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

drive me over to Carter Rapids? The damned storm took out my feed shed. All I’ve got left are bags of mush. It’s a horrible mess. Anyone?”

Lucy called over to her. “I spent the worst of the storm at the precinct, gathering information for my articles. Brendon barely let me come over here on foot. There are so many trees and poles down, I doubt very much if you’ll get through. I’ll be glad to come over and help scoop mush into the bowls. Don’t you think the dogs will be okay on that for a couple of days until things are cleared?”

Cecilia frowned, and it wasn’t her best look. “I suppose, and yes, I could use the help. We will have to fill buckets and relay it to their bowls, I guess.” The fragrant scent of Sally’s baking seemed to catch her attention, as did the coffee. “I suppose I could stop for a bite to eat first,” she admitted, reducing her mishap downward from an emergency status.

Lucy relaxed. Cecilia made everything that affected her animals an emergency. The village often responded to her harried cries for help, but just like Chicken Little in the story, she’d worn out her audience.

“Let me know when you’re ready to go, Cecilia. As long as I can get through with my car, I’ll be right behind you.”

Cecilia waved her gratitude. “It’s not bad. I got over here, didn’t I?”

Lucy took a deep breath. Dealing with Cecilia required frequent deep breaths. Lucy left her chair and slid into the empty one next to Pauline Whittaker. “How goes it at the pub?”

Pauline leaned back, spreading her arms wide. “That’s about the size of it. Let’s just say I’m Not Here could use a good mucking out.”

Lucy grinned at her. “Tell me, just out of curiosity, when was the last time Greg Dewhurst was in your pub?”

Pauline didn’t need to mull the question over. “Why, last evening. Actually, he started earlier in the day and then left. Just as the storm hit. He was going on about having to get aboard his boat. I hope to God he didn’t, because there doesn’t look to be much left out there.

Lucy shook her head. “Unfortunately, he did just that. The Coast Guard had to go out there and rescue him. A seasoned sailor should have known better and weathered it down the coast, but if he was drinking, that would explain his poor judgement.”

“As for drinking, he was doing a lot of that when he came in. He was sodden drunk when he left. We would have cut him off long before if he’d been drivin’.”

Lucy gave her a thumbs-up of approval, excused herself and visited the ladies’ room. When she emerged, there was a flurry of activity near the counter. It was Dewhurst, looking as though he’d been run over by a beer truck.

“I want my coffee strong and black!” he shouted, shaking his fist at Sal.

Sal was no small woman, and everyone who knew her could see the Irish in her bubbling to the surface.

“We make coffee one way, and if you don’t like it, you can go elsewhere,” she told him, emphasizing every word clearly.

Dan was standing behind her, and Lucy could tell by his expression that he hoped Greg would take his business somewhere else. Sal had started countless battles that he’d had to finish. She was scared of no one.

“Aw, to heck with you.” Greg gestured his disgust and threw himself against the glass door.

There was a collective silence followed by several sighs as the door closed firmly, but didn’t break.

Lucy texted Brendon, alerting him about Greg’s obviously inebriated condition and that he was out, roaming the streets. She knew Brendon would lock him up, if only for his own safety. Sure enough, a squad car circled past a few minutes later, and the group inside Sal’s settled back down to their usual nattering.

Having turned in her stories, Lucy walked back to the precinct to retrieve her car. Cecilia was waiting for her, and the pair of them headed toward Cecilia’s place to care for the scared animals and to ensure they were fed properly. It was filthy work, and Lucy was longing for a hot shower at her own house by the time they were done. She bid Cecilia farewell and headed toward home.

Mark’s car was still nowhere to be seen. Overall, she was both relieved and surprised that her house had survived the onslaught from the storm. There were garbage cans to salvage, some of the plywood had come loose and was hanging awkwardly, but the glass beneath was thankfully intact. One window in the garage was broken, though, —a victim of a tree limb from the oak in the backyard. The rain had stopped, so Lucy ignored it for the time being; she unlocked the front door and went inside.

There wasn’t a sound to be heard, not an item out of place. It was as though she’d just stepped outside for a few seconds. She turned on the radio to hear the after-storm report. Peeling off her filthy clothes, she climbed the stairs and cranked the faucets to allow steamy hot water to cascade over her aching limbs. The importance of what had happened over the previous two days enclosing her heart, Lucy sank to the bottom of the shower, curled in a fetal position in one corner, and let the waves of tears fall.

12

Lucy spent the next two days trying to keep her mind off her husband and his mysterious disappearance. She wondered whether she should file a police report, but Brendon advised her not to as Mark had disappeared before the storm had broken. She checked, he’d turned up to school as normal that day and then what? Just simply disappeared. Had they argued that day? For the life of her, after all she’d had to contend with in the past few days, she couldn’t remember. Maybe they did. He’d come back when he was