Death on the Coast, M Comley [book club books TXT] 📗

came in, although the look on her face told her what she’d dreaded. Lucy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, and Kathy was right behind her. Lucy placed a finger to her lips and checked the stalls, and when they were sure they were alone, Kathy burst into tears.

Lucy laid Kathy’s head on her shoulder. “I know, I was afraid of something like this. Were you with him at the bar?”

She shook her head. “No, he never showed up, and after I got my hair done and bought a new outfit, too.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ve heard from Pauline that he was over at their place last night. I guess he got rowdy and had to be booted out.”

Kathy cried harder. “Why do these things always happen to me?”

“Aww… I know you were hopeful, but maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“But I had a really good feeling about him,” Kathy wailed.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know what to tell you. Why don’t you come over to the house tonight and have dinner with me and Mark? Mark knows lots of guys—I’ll bet he can come up with someone suitable for you.”

Her expression changed to one of hopefulness. “Oh, that would be too much trouble.”

“No, we’d love to have you, seriously.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear. Come over about six thirty. I’ll make a pot of spaghetti.”

Kathy hugged Lucy. “It’s a deal. What can I bring?”

“Uhm, how about a dessert?”

“Done.”

Kathy wiped her eyes, and they left the ladies’ room calm and collected. When they sat, Lucy tapped a glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention.

“Thank you. I promise I’ll be brief. As you all know, Angie’s daughter, Christine, has yet to name a date for Angie’s service, and it occurred to me that she lacks the resources to set that up. So, I’m suggesting that the rest of us get together, make a dish to bring, and perhaps have a service at the church? Anyone?”

There was a smattering of applause and a gaggle of voices as hands shot up and people generously offered to bring their signature dishes. In a community such as Wellington Village, the ladies had, over the years, worked out whose recipe for different dishes was the best, and therefore, standards were high and reliably consistent.

Lucy held up a pen. “I’m going to leave this here and use the back of Sal’s placemats. Please, note your name and what you’ll be making. Shall we say a week from this Saturday? That should give us time to pull it together.”

Heads nodded as women stood to claim the right to bring their favorite dishes. Lucy planned to talk to the pastor and ask to use the church. She could handle that part on her own.

Pauline raised her hand. “This isn’t going to be like a surprise, is it?”

“Oh, heavens, no,” Lucy said, “I’ll talk to Christine and let her know what to expect. I’m assuming she won’t have a problem with it. Now, there’s one more thing. I’m going to put a goldfish bowl on Sal’s counter and another at the paper. Christine has no job presently and will be forced to move out of the family home soon. I was hoping we might chip in and pay for an extra month’s rent for her? Maybe this is something the men could do to help out?”

Everyone nodded their agreement, and so it was concluded, Wellington Village style.

“Oh my, and one more thing,” Lucy remembered. “Those who are interested, one day a month, Sal will be donating the proceeds of cookies shaped like dogs to support the local shelter. The rest of us are encouraged to craft something helpful, like a blanket or leash—that sort of thing. I trust Cecilia will have no problem putting these to good use?”

Cecilia beamed, already rolling up her sleeves to give orders as to size and the weight of the yarns that could be used.

Lucy sat, her heart at peace. Times like these were what she loved most about living in the village. There was always a helping hand extended somewhere.

10

“Tell me, please, is this job a terrible inconvenience for you, Lucy? Because if it is, I’m sure we can come up with a solution that we both like.”

Lucy sighed and glanced up from the microfiche she was scanning. “Len, don’t be like that. I’m sorry if murders don’t perfectly align themselves with publication days. Sometimes, it just works that way, you know?”

Len came into the office from where he was leaning in the doorway. “I can’t believe Brendon and the boys aren’t closing in on someone. After all, there are so many suspects.”

Lucy nodded. “I know, some are outsiders too. There just weren’t a lot of clues beyond the rope and…”

“And what?”

“I’m not ready to say.”

Len’s brow furrowed, and he drew in closely enough that his errant nostril hairs were visible. Personal grooming was not his forte. “You’d better say. That’s what you’re paid to do, you know.”

“Do you want me to print suspicion or fact? One will get you sales, but the lack of the other will get you sued. It’s up to you, Len. Just give me the word, and I’ll make the whole story a work of fiction. We can headline it: Just Suppose.”

“Don’t get smart with me, young lady. Just get busy. What are you doing in the microfiche?”

“I’m hunting for patterns. Stories with a similar event, you get the idea.”

“Unless you’re thinking some ghost came back and did this, then no, I don’t.”

“Not a ghost, Len, but a similar story could reveal some detail I’ve missed—something that could point to the killer.”

“A waste of time, if you ask me. Focus on the time and place. Who would have known she would be up there, and alone?”

Lucy nodded just to get him off her back. “That’s a good thought, Len. I’ll work on that angle, too.”

She sighed as he left her alone again. There didn’t seem to be any single lead that she could find. From what she