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

swept past her to open the front door. Brendon removed his hat and entered the house as he studied Lucy warily. She shook her head to signify that she hadn’t said anything, but then pointedly looked at the discarded muddy shoes inside the door. He sighed and then pushed his off, heel to toe. His companions followed suit.

Christine was grinning in a flirty sort of way. “What’s wrong? A mass of cops in my house. Did I rob a bank or something?”

“Christine, why don’t you take a seat? I have some bad news,” Brendon began, his eyes again seeking Lucy’s for help.

Lucy took Christine’s arm and led her to an overstuffed floral chair that had seen better days.

“Hey, what’s going on? I don’t like the sound of all this,” Christine protested.

“Christine,” Brendon cleared his throat like a schoolboy whose voice was on the verge of finally changing. “I’m sorry to report that your mother was found on Ocean Trail, above the park. By the time Patch led me to her, she was no longer breathing, and the coroner has pronounced her dead. I’m sorry.”

Christine’s eyes grew large. “Wh-what? Sergeant, is this some kind of a joke? Who would kill my mother?” She collapsed in the chair and covered her face, her shoulders shaking.

Brendon and Lucy exchanged concerned glances.

No one mentioned murder. Is it possible that’s just the conclusion she’s drawn? Lucy sat down on the arm of her chair and put a hand on Christine’s shoulder.

Brendon gave his men a look, and they quietly departed. He sat on the sofa opposite the women and took out his notebook. Waiting. Patiently. Or his variation thereof.

After a few uncomfortable seconds had passed, Brendon finally cleared his throat. “Christine, do you know if your mother was having any problems with anyone? Anyone at all? A customer? Maybe someone she was seeing romantically?”

Christine slowly shook her head, her eyes still covered with her hands.

“Uh, did you know she was headed for the cliffs on Ocean Trail earlier today?”

Sniff. “She might have mentioned it. She is…was…trying to lose some weight to fit into a new dress for next weekend.”

“Uh-huh. What was the occasion?”

Christine shrugged.

“Brendon, can’t this all wait until… until the reports are back?” Lucy pleaded on Christine’s behalf without going into detail.

He glared at Lucy. “Things are always freshest in the mind early on, but yes, yes, of course. You’re staying with her, Lucy?”

Lucy nodded. “For a while. I’ll find others to stay, too, so she won’t be alone. I can’t stay long.”

He stood and slapped his notebook closed. “Why is it that I think I know what you’re in a hurry to do…”

“Not now, Brendon,” Lucy growled.

He frowned and balanced on one foot as he tried to slip his shoes back on without sitting down properly to untie them.

Lucy couldn’t crack a smile under the circumstances. Theirs was a competitive flirtation beneath the surface, which only the two of them were aware of.

“Well, then… again, my condolences, Christine. I’ll be in touch about the arrangements.”

Lucy rolled her eyes at him, he nodded and stumbled out the door. It took him three times to get the handle latched so it didn’t blow back open.

Lucy turned back to Christine. “How about if I make you a cup of tea?”

Christine continued to hide behind her hands, lacking an answer, Lucy patted her arm and then went into the kitchen to search for teacups. She found three chipped mugs in the cupboard next to the sink and looked for a teakettle. That horrifying image of Angie lying there was on every surface, taunting her. Eventually she managed to push the image away. Lucy filled a measuring cup with water and set it in the microwave, hunting for tea bags as the cup went round and round on its carousel tray.

She located some in a repurposed jelly jar and carried the two mugs into the living room, setting one on the table in front of Christine.

Christine glanced up, her eyes red but dry. “How soon can I bury her?”

Lucy choked on her drink. Why was Christine in such a hurry? After all, she didn’t even know if murder was the cause of death, and why didn’t she seem bothered about who could have hated Angie enough to do that? Christine suddenly sounded all businesslike, as if her allowance of grieving had been used up. Lucy was at a loss to know how to answer the abrupt question, so she decided to change the subject.

“Honey, you can’t be alone. I know everyone in town would like to come to stay with you. Do you have any preferences?”

“No, you don’t get it, I want to be alone.”

“It may feel like that right now, and I hear what you’re saying, but your grief will hit you like a ton of bricks in the middle of the night. I’d much rather you weren’t alone.”

“I’d prefer to be by myself,” she repeated in a less friendly voice.

Lucy nodded. “Okay. I’ll respect your wishes for now.” She stood to go. “But I can’t guarantee the rest of the village will. Your mother was loved by many, and I know the community will rally around, be here with casseroles and cookies.”

“I wish they wouldn’t.”

There was a sharp knock at the door.

“See now, there’s someone at the door already,” Lucy pointed out. She rose to answer it.

Predictably, it was Sally Warren, a white cake box in her hands and a mournful expression on her chubby face. Lucy accepted the box, sniffed it as she carried it to the kitchen, and nodded toward Christine. “She doesn’t want anyone to stay with her.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Sally pushed past Lucy to throw her ample arms around Christine. What she said after that was fairly unintelligible baby talk, and it seemed like the perfect time for Lucy to turn over her shift and leave. She had things to do out of loyalty to Angie’s memory. Christine was clearly too numb to care, or so it appeared.

“Sally, shall I send someone else