I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded like good news. If Agatha could remember the wedding, she might remember a lot more. “Do you remember Mrs. Archer’s maiden name?”
“Of course. I mean, everyone was so stunned. It was a big deal back then.”
I frowned. “What was?”
“Well, the Archers were the High and Mighty, you know. Big wigs around here. Wealthy, residents for generations, that sort of thing. Fingers in every pie.”
“I take it Glennis was not.”
“Goodness no. She was a Clay.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I admitted.
“The Clays were a notorious family from the wrong side of the tracks. The very wrong side, if you get my meaning.”
I did. “And yet, Archer married her anyway.”
“She was beautiful back then. Extremely so. And a good actress. She knew how to put on a show. Pretend to be what she wasn’t. Most people have forgotten by now. Those that were around have died or moved away. Nobody remembers.”
“Or cares, I imagine.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Glennis is a proud woman. She worked hard to create that gloss of high society. I don’t think she’d be pleased if the town were reminded of where she came from.”
Which could be an excellent motive for murder. “Thanks, Agatha. See you next month at bunco.”
“If not sooner!”
After we said our goodbyes, I did another Internet search while catching Cheryl up on the conversation. “Here it is.” I pointed to the profile. “Glennis Clay. She lists her hometown as Rock Beach.”
Cheryl made a face like she’d smelled rancid fish. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why? It’s a decent place. Nice beach. Good cafes.”
“It is now, but ten years ago that place was a dump. One of the worst towns on the northern coast. There were a few rundown houses, a dodgy bar, and that was pretty much it. The residents spent most of the time drunk. Locals avoided the place like the plague.”
“And Glennis came from that?”
“Yep. It was only about a decade ago that tourists discovered the beach and started buying up plots of land for weekend getaways. The town changed practically overnight.” Cheryl nodded at the profile picture of Glennis Clay Archer looking sassy in a red and white striped sweater with perfectly coiffed hair. “Amazing. You’d never know it looking at her.” She certainly didn’t look like someone who came from the place Cheryl described.
I scrolled through Glennis’s profile, trying to find something, anything that would give me a clue as to where we could track her down. Then I found it. She’d liked the page of a bar in a nearby town called Winos and Riffraff.
“That sounds promising,” Cheryl said with a giggle. “Talk about truth in advertising.”
“Well, we can’t just show up there and hope for the best. Even if she goes there—which it doesn’t seem like her kind of place—we have no idea when she goes there. “
Cheryl sighed. “Good point. Does that mean we’re back to a stake-out?”
“Looks like.”
IN BOOKS AND MOVIES, they always talked about how stakeouts weren’t fun. How they were boring, tedious, and so on. Well, they were actually worse than you could possibly imagine.
Cheryl and I decided to stake out Glennis Archer’s house Friday evening. We figured that if she went out that night, she’d have to come home first to change or whatever. So, about four o’clock we pulled up and parked across the street a few doors down. And waited. And waited.
An hour in, I had to pee.
“Can’t you hold it?” Cheryl asked.
“You know I can’t. I’ve got a bladder the size of a peanut.”
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “I should have kept you from drinking that last cup of coffee.”
“I needed it to stay awake.”
“Why don’t you pee in the empty coffee cup?”
I stared at her. “Are you serious? No way. Gross.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do, then. We can’t leave or we might miss her. And you can’t go in the bushes. It’s broad daylight in the middle of an upscale neighborhood. You’ll get arrested.”
She was right about that. Glennis Archer lived at the top of the hill almost to the Column in an enormous, rambling, pristine white house with a lawn that had been manicured within an inch of its life. It was not the sort of place where you squatted behind a bush.
“Fine. We’re like twenty blocks from Commercial Street. There are plenty of shops and whatnot still open. I’m sure I can find a place that will let me in. I’m going to need the car, though.”
She sighed. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
“Up the hill a little way is a pull out. You can still see the house from there, but you can pretend you’re resting from a hike or something.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, hurry up. We don’t want to miss her because you’re off messing around.”
“Text me if she gets home.” With that, I pulled out down the hill toward Commercial Street, Astoria’s main drag. Fortunately, the first cafe I came to knew me well and let me use their facilities. Out of gratitude, I bought two muffins and headed back up the hill. I pulled the car into place, and Cheryl climbed in.
“Better?” she asked.
“Much,” I said, tossing her one of the muffins.
“Blueberry. My fave. Thanks.”
“No problem.” I’d kept the chocolate for myself, naturally. “Anything?”
“Not a thing. No sign of Mrs. Archer or anyone else, for that matter.” She eyed my outfit. “You know, I don’t understand why you wore all black.”
“To better blend in, of course.”
She stared at me, her mouth full of muffin. “You do know it’s the middle of the day, don’t you?”
A tapping at the window startled us out of our wits. Cheryl dropped her muffin. I had a mini heart attack.
Outside the car stood a diminutive woman that looked about a thousand years old. She was wearing a blue and white housedress and had pink curlers in her hair. I could see pale scalp
