Page 2 of Murder on the Boardwalk

“Every few days. Just last week, I spotted him hanging out in the alleyway behind Murphy’s Market.” Her brows knitted together again. “Come to think of it, Scott was talking to Murphy.”

“We should ask him about Gidget.”

“Murphy?”

Lucien chuckled and shook his head. “No. Scott. We should ask Scott what he can tell us about Gidget.”

“Was Scott even born back in 1978?”

“Okay, good point. So, I don’t know the exact age of the town ghost. But he might have heard something over the years. Scott’s everywhere. Surely he picked up a few tidbits here and there about the longest unsolved case in town. It wouldn’t hurt to corner him next time we see him.”

“Corner a ghost? You’re welcome to try. Do you plan to tell your father about uploading your DNA sample into a database?”

“Uh, no way. He’ll think I’m trying to dig up dirt or stir the Sutter caldron. But if you think I’m not prepared for a few surprises, think again. Rock bands are known for their wild party days.”

“Explains my vast Christmas card list,” Brogan muttered. “A stepbrother and sister from various marriages scattered in the winds.”

“But no real blood ties there,” Lucien explained as he noticed the sad look cross Brogan’s face. “Ah. You miss your dad.”

She walked over to a cabinet and put the Neem oil away. “I do. We’re running up to the holiday season again. Dad always loved Halloween. And he enjoyed Thanksgiving and really got into Christmas. It wasn’t that long ago that he dressed up like an elf on Christmas Eve and slept near the tree to get videos of everyone opening their presents on Christmas morning.”

He patted the cushion next to him. “You know why they call this a loveseat?”

Her shoulders shook with laughter. “That hasn’t worked since the Fourth of July when we had sex on that same couch.”

He captured her hand and tugged her next to him on the sofa. “Let’s see if we can make our own fireworks.” His arms went around her back while his mouth covered hers with a tender touch of lips. He was about to deepen the kiss when he heard a distant knocking. “What is that?”

“Someone’s at the back door,” she replied, sputtering with laughter. She glanced at the dogs. “Why didn’t you bark to warn us?”

“Guard dogs, they ain’t,” Lucien pointed out. “Maybe Scott heard us talking about him and decided to drop in.”

Brogan shoved to her feet. “Last time I checked, Scott doesn’t bother knocking.”

They both headed into the kitchen, and the dogs decided to follow. A woman stood on the other side of the French doors. Brogan recognized Marley Lennox, the local therapist married to surgeon Gideon Nighthawk.

“What are you doing out and about?” Brogan asked.

“Sorry to bother you on a Saturday. But after talking things over with Gideon, I felt like I should stop by and tell you what I know about Jane Doe. I heard you guys were looking into her murder.”

“Word travels at lightning speed around here,” Lucien muttered, ushering Marley into the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Brogan said, studying their visitor. Marley had chopped off her long chestnut hair into a shorter bob that fell at an angle above her shoulders. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

Marley grinned as she shook her head, showing off the bounce. “Thank you. Abby Bonner is a hair genius. I’ve kept this style for three years because it’s relatively maintenance-free. Even if I get up with bedhead, I spend less than five minutes on my hair in the morning. I love it.”

“Last month, I went to Tess Knightley, the new stylist, because Abby was booked.”

Marley took a seat at the counter. “Tess is good, too, especially with coloring. She’s the reason I went an inch shorter for summer. She gave me these cinnamon highlights. But I’ve let it grow out a bit since then. I probably need to make an appointment soon to take care of the dead ends.”

“Are you still seeing clients at your house?” Lucien wanted to know as he poured Marley a fresh cup of coffee and slid the cream and sugar toward her.

Marley nodded, adding a small amount of cream before stirring it into the black liquid. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve decided clients relax and open up more in a home environment, surrounded by familiar things. They’re much more likely to engage and get right to the problem, which makes for a great segue into why I dropped by unannounced. Around eighteen months ago, I began seeing a long-time resident named Vera Lockhart, an eighty-year-old spitfire of a woman who used to run a snack stand at the old train station. Vera had so many stories to tell. For the first few visits, I convinced myself all she needed was someone to talk to. I decided to be that someone. Anyway, she never brought up any serious troubling concerns, mind you. I thought she was probably lonely. But it turns out I got it wrong. Vera came to me because an incident from the past kept nagging at her. On her sixth or seventh visit, she finally opened up about why she’d sought therapy. A memory from the past kept nagging at her. It was about a teenage girl who’d been found murdered in August 1978. Vera couldn’t let it go. To say that it haunted her might not be an understatement.”

Brogan sat up straighter. “Did Vera know the girl’s name?”

“Unfortunately, no. But Vera had major regrets about something concerning this teenager. As she continued her therapy, she finally admitted that she’d seen the young girl get off the train from Denver a week earlier.”

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