Free Killer Colada: a Danger Cove Cocktail Mystery by Sibel Hodge, Elizabeth Ashby

Tim. I don't think he liked it if she was out of his sight. In the last few months before she disappeared, whenever she was at home, she was moody and withdrawn. Something was on her mind. I'm sure. Something that was worrying her. She was probably working out how to break it off with Tim without causing too many problems."
    "Was Tim ever violent toward her?"
    "I don't think so. I never saw any bruises or anything. But I think he was jealous and controlling, and that's why she was going to break up with him that night. And yes, I don't think Tim wanted her to take that job in Seattle."
    "Do you think she was afraid of him?"
    "I doubt it. Not seriously, anyway, otherwise she wouldn't have gone to meet him that night alone, would she?" He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they were glistening with unshed tears. "But it's easy to underestimate people. She should've been afraid. Even though we could never prove it, I'm sure he killed her. He couldn't stand the fact that she was leaving him, and probably lost his temper and somehow got rid of her body with no one ever finding it."
    He continued looking through the sketches, a tear visibly snaking down his cheek. I left him to his grief and searched the rest of the drawers. I found a box file and pulled it out, sitting and resting it on my lap as I flicked through financial papers inside.
    According to Pandora's checking account statements, she made very few withdrawals and lived frugally, which I guessed was how you'd expect a recluse to live. It looked as if she hadn't updated her furniture or home with modern items, and if she hardly went out of the house, then I couldn't imagine her doing much shopping. There were also statements from her savings accounts, and I calculated that she had around two million dollars when she died. Underneath Pandora's accounts were some old-looking bank statements, yellowed with age, the print from an old dot-matrix printer faded. The name on the account was Jenna Williams. The last statement was dated two years after she'd disappeared. Attached to it was a letter from the bank saying the account had been closed. Well, that answered one of my questions.
    I flicked back through them, searching for evidence of withdrawals or deposits after July 4 twenty years ago, but there were none. Wherever Jenna had gone, she hadn't used her bank account. And she hadn't withdrawn any significant amounts of money from it prior to disappearing. After putting them back, I looked in the last drawer but found nothing that could be a clue. I closed it, and Ian put the sketches back into the folder.
    "I haven't found anything yet that might help us," I said.
    "Neither have I," Vernon called out from the dining room. 
    We headed for the kitchen. I was half expecting Pandora's body to still be as we'd found it the other day. But, of course, that was ridiculous. The chair she'd been sitting on was still lying on the floor. The glasses had been removed, along with the bottle of rum, the syringe wrapper, and the vial.
    Ian glanced around the room. "Everything is just the same as when I left. It's like stepping into a time warp." He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to hold back more tears.
    It was true. The countertops were chipped and peeling, the freestanding stove looked as if it was on its last legs.
    Pandora's purse hung from a hook behind the door. Ian went through it, finding her wallet, complete with a hundred and fifty-two dollars inside, a credit card, a packet of tissues, a comb, a slim book on crystals, and a few loose toothpicks. At least if her wallet was still here, it could definitely rule out a burglary of any kind as a motive for her murder. And I very much doubted a thief would've wanted to steal the old TV. Nothing seemed to have been searched or rifled through by a thief, either.
    As Ian and Vernon searched closets, I opened a drawer of cutlery, but there was nothing of interest. The next drawer down held some dishcloths, a diary,