Summer Beach - Jan Moran Page 0,3

her eyes, Marina gazed up at the towering, barrel-chested man who loomed above her. With cropped, curly black hair and clad in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, he looked like a Marine on vacation. “How do I know that?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you in uniform? And what are you doing creeping around my grandmother’s house?”

He swung the flashlight toward his car, illuminating a door emblazoned with Summer Beach Police Department. “Here in Summer Beach, we look after residents’ homes. Now, what’s your name, ma’am?”

“I’m Marina Moore. Ginger Delavie’s granddaughter from San Francisco. She’s not home, or she’s not answering. I’m worried about her.”

“You must be the anchor lady from the big news show.” Chief Clarkson broke into a grin and extended his hand to help her up. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

She’d forgotten how small Summer Beach was. The locals knew each other and looked after their own. Marina knew some of them, too, from childhood summers she spent here. But that was a long time ago.

Gripping Chief Clarkson’s broad hand, Marina tried to stand. “Ouch,” she cried out, hopping on one foot. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

While supporting her at a respectful distance, the chief said, “You needn’t worry about Miss Ginger. She’s gone for a few days. Took a cruise to Catalina and Ensenada. Was she expecting you?”

“No, I just decided to drive down.”

Marina had tried to call along the way, but her cell phone had died, and Grady—she winced at the memory—had taken her car charger several weeks ago. She usually took BART—the San Francisco rail system—to work, and she’d forgotten to replace the charger. As she thought about it, she realized Grady had been a taker all along—who’d hidden behind a veneer of romance.

Ethan hadn’t liked him from the beginning. Marina thought her son was overly protective, but now she understood he’d seen through Grady. Ethan had gone golfing with Grady once—her son was a consistent scratch golfer—and he’d come back incensed that Grady had cheated at golf.

Marina gestured toward the house. “Wish I had a key to the cottage.” She did—in San Francisco. But since she’d driven straight from the television studio, she hadn’t thought to get it. In her anguished mind, she’d thought Ginger would be here.

“Can’t help you there,” Chief Clarkson said. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“I’ll find a motel,” she said. “Do you know of any nearby?”

“We have a couple of inns here in town,” the chief replied. “There’s a big wedding party at one, but you might try the Seabreeze Inn down the road.”

“Do you have an address?”

The chief grinned. “Hard to miss. It’s the largest structure on the beach. You might remember it. Although, as I understand, it was usually closed back then.”

A memory clicked in Marina’s mind. “You mean, the haunted mansion on the beach?”

“I don’t think it’s very haunted anymore.” His deep baritone laugh rumbled in his chest.

“That’s not a joke,” Marina said, shivering. “Even a little haunted is disturbing.”

“You’ll be fine there. Two women, who are very much alive, run it now.” The chief glanced at her car and added, “You can follow me there.”

She started to say something snarky about his making sure she was actually going there and not staying behind to rob Ginger’s house, but she held back her comment. This wasn’t the big city. Life was different here in Summer Beach. Even celebrities, such as the popular singer Carol Reston who had an estate on the ridgetop, could stroll around without being bothered.

“That would be nice, thanks,” Marina said. She tested her foot again, but as soon as she put pressure on it, pain shot through her ankle. Reluctantly, she asked, “Could you help me to the car?” She wasn’t accustomed to relying on people—especially strangers.

“You should have that ankle looked at tomorrow,” Chief Clarkson said, frowning at the swelling. “The sisters who run the Seabreeze Inn—Ivy and Shelly—can probably arrange a doctor for you tomorrow.” He jerked his chin toward her small vehicle. “Hope that car is an automatic. I’m afraid your clutch foot is out of commission.”

“It is.” Marina managed a polite chuckle. She’d carted kids and gear to matches around the bay area in an SUV, but after they left for college, she’d downsized to a turquoise Mini Cooper with a convertible. She could squeeze into the smallest parking space in the city and drop the top on sunny days. Besides, it was fun. Heather had been trying to get her to affix