Free The Cove by Catherine Coulter

he’d found himself in a shop filled with modern prints that gave him indigestion. “It seems every time I come here, it just keeps looking better and better. How about that?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Quinlan said. “I’m from L.A.”
    â€œYou live here, Ms. Brandon? If you do, you’ve got to be the youngest sprout within the town limits, although there’s something of a subdivision growing over near the highway. Don’t know why folks would want to live near the highway. They don’t come into The Cove except for ice cream, leastwises that’s what I hear.”
    â€œNo, Sheriff. I’m visiting my aunt. Just a short vacation. I’m from Missouri.”
    Sheriff Mountebank wrote that down in his book, then sat back, scratched his knees, and said, “The medical examiner’s over at Doc Spiver’s house checking out the dead woman. She’d been in the water a good while, at least eight hours, I’d say.”
    â€œI know when she died,” Sally said.
    The sheriff merely smiled at her and waited. It was a habit of his, just waiting, and sure enough, everything he ever wanted to hear would pop out of a person’s mouth just to fill in the silence.
    He didn’t have to wait long this time because Susan Brandon couldn’t wait to tell him about the screams, about how her aunt had convinced her it was just the wind that first night, but last night she’d known—just known—it was a woman screaming, a woman in pain, and then that last scream, well, someone had killed her.
    â€œWhat time was that? Do you remember, Ms. Brandon?”
    â€œIt was around 2:05 in the morning, Sheriff. That’s when my aunt went along with me and called Reverend Vorhees.”
    â€œShe called Hal Vorhees?”
    â€œYes. She said he was just about the youngest man and the most physically able. He brought over three elderly men with him. They searched but couldn’t find anything.”
    â€œThat was probably the same group that’s over at Doc Spiver’s. They were all just sitting around looking at each other. This kind of thing hits a small town like The Cove real hard.”
    David Mountebank took down their names. He said without preamble, without softening, “Why are you wearing a black wig, Ms. Brandon?”
    Without pause she said, “I’m having chemotherapy, Sheriff. I’m nearly bald.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œThat’s all right.”
    At that moment, Quinlan knew he would never again underestimate Sally Brainerd. He wasn’t particularly surprised that the sheriff could tell it was a wig. She was frankly ludicrous in that black-as-sin wig that made her look like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. No, she was even paler than Elvira. He was impressed that the sheriff had asked her about the wig. Just maybe there’d be a prayer of finding out who the woman was and who had killed her. He could see that David Mountebank wasn’t stupid.
    â€œDoc Spiver thinks this is all a tragic accident,” the sheriff said, writing with his pencil on his pad even as he spoke.
    James said, “The good doctor is nearly blind. He could have just as easily been examining the table leg and not the dead woman.”
    â€œWell, it appears the doctor admitted that readily enough. He said he just couldn’t imagine who could have killed her, not unless it was someone from the outside. That means beyond Highway 101A. The four other fellows there didn’t know a blessed thing. I guess they were there for moral support. Now, Mr. Quinlan, you’re here on business?”
    Quinlan told him about the old couple he was looking for. He didn’t say anything about the townspeople lying to him.
    â€œOver three years ago,” the sheriff said, looking at one of Amabel’s paintings over Sally’s head, this one all pale yellows and creams and nearly blueless blues, no shape or reason to any