Death on the Coast by M Comley (best book recommendations TXT) 📗

could tell, no one stood to profit from Angie’s death. In fact, it seemed that more people stood to lose, including her own daughter, Christine. That left them with little to go on.

Lucy wondered if she was too close to the investigation to be objective. After all, she had known Angie most of her life, and they had swapped gossip and secrets in her salon chair on more than one occasion. Lucy had often heard others discussing Angie’s life, and while that wasn’t always kind, it was typical in a small village, and they were all guilty of it at one time or another.

Was her boss right? Was she guilty of searching in the wrong place? Could the killer have merely been a tourist? Someone from out of town, who happened to be hiking, saw Angie up on the headland? But why kill her? She didn’t appear wealthy, so there was little chance for her to have gold in her pockets. She was getting close to middle-age, and the coroner had mentioned nothing about her being sexually violated, so that left out anyone who might be a rapist. The one thing Lucy couldn’t forget was the look in Angie’s eyes. She had known her killer. Lucy felt certain of it. Which narrowed it down to one of the fifteen hundred or so villagers who were like family to her. It just didn’t make sense.

Lucy spent another hour digging through old issues of the paper. She wished they were in some sort of searchable database—the technology had moved too fast, but the newspaper business had remained stagnant. The two were enemies. The internet gave anyone with a keyboard a podium and a distinct lack of professionalism. That combination had undermined small, local papers to the point that they were now almost extinct. Lucy hated that fact. Not because it threatened her job, but because the ethics and integrity were missing. Someone on the internet could be based offshore, be using a pen name and be completely exempt of liability for reporting lies or libel. Not so with a credentialed reporter of a printed paper within the US borders.

With a sigh, Lucy finally flipped off the machine and its whirring noise of a fan, which left the room quiet. After stacking her things and sliding them beneath her arm, she walked out of the room and headed toward the front door. Len was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d left early.

Cindy, the receptionist, smiled and said, “Len asked me to tell you to get on top of the story of this nor’easter coming in. He’ll have a photographer on standby, but, of course, you can use your phone camera, too. I think he’s intending it to be the front page story and wanted me to tell you to get it from every angle.” She rolled her eyes and then lowered her voice, “I hope you can stay safe through all that, Lucy. Sometimes I wonder if Len doesn’t push you too hard?”

Lucy returned her smile. “Oh, Cindy, don’t worry about me. Len may lean on me a little hard from time to time, but I accept it. I’m strong enough to take it. I won’t put myself in harm’s way, not even for his headline, believe me. Have you heard when it’s supposed to hit?”

“My Weather Channel app and the Coast Guard radio feed are predicting just before midnight. It’s coming in at an angle, and it looks like we might be the bullseye. Len went over to the precinct to see what Brendon and his men are doing to get ready for it. I know they’ve already called off school for tomorrow and maybe the next day. The villagers are being told to board up their windows, get in some supplies, and be ready for a pretty good blow. Of course, we’re a hardy bunch. This won’t be the first one we’ve gone through, and it won’t be the last either.”

“That’s true, but with this case of Angie’s still being open, I hate that any possible evidence up there on the bluff might be destroyed in the storm. Maybe I’ll go up there and have one more look around while things are intact.”

“Sure thing,” Cindy agreed. “Get home in time to take care of your own place, though, and stay safe.”

Lucy nodded and gave Cindy a half wave, then walked out the door.

When Lucy left the Journal building, she hesitated at her car door. As much as she wanted to go up on the trail and look for anything that the storm would destroy, she wasn’t dressed for it. She had on soft pink pedal pushers and a cream, button-up, short-sleeved sweater with puffy sleeve caps. It was the one she’d wanted to embroider and had finally decided to use a pink-and-green flower motif. Worse than that, her spiky heels that had reminded her of the ones Marilyn Monroe used to parade around in, certainly weren’t suitable for hiking.

She peered up, and the sky told her the forecasters were on track. A dark line advanced on the horizon. While it might be a few hours before the storm hit, they would lose daylight long before. She decided to go home and help Mark board over the windows and put away anything likely to take off in the yard, such as lawn chairs and garbage cans, that could become missiles in a hefty wind.

She turned down her street and saw that Mark’s car wasn’t in the drive. She let herself into the house and plopped down on the sofa, dialing his cell number. It went straight to voicemail, so she left a message. While she waited for him to return her call, she went into their bedroom and pulled out some denim, elastic-waisted slacks and a sweatshirt. She tied up her hair in a red bandanna, removed her jewelry, and put it in its velvet box on the dresser. Mark still hadn’t returned her call, so she tried again. Same result.

A niggle