Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was late afternoon when Nancy and Frank left the police station. There was a distinct lightness to their mood. They had reason to be hopeful. Frank held the newspaper article in his hand. The newspaper article about the first wife, the one who had fallen off the ladder.

And Nancy had something in her handbag. The photo – and article – of the second wife and husband.

It had taken Nancy's help to locate the photo and article. She and the police tech in charge of the search had sat at his computer for close to two hours scouring news reports from nearby towns and cities. Nancy had insisted on starting five years ago and working forward in time. That was the key, she'd told the tech. Anything older than five years wouldn't fit Mr. Graves' story.

The police tech had cast a doubtful glance at Nancy. She wasn't part of the police department, she was merely a lowly private investigator. But Gosling's orders had been to follow Nancy's advice and the police tech did.

Nancy was soon proven correct. The tech found an article and photo in a newspaper dated four years ago. Nancy wrote the name of the town in her notepad and asked the tech if he'd heard of the place.

"Sure," he'd said, "it's about two hundred miles inland from here."

An idea had suddenly occurred to Nancy. It had hit her with the physical sensation of an electric shock. It was an idea she hadn't considered before and gave voice to, "If people in that town wanted a seaside vacation where would they go?"

A slow smile had spread across the tech's face as he'd turned his head toward Nancy. "Here," he'd said. "Probably at the Palms Resort. The resort was here back then. Just owned by different people."

Just owned by different people.

Was it possible, Nancy had wondered, had the killer come back to the same resort to kill again? He certainly would not have had to worry about being recognized. The Palms was under new management now.

Nancy found this an intriguing theory. Killers, she knew, tended to use the same method of killing. Was it possible this killer preferred killing in the same place? Was there, perhaps, something more, some symbolism. He wanted to kill two newly wed wives at the same location.

"The Palms is a nice place," the tech was saying. "Has a good reputation. I hear it can be hard to get a bungalow in the summer months. You know, June through August. But you guys being here in May is good. You don't have to fight the crowds."

Nancy had smiled at the tech. He was young, charming, and eager to please. "Yes, Frank and I are very happy with the Palms. It's a lovely place. Right on the beach. We've talked about coming back one day. Um, without a murder, er, murders to solve."

The tech had chuckled at that. "Yeah, these murders have probably put a damper on your vacation."

Nancy had pursed her lips and nodded demurely. "A bit, but I think we're closing in on the killer. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a printout of this article and photo."

"Yes, ma'am."

# # # #

Nancy and Frank stood outside the police station and pondered their next move.

Frank squinted in the harsh afternoon sun. "I have a suggestion," he said.

Nancy put on her sunglasses. "I'm all ears."

"How 'bout we try out that Mexican restaurant, the one Bridget and Bruce recommended. We can go over these newspaper articles there. Personally, I'd prefer to discuss the case somewhere other than in the Palms Resort dining room."

Nancy's lips parted in an enchanting smile. "I agree and I wouldn't mind having a margarita. Didn't Bridget say they were delicious?"

Frank gave a short laugh. "She did and I wouldn't mind having one myself."

Nancy moved closer to Frank. He bent and kissed her lightly, chastely, on the lips. They were outside the police station and he didn't want to create a scene. Not that Frank Hardy would ever create a scene. In reality, it was that he held a reverence for police stations and the police in general. He, himself, had been in law enforcement work of some type for most of his life.

"The restaurant's not far from here," he said. "We can walk to it."

"Fine by me," Nancy said and hooked an arm through one of Frank's.

They headed off at a brisk pace. Nancy had the impression that Frank had planned this. He must have looked up the restaurant's location while she was working with the police tech. She liked that about Frank. He was always planning ahead.

Fifteen minutes later Nancy and Frank were seated in a corner booth of the restaurant. It was quaint and authentic. Hand-woven blankets and other Mexican curios decorated the walls. Nancy liked the place immediately. The atmosphere was inviting and warm, the wait staff welcoming and friendly.

