A High-End Finish(80)

And that made me more single-minded than ever in my quest to find the damn killer. Because until he was caught, my love life, such as it was, was going nowhere.

? ? ?

I spent a few sleepless nights worrying about my gloves and the killer who’d used them. One night I sat up in bed, turned on the light, and stared at my hands. They’re not bad-looking, I thought. Small, feminine, despite the kind of work I did.

But the point was, I had small hands. Whoever had used my gloves to throttle Jennifer had to have small hands, too. My mind kept returning to Whitney, but it wasn’t a viable theory. She was a bitch and I think she wore that title proudly, but she wouldn’t have committed murder. It would ruin her manicure.

“Meow,” I muttered, and smiled when Tiger hopped onto the bed and settled down next to me. I checked that Robbie had tucked himself into his doggie bed and all was right with his world. Then I fluffed my pillow, turned out the light, and fell back asleep.

? ? ?

Two days later, Jennifer was still in a coma and I was reaching the end of my rope. I ran into Tommy, who, despite my gentle requests, wouldn’t spill a damn word about the case. I was still losing sleep, the police wouldn’t talk to me, and I needed answers.

I had tried to picture Penny wearing my gloves and wielding my tools, but I couldn’t see it. She was too nice and too new to town to want to kill anyone.

I knew what I had to do. I had to go forward with my original plan to talk to Whitney. For a different reason than before, of course. Now I wondered if she knew why Jennifer had become a target all of a sudden. Did Jennifer know something about the killer? Had she shared it with Whitney? Jennifer and Whitney were best friends and confided in each other their deepest, bitchiest secrets. If anyone knew who had hurt Jennifer, it was Whitney.

And since I didn’t believe that Whitney had anything to do with the murders, I was safe talking to her—at least physically. Psychologically, I could be damaged for life. We were still talking about the evil Queen of Mean, after all.

But a positive way to look at it was that between Whitney and me, we knew everyone in Lighthouse Cove. I was close to the townies, while Whitney had her finger on the pulse of everything going on with the wealthy homeowners and rich tourists.

Once again, I prepared for the confrontation by making myself look really good. Hair, makeup, pretty clothes—the works. But when I pulled to the curb across the street and a few houses down from her place, I had second thoughts. Who could blame me? Maybe they were even third thoughts. I asked myself again: Am I absolutely certain Whitney isn’t the killer?

“You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered. I reached for the door handle, then stopped. Was I doing the right thing? Maybe it was time to call Eric and ask him to join me.

“Oh, right.” After all of his admonitions, he would sooner send a patrol car to arrest me than join me here at the Gallagher home to grill Tommy’s wife about her best friend.

As I was sitting in my car, arguing with myself, Whitney’s garage door opened. I froze. Was she going somewhere? The door took its sweet time before it opened all the way and Whitney drove out in her shiny black Jaguar. My gray truck was innocuous enough that she didn’t seem to notice it was parked in front of her neighbor’s house. The Jaguar’s windows were tinted, but I could see someone sitting next to her in the passenger’s seat.

Curious, I waited until they got to the end of the block and then I made a U-turn and followed them out to the Old Cove Highway, where they turned south. It was a beautiful if narrow and winding drive along the Alisal Cliffs. To the west, perched atop the cliffs, were more of the grand Victorians that made our little town famous. They overlooked the stretch of sandy beach below, and the rocky outcroppings and choppy blue ocean beyond.

Skirting the east side of the highway was a steeply wooded ravine. At the bottom was a pretty creek that overflowed every winter with clean, icy water, thanks to a tributary of the Eel River that got its start up in the snowy Mendocino National Forest, northeast of Potter Valley.

I followed behind Whitney at a good distance, catching sight of her every now and then along the winding road. She traveled another four miles, and if I had blinked I would’ve missed seeing her swerve to the right onto a pitted gravel road that led to the ocean.

I recognized this spot. Barnacle Beach. Back in high school, we used to drive out here every summer to go to the beach. It was more private than our local beaches in town and therefore more attractive to teenagers for parties and dates. It had been rumored that smoking and drinking occurred out here. Or so I’d heard. I certainly had never taken part in any of those activities. No more than five or six times, anyway.

Wood stairs had been built into the side of the cliff that led down to the beach. There were caves here, too. I had been inside a few of them and had spent one memorable day exploring one of the deepest, darkest caves with Tommy.

At high tide, ocean water would fill them completely within minutes. Over the years, a few people had been drowned and washed out to sea. Parents always warned their children never to set foot inside the Alisal Caves, but what kid ever listened to advice like that?

Whitney came to a stop on the rutted gravel road a few yards from the edge of the cliff. I parked my truck behind a thicket of pine trees about a hundred yards back from where the Jaguar stopped and waited to see what would happen next.

Whitney and her passenger both got out of the car and faced each other. From where I stood, it looked like they were yelling. Her passenger was a woman, but I had to focus hard to see her face. Unfortunately, my vision wasn’t quite back to normal, thanks to that thump on my head. I didn’t notice the problem too much anymore unless I really had to work at it, like now. It didn’t help that I was staring into the setting sun, either.