Free Death Rides the Surf by Nora charles

she had neither the time nor the inclination to speak to him. The relentless rain kept falling, drenching her baseball cap and sweat suit.
    “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I was down in Key Largo following up a lead. But I’m calling about Jon Michael Tyler’s death. Another piece of his surfboard washed up on shore yesterday and the preliminary lab tests show some strange results. We’re doing more tests and we’re opening up a homicide investigation. I need to speak to Katharine.”

Sixteen
    Marlene glanced at the clock. It was 8:20. Damn. She rolled over, knowing she’d never get back to sleep.
    Kate had called around eleven thirty last night to let her know that Katharine had come home. So Marlene, relieved, had watched Laura until two thirty, glad she knew it by heart, because those three martinis had clouded her concentration. After she’d fallen asleep she kept waking up, almost every hour on the hour. Something had been nagging her. Something Florita Flannigan said about Sam Meyers, the fourth boardsman. The surfer they’d seen, but never met. The only one, except for her grandson, Florita had seemed to respect. Maybe Sam would know why Roberto and Jon Michael went surfing at midnight. And, just maybe, Sam knew what had happened in Acapulco.
    She bolted out of bed. Why not let Kate and Katharine have some time alone? Marlene was not often selfless, but hell, she had other plans for today anyway. Truth be told, she could use another day away from Katharine who was depressed and depressing. Not to mention that any minute the girl might drop a bombshell about her Auntie Marlene’s past. And a drive with the top down—of course, it would have to stop raining—might clear the cobwebs. Maybe last night she had downed four martinis, not three.
    Marlene had always believed the difference between a drinker and a drunk was how they preformed the morning after. To prove her theory, she’d dragged herself through some major-league hangovers. This one was minor.
    She’d get herself dressed and head up to Palm Beach County to visit Sam in his granny’s trailer. Granny Meyers couldn’t be any less hospitable than Granny Flannigan, could she? Now what would Harriet Vane wear?
     
    The sun came out as Marlene hit Deerfield Beach. Bright, beautiful, comforting. She put the white ’57 Chevy’s top down, then sang along with her Tony Bennett CD and lit a Virginia Slim. Still sneaking cigarettes at sixty-eight, she’d gotten more grief for smoking at sixty-six than she had at sixteen. So, a three-pack-a-day smoker for over fifty years, she’d lied when she swore she’d quit. She’d cut back, but what she did in the privacy of her home and car was nobody’s business.
    She figured Kate knew the truth and had decided to ignore Marlene’s dirty little habit as long as she didn’t flaunt it. Kate had overlooked most of Marlene’s faults for decades on end. A wave of guilt consumed her. Damn. Why hadn’t she filled her flask? Hair of the dog would be good about now. She wondered if Granny Meyers might be a drinking woman.
    As she crossed into Palm Beach County, the grass got greener and stood up straighter. The Boca Raton condo strip ranged from ornate to palatial. During the last four decades of the twentieth century, some impressive and costly condominiums—the more French the name of the building, the more expensive its apartments—had been constructed along A1A in Boca. But that was BT. Before Trump. Some of his tower’s apartments went for twenty-seven million dollars. A world gone mad, though this season, there was a glut of condos; it was becoming a buyers’ market for the first time in years.
    The light traffic in the one-lane road going north made the drive a breeze. She savored the ocean to her right and the mansions to her left as she approached her destination. To say a trailer park located on A1A in Palm Beach County, minutes from the city of Palm Beach, was an oddity would be an