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

Their dinner came, and Brendon kept her entertained, regaling her with stories from his school and college days. Lucy was surprised to learn that she actually enjoyed his company. Mark had never been particularly chatty. Their relationship was more formulaic, like a train stuck on a set of tracks. She made a mental note that the right thing to do would be to stop comparing everything to Mark and her failed marriage. It wasn’t fair to Mark or to the other person. It was, however, instinctive.

The waitress brought two servings of tiramisu for dessert, followed by two cups of espresso. Lucy felt lighter in spirit by the time they left the restaurant, even though her tummy was full to bursting.

They had been driving in silence for a while. “Brendon, we have to talk about it.”

“I know. I just didn’t want us to be always about it.”

“Well, I may have some information that could be helpful.”

“Really? Let’s hear it.”

“I went up to the highway diner for coffee and some privacy to write. This guy plonked himself down on the stool next to mine, even though there were plenty of empty stools down the line. He made a point of starting a conversation and then pointed out to me that he recognized me and had been following what was going on.”

“Huh. What was his angle?”

“That part I’m not sure of—at least not yet. He inserted into the conversation that he was an investor and had Angie as a client.”

“Angie? She couldn’t have had much.”

“That’s just it. He claimed she had inherited a great deal of money.”

“From whom?”

“Her family—I’m guessing her parents, but he wasn’t specific. He went on to say that Christine knew about it all, and that her name was also on each of the investments. So, when Angie died, everything smoothly went into Christine’s control. He claimed that way she wouldn’t need to wait for probate.”

“According to the law, if Christine’s name was on everything, she was co-owner and no taxes would be due,” Brendon commented.

“Exactly.”

“So, I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I. I never got his name, he danced around telling me that. He was dressed like a has-been drunken businessman and smelled of whiskey. I was so flabbergasted at what he was telling me.”

“Understandably.”

“Anyway, he claims that Christine moved down the coast to Londonberry with ‘that sailor guy’ as he called him. They moved into a house Christine bought around the time of Angie’s death.”

“No kidding. I assume the sailor is Dewhurst.”

“So I’m presuming. But there’s more. I paid Christine’s father a call again. I went under the pretense of asking him how much Angie liked the water. He was quite clear that Angie hated the water, wouldn’t go near it. Apparently, she was irrationally afraid of the water. And yet…” Lucy paused for dramatic effect, “Christine is an excellent swimmer and loves the water.”

“I see.”

“Brendon…”

“Hmmm…”

“Now that I’ve spilled my guts, I want to know something.”

“What’s that?”

“The lens piece I spotted on the trail. What was it?”

He paused for a moment, as though unsure of whether he should divulge police business, but he knew that separately they had no case. He would have to involve Lucy, no matter the danger. She’d never be free of it until the guilty party was safely out of reach. “It was part of a pair of eyeglasses.”

“That much we’d already gathered…” she mused. “Do you have any clue as to the owner?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Who?”

When he told her, the pieces all slipped into place. She’d been blind not to have picked up on it before, but then, that was how puzzles worked. It hadn’t helped that her personal life was in a shambles either. They finished their evening drive in mutual silence. There were plans to be made.

27

Sal’s was packed to the walls, the overflow as standing room spilled onto the sidewalk. Sal was happy, selling donuts by the dozen and coffee by the urn.

Lucy was sitting close to the counter, her laptop open, and Len sat at the table next to her. There were three empty seats at Lucy’s table. Although they looked as though they were set up for casual conversation, they were anything but. They were witness seats, and Brendon had decided Sal’s was the best place to bring in all the suspects. Cut off from escape, confessions were about to come spilling out.

The door opened, and Brendon walked in, his full uniform making him an impressive figure. He walked toward Lucy and laid a small notebook on the table, and with his arms crossed over his chest, he faced the villagers.

“Wellington is a small village, and I think it only fair that all of you take part in the justice we’re about to begin in the death of someone all of us knew, and some of us were very fond of. Namely, Angie Potter.”

Familiar faces all turned in his direction, Brendon drew himself to his full height and surveyed the room. Everyone was there, as requested, except the only people who would be coming with his deputies shortly thereafter.

“I’m going to begin from the point of the crime and I ask that anyone having something to say, reserve those comments for the prosecutor as he’s present here this afternoon. I’ll be handing over all the evidence collected once I’m finished here. Thank you, Mr. Blanders, for coming. I know you have a busy schedule.”

A red-haired, thin-faced man in brass spectacles came to a half stand and nodded to the people in general. There was a bang in the kitchen, and then it went dark as Sal shut everything down so she and Dan could hear clearly what was being said.

Brendon began again. “As you know, there are two murders involved here. The first is Angie Potter, long-time resident and a local hairdresser. The second is Mrs. Bertha Bannutt, who was not a resident, but was acquainted for a short time with a few people in the village as