Read Wedding Day Murder for Free Online

looked at her curiously. “You want the truth?”
    Lucy thought for a minute. “Yes,” she finally said. “It seems to me that I’m awfully forgetful lately. Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s or something.”
    â€œI know the feeling,” said Phyllis, taking off her reading glasses and wiping them with a tissue. “The way I see it, there’s only so much space in our brains. As we get older, the space fills up. Since there’s only a limited amount of room left, we can only remember the really important stuff.”
    â€œLike whether or not we need to pick up milk?”
    â€œRight.” Phyllis nodded. “Or in my case, where I left my reading glasses.”
    Lucy chuckled. “Thanks. You’ve made me feel a lot better.” She checked the clock and saw it was almost noon. Lunchtime. And today, she definitely wanted to get out of the office.
    â€œIt’s such a nice day, I’m going to eat outside,” she told Phyllis. “I’ll be back by one.”
    â€œEnjoy—and don’t forget your lunch!”
    â€œHa, ha,” said Lucy, swinging the insulated bag.
    Pushing open the door with the little tinkly bell, she blinked at the sudden brightness outside. The sun was so strong that everything seemed to be sparkling; rays of light bounced off the cars parked along Main Street, heat waves rose from the asphalt roadway, and even the concrete sidewalk seemed glaringly white. Window boxes and planters, filled with geraniums by the chamber of commerce, added shimmering dabs of green and red, and the light poles were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting in anticipation of the Fourth of July parade just a week away. The sidewalk was filled with family groups of tourists, pausing here and there in little clusters to examine the goods displayed in shop windows, or studying restaurant menus.
    Bill’s parents, who had moved to Florida, often complained about the heat there, but to Lucy this unaccustomed blast of heat was welcome. Even in summer, temperatures above eighty degrees were rare in this part of Maine, where ocean breezes had a constant cooling effect. As she walked along, Lucy raised her face to the sun and sniffed the clean, fresh air. With bare arms and sandals on her feet, she felt light and free. Almost like a kid again.
    â€œBeautiful day, isn’t it?”
    Lucy stopped and smiled at Ralph Winslow, who was standing in the door of his antique shop.
    â€œI wish we could bottle it and save it for January,” said Lucy.
    â€œYou’d make a fortune,” he replied.
    Lucy gave him a little wave and turned the corner onto Sea Street. From there she could see the whole harbor studded with the tall masts of sailboats. In general, she noticed, the sailboats and recreational boats were berthed on the right side of the main pier, which was stationary. Floating walkways extended from the pier to provide access to the slips. The bigger commercial fishing boats and the ferry to Quisset Point had the left side, near the boat ramp and the loading dock for the trucks that carried the day’s catch to market. Boat owners paid a hefty price to rent a slip, but even so there was always a waiting list. Those not fortunate enough to get a slip anchored their boats at moorings out in the harbor and had to row back and forth from their boats in a dinghy, or what old-timers called a pram.
    As she drew closer to the waterfront, Lucy sniffed the mixed scent of creosote and diesel fuel, with a touch of salt and fish, that she had come to love. To her it was the essence of Tinker’s Cove, where the ocean wasn’t just a playground for vacationers but had provided a livelihood for generations of hardy working folk. It was a risky way of life, and fishermen were finding it increasingly difficult to make a living. Nevertheless, Lucy could understand its appeal. There was a sense of adventure that was part and parcel of every sea voyage,