Killer Summer by Lynda Curnyn (e book reading free .txt) 📗

the ache of loneliness that filled my days.

Something more than what I had with Tom.

Chapter Fourteen

Zoe

You should see the other guy.

The minute my foot strikes the dusty trail toward Fair Harbor, I feel reborn. Running does that for me. Though this morning, I think I might have to run to the end of the island and back to shake the unease that’s dogged me ever since Tom’s drunken display the night before.

Maybe she’s better off dead.

Somehow, with the sun shining down on my shoulders, the fresh breeze pumping through my lungs, I’m having a hard time believing that.

As I fly over the sandy path, I wonder if Maggie ever took this route. She was a runner, too. At least that’s what she told me that first beach weekend, as I did my pre-run stretches on the deck. She’d even recommended a running path, a scenic six miles to the Jones Beach tower. I’m sure it would have been a lovely run.

But today I had more than running on my mind.

I blew out through my mouth, nodding briskly, as is the custom, at the jogger who passed me, trying to imagine what it might have been like to hurry down this trail on a moonless night.

In search of…coriander.

Okay, so maybe I don’t understand this woman exactly. Yeah, I like to run, but I don’t like to run for groceries.

“Morning,” another passing jogger belted out.

I nodded. Who liked to talk during a jog?

Jogging was when I did all my thinking.

What I was wondering now was why Tom was convinced his wife was better off dead when it was clear to me that he was better off. An oceanfront house free and clear and—judging from the number of women who cozied up to him at the party last night— a range of choices for Mrs. Tom Landon Number Three.

If he wasn’t a murderer, then I understood less about men than I realized. Which was why I decided pursue another trail. Maggie’s…

The first thing I noticed about the Fair Harbor Market once I was standing before it, sweaty and heaving, was that it was a helluva lot bigger than Kismet Market. Big enough to carry a full wall of produce, a freezer case full of fish, meat and poultry and quite possibly…coriander.

I ducked inside and headed straight for the produce aisle, feeling in the know now that I have already purchased the herb—it was right by the produce in Gourmet Garage. But as my eyes roamed over rows of tomatoes, lettuce, bananas and apples, all I realized was that I was starving. I hadn’t had breakfast yet, and I was way too hungry to be in a supermarket without a dollar to my name.

And covered in sweat, I realized, catching sight of myself in the security mirror at the end of the aisle.

“Can I help you?”

Startled, I looked up to find myself face-to-face with a tow-headed teenager who was eyeing me suspiciously. Probably because I had been staring way too long at the security mirror.

“Do you sell coriander?”

He frowned and I felt a momentary triumph. At least I’m not the only one who never heard of the herb until two weeks ago. But then I noticed the henna tattoo on the back of his hand and realized he was way too young to know anything yet. “Is that like…an herb or something?”

Or something. “Yeah. Exactly.” Look at me. Educating the young. Who says there’s no hope for me?

He nodded, then turned toward the condiment aisle, bypassing a line of mustard, ketchup and pickle relish, to a smallish section that I could see at a glance contained cayenne, garlic powder, salt…

Everything except coriander.

Now what? I thought once I stood outside the store again, blinking against the sunlight. So the store doesn’t sell coriander. Doesn’t prove that she didn’t come there looking for it, as Tom claimed to me and, I can only assume, to the police.

You think she would have called and checked first. But I have no way of verifying whether she did or not.

Okay, so she comes up to Fair Harbor Market and, distraught over not finding her key ingredient, she decides to walk home along the beach.

God, maybe it was a suicide.

Who kills themselves over an herb?

I headed for the beach, figuring at the very least I could finish my run on a more scenic route. At best, I might be able to figure out what was going through Maggie’s head.

As I climbed the wooden walkway to the beach, I wondered if she’d even come to the market that night. I’m not sure what time she died. Nick claimed she was still home when he left for The Inn at seven-thirty, which meant she must have headed to Fair Harbor some time after that.

Was the Fair Harbor market even open at 7:30 p.m.? I know Kismet market wasn’t open that late. Not until the full season began. And full season didn’t begin until July Fourth.

I turned around, jogged back to the market.

“What time does the market close?” I asked the cashier, a short, dark-haired girl who stood studying the split ends at the tips of her hair.

“Eight o’clock,” she answered, not looking up from her inspection.

“What about before July Fourth? Like on a Saturday night?”

She looked up. “Seven,” she answered, eyeing me as if I were a simpleton for not knowing that.

The big question was, had Maggie known it? Did she even go to the market that night? And if so, what the hell was she doing during the two and a half hours between when Nick saw her at the house and the time I found her on the beach?

She wasn’t just chopping vegetables, I thought, remembering that most of her meal was left unmade. Where did she go?

Not to the beach, I realized, once I climbed down the wooden steps to it. The sun didn’t set until at least eight-thirty in June. In fact, it was just starting to go down