Page 4 of Murder on the Boardwalk

Marley walked a few steps back to lay a hand on Brogan’s arm. “Watch your back.”

“The killer could be dead by now,” Lucien pointed out.

“If you’re lucky,” Marley cautioned. “But what if he isn’t? You shouldn’t take anything for granted.”

Chill bumps ran along Brogan's arms as she watched the woman walk toward the dunes. “Marley has a point. We should keep our guard up.”

“We have security cameras front and back and all along the sides of the house,” Lucien reminded her. “I’m not sure what other precautions to take.”

“There is something that’s been nagging at me.”

“What’s that?”

“The autopsy report alludes to a violent assault. Her face, neck, and arms showed purple bruising. Yet Gidget was found wearing shorts and a top. Her clothing was intact. If there was a sexual assault, did the killer redress her? Part of the evidence bag shows they found a swimsuit near the body and collected it just in case.”

“What’s your point?”

“The killer might not have wanted sex. Maybe the killer wasn’t a man at all but a woman, which would put an entirely different kind of spin on motive.”

“You’re thinking Vera might’ve been the killer?”

“It’s a possibility. Until Brent does the exhumation, we’re flying blind here.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes toward the ocean. “Then we’d better keep an open mind and not get tunnel vision. If the killer is a woman, it broadens our suspect list—considerably.”

2

The town mayor, Patrick Murphy, was a diminutive man who stood barely five feet with thinning gray hair and a quick smile for customers. Murphy’s Market was his pride and joy. Now in his sixties, hestill managed the day-to-day running of the store. He could work checkout if necessary. He even stocked shelves when the situation warranted it. He always oversaw early morning deliveries himself, though, because they provided early shoppers with hot meal choices from the Hilltop Diner. He also prided himself on stocking the best locally grown vegetables and produce around for fifty miles.

He’d never let lack of height prevent him from succeeding in what he wanted to do. When no one else wanted to become mayor, he stepped up and took on the job. For nearly four decades, he’d become the leading visionary for the town. He was the first line of defense in strategic matters like zoning and often fought to get new businesses into the area.

Murph considered himself a native of these parts. But truth be told, he’d once called the Bay Area home. Losing his job and going through a messy divorce had signaled it was time to try greener pastures. He might’ve stumbled on Pelican Pointe by accident—getting lost along the way—but he never stopped touting how it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Here, he’d been able to put down roots, find his footing, grow among friends, and meet the love of his life, a social worker named Carla Vargas.

Patrick Murphy had never looked back. He loved the town with everything he had. There was still much work to do, but as long as he drew a breath, he intended to keep pushing to make things better off than when he’d found them.

In his office, he stared over at Brogan and Lucien, who had been bugging him for thirty minutes to stop what he was doing to locate any old photographs and maps from the 1970s. “Why don’t you try the library? I handed over a bunch of stuff like that to Sydney and Hayden when they revamped Bradford House. Or maybe it was Jordan Harris. I forget. Doesn’t matter. The old photos and maps are probably filed away somewhere there.”

“Dating how far back?” Lucien wanted to know.

“Before World War II.”

“Okay, we’ll make that our next stop,” Lucien decided. “But we thought being mayor, you’d be the best source of how the town looked back in Gidget’s day.”

Murphy tapered his stare over a pair of reading glasses. “Gidget had been dead eight years by the time I pulled into town. The case has always bugged me. That’s why I suggested to Brent that we do something about it. You should’ve seen this place back then. It was a sad excuse for a fishing village. The warehouses and most other businesses along the pier had rotted away. Nobody had bothered to take care of Smuggler’s Bay and let the water get seriously polluted. That took a lot of cleaning up. And no one had bothered upgrading the dock or shoring up the pillars and posts to stabilize the pier. No, by the time I got here, the town was a mess from east to west. I raised money to clean up the Bay and make the necessary renovations to the pier. That took three years. Let me tell you, it wasn’t exactly Pismo Beach or any other tourist destination, which makes me wonder why Gidget showed up here. The girl had to be visiting somebody.”

“But no one stepped forward to say that,” Brogan pointed out. “No one said anything for quite a long time. I wonder who exactly initiated the funds to bury her?”

“That’s a good question,” Murphy added. “You should write that one down to ask people who’ve lived here longer than me.”

“You certainly hung around and made things better for everyone,” Brogan reasoned.

“Yeah, I stayed. I tried to make things better. But let’s face facts. Nothing much changed until Nick Harris took over at the bank and Logan Donnelly began investing in the town. All I did was open up the grocery store after getting fed up traipsing back and forth to San Sebastian or Santa Cruz for a supply run. The town needed a grocery store. Period. Not just a convenience store either. I also had a vision for other things, but I couldn’t get a chunk of the town’s leaders to budge out of the past. Old man Carr ran the bank with an iron fist. Biggest tightwad you’ve ever seen. Nick and Logan changed all that. If there’s a successor to this mayor’s job, it ought to be one of those guys.”

“Murphy, not the mayor?” Brogan teased in mock horror. “You were a man ahead of your time. What would we do without Murphy’s Market and all the innovations you’ve made since, the new businesses you’ve watched open up? I wouldn’t even want to find out.”

Murphy sent the woman an amused look. “I won’t be on the job forever. But flattery will get you a search of my study. How’s that sound? I’ll call Carla and see if she has time to look around my desk when she gets home. She might be able to lay her hands on a few things circa 1978.”

Lucien was getting antsy in the cramped office. There was no room to pace. “Did you know a woman named Vera Lockhart?”

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