Page 27 of Murder on the Boardwalk

“Technically, Scott never said Richie Plunkett was Zephyr. He merely suggested we talk to the guy and get his reaction to the name.”

Lucien flexed his jaw. “You’re right. I jumped on the name and linked it with Zephyr. But my mistake doesn’t explain why Brent or Murphy didn’t ID this Lee Willis.”

She snapped her laptop closed and slid it onto the nightstand. “Don’t stew over it tonight. We’ll talk to Tazzie and Richie. After that, we’ll have a better feel for Zephyr. Maybe there’s a reason nobody talks about him. Maybe he’s dangerous. Where does he live?”

“Other side of the lighthouse.”

Brogan flipped to her side and slunk down in the covers. “The other side of the lighthouse is nothing but rocks.”

“Mostly, that’s true. All but one sliver is habitable. It’s that slice of land where Zephyr’s father built a house along that rocky stretch of beach. Willis now owns it outright. He lives there full-time. Because after Zephyr’s wife Angie died, he sold their house—possessions and all. I’m assuming it was because he couldn’t live there without her.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Where did he live after he sold his house?”

“He bought a mobile home and lived there until his father died. Even though he moved, he still owns the mobile home and the land it sits on.”

“Why is that significant?”

“I think the guy is rolling in dough. But I can’t find the source of his income. Something seems off.”

“Hmm.” Getting sleepy, Brogan snuggled deeper into her pillow. “You’ll figure it out.”

“We both will,” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

8

On her way to church Sunday morning, Jordan Harris—proprietor of Promise Cove B&B—dropped off two pecan tartlets she had on hand.

Brogan waved her inside, but Jordan handed off the pies in a basket and shook her head. “I’m running late as it is. The kids are in the car. I hope this works. These are all I had left from the weekend. Some of my repeat guests have a sweet tooth. These are my most requested desserts. They came out of the oven on Friday.”

“I’m grateful for whatever you had on hand.”

“I promise you Tazzie will love these. I started baking this size because they cook faster. And they make great individual servings instead of making an entire pie and having to slice it razor-thin. Some guests are fussy about too much sugar.”

“Thankfully, Tazzie must have an appetite for sugar. I can’t believe I’ve resorted to this, using pie to pry information out of somebody I’ve never met before,” Brogan conceded. “And to ensure this works, I’ll grab a caramel cappuccino to go with it. Can you say sugar overload?”

“I don’t know where Tazzie puts this stuff. If you haven’t met her, she weighs next to nothing. It must be all the gardening she does and the fact that she’s tall.”

“I saw her in the street last night along with the rest of Vera Lockhart’s neighbors.”

Jordan made a face. “Terrible thing. I can’t believe Vera did that.”

“You knew Vera?”

Jordan shrugged. “About as well as anyone else did. I never in a million years would have thought that woman could keep a body in her bedroom, though. Eww. Who does that?”

“How well do you know Tazzie?”

“She’s a character. And Lilly’s right, Tazzie loves to talk. Get her started, and you’ll be there all day.”

“I take it she’s not married.”

“She was, but her husband left her for a woman half his age. That was a dozen years ago. But—bless her heart—Tazzie waited three years to file for divorce, hoping he’d come to his senses and return home. He never did. Kinsey ended up handling the divorce after she took over for Aaron Hartley. Look, I gotta run. I’m as bad as Tazzie standing here gossiping. Good luck with prying her for information.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

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