stopping me from figuring out Trystan’s riddle too.

Maybe I’ll extend my visit a little longer.

“So, you think Trystan’s ghost wanders these halls too?” I ask.