Final Settlement by Vicki Doudera Page A

knowing that Bitsy was right, that the story of her teenage escape from Hurricane Harbor was a local legend. Old-timers loved to describe how she’d stolen her Aunt Jane’s truck and driven it clear across the country, blasting through the miles of highway until there was no more pavement left to drive. Her home for the past ten years had been the laid-back surf town of Mission Beach, California; her ocean, the Pacific.
    “I’m glad you came by, Darby,” the Chief said, assuming his customary attitude of control. “I need to speak with you. Bitsy, honey, can you skedaddle for a minute while I talk to Darby? Then we’ll go out for lunch, I promise.”
    “Okay, Charlie. I’ll be in the hallway, waiting on you.” She rose and flounced out of the room, wearing a mischievous little smile.
    The Chief chuckled uncomfortably as Bitsy closed the door. “Kind of a strange situation,” he muttered.
    Darby kept her face neutral. “I’m sure.” She resisted the urge to shake him by the shoulder. Had he actually just called Bitsy “honey”? And since when was Charles Dupont nicknamed “Charlie”?
    Instead she sat down in one of the plastic chairs in front of his cluttered desk. “Any news on the investigation into Lorraine Delvecchio’s death?”
    “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.” He shook his head. “I had a call this morning from Detective Dave Robichaud. He said they interviewed that woman Dyer, the one you spoke to, and didn’t find her story compelling enough to rule that Lorraine’s death was anything but an accident.”
    “Didn’t they believe Alison?”
    “No problems with her credibility, but her story’s not as solid as it seemed. She did leave the window to answer the phone and use her washroom. Apparently they checked her telephone record and she was on the line with the telemarketer much longer than the few minutes she described. In fact, she must have been intrigued by the idea of a stay in a timeshare, ’cause she spoke to the guy for ten minutes.” He frowned. “And there’s no telling how long she was in the washroom.”
    “But that doesn’t change the fact that she saw a person in a ski mask walking down the Breakwater.”
    “No, but as Detective Robichaud pointed out, people are allowed to walk there wearing any damn thing they want.”
    Darby nodded. “Because Alison didn’t actually see someone push Lorraine, they’re unwilling to go down that path, is that right?”
    “Correct.” He ran a hand through his short gray hair, even more thinly distributed than Darby recalled from the summer. “Listen, Robichaud is a good detective, but I know that girl didn’t slip off that seawall. There’s no way on this earth she fell accidentally. She was pushed, Darby. Every cop instinct I’ve got tells me that.”
    “I believe you, Chief. But what I keep wondering is this: why would anyone want Lorraine dead? Who in the world had a motive to kill her?”
    Charles Dupont gave an unhappy grunt. “More than one person, for all I know.” He scribbled something on a piece of yellow legal paper and tore it from the pad. “Here’s some homework for you.”
    Darby read the single word. “ Hyperthymesia . What is it?”
    “I believe it’s what got poor Lorraine Delvecchio killed,” he said, and his voice had the sound of total certitude. “I’ve gotta go have lunch with the prodigal wife, but you see what you can find out about that condition. Mark my words, Darby. That word right there is what signed her death warrant.”
    _____
    Darby walked back to the Jeep, thinking about her conversation with the Chief. Could something called hyperthymesia have led to a woman’s death? Before starting her car, she pulled out her phone and punched in the term.
    A superior type of memory , she read. She thought a moment. Had Lorraine been burdened—or blessed—with such a condition?
    There was much more information, but she’d look into it later. Instead, she called Near &