Catherine Coulter - The Cove

"Just Bobby, James. Did I tell you Bobby invented a new improved gyropilot? Yes, well, that's why I've got more money than any of the other poor sods in this place. All because of Bobby's invention."

"It looks to me like everyone has money," Sally said. "The town is charming. Everything looks new, planned, like everyone put money in a pot and decided together what they wanted to do with it."

"It was something like that," Thelma said. "It's all barren by the cliffs now. I remember back in the fifties there were still some pines and firs, even a few poplars close to the cliffs, all bowed down, of course, from the violent storms. They're all gone now, like there'd never been anything there at all. At least we've managed to save a few here in town."

She then turned in her chair and yelled, "Martha, where's my peppermint tea? You back there with young Ed? Leave him alone and bring me my breakfast!"

James waited two beats, then said easily, "I sure wish you'd tell me about Harve and Marge Jensen, Thelma. It was only three years ago, and you've got the sharpest mind in town. Hey, maybe there was something interesting about them and you wrote about it in your diary. Do you think so?"

"That's true enough, boy. I'm sure smarter than poor Martha, who doesn't know her elbow from the teakettle. And she just never leaves those pearls of hers alone. I've replaced them at least three times now. I even let her think for a while that I was the one who called Sally. I like to tease her, it makes life a bit more lively when she's twisting around like a sheet in a stiff wind. I'm sorry, but I don't remember any Harve or Marge."

"You know," Sally said, "that phone call could have been local. The voice was so clear."

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"You think maybe I called you, girl, then pretended to be your daddy? I like it, but there's no way I could have gotten a tape of your daddy's voice. Who cares, anyway?"

"So you admit you know who I am?"

"Sure I do. It took you long enough to catch on. No need to worry, Sally, I won't tell a soul. No telling what some of these young nitwits around town would do if they found out you were that murdered big-shot lawyer's daughter. No, 1 won't tell anybody, not even Martha."

Martha brought in the peppermint tea and a plate filled with fat browned sausages, at least half a dozen of them. They were rolling on the plate in puddles of grease. Sally and Quinlan both stared at that plate.

Thelma cackled. "I want the highest cholesterol in history when I croak. I made Doc Spiver promise that when I finally shuck off this mortal snakeskin, he'll check. I want to be in the book of records."

"You must be well on your way," Quinlan said. "I don't think so," Martha said, hovering by Thelma's left hand. "She's been eating this for years now. Sherry Vorhees says she'll outlive us all. She says her husband, Reverend Hal, doesn't have a chance against Thelma. He's already wheezing around and he's only sixty-eight, and he isn't fat. Strange, isn't it? Thelma wonders who's going to do her service if Reverend Hal isn't around."

"What does Sherry know?" Thelma demanded, talking while she chewed on one of those fat sausages. “I think she'd be happier if Reverend Hal would pass on to his just reward, although I don't know how just he'd find it. He might find himself plunked down in hell and wonder how it could happen to him since he's so holy. He's reasonable most of the time, is Hal. It's just when he's near a woman alone that he goes off the deep end and starts mumbling about sin and hell and temptations of the flesh. It appears he believes sex is a sin and rarely touches his wife. No wonder they don't have any kids. Not a one, ever. Fancy that. It's hard to believe, since he is a man, after all. But still, all poor Sherry does is drink her iced tea, fiddle with her chignon, and sell ice cream."

"What's wrong with that?" Sally asked, thinking that the Mad Hatter's tea party couldn't have been weirder than Thelma Nettro at breakfast. “If she were unhappy, wouldn't she just leave?" Yeah, like you did, but just not in time. Some of the grease around the sausages was beginning to congeal.

"Her iced tea is that cheap white wine. I don't know how her liver is still holding up after all these years."

Sally swallowed, looking away from those sausages. "Amabel told me that when you first opened the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop, you stored the ice cream in Ralph Keaton's caskets."

"That's right. It was Helen's idea. She's Ralph's wife and the one who had the recipe. It was her idea that we start the ice cream shop. She used to be a shy little thing, looked scared whenever she had to say anything. If Ralph said boo she'd fade behind a piece of furniture. She's changed now, speaks right up, tells Ralph to put a sock in it whenever she doesn't like something he does. All because of that recipe.

She's really blossomed with her ice cream success.

"Poor old Ralph. He needs business, but none of us will die for him. I think he's hoping the husband of that dead woman will ask him to lay her out."

Sally couldn't stand it anymore. She rose, tried to smile, and said, "Thank you for breakfast, Thelma. I've got to go home now. Amabel must be worried about me."

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"Martha called her and told her you were here with James. She didn't have a word to say to that."

"I'll thank Martha," Sally said politely. She waited for James to join her. It was raining outside, a dark, miserably gray day.

"Well, damn," James said. He walked back into the foyer and fetched an umbrella from the stand. He said as they walked down the street, "I'll bet you the old men are playing cards in Purn Davies's store. I can't imagine them missing the ritual."

"Sheriff Mountebank will realize who I am, James. It's just a matter of time."

"I don't think so. He probably saw your picture on TV, but that would have been last week at the latest.

He won't make the connection."

"I'm sure the authorities would have sent photos out to everyone."

"This is a backwater, Sally. It costs too much to fax photos to every police and sheriff office in the country. Don't worry about it. The sheriff doesn't have a clue. The way you answered him polished it off."

His eyes were as gray as the rain that was pouring down. He wasn't looking at her, but straight ahead, his hand cupping her elbow. "Watch the puddle."

She took a quick step sideways. "The town doesn't look quite so charming in this rain, does it? Main Street looks like an old abandoned Hollywood set, all gray and forlorn, like no one's lived here forever."

"Don't worry, Sally."

"Maybe you're right. Are you married, James?"

"No. Watch your step here."

"Okay. Have you ever been married?"

"Once. It didn't work out."

"I wonder if any marriages ever work out."

"You an expert?"

She was surprised at the sarcasm but nodded, saying, "A bit. My parents didn't do well. Actually... no, never mind that. I didn't do well, either. That's just about one hundred percent of my world, and it's all bad."

They were walking past Purn Davies's general store. Quinlan grinned and took her hand. "Let's go see what the old guys are up to. I'd like to ask them firsthand if it's true that nobody heard anything the night that poor woman was murdered."

Purn Davies, Hunker Dawson, Gus Eisner, and Ralph Keaton were seated around the barrel, a game of gin rummy under way. There was a fire in a wood-burning stove that looked to be more for show than for utility, a handsome antique piece. A bell over the door rang when Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html