Sunset Beach(64)

“When I was moving into the cottage on Sunset Beach, I found some old newspaper clippings about the case, in a box of my mom’s things,” Drue said, carefully omitting the fact that she’d actually found what looked like the official Colleen Hicks police file.

“It was a big mystery, back in the day,” Zee said. “On the news every night.”

“Dad told me he went to high school with Colleen Boardman Hicks,” Drue said. “Did you know that?”

“Yeah, now that you say it, I do remember they went to school together. But I don’t think they were really friends.”

“Since you were a detective back then, did you work on the investigation?”

“It wasn’t my case, but I did some legwork. That’s been more than forty years ago.”

“Did you have a theory back then about what happened to Colleen Hicks?”

The truck stopped at a traffic light. Zee turned in his seat and stared.

“Why do you care?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Colleen Hicks had dinner with a friend one evening, what—less than a mile from where we work? And then she vanished.”

The light turned green and they were moving again. “Who knows? At the time, the theory was that she was mixed up in something shady.”

“What kind of shady stuff could she have been involved with? She was a dental hygienist, right?”

“Oh, little girl, you don’t want to know what all that gal was into. There were drugs missing from that dentist’s office she worked at. Maybe she was selling them, but we never could prove it. And we talked to people who said she and the husband were into some kinky stuff. You know what I mean?”

Drue felt herself blushing. “You mean they were swingers?”

“That was the rumor going around. Back then, that kind of stuff wasn’t talked about out in the open, like it is now. You couldn’t turn on the television and watch ten different porn channels in the privacy of your own home like you can now.”

“Do you think there’s a chance she’s still alive?” Drue asked.

“Maybe. Maybe she’s living the good life in Mexico. Don’t really care, to tell you the truth.”

Zee pulled the pickup alongside the curb outside the green stucco offices of Campbell, Coxe and Kramner. “Okay, kid. End of the line. Good luck with Wendy.”





30


July 1976

Sherri Campbell knew Brice was cheating on her again. She always knew, because for a cop, he really wasn’t that good at hiding the signs.

Which were the late-night phone calls, supposedly from his partner, Jimmy Zee; the hang-ups; and of course, duh! the nights he came home way after shift, smelling of scotch and the other woman’s perfume.

She’d met this particular woman once, when she’d had the nerve to walk into the real estate office where Sherri worked, ostensibly to ask about renting a beach cottage for her family’s vacation.

“Two-bedroom, Gulf-front, with a kitchen, because I like to cook, and a pool for the kids,” the woman said.

“No pets, right?” Sherri asked, studying the woman, who was Brice’s type for sure: petite, blond, big boobs, good legs. The blond was out of a bottle, but it was a good dye job, probably professional. She wore a lot of makeup, but somehow it didn’t make her look cheap. Nice clothes too. And a big, flashy engagement ring.

“No, no pets,” the woman assured her, in a baby-doll kind of voice.

Sherri took her time looking through the rental listings, glancing up occasionally to study the woman, who coolly returned her stare.

“How about this one?” Sherri handed over a color brochure for a cottage on Treasure Island. “It’s just a couple blocks from John’s Pass. Close to restaurants. And it has a patio and grill area.”

The woman pretended to study the listing. Sherri looked past her, at the orange Camaro parked outside at the curb.

She’d seen it—how many times? Three or four times, for sure, as it cruised slowly past the house on Brice’s bowling night, or afternoons he was out fishing with Jimmy Zee.

And she’d seen the Camaro up close too, the first time she’d followed Brice. She borrowed her cousin’s car that night, waited across the street from police headquarters, then followed him to that motel on Thirty-fourth Street North. She’d parked at a coffee shop beside the place and watched while Brice got out of his cruiser, whistling, walked into the office and came back out minutes later with a key, which he used on a unit at the end of the U-shaped complex. Ten minutes later, the orange Camaro pulled in and parked a discreet four cars away. That night, the woman wore spike heels and a short, tight black dress that looked like it had been spray-painted onto her. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when she was fucking another woman’s husband in a shitty motel room that rented by the hour. Not that Sherri had any experience in that kind of thing.

“Hmm,” the other woman was saying now. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this and see what my husband thinks. It looks cute, though.”

“It’s very cute,” Sherri said. “And it’s one of our most popular properties. If you think you might be interested, you should really put down a deposit today, Mrs.…?”