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

Google. ‘Greg Dewhurst’ she typed in. A string of responses came up, but she quickly saw they were referring to other people with the same name. No one close to resembling the one she knew. Tapping her fingers on the table as she thought, she remembered the police report from the boat accident. She brought up the town’s police department database, which they weren’t supposed to have access to. She found the boat’s registration and blinked. Shocked to see it wasn’t made out in the name of Greg Dewhurst, but to Greg Davis of Sommerset, Maine.

Curiosity fueling her fingers, Lucy searched for the new name, and a treasure trove of information surfaced. He had accounts on all the social media favorites. She found pictures of him, the boat, the occasional lady friend on his arm, and many pictures of scenic sights along the coast. There were none of Angie, however, and for that, Lucy felt sorry. She got the impression that poor Angie hadn’t even meant enough to him to warrant a picture of her being added to his Facebook account. She wondered how many other women had been treated the same by this man over the years. More importantly, why was Greg Davis using an alias?

On an impulse, Lucy put Angie’s name in the Facebook search bar. She could never have imagined what came up in response. Lucy didn’t have an account, having neither the time nor the need for more gossip than the village itself provided. Since Angie was gone, there would be no way to open an account and send a request to become friends online with the woman she considered such a good friend in the real world. The banner on Angie’s page, though, spoke volumes. It was a picture of Greg Dewhurst standing before the Wellington docks. His right arm around Angie, and his left around Christine.

Lucy turned off the computer, excited at her discovery, but not until she spent a few minutes on YouTube gawking at embroidery patterns. That led her to videos of embroidery sewing machines. “I have to get myself one of those someday,” she vowed, finally breaking away from the screen. It’s about time I did something for myself. Everyone else seems to be doing that.

She emerged from the morgue to find Len standing there, his crusted coffee cup, which he refused to wash, in his right hand.

“I don’t know how you can drink from that disgusting thing without getting sick,” Lucy said, revolted.

“This, my dear,” he held it toward her, “is the stuff of the tales I’ve told. Every sip brings back inspiration and a memory.”

She shook her head, and he continued to drink from the copper-tinged mug just because it revolted people to see him do it. Len prided himself on being the thorn in someone’s side. He’d become a great reporter in his younger days before buying the paper, though.

Maybe there’s something to it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re so fond of it. If I outlive you, which I most definitely will judging from that cup, I’ll see to it that it’s buried alongside you in your casket.”

He gave a half bow, mocking her. “I would be most appreciative.”

Lucy was about to push past him and leave, when his words stopped her.

“By the by…that handsome, young sergeant was here looking for you.”

She whirled around with a smile on her face. “Brendon?”

Len smirked and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You really want me to say it?”

Lucy thought better of it, especially since there were several others within earshot who would make sure what Len was about to say would be all over the village within the hour. “What did he want? Maybe he found a new clue.”

“Sure, if you say so,” Len teased her. He knew Mark was missing and hadn’t been really in Lucy’s life for a few years. “He asked for you.”

Lucy tutted. “Of course he would, if I’m the one he’s been dealing with. What did you say?”

“That you were in the morgue and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Good Lord, Len, he probably thought that’s a euphemism for the bathroom. Why didn’t you just come and get me?”

Len’s shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug. “I was just doing what you told me. You wanted to be left alone, didn’t you?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he say where he was going?”

“Cops are a little like homing pigeons, Lucy. At the end of the day, they always end up back at the same place.”

She frowned at the comparison, but it gave her somewhere to start. She truly did wonder what it was that Brendon wanted to talk to her about. It couldn’t have been too personal if he was willing to drop by her workplace.

She got into her car and headed toward the precinct, changing her mind at the last minute. She decided to go home first, to change into something a bit more feminine and less dusty. Morgues were named appropriately, in her opinion.

There were a couple of cars in her drive when she pulled up, including Brendon’s squad car. Her throat tightened and her stomach rolled over. This could only mean one thing, trouble. She was sure of it.

She closed the car door gently, buying herself a few more moments before people knew she was there. Suddenly, she spotted her sister’s car and wondered if something had happened to her mother. Unconsciously, she reached into her pocket where she always kept a tissue, gripping it like a child clutches his favorite blanket. Tissues were wonderful things. Not only were they considered acceptable cleaning cloths and receptacles for over-chewed gum, they were also good for hiding your emotions from prying eyes. Lucy straightened her shoulders and went into the house.

There, she found her mother, Tina, and Brendon. They were speaking in low voices. And while she was relieved that her mother was obviously fine, something definitely felt off. She couldn’t let herself think about the first person who came