Reading Up a Storm by Eva Gates Page A

signal might be.
    I could only hope that Detective Watson hadn’t picked up on it.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?” Connor asked.
    â€œWhat do you do when someone tells you something in deepest confidence, but then you discover that that secret might influence an important legal matter?”
    â€œI guess it depends on how important the matter is. And how much influence the secret has on it,” he said. “I’m sure you know that not informing the authorities about information relevant to a police investigation amounts to withholding evidence. Which is a felony, particularly in a murder case.”
    â€œWho said anything about murder?”
    He smiled. “Regardless of the situation, you’ll do the right thing, Lucy. I’m here to support you, if you need it.”
    I felt the weight lift off my shoulders, if only a fraction. “Thank you, Connor.”
    The house Will and Marlene had rented was typical Nags Head beach style. Four stories tall, long and thin, painted a pale peach. Huge windows with baby blue trim were on every level, as well as a jumble of balconies and outdoor staircases. On the second and third levelssmall balconies faced the street, occupied by chairs painted to match the color of the window trim. The fourth floor had dormer windows nestled into steep-peaked gables. In place of a front garden, a concrete pad for cars filled the space in front of the double garage that dominated the lower level.
    Watson had parked in the street and he was already standing on the top step, pressing the doorbell, when Connor and I arrived. We climbed the steps to stand next to him. Watson alternately leaned on the bell and hammered on the door.
    â€œShe might not be in. Do you have her phone number, Connor?” Watson asked.
    Connor shook his head. “Only his. Did Will have his phone with him when he was found?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo use then,” Connor said.
    â€œYou two stay here. I’m going around back. If she’s outside she might not hear the door.” He was halfway down the steps when we heard footsteps and a muffled female voice said, “Who is it?”
    â€œMarlene? It’s Connor McNeil. We met yesterday. I’m with Detective Watson of the Nags Head Police. We need to speak with you.”
    The door flew open, and Marlene blinked at us through sleepy eyes. She was dressed in a short white silk nightgown trimmed with pink lace and her feet were bare, showing bright red toenails. The skin on her left cheek still carried the impression of a pillow, her hair was a rat’s nest, and her face was clean of makeup. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”
    â€œMay we come in?” Watson said.
    She saw Connor and me standing slightly behind him. “Will isn’t here. I don’t know where he’s gone. I’m still in bed.”
    â€œIt’s you I’m here to see, Marlene,” Watson said.
    She said nothing to that but stepped back, and we entered the house. “Would you like a coffee or something?”
    â€œThat would be nice. Thank you,” Watson said.
    Marlene led the way upstairs to the main level, which was completely open plan. The kitchen was the type of modern kitchen that’s so high-tech, it looked as though no one ever cooked anything in it. There were gleaming steel appliances, a marble backsplash, granite countertops, a spotless hardwood floor, red walls, and red accents. Four red leather stools were lined up to the counter separating the kitchen from the living area. A couple of empty wine bottles and a box of crumpled and discarded beer cans were on the floor in a corner, and several dirty glasses were in the sink.
    The rich red hardwood flooring extended into the rest of the room, where the furniture consisted of solid wood tables and plush red-and-white couches and chairs. A giant TV filled the wall over the fireplace, and gossip and fashion magazines were stacked on