Chips and salsa were promptly deposited on Nancy's and Frank's table. The Hispanic waitress took their drink order – two margaritas – and departed.

Nancy dipped a chip in the salsa the waitress had identified as 'mild' and took a bite. "Mmmm."

"Good?" Frank asked as he reached for a chip.

"Very fresh. I'd say it's homemade."

Frank dipped his chip in the hot salsa and took a bite. Nancy saw his eyes light up.

"Hot?" she asked.

"Hot but good. Very good." Frank liked foods with a little more zip and heat than Nancy did.

"It's all yours then," she said.

"You don't even want to try a little? One teeny, tiny taste?" Frank joked.

"Nope, it's all yours. And don't blame me later if you get heartburn."

"Heartburn? When have I ever gotten heartburn?"

Nancy cocked her head and thought. After a second, she angled her head and gazed into Frank's dark eyes. "Never. You must have a cast-iron stomach."

"It came in handy in the Army."

Nancy's perfectly arched eyebrows rose slightly as she dipped another chip in the mild salsa. "I'll have to take your word on that."

Nancy knew that Frank had spent five years in the Army. Three of those years had been in the Army's Criminal Investigation Division. That division dealt with the big crimes. Murders and drugs. Weapons trafficking, suspected terrorist activities, etc. Frank had been a Special Agent. That's what the Army called them. Nancy liked the sound of that. Special Agent Hardy.

He'd seen more crime and corruption than she had in her short stint as a Chicago Police detective. Strange, or perhaps, interestingly, they'd both walked away from those jobs and returned to the private sector, to private detective work. She supposed being detectives was in their blood, hers and Frank's. They'd both started out as teenage detectives working small cases in their hometowns. She in River Heights, Illinois and he and his brother in Bayport, New York.

They'd learned the detective trade while on the job. Literally, through trial and error. They'd grown smarter, more resourceful, and ever more confident and competent through the years. All those past cases and past experiences had honed her skills and Frank's. They were sharper and more accurate in their assessments of situations and people. Experience did that to a person.

Their drinks arrived and she indulged in the taste of her margarita. Savored the sour components mingled with the salt. Relished the sweet tang of the lime juice. This was a moment of total relaxation, but also a moment to reflect. She thought about the case. Her mind wandered and drifted. She let it go wherever it wanted to go.

Then she felt the heat of Frank's gaze. Up went her chin and she met his ardent stare. The way he looked at her .. it .. it made her heart beat faster. At times, it stole her breath.

He was sipping his margarita. His eyes never left her face. "Should I ask what's on your mind?"

She shook her head and murmured, "No." She thought he would be disappointed if he heard she was thinking about the case. She opened her menu and deflected the conversation. "I'm hungry. Are you?"

"I can always eat," he said mildly.

Well, that was certainly true. She'd never known Frank, or his brother Joe, to turn down food. But in that moment she made a decision. This early dinner would be about her and Frank. They were a couple. They deserved some quiet time alone. Some quality time to enjoy themselves and each other. And that time was now.

Nancy got up and went to the other side of the table. She slid onto the booth bench and sat next to Frank. Her shoulder rubbed against his and subtle sparks flew.

Frank's dark brow rose in question.

Nancy slipped an arm through his and with honesty and purity of feeling, said, "I wanted to be near you."

Frank was looking at her again … in that way … and her heart fluttered.

"Promise me you'll stay on this side of the table," he said.

A slow smile curled the corners of her lips. "You're stuck with me, Frank. I'm not leaving your side. I'm going to enjoy you, your company, this restaurant, and this moment in time …" She noticed her comments were becoming a bit mushy, a bit overly sentimental, and added, "and this margarita."

Frank kissed her on the cheek and lifted his margarita. "To us."

"To us." Nancy lightly touched her salt rimmed glass to Frank's.

To us, she thought as she sipped her drink and gazed into the eyes of the man she loved. Yes, she loved him. There was no doubt about that.


A/N: Thank you very much to those who have left a review. You're all too kind!