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

have been filed of any kind, is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that in this state, you are not required to testify against your husband?”

“Yes, I suppose I’ve heard that. But I want to tell the truth.”

“Mrs. Diamond, it’s my understanding from the sergeant that you gained some knowledge about your husband’s behavior from a neighbor?”

“Mr. Smith, yes. I don’t think he’ll testify, though. He doesn’t want to get involved in this.”

“You understand you cannot testify to any of what he told you?”

“Why not?”

“It’s considered hearsay. You didn’t personally witness or weren’t present to any of that. You only know what Mr. Smith told you. I suppose he could be compelled to testify. But that would be up to the prosecution, and as of right now, I’m your attorney. Give me a dollar.”

“What?”

“A dollar, give me one.”

She reached into her purse and counted out four quarters she found lying between chocolate wrappers in the bottom. She held them out.

Kevin frowned a bit at the condition, but he took them, wrapped them in a tissue, and gave her a handwritten receipt. “There you go. You’re my client now. Not your husband’s, mind you, just yours.”

“But why do I need a lawyer? I didn’t do anything.”

He was packing up his case. “Ma’am, you’d be surprised how many people are living at the penitentiary and claiming the same thing. Good day to you.”

As Kevin left, Brendon walked in and retook his seat.

“What on earth did you get me into?” she demanded.

“It may not feel like it, but I’m protecting you. You cannot tell me things without a lawyer present. It all has to be witnessed and recorded. So, no more talking about the case. How about dinner tonight?”

Lucy shook her head sharply. “This is just too much, Brendon. I can’t keep up with what’s going on from one minute to the next. I suppose it’s up to me to clean the blood from my basement floor?”

He leaned forward, trying to pet her hand, but she withdrew it.

“I’m afraid so. Same rules. I can’t get around it.”

“Fine. Then unless you plan to arrest me for something or other, I’m going by the hardware to get a bucket and some rubber gloves and then going home.”

Brendon stood and came around the desk, taking her arm. “Lucy, I’m asking you as a personal favor not to do that.”

“Why not? Bertha is dead.”

“Yes, that’s true. But what if she didn’t fall? What if she was pushed?”

“Who would do that?”

“The same person who nailed a board over your window.”

“I thought Bertha did that?”

He frowned. “Why would you think that?”

Lucy took a step back, her eyes pricking with tears. “Well, I figured she was the one who broke it and maybe she felt sorry and came to fix it. Maybe she got inside and was looking for me when she fell.”

Brendon dipped his chin and their gazes met. “Really? Does that sound like something she would have done?”

Lucy slapped her hand on her hip in irritation. “I don’t know. I only met her the one time, and just maybe, maybe we misjudged her.”

Brendon didn’t say anything.

“Okay, okay, but then who did?”

Brendon squeezed her arm gently, walked back around his desk, and motioned for her to leave. “Go stay with Sal, and this time, stay put.”

“You act like Sal is running a bed and breakfast.”

His face darkened with warning. “Don’t get any ideas about going to stay at Grace Marley’s. That’s where Dewhurst is staying.”

“Is he still there?”

“Classified.”

She stomped her foot. “So it’s classified, but you’re telling me not to go there. For your information, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Don’t you think that’s a little dangerous for Grace?”

Mark shrugged. “He doesn’t have a bone to pick with Grace.”

Lucy blew up at that. “I don’t understand you, Brendon. I just don’t.” She turned the door handle and didn’t flinch when the door slammed harder than she’d intended.

Lucy drove, via the boutique to pick up her phone, to her mother’s house. The last thing she wanted to do was to burden her mother, who was still in a state of depression after the loss of Lucy’s dad, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else she could trust. Everyone had an angle. She needed clear thinking and maybe a little motherly concern.

She found Sheila sitting in her favorite place. The chair had been in the family for years and came with an accompanying footstool at the perfect height to put her feet up. She was crocheting an afghan, perhaps her fortieth. The house was lined with them. Lucy was pretty sure it was an inner need to be hugged and feel safe that Sheila missed now that she was widowed.

“Hi, Mom,” Lucy kissed her mother on the cheek. “Oh, that’s a pretty one. I really like the colors.”

Sheila beamed with pride. Her afghans were her source of pride. “Thank you. Maybe I’ll give this one to you.”

Lucy smiled. “I need to talk, Mom.”

“You’re not putting me in a home.” Sheila’s voice brooked no interference.

“Of course not. This is about… me, really. Not you.”

Sheila laid down her hook and let the work fall into her lap. “Well, this is a first.”

“Mom, please, this is serious.”

Sheila peered over the top of her needlework glasses. “I’ve heard some rumors around town.”

“That’s nothing new, but this is different. Mark has left me.”

Sheila didn’t blink.

“You knew!” Lucy accused with heartbreak.

“I heard as much, but I was waiting for you to come and tell me yourself.”

“How could I have been so blind?”

“Oh, sweetheart, we never see what we don’t want to see. You know that.”

“So, what do I do?”

“That’s your decision, not mine. From what I hear, you have bigger problems than a divorce to be concerned about right now.”

“You heard about Bertha Bannutt.”

Sheila grimaced. “It would be hard not to.”

“But, Mom, there she was, dead in my house. I didn’t even know she was in the house.”

“What made you go downstairs?”

“I’d just bought some clothes and decided to rinse them out before I