Page 3 of Little Buried Secrets

“Why not?”

“Just … don’t.”

The bike was a light-pink Beach Cruiser with a brown wicker basket on the front, the perfect bike for riding along the coast. Except this bike had seen better days. The frame was bent, the front tire was flat, the chain was broken, and the wicker basket had a gaping hole in it. There were also small pieces of white paint flecks on some of the damaged frame and on the ground … along with what appeared to be dried blood.

A pastel sticker shaped like a rainbow was stuck to the back of the bike’s seat. The words on the sticker read: It’s a good day for a good day.

Kind of ironic, given the bike was having a bad one.

“Whose bike is this?” I asked. “Any idea?”

Foley and Whitlock glanced at each other and back at me. Foley crossed his arms, and Whitlock shrugged like he wanted to say more but couldn’t.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Foley said.

“You’re standing in front of a busted-up bike. There’s what appears to be blood on the pavement surrounding it. The baggie in your hand contains a smashed-up cell phone. And Silas just parked behind me. Care to explain?”

Silas Crowe was the county coroner and a man I’d worked with for years. He hopped out of his VW bus, grabbed a rubber band off his wrist, and swooped his long, wavy hair into a man bun. He grabbed his camera off the seat and headed toward us, winking at me when we made eye contact.

“Nice to see you, Gigi,” Silas said.

“And you, Silas,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m, ahh … I’m not sure yet.”

“I’m guessing there’s a reason you drove over to take photographs.”

Foley turned toward me. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like at your own place of business?”

“I’m in no rush.”

He scratched the top of his forehead. “All right, fine. I’ll throw you a bone if that’s what it takes to get on with my day. We got a call this morning. One of the Remington girls never made it home last night.”

“Are you talking about Rae’s daughters?”

“I am.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“That’s just it. We don’t know.”

“What do you know?”

“When Dr. Rae arrived home last night, she checked in with her girls, as usual. Margot wasn’t home. Her other daughter, Bronte, said Margot was out with a boy from school. Dr. Rae said her girls had a strict curfew whenever they were out, and Margot never missed hers. Dr. Rae showered, got into bed, and started reading, while she waited for Margot to arrive home. At some point, she fell asleep, and when she woke this morning, Margot wasn’t home, her bed hadn’t been slept in, and her bike wasn’t in its usual place in the garage.”

“When was the last time anyone saw Margot?” I asked.

“Bronte told her mother she’d had an argument with her sister yesterday afternoon,” Foley said. “Afterward, Bronte went to her room and avoided Margot for the rest of the day.”

“Does Bronte remember when Margot left?”

“She does not.”

“What was the fight about?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Foley said. “We haven’t spoken to her yet. We were out looking for Margot this morning, and we came across the bike. It matches the description Dr. Rae gave us.”

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