Sunset Beach(39)

He glanced over at his daughter. “Will your knee be okay? If we walk?”

“Should be. I met a physical therapist on the beach this weekend. He taped up my knee for stabilization, and it already feels better.” She had to quicken her step to catch up with him. One thing she had to say for Brice, he in no way seemed like a man in his late sixties. His belly was flat, his face relatively unlined and he had an enviable level of energy. She wondered if he and Wendy did couples Botox sessions.

The place was called D’Italia, and Brice was treated as a minor celebrity. A server brought two martinis as soon as they were seated. “The usual, right?” asked the server, a trim Hispanic kid with a soul patch and nose ring.

Drue pushed her martini across the table to her father. “Could I have a glass of chardonnay, please?” she asked.

“Oh sure, whatever,” the waiter said, nodding.

“What’s the usual?”

“Pizza Bianca D’Italia,” Brice said. “You’ll love it. They do a great one here.”

She would have liked to order from a menu, but before she could request one, their server was headed back toward the kitchen.

“So,” Brice said, “Wendy tells me you’re, uh, struggling on the phones.”

“Let’s not talk about it, okay?” Drue said.

“If you’re not happy in your job, that’s something I need to know about,” Brice said.

“I’m fine. Really. It’s a steep learning curve, but I’ll get it.”

“You’re a bright girl. I’ve always said that.” Brice gave her an indulgent smile. “My brains and your mom’s temperament.”

When the pizza arrived, steaming and fragrant, Brice took the pizza wheel, lifted a gooey slice and plopped it onto her plate. She looked down at it, sniffed and pointed. “Are those anchovies? Tell me they’re not anchovies.”

“Of course they’re anchovies,” Brice said. “What kind of pizza bianca comes without anchovies?”

“The only kind I’ll eat,” Drue said pointedly.

Brice’s face fell. “I wish you’d told me that before I ordered.”

“You didn’t give me a chance,” she said.

Brice rolled his eyes and summoned the server again. “Bring this lady a menu, please,” he said.

Drue held up her empty glass. “And another one of these.”



* * *



“How are things coming along at the cottage?” Brice asked, as dinner was winding down.

“The cottage is good,” Drue said, trying to force herself to relax. She didn’t understand her constant need to challenge or confront her father. “Thanks for giving me all that furniture from your storage unit.”

“I hope you took a lot of that old stuff that was originally your grandparents’. I was holding on to it for Sherri, but I think she probably forgot it was here.”

“Yeah, Mom wasn’t much into interior design,” Drue agreed. “Most of the pieces I took I remembered from when Nonni and Papi were alive. I got a bunch of boxes of kitchen stuff too, which will really come in handy.”

“I’m glad,” Brice said. “I should just donate the rest of that crap in the unit to charity for a tax deduction. No way Wendy’s ever gonna let any of it back in the house.”

Drue allowed herself a wicked smile. “Can’t say I blame her. That was some seriously bat-cave-looking furniture you had going there.”

“From my BW days,” Brice agreed. “‘Before Wendy.’”

“Hey Dad,” Drue said suddenly. “Who was Colleen Boardman Hicks?”

“Who?” Brice took a gulp of his martini.

“Colleen Boardman Hicks. I found some old newspaper clippings Mom had apparently saved about her disappearance from way back in 1976.”

For some reason, she deliberately avoided mention of the case binder she’d also discovered.

Brice repeated the name aloud, slowly. “Wow, I haven’t thought about her in a long, long time.”

“Why would Mom have saved those old newspaper stories?” Drue asked. “Was she a friend of hers? Did you guys know her?”

Her father helped himself to another slice of pizza. “I knew Colleen from high school, but I don’t think your mother ever met her.”

“Weird. She disappeared while you were still on the police force, right? Was that a case you worked on?”

“Me? No. I was never a detective. Just a lowly street cop.”

“Whatever happened with the case? Did she ever turn up?”

“Not that I know of,” Brice said.

He checked his watch. “You want another glass of wine? If not, I should probably be getting home to look after Princess.”

“I’m done,” she said, then hesitated. “Speaking of cold cases, Jazmin Mayes?”

Brice’s expansive mood darkened. “Christ! That again. If you’re going to get emotionally attached to every hard-luck story that comes down the pike, maybe you better cut your losses now and find another line of work.”

“Emotionally attached? Is it wrong to feel empathy for somebody who’s obviously been injured—or killed—through no fault of their own?”