Page 85 of The Summer that Changed Everything
“The one you were trying to get a better glimpse of?”
“Yeah, that one. It was parked in front of the cottage a dayor two before the break-in. That’s why I was so eager to get a better look at it.”
“Why didn’t you say so? We could’ve driven around, tried to find it.”
“I’m not sure it means anything. I just saw it driving away. But orange is a distinctive color. If the person who owns it is local, we should be able to find out who it is. It wouldn’t hurt to ask why they ran away when I walked out of the cottage.”
“Chet’s come back here every summer. He might know. Want me to give him a call?” Ford asked.
“After dinner,” she told him. “I think it’s ready.”
24
Chet’s heart leaped into his throat when he saw Ford’s name on his screen. Ever since he’d found out that Ford and Lucy were focusing on the rowboat that’d temporarily gone missing from the Zampinos’ small stretch of shoreline, he’d been expecting a call from Chief Claxton or the investigator Ford had hired. He was afraid they’d be much more dogged about trying to figure out who’d returned it, since there was nothing to draw their attention away, not like there’d been before, what with the hysteria surrounding the Matteo murders once they’d found Mick McBride’s DNA under Tony’s fingernails.
Fortunately, that call hadn’t come, but thanks to Ford and Lucy, Chet knew it still could. So he’d been thinking about fabricating a story that would explain the boat away—get them to believe it was a dead end. Should he admit that he was the one who’d returned it in case someone had seen him do it? He could say he’d found it floating free, recognized it and taken it home. That didn’t make him guilty of murder.
“Shit,” he cursed as Ford’s call transferred to voice mail. He’d dithered too long, trying to make up his mind.
“Is something wrong?” his wife asked as she carried their baby into the bedroom he was using as his studio.
“No, why?” He felt guilty hiding so much from her, especially because of the nature of his dark secret.
“You’re working later than usual,” she said. “Kenzie and I were beginning to wonder if we’d even see you tonight.”
The moment Kira had walked into the room, Kenzie had started kicking her legs and stretching out her chubby arms for him.
“Sorry. I’ve been trying to finish this.” He gestured toward the blue and white sailboat he was painting on a cerulean sea, but he hadn’t made much progress on the piece today. He’d spent the entire afternoon worrying about what he’d done fifteen years ago and trying to devise a way to mitigate the threat Ford and Lucy suddenly posed.
He put down his paintbrush so he could hold his daughter and smiled as he pressed her soft, squishy body against his chest. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone or anything more, unless it was his wife. He had a lot riding on the decision he was trying to make.
He could put off calling Ford for a few minutes, but he couldn’t wait long, not if he planned to do the whole, “Hey, you were asking me about the Zampinos’ boat when I was at Coastal Comfort, and it just occurred to me that I returned it myself” kind of thing.
Briefly closing his eyes, he kissed the top of his baby’s fuzzy head before smiling at his beautiful wife, who was watching him with a fond smile of her own.
His future hung in the balance. Which way should he go?
The orange truck belonged to Stephanie Beaumont. Lucy hadn’t expected that. She’d assumed the driver would be someone far more threatening than the harmless-looking woman whose account she’d just pulled up on Instagram.
“Why do you think Stephanie would come to the cottage?” she asked Ford.
He was sitting next to her at the granite-topped island in the center of the kitchen, where they’d eaten before putting their plates aside to call Chet. He hadn’t answered, but it turned out they didn’t need him, anyway. Dahlia had told Lucy that Stephanie owned a truck like the one she described when Lucy called to tell her the window at the cottage had been repaired. “Stephanie was with Aurora that night at the party, wasn’t she?” Ford asked.
Lucy nodded. “Do you think she heard I was in town renting the Smoot cottage and was coming to tell me how despicable I am just because I’m related to the man she thinks murdered her friend?”
“Sadly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Lucy held her phone up to read Stephanie’s latest post. “Neither would I. Maybe I’m glad she ran away instead of coming to the door.”
Ford wore a thoughtful expression. “Although... it could be that she wanted to tell you something.”
“Like what?”
“Something regarding the murder. I’m sure people are talking about the fact that we don’t believe Mick killed Aurora. I’m guessing she’s heard that, too.”
“But she didn’t seem to know anything important during the trial. She said she had curfew and left the party early, didn’t know what happened to Aurora after that.”
“Maybe that isn’t true.”
