literally: dirty, smelly, so rank that he leaves a stink in the car that last for hours.”
“I guess that’s what I’m saying.” Stu clapped his hands on his knees and hoisted himself up, ready to get on with his duties. “Let’s get together real soon, partner. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Carl stood up and shook his outstretched hand. “You said it. In the meantime, could you use another warm body in the search party?”
“Look, Carl, you’ve got a funeral to take care of, not to mention a son. If you want to know the truth, the search party’s already too big. With all those people stomping around, we’ll probably mess up any evidence that’s out there.”
“I guess the whole town figures it’s got a stake in this thing, huh?”
Stu blew a long, grim breath between pursed lips. “Then you’ve heard about what’s been happening over the last eight months—the Mystery of Greely’s Cove. Sounds like a kids’ adventure movie, doesn’t it?”
“Parental discretion advised on this one, I’d say. I ran into Sandy Zolten last night here in the lobby, and she told me all about it. I—” Carl bit his lower lip and swallowed. “I even met Teri. Maybe that’s why I feel like I have a stake in it, too.”
“In that case you’re more than welcome to come along. I’ve got an extra pair of overshoes in my cruiser. Let’s go.”
Just then a flaming-red Jaguar coupe rolled into the drive outside the lobby. The driver’s door flew open, and from behind the wheel bounced a thin, shriveled woman whose perky movements belied her apparent senescence.
Carl did a double take: The sleek Jaguar XJ-S was grossly out of place in the somber, rain-drenched setting of the Old Schooner, but more so was the outlandish woman with her orange slicker, flashy silk scarves wrapped loosely about her neck, and blond Dolly Parton wig. She made straight for the door of the lobby, wasting not a second, and burst through to confront Stu Bromton head-on.
“Oh, Stuart, I’m so glad I’ve found you,” she said in a stately British accent. “I’ve been to your station, and your dispatcher informed me that I might find you here. It’s imperative that we talk.”
Stu shut his eyes a moment and cringed perceptibly. “Hannie, I really would like to talk, but I’m awfully busy right now.”
“I’m afraid this won’t wait,” she declared, thrusting out her chin. “It concerns the death of my friend, Lorna Trosper.” Carl started at the mention of his dead ex-wife, and the old woman noticed. She turned her turquoise contact lenses upon him and surveyed him, inch by inch, top to bottom. Carl marveled wordlessly at the intricacy of the lines in her face, obscured but not hidden by a thick layer of makeup. Without the elaborate blond wig or the fiery lipstick and cosmetics she would easily have looked a hundred years old, but as it was, she looked eighty. Her voice, while that of an elderly woman, was strong and even.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman,” she said, indicating Carl.
Stu sighed, “Miss Hannabeth Hazelford, I’d like you to meet Carl Trosper. Carl, this is Hannabeth Hazelford.”
“ Trosper, ” said the old woman. “You must be Lorna’s husband.”
“Ex-husband,” Carl corrected. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Hazelford.”
She offered him a bony, spotted hand adorned with a huge ring, which he shook ever so gently, for fear of breaking something so old. “Please call me Hannie,” she said. “All my friends do. Your wife and I were quite close, you know. I was privileged to acquire several of her paintings.”
“Hannie owns the ladies’ store up the block,” said Stu. “She came to town—what? A little over six years ago?”
“It’s a boutique, actually,” said Hannie, “directly opposite Lorna’s gallery.”
“Well, I wish we could stand here and chitchat all day,” said Stu, “but I’ve got important business to attend to.
“I guess that’s what I’m saying.” Stu clapped his hands on his knees and hoisted himself up, ready to get on with his duties. “Let’s get together real soon, partner. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Carl stood up and shook his outstretched hand. “You said it. In the meantime, could you use another warm body in the search party?”
“Look, Carl, you’ve got a funeral to take care of, not to mention a son. If you want to know the truth, the search party’s already too big. With all those people stomping around, we’ll probably mess up any evidence that’s out there.”
“I guess the whole town figures it’s got a stake in this thing, huh?”
Stu blew a long, grim breath between pursed lips. “Then you’ve heard about what’s been happening over the last eight months—the Mystery of Greely’s Cove. Sounds like a kids’ adventure movie, doesn’t it?”
“Parental discretion advised on this one, I’d say. I ran into Sandy Zolten last night here in the lobby, and she told me all about it. I—” Carl bit his lower lip and swallowed. “I even met Teri. Maybe that’s why I feel like I have a stake in it, too.”
“In that case you’re more than welcome to come along. I’ve got an extra pair of overshoes in my cruiser. Let’s go.”
Just then a flaming-red Jaguar coupe rolled into the drive outside the lobby. The driver’s door flew open, and from behind the wheel bounced a thin, shriveled woman whose perky movements belied her apparent senescence.
Carl did a double take: The sleek Jaguar XJ-S was grossly out of place in the somber, rain-drenched setting of the Old Schooner, but more so was the outlandish woman with her orange slicker, flashy silk scarves wrapped loosely about her neck, and blond Dolly Parton wig. She made straight for the door of the lobby, wasting not a second, and burst through to confront Stu Bromton head-on.
“Oh, Stuart, I’m so glad I’ve found you,” she said in a stately British accent. “I’ve been to your station, and your dispatcher informed me that I might find you here. It’s imperative that we talk.”
Stu shut his eyes a moment and cringed perceptibly. “Hannie, I really would like to talk, but I’m awfully busy right now.”
“I’m afraid this won’t wait,” she declared, thrusting out her chin. “It concerns the death of my friend, Lorna Trosper.” Carl started at the mention of his dead ex-wife, and the old woman noticed. She turned her turquoise contact lenses upon him and surveyed him, inch by inch, top to bottom. Carl marveled wordlessly at the intricacy of the lines in her face, obscured but not hidden by a thick layer of makeup. Without the elaborate blond wig or the fiery lipstick and cosmetics she would easily have looked a hundred years old, but as it was, she looked eighty. Her voice, while that of an elderly woman, was strong and even.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman,” she said, indicating Carl.
Stu sighed, “Miss Hannabeth Hazelford, I’d like you to meet Carl Trosper. Carl, this is Hannabeth Hazelford.”
“ Trosper, ” said the old woman. “You must be Lorna’s husband.”
“Ex-husband,” Carl corrected. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Hazelford.”
She offered him a bony, spotted hand adorned with a huge ring, which he shook ever so gently, for fear of breaking something so old. “Please call me Hannie,” she said. “All my friends do. Your wife and I were quite close, you know. I was privileged to acquire several of her paintings.”
“Hannie owns the ladies’ store up the block,” said Stu. “She came to town—what? A little over six years ago?”
“It’s a boutique, actually,” said Hannie, “directly opposite Lorna’s gallery.”
“Well, I wish we could stand here and chitchat all day,” said Stu, “but I’ve got important business to attend to.
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