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

“They’ll be coming. Half the village is home, making casseroles,” she said.

Lucy nodded. “I thought as much. Then I’ll leave you to it. Perhaps you could help Christine make some decisions for the final arrangements?”

Sally’s lips pursed into a suckerfish. “Ohhh, of course, I will,” she assured Lucy while patting Christine on the leg.

Lucy grinned inwardly. Sally would cure the girl of apathy, one way or another. She would ensure that Angie got a proper send-off.

Lucy walked through her front door, her heart still painful in her chest. Mark was reclining on the sofa as usual and turned to glance over his shoulder at her.

“You okay?” he asked in a gentle tone.

She tossed her keys into the tray on the coffee table. “I’m okay,” she answered and went to stand behind the sofa and stroked his cheek with her fingers.

He enclosed them in his hand, kissing her palm. His beard scratched her delicate skin, and she desperately wanted to pull it free.

“Want to talk about it? I’ve been waiting, although I will say there’s been a steady stream to the door wanting to see you.”

“Oh, heck, really?” From her pocket she removed her phone, which she’d turned off. A long list of missed calls filled the screen, including one from her boss, the editor at the Wellington Journal. “Len Dermot has been calling. I suppose I should get back to him, and then we’ll talk?”

“Go ahead. It’s a big story.”

She tapped the return call button, the line rang.

“Hello? Lucy, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me, Len.”

His voice was larger than life, and that was saying something as he stood six-feet-five and tended to bellow like a velociraptor.

“Sorry, I was trying to get back to you, I’ve been busy,” Lucy added quickly.

“Why the delay? What’s going on? They won’t let me near the scene, but Colt said you’d already been up there. When am I going to get some copy? Is there a killer loose in the village? Should everyone else be on the alert?”

Lucy swallowed hard. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought about that. I’ve been with her daughter, Christine.”

“Okay, but you work for me and you have a job to do. Let somebody else hold the daughter’s hand. You need to get me three hundred words in half an hour, you hear? As it is, we missed the noon deadline, and I’ve got pressmen on overtime, waiting,” he boomed.

“I hear you. Doing my best, but have a heart, Len.”

“Not my job. Now, do yours.” He hung up.

Lucy disconnected with a sigh. “I swear…”

“Everything okay?” Mark asked over his shoulder.

“Yes, well, at least everything is normal in his world. Listen, I have to go write. Can you handle dinner?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Lucy thudded up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing, feeling as though someone had pulled a plug beneath her feet and drained all her energy. Sorrow took its toll. She hoped she could write the story from an objective point of view. The image of Angie lingered at the forefront of her mind. She’d deserved better than an apathetic daughter. There was a story there, and Lucy made up her mind that she’d get to the bottom of it.

She flipped on the light in her spare bedroom/office. Longingly, she ran her fingers over the first typed pages of her dream crime novel. Dust covered her fingertips, and she chuckled. Her disastrous attempt was so old, it predated the gleaming computer sitting next to it.

Sighing, she sat and flipped it on, opening a clean page in the word processor app. She typed the date and then closed her eyes, conjuring up the images and details of what she’d seen. It was too early for suspicions, too early for speculation on the motive. The fact remained, one of her good friends had lost her life that morning on a windswept bluff at the ocean’s edge. Her final breath was probably forced from her with an obscure length of blue nylon rope—there were likely thousands of them along the coast, and that particular one had found its way to her throat. How? Why?

Lucy wrote with the skill acquired from writing many such stories over the years. She became objective and factual, but all the time her heart ached. When it was done, she clicked Send and went downstairs to the enticing aroma of something Italian Mark had knocked up. “You should do that more often, you know?”

“What’s that?”

He stiffened, and she wondered why.

“Cook. You’re very good at it,” she complimented him, then dipped a fingertip in the sauce.

“Huh,” he grunted.

“What will you do this summer when school breaks for vacation?” she asked, intrigued to know his plans.

“What do you mean? Do I have to do something?”

“Well, that’s not what I meant. I just thought it might cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up,” came his salty response.

“Maybe you could volunteer for Habitat for Humanity, or cook down at the homeless shelter?”

“How many homeless are there in Wellington Village, do you suppose?”

“Probably a half dozen. You can play cards afterward,” Lucy said in a miffed tone. “Maybe a fitness club?”

“What are you suggesting? That I go hungry again?” he retorted, referring to his childhood of starvation at his father’s hands.

“You can always find a bleak side if you try hard enough, Mark. Maybe you should talk to someone?”

“And maybe you should talk to someone else.”

Lucy swung around to face him. “When I think of the…” she began and caught herself just in time. She pushed away the memory of Brendon’s kiss, flavored with too much wine and the frivolity of that party at Wellington Village Hall. It had been warm, welcoming, and she’d succumbed to the invitation even though her brain had screamed in protest.

She was married to Mark, and although he had only sporadic finer moments, Lucy should’ve been content. The alternative may have been what Angie had sought, and her reward had been earned on Ocean Trail.

Mark came up behind her and held out a plate of