The Cove by Catherine Coulter Page A

the door every couple of seconds but not saying anything. She looked exhausted, her hair was ratty, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek from her jump and a huge grass stain on the leg of her blue jeans. He wished she’d tell him what she was thinking. He wished she’d just come clean and tell him everything.
    Then, he thought, it might be a good idea to take her to dinner.
    He laughed. He was the crazy one. He liked her. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d only wanted to see her as the main piece to his puzzle, the linchpin that would bring it all together.
    â€œDid you tell this Dillon Savich anything?”
    â€œI told him I wouldn’t go out with his sister-in-law again. She’s always popping bubble gum in her mouth.”
    She blinked at him, then smiled—a small, tight smile, but it was a smile.
    He rose and offered her his hand. “You’re exhausted. Go to bed. We can deal with this in the morning. The bathroom’s through there. It’s a treat, all marble and a water-saver toilet in pale pink. Take a nice long shower, it’ll help bring down the swelling in your ankle. Thelma even provides those fluffy white bathrobes.”
    He had let her off the hook, even though he guessed he could have gotten more out of her if he’d tried even a little bit. But she was near the edge, and not just with that damned phone call.
    Who the hell was the dead woman they’d found being pulled in and out by the tide at the base of the cliff?

8
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    T HEY WERE EATING breakfast the next morning, alone in the large dining room. The woman who’d checked in the day before wasn’t down yet, nor was Thelma Nettro.
    Martha had said as she took their order, “Thelma sometimes likes to watch the early talk shows in bed. She also writes in that diary of hers. Goodness, she’s kept a diary for as long as I can remember.”
    â€œWhat does she write in it?” Sally asked.
    Martha shrugged. “I guess just the little things that happen every day. What else would she write?”
    â€œEat,” Quinlan told Sally when Martha placed a plate stacked with blueberry pancakes in front of her. He watched her butter them, then pour Martha’s homemade syrup over the top. She took one bite, chewed it slowly, then carefully laid her fork on the edge of the plate.
    Her fork was still there when Sheriff David Mountebank walked in, Martha at his heels offering him food and coffee. He took one look at Sally’s pancakes and Quinlan’s English muffin with strawberry jam and said yes to everything.
    They made room for him. He looked at them closely, not saying anything, just looking from one to the other. Finally he said, “You’re a fast worker, Mr. Quinlan.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou and Ms. Brandon are already involved? Sleeping together?”
    â€œIt’s a long story, Sheriff,” Quinlan said, then laughed, hoping it would make Sally realize how silly it was.
    â€œI think you’re a damned pig, Sheriff,” Sally said pleasantly. “I hope the pancakes give you stomach cramps.”
    â€œAll right, so I’m a jerk. But what the hell are you doing here? Amabel Perdy called my office real early and told me you’d disappeared. She was frantic. Incidentally, your hair sure grew back fast.”
    No black wig. Face him down, she thought, just face him down. She said, “I was going to call her after breakfast. It’s only seven in the morning. I didn’t want to wake her. Actually, I’m surprised Martha didn’t call her to tell her I was here.”
    â€œMartha must have assumed that Amabel already knew where you were. Now what’s going on here?”
    â€œWhat did her aunt tell you, Sheriff?”
    David Mountebank recognized technique when he saw it. He didn’t like to have it used on him, but for the moment, he knew he should play along. For a simple PI this man was very good.
    â€œShe