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

rag you call a newspaper, until the investigation here is concluded.”

“Word of honor,” Lucy agreed, pushing him aside to ease forward for a closer look. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “You’d better tie Patch up if you don’t want paw prints wiping out any footprints.”

His mouth dropped open. She was right. He snatched up the schnauzer and secured his leash to a nearby tree.

“Lucy, only a few minutes. The crews, including the coroner, are on their way.”

Carefully stepping wide of the scene, she answered, “I’ll give them directions on my way back down.”

Surreptitiously, she pulled out her phone. She made quick verbal notes, recorded some of the mens’ conversations, and snapped pictures of the scene, not for publication but for her own memory. She prided herself on having a knack for solving crimes, and her friend’s murder would be no exception.

When she reached an angle to see the blue nylon rope tight around Angie’s neck, she wanted to gag. Her skin had turned a purplish-blue, her legs twisted awkwardly beneath her. Angie’s eyes were open. Lucy noted two things: terror and, unless she was mistaken, recognition.

3

Lucy had to leave the scene of Angie’s death. It was gruesome enough to observe for the casual bystander, but all the more hideously cruel if the victim was a friend. Shaking, she walked on wobbly legs back down the path, where she came upon the men Brendon had warned her of and pointed over her shoulder. “You can’t miss them,” she said and kept on.

She knew what would happen next and made up her mind to help lessen the blow. Briskly, she headed for home and burst through the front door to find her husband, Mark, on the sofa watching television. Without regard, she stepped between him and the set and grabbed the remote, tapping the screen black.

“Hey!” he objected and rose to a seated position. “Give me that remote back.”

“Angie Potter is dead,” she said it bluntly and purposefully. She’d long suspected a friendlier-than-average relationship between her stylist and her husband. She watched through narrowed eyes for his reaction.

Mark’s face paled, and his mouth dropped open. He blinked, as though the cold of what Lucy had announced hurt his eyes. Recovering, he blurted, “Are you sure?”

“I saw her with my own eyes.” She reached into her pocket to produce the phone and pictures, but something in her made her stop. She wanted to know how much he might know, if anything.

“What happened? I didn’t even know she was sick.”

Was that an admission? Has he been keeping up with her regularly, or is this a carefully constructed denial of involvement? She forced herself to reason that Mark was just upset about Angie, but that didn’t mean he was involved with her, not in any sense.

“Lucy? Did you hear me? How did she die?”

“Not able to tell you the cause of death,” she lied. “Sworn to secrecy for now. I’m going over to her house. I want to be there with Christine when they tell her.”

Lucy tapped the TV back to life and tossed the remote on the coffee table. Mark got to his feet and moved toward her to put his hands on her shoulders.

“So, she wasn’t at home?” His brow furrowed with his question.

And I thought he was coming to comfort me.

She wriggled free of his grasp. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she left the house and drove to Angie’s.

Lucy had been knocking at the door without a response. Angie’s car was parked in the drive, but Christine’s wasn’t. I’ll wait.

It was a matter of moments before Christine’s car pulled into the drive beside hers. She was keen to be with her when Brendon came as the messenger.

“Hi! What’s up?” Christine greeted her with a slam of her car door. Rust rained onto the pavement, and she remembered Angie saying that Christine’s car was forever breaking down, so she had considered that the girl was home and her car at the shop, it was apparent Angie hadn’t exaggerated. She and Christine had always struggled to make ends meet; that was no secret in the village.

“Just stopped by,” Lucy did her best to appear normal.

“Oh, sure. Mom’s car is here, but I haven’t been able to get her on the phone. My guess is she’s chasing Patch and will be back soon. C’mon in out of the rain.” She unlocked the front door and swung it wide to accept Lucy.

A lump formed in her throat and hot tears stung the backs of her eyes. She hadn’t realized it would be so hard. She hoped Brendon would arrive soon and get it over with, then winced at her callous, self-serving thoughts. Let poor Christine have her innocence a few moments longer.

“Does Patch take off often?” She kicked off her shoes and stepped sock-footed onto the spotless but worn kitchen floor. The sight of the cupcakes on the cake server drew her eyes like a homing signal. She swallowed quickly to hide the building saliva. I’m like that wretched Pavlov’s dog.

Christine caught her reaction. “Would you like one?”

Lucy shook her head politely. “No, thank you.”

“It’s okay,” Christine urged. “Mom is dieting again, and I bought those to test her willpower. I can be a bitch sometimes,” she admitted.

Lucy’s eyebrows rose. She decided to change the subject. “Your mom said your car has been giving you problems?”

“Yeah, but that’s nothing new. I’m working on a plan to get a new one.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Christine replied without elaborating.

Lucy peeked at the cupcakes again and argued with her inner voice that pleaded its cause. You will need the sustenance. “No.”

“Beg your pardon?” Christine glanced up from where she was busy changing the newspaper under Patch’s bowl.

“Nothing,” Lucy muttered. She peered out the front window. Two cars drew to a halt. “Christine, you have company.”

Christine stood, a puzzled scowl on her face, and she crossed the room to the window. “What in the…?”

Lucy stepped to one side, and Christine