“There is a path here,” I observed, my gaze focused on the expansive view of sea and sky.
“Yes, there are a few unofficial paths, and really, it’s impossible to monitor, so we don’t even bother. Although visitors are warned not to swim over there.” Ellen motioned toward an area to our left, where the beach curved around at the end of the point. “The Beaufort inlet and ocean merge there, and there’s a jetty, so it can be quite dangerous. It isn’t even safe for wading. But a lot of shell hunters walk the beach in that area. Supposedly it’s the best place for that.”
“You’re not a shell collector?” I asked, gingerly picking my way through the hot, dry sand.
Ellen glanced at me as she adjusted her hat. “I’m not a collector of anything, except the art pieces I use to decorate my house. I did too much traveling when I was working, I guess. It’s hard to collect much random stuff when you don’t have a permanent home for many years.”
We’d reached the hard-packed sand near the water, which was blessedly cool against my bare feet. I paused for a moment, breathing in the heady scent of salt air, before following Ellen. “I can imagine. But I bet it was exciting, traveling all over the world when you were younger.”
“Sometimes. I enjoyed learning about new places and people. But it was exhausting too.” Ellen cast me a wry smile. “I wasn’t usually traveling to tourist destinations, you know. With location work, you can end up in all sorts of out-of-the-way areas.”
“Dangerous?” I asked, my gaze captured by a sand dollar half buried in the sand.
“Occasionally.” Ellen stopped walking as I bent down and lifted the fragile white disk from the ground. “Ah, a whole one. That’s rare. I usually only find bits and pieces.”
I gently shook the sand off the shell before carefully slipping it between the tissues I’d stuffed in the outside pouch of my purse. “It’s good luck, I hope. I could use some of that right now.” As I pulled my fingers away, they slid across the bulge of the suede journal I’d stored in the main section of the purse.
“I’m not much for superstitions, but I suppose it is considered lucky.” Ellen turned her head to look out over the ocean.
I followed her gaze, staring at the darker blue ribbon of water that separated the clear sky from the rest of the greenish-gray sea. The waves were low, rolling in gently instead of crashing, but still stirring up a froth of white foam along the shore.
“It’s so amazing to think how it just goes on and on,” I said, staring at the horizon. “You have to wonder at the sheer bravado of the earliest sailors, just heading for that edge, never knowing where it would lead.”
“Especially since some of them thought they might fall off,” Ellen said dryly. She turned to me. “Now—I believe you wanted to talk through some ideas you had about who might have killed the unfortunate Mr. Delamont?”
“Yes.” I considered sharing the journal and photo first but decided that could wait. “I suppose there’s really nothing I can add to the investigation that the police haven’t, or won’t, uncover, but it just helps to talk it out. Especially since some of the people involved …”
“Are your friends?” Ellen sent me a sidelong glance. “You and Julie Rivera are close, I believe.”
“We are. And I confess that part of my urge to investigate this murder is so I can clear her from any suspicion.” I detailed Julie’s hidden connection to Lincoln Delamont as we strolled along, the lacy edge of water lapping at our feet. “The truth is, she mentioned having some secret boyfriend, but she never told me his name, even though apparently they’d been engaged in a relationship for a while. Mostly online, but still.”
Ellen grabbed the brim of her hat as the breeze blew it back. “She was probably afraid you’d judge her, since Delamont was legally still married.”
“She should’ve known I wouldn’t have, although I might have warned her that she was being foolish—”
“Hmmm, that sounds a bit judgy to me.” Ellen flashed me a bright smile before continuing. “But aside from that, do you really think she has the temperament to stab someone?”
“Not really. Except maybe in self-defense. I have wondered if Lincoln might have asked her to meet him at the carriage house and she was, oh, I don’t know, worried for her own safety.” Ishrugged. “It seems he’d been physically aggressive with her once or twice before, and I can picture him becoming quite abusive if he didn’t get his way.”
Ellen thrust her hands into the pockets of her sundress. “But can you picture Julie staying with such a man after he did anything drastic? Even if it was a newish relationship and she was still giving him the benefit of the doubt?”
“Not really. Not for long. Although she did put up with some stuff that I … well, never mind,” I said, not wanting to completely betray Julie’s confidences. Ellen and I had hit a patch of saturated sand that made my feet sink in with each step. I had a momentary, irrational flash of fear, as if I’d just stumbled into quicksand, and moved a few paces away from the water, where the ground felt firmer. “And then there’s the other side of the triangle.”
“Yes, Jennifer Delamont. The wronged wife.” Ellen joined me on the firmer sand. “Given what you’ve said, I expect it wasn’t the first time she’d uncovered her husband’s infidelity.”
I couldn’t let that pass. “Julie swears they weren’t actually having an affair.”
“Yet.” Ellen stood still and turned to me. “But I’m sure that was only because Julie is sensible, not that Delamont was honorable.”
“Probably,” I admitted. “Anyway, Jennifer does seem to have been beaten down by that marriage. If she had to endure a lot of betrayal over the years, I suppose she could’ve snapped. Alicia actually heard them fighting the evening before Lincoln was killed. As did Kelly Rowley, come to think of it.”
“Then there’s the daughter, who was angry over her father’s refusal to support her dreams of stardom.” Ellen glanced over atme. “You of all people should understand how dramatic everything can feel at her age. I’m sure you saw plenty of students acting out over similar things.”
“Yes, but the idea that she murdered her own father …” I straightened and thrust back my shoulders before relaying the story of the discovery of the fake purple gem in the azaleas. “I have a hard time imagining Tara stabbing anyone, but there is proof she was near that area at some point in the evening.”
“And could have lost that trinket in a struggle,” Ellen said.
“Possibly.”
