On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3) by Melanie Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

was nearing my limits of patience and caffeine intake, so I decided one more stop and then I was turning back.
    The hamlet of Derrymoor , population 126, was a mix of architectural styles but with the commonality of steeply pitched roofs and sullen colored buildings without much exterior decoration. There were also a lot of churches, though none seemed prosperous. Nor was there a school or a library. It wasn’t exactly down in the heels, but it wasn’t trying hard to attract tourists. There wasn’t a visitors’ center. There wasn’t even a welcome sign.
    I hesitated, needing to talk myself into stopping and not just making a U-turn in the narrow thoroughfare. So, it probably wasn’t Sodom. It wasn’t even Duluth. But people still lived there, just maybe not people I wanted to know. And this would be my last stop, then I would go home and forget all about trying to do Bryson’s job for him.
    I sighed as I pulled into the diner’s small lot and got out of the rental car. I was pretty sure—and not because I had grown suddenly psychic—that I wasn’t going to find anything I liked there. No one who had any choice would want to live here and every tale I heard would be a grim one. But it was on my route and had to be checked, so I would tap a few studs and have a cup of tea before moving on. My reasons for this quest had grown dark at the margins as my anger at the dream faded and everyday reality reasserted itself .
    The woman behind the counter in the empty coffee shop was hunched over and scowling, and she moved like she was walking into a strong and bitter headwind that had chapped her skin and given a constant squint to her eyes. She also smelled of eau de bathroom cleaner and was cuddling a dirty ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette that smoldered sullenly. Her less than effervescent personality was a good match for the faded décor which would have made a mortuary look lively.
    “Hello.” My voice wasn’t peppy either. I had lost my enthusiasm about forty miles and two towns back.
    She stared long enough that I wondered if she was giving me the evil eye. When she finally spoke, her voice was predictably dry and raspy.
    “You looking for Tom?” she asked me.
    I blinked but missed only half a beat before answering.
    “How’d you guess?” I asked.
    She stared at my nose but didn’t comment on it. It was kind of nice that though she saw the family resemblance, she didn’t seem to know any family history.
    “He said someone might come. Didn’t know he had any family left after his cousin died. High time someone showed up.” She sniffed disapprovingly.
    This time I didn’t blink, though I said a silent prayer of thanks for the distinctive Wendover features that seemed to be giving me permission to walk right into a stranger’s life and not be questioned.
    “We aren’t as close as we should be,” I said. “But I’m trying to change that.”
    “You better be close enough to pay his back rent. Laura Kingman is pissed that he just up and left. Another week and she’s throwing his stuff in the gutter. She won’t keep that moral imbecile’s things without pay.”
    Moral imbecile. That was an old term for a sociopath. I could feel the hairs raising at the base of my neck. Was she serious, or was this normal vitriol?
    “We’re close enough for that,” I assured her. “Where would I find Mrs. Kingman?”
    “Across the street. Single story gray house with black shutters. Knock loud. She’s kind of hard of hearing.”
    “Thanks.”
    My heart was pounding as I crossed the street. No matter what was waiting, it would answer some of the puzzle. I hoped—actually I didn’t know what I hoped. That Tom was really Kelvin? But surely that would mean he was dead and I couldn’t want that.
    Of course I had thought him dead before and not minded so much—it was just that the idea that he had been nearby all this time and we could have met.…
    So, did I want the missing Tom to be some kind of illegitimate