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“And?”
She shuffled through Gidget’s scant file folder until she picked up the autopsy report. “The coroner speculates that Gidget was likely killed sometime around midnight. The body had been lying where they found her for at least six hours. Something about rigidity, lividity, rigor mortis.”
She pivoted back to Lucien and made a face. “That’s important. If we don’t narrow down the timeframe, we’ll never be able to get a murder charge to stick, not for anyone. The most we might get is a confession from someone with a guilty conscience. And even that’s a long shot.”
“Not to mention depressing. I don’t see Zephyr knocking on our door to confess. Or Tazzie. Or Richie.”
“Maybe Tazzie and Richie were witnesses.”
“Then why not just say so?”
Brogan let out a frustrated sigh and plopped into a chair. “Who are we kidding? You were right. We need to find DNA from the girl’s clothing. And if the lab doesn’t find usable DNA from her, we may never know who she is. We’re basically spinning our wheels, irritating most of our neighbors in the process, and making enemies out of perfect strangers. Until the exhumation reveals a clue, we’re stuck.”
“Do you think Vera Lockhart, or whoever she was, had something to do with Gidget’s death?”
“I wouldn’t rule her out,” Brogan said, taking another slug from her glass. “She’s the mystery woman who kept a body in her bedroom. That tells me she’s capable of anything.”
In response, Lucien added Vera’s name to the whiteboard along with Jimbo ‘Tolkien’ Meadows. “Until we eliminate the dead suspects, we keep them on the list.”
“Sounds reasonable enough. Just don’t forget to add the living ones. Dennis Marshall and Leon Gilbert or Gibson are right there in the mix. That should be our priority, trying to background these surfers. All of them are suspects until they’re not. We don’t need to dig suspects out of their holes for once. They’re crawling out of the woodwork right in front of us.”
The doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“Not me. Maybe it’s the neighborhood watch calling for our heads,” Brogan suggested. She motioned with her glass toward Lucien. “You get it. I’m still slowly appreciating my wine. You, on the other hand, downed yours.”
Lucien rolled his eyes and headed down the hallway to the foyer. He stopped to check the doorbell cam, then yelled back toward the kitchen, “It’s Beckett.”
From the porch, Beckett hollered, “What is this? Fort Knox?”
He threw open the door and tossed back, “Can’t be too careful. We made a few enemies today with our inquiries.”
Beckett stepped inside the house. “That’s what happens when you visit neighbors and accuse people of murder.”
“Word got out already, huh?”
When the two joined Brogan in the kitchen, Beckett eyed the wine. “It’s not even four o’clock yet.”
“What’s your point?” Brogan joked, pouring herself another glass. “It’s happy hour somewhere. It’s been a rough two days. Want a beer?”
“Always my cocktail of choice.”
Lucien went to the fridge, removed a bottle, and twisted off the cap. “Commiserate with us in our failure.”
Beckett smiled and took a seat at the table. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. You can’t expect to solve a murder this old within a couple of days.”
“Where’s your better half?” Brogan wanted to know.
“Kelly is out planting kelp on the other side of the bay—Jade’s assisting. I dropped by because Birk has decided to put out feelers to his associates. He wanted you to know.”
Lucien poured himself another glass of wine. “Okay. But what feelers are we talking about?”
“Well, you know Birk. Since Keegan mentioned that Vera said she’d once lived in Kansas, he’s decided to start there. He’s looking for a male who went missing around 1969 from that general vicinity.”
Brogan lifted her glass. “That’s great and all, but Kansas is a big place. What are the chances Vera—not her real name—lied about living there?”
“Birk’s taken that into account. He’s expanded his search to the surrounding states. It’ll take time. Meanwhile, he’s looking for the real Vera in the same general area.”
