Page 67 of Water's Edge

“Dina’s body was discovered near Adelma Beach in Discovery Bay,” Clay says. “Dispatch received an anonymous call that said they’d spotted the body from the water. We borrowed your Marine Patrol to search the water near the beach.”

“Witnesses?” I ask. “Suspects?”

Clay shakes his head. “No suspects. Captain Martin was nearby when the call came out. He confirmed it. She had no family that we could find. Her coworkers said she was flirty with the customers. No one in particular. Neighbors didn’t know much about her. She kept to herself. Like both the other victims, she lived near the water. She had a small place just past Haven Boatworks facing Port Townsend Harbor. It’s right on the Pacific Northwest Trail along the bay. I don’t think Jim Truitt is a possibility on Dina, but the Bohlebers could be a different story. One or both of them maybe have been in the bar and met her.”

“Captain Martin had to recover my victim too. That poor guy can’t catch a break,” Larry adds.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“His wife drowned about ten years ago. He doted on her. It’s a shame for him to have to go through all this, but I guess that’s what the Marine Patrol expects. People drown all the time, but murder is something else altogether. I’d hate to be doing his job after what he suffered.”

Ronnie’s face goes pale. “Did he find his wife?”

“He was with her.” Larry looks down at his hands. “They were skinny-dipping. She was six months along.”

“She was pregnant?” I ask.

Ronnie goes even more pale. She’s chalk now.

“Lost his wife,” Larry replies. “Lost the baby. Almost lost his life trying to save her. Damn near lost his job. Became an alcoholic, but don’t tell anyone that. He got dried out and they kept him on. He’s good at what he does. Hard to replace a guy like that.”

I want to ask who worked the drowning case, but I don’t. I can find out on my own. Clay gave Larry a strange look when he brought up the drowning, but he says nothing.

Thirty-Three

I drop Ronnie at the Sheriff’s Office and go home to change clothes. I have just enough time to get to Hops Ahoy. I think about Dan. Detective Osborne reminds me so much of Dan. Not only his looks but his quiet, nonjudgmental manner. I imagine he is easy to talk to like Dan. But he’s a cop. It would never work. Not that I have any interest. Going on a date with Dan is hard enough. Dan doesn’t pry. He listens but doesn’t expect me to tell my life story. I can’t, anyway. A cop would keep digging until he drove me crazy.

I flip through the sad contents of my closet. Several possibilities on hangers, all basically the same. Black or blue cotton slacks, white shirts, two blazers, a couple of dresses, and nice jeans for casual. I pick the jeans and one of the white tops. This is definitely a casual event. Not really even a date. A meal and a drink with a friend.

I apply lipstick and eye makeup. I study myself in the mirror over the sink in the bathroom. The top is not right. I change into a button-down long-sleeve shirt. It fits slightly tighter, but I go with it.

I wonder why I suggested Hops Ahoy in the first place. It’s a place I go when I’m down. Not for a date. Maybe that’s telling.

This isn’t a real date, I remind myself.

Funny how I can lie to myself too.

Outside, the yellow cast of the streetlight makes the replacement white top look dingy. I go back inside, change into a new white sleeveless one. It looks good with a blazer, so I can take my gun. I strap on my shoulder holster. Put the blazer on to hide the gun. There’s a serial killer on the loose. He targets women in bars.

Who knows? I might get lucky.

I call Dan from the car. I suddenly don’t want to go back to Hops Ahoy. I met Dan there last time and stood him up later. Something new is better.

He answers. “Hi. I was just leaving to meet you.”

“How would you like to meet at the Pourhouse instead? I know you like live music—andthey have Scotch.” I remember he drinks Scotch.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Are you on your way?”

“I’ll beat you there.” I hang up and within a minute I pull into the parking lot by the Pourhouse. It’s more local and not as touristy. I’ve never been there, but Ronnie was talking about it sometime during one of the long, long drives accompanied by her stream-of-consciousness chatter.

The back patio of the Pourhouse faces Port Townsend Bay and is the venue of the beer garden and live events. It is located between a marine battery shop and a wellness center. One town I traveled through on my way here from Ohio had a little strip like this. Only the bar was located between a gun shop and the city police department.

One-stop shopping, I think. Get a gun, get drunk, get arrested.

I park on the side of the building where I can see the white and blue of the back patio’s quartet of umbrellas. I scan for familiar faces. I recognize a couple of city policemen and deputies. Not a problem. This will allay the rumors that I’m a lesbian because I never date.

I don’t see Mindy’s flower van. I’m a little disappointed that she won’t be flying this mission with me. I’m nervous. I find a covered table at the back of the deck, keeping my back to the bay but a view of the bar and the parking lot. There are a few people playing bocce on a court between me and the bay, but I’m not worried about them. A waitress comes to my table with a big howdy smile and takes my order. I want a triple Scotch with a side of water to show the Scotch who’s boss. Instead, I order a white wine. I don’t want to get drunk until I get home. Alone. Maybe. I don’t know what I want. I feel the gun digging into my back and scoot the chair a little forward.

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