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“Really? Are things that bad? If it’s not working—”
“Are you kidding? It hasn’t worked since I put the ring on her finger. She refuses to compromise about anything or listen to my side. It’s her way or the highway. The highway is beginning to look better every day.” An embarrassed look crossed Richie’s face. “Sorry. I don’t usually bare my soul like this to a total stranger. But I’m not a happy camper. And I’m tired of her bullying me until she gets what she wants. It’s emasculating. The thing is, she knows it. I think she likes to push me around.”
For the first time, Lucien realized the guy had a bruise under his right eye. “How did you get that shiner?”
“When Petra gets mad, watch out.”
“She hit you?”
“Yeah. Petra lashes out. Last week, she hit me with the remote control for the TV right in the back. And at her mother’s place, she pushed me down the stairs. Several times I set her up to see Marley Lennox about her anger issues. But she refuses to keep the appointments. I’m not sure I want to try for too much longer.”
“What happens if you don’t get the garage cleaned out?”
Richie ran his hands over his face. “She’ll throw a hissy fit, yell, scream, belittle me. That’s what she does when she’s angry. I thought it might get better. But some people are incapable of change.”
“I wish I could help.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do. It’s up to me. I need to make some hard decisions. So, what kind of information are you after?”
Lucien held up the list Brent had given him. “We’re reaching out to anyone who lived here in 1978 to try and jog their memory about the summer of 1978, leading up to August. I’m told Gidget had gotten off a train from Denver a week before her death. That means she arrived in town on August 5th or 6th. We’re attempting to retrace her steps. Not easy after all this time. We’re asking people to think back to those days. The window is between the 6th and the 13th. Maybe someone will remember the tiniest detail that could jumpstart finding her killer. Did you ever bump into her or interact with her while she was here?”
“No, not that I recall.”
“Try to see this from my perspective or Brent’s. It’s difficult for us to believe our Jane Doe was in town for a week before her murder but didn’t interact with any of the local teenagers. It’s hard to believe. Yet, no one seems to have bought her a meal or stepped forward to say they had a conversation with her. Not a single soul came forward at the time of her death. Now forty-five years later, we have a witness who says she spent her days hanging out at the beach and spent time with an older surfer. But we can’t seem to locate that person. Would you have any idea who that might’ve been?”
Richie’s expression turned from sad to almost joyful. “I remember those carefree days. Back then, the beach was a wild place to be. You could do anything without getting hassled—sneak a beer or smoke a joint. Summers were the best. Most of my friends and I lived at the beach sunbathing or surfing. But in 1978, I turned sixteen that May. My dad made me get a job. Come June, I crawled my ass out of bed at six in the morning and went to work with Dad at a construction site south of town. The crew was working on a government building on the outskirts of Santa Cruz. I hated it, knowing everybody else was at the beach. That’s what I remember the most about 1978. My first job—working my ass off—and not getting to run around with my friends. If I did run into this girl, it had to be after work or on the weekend. Because five days a week, I’d come home, shower, grab something to eat, and crash, usually sleeping until Dad rousted me out of bed again.”
“You’re saying you didn’t sneak out at night to head to the beach?”
“Not during the week. I spent my days unloading pipes and fittings—backbreaking work. I had to wait until Saturday to get a day off. Back then, I lived across Ocean Street on Cape May. That’s the house where I grew up. I loved being so close to the water. But that summer, I was relegated to weekends. It cost me a girlfriend or two.”
Lucien let Richie ramble, hoping the man would slip a nugget into the conversation about something relevant to Jane Doe. He decided Richie either loved to talk or was evading the subject of Gidget’s murder altogether. “Did you know a surfer named Zephyr?”
“Sure. Everyone knew Zeph. He was the best surfer around these parts. Everyone wanted to emulate his style, moves, and cool, low-key demeanor.”
“What were you doing the Saturday night before the murder? A sixteen-year-old out on the town. Watch out, right?”
Instead of laughing, Boomer took the implication to heart. With a no-nonsense look, he replied with a deadpan response. “I’d taken Tazzie Crossland to the movies, the one on Main Street. It’s now called The Driftwood. Afterward, we went to the Diner and grabbed a burger.”
“What movie did you see?”
“What? Uh, I don’t know. Uh, I think it was Jaws. Two. Look, I didn’t kill that girl. I never even talked to her.”
“Any idea who could’ve done something like that? In case you were curious, she was strangled.”
That panicked look crossed Richie’s face again. The easy-going Boomer morphed into a defensive annoyed Richie. “I didn’t kill anybody. I’d like you to leave now.”
Lucien stood up. “No need to get mad. I’m going.” He tried to hand Boomer a business card, but the guy refused to take it. “I’ll leave this outside on the porch. Call me if you think of anything of value from that summer.”
He left Boomer standing at the picture window in his living room with a dozen questions remaining. As he pulled away from the curb, he realized Boomer hadn’t been a wealth of information about anything—not Zephyr, not Gidget, and not the summer of 1978. Despite his laidback demeanor, Boomer had kept his answers non-specific and relatively general.
Lucien decided the man’s reluctance to talk would keep Richie Plunkett at the top of their suspect list.
Just after noonBrogan pulled up to Longboard’s and spotted Lucien’s truck already in the crowded parking lot. She had to hunt down a place to park. But seeing Lucien here meant he had a table waiting and probably had ordered her an iced tea. Interviewing Tazzie had been thirsty work.
She entered the restaurant to a lively crowd of people all talking at once. She studied the faces until she spotted Lucien toward the back, sitting inside a booth, and headed that way. She slid across from him and picked up the iced tea, gulping it down. “How come you didn’t text me?”
He told her about Eastlyn’s list. “I’ve been sitting here counting the names of people living here back in 1978. If you narrow the list to adult males, there are still so many to interview it could take us weeks to get through that list. How’d it go with Tazzie?”
