Page 74 of Sunset Beach
Zee pulled the pickup alongside the curb outside the green stucco offices of Campbell, Coxe and Kramner. “Okay, kid. End of the line. Good luck with Wendy.”
30
July 1976
Sherri Campbell knew Brice was cheating on her again. She always knew, because for a cop, he really wasn’t that good at hiding the signs.
Which were the late-night phone calls, supposedly from his partner, Jimmy Zee; the hang-ups; and of course, duh! the nights he came home way after shift, smelling of scotch and the other woman’s perfume.
She’d met this particular woman once, when she’d had the nerve to walk into the real estate office where Sherri worked, ostensibly to ask about renting a beach cottage for her family’s vacation.
“Two-bedroom, Gulf-front, with a kitchen, because I like to cook, and a pool for the kids,” the woman said.
“No pets, right?” Sherri asked, studying the woman, who was Brice’s type for sure: petite, blond, big boobs, good legs. The blond was out of a bottle, but it was a good dye job, probably professional. She wore a lot of makeup, but somehow it didn’t make her look cheap. Nice clothes too. And a big, flashy engagement ring.
“No, no pets,” the woman assured her, in a baby-doll kind of voice.
Sherri took her time looking through the rental listings, glancing up occasionally to study the woman, who coolly returned her stare.
“How about this one?” Sherri handed over a color brochure for a cottage on Treasure Island. “It’s just a couple blocks from John’s Pass. Close to restaurants. And it has a patio and grill area.”
The woman pretended to study the listing. Sherri looked past her, at the orange Camaro parked outside at the curb.
She’d seen it—how many times? Three or four times, for sure, as it cruised slowly past the house on Brice’s bowling night, or afternoons he was out fishing with Jimmy Zee.
And she’d seen the Camaro up close too, the first time she’d followed Brice. She borrowed her cousin’s car that night, waited across the street from police headquarters, then followed him to that motel on Thirty-fourth Street North. She’d parked at a coffee shop beside the place and watched while Brice got out of his cruiser, whistling, walked into the office and came back out minutes later with a key, which he used on a unit at the end of the U-shaped complex. Ten minutes later, the orange Camaro pulled in and parked a discreet four cars away. That night, the woman wore spike heels and a short, tight black dress that looked like it had been spray-painted onto her. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when she was fucking another woman’s husband in a shitty motel room that rented by the hour. Not that Sherri had any experience in that kind of thing.
“Hmm,” the other woman was saying now. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this and see what my husband thinks. It looks cute, though.”
“It’s very cute,” Sherri said. “And it’s one of our most popular properties. If you think you might be interested, you should really put down a deposit today, Mrs.…?”
“McCarthy,” the woman said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Karen McCarthy. I’m not ready to commit today, but I’ll certainly keep that in mind, and be back in touch if my husband approves.”
“Okay,” Sherri said. She held out her hand. “By the way, Karen, I’m Sherri Campbell. But you already know that, since you’re the woman my husband has been running around with for the past few months.”
The blonde’s face paled all the way to her roots, but she recovered quickly. Obviously she was way better at lying than Brice was. “You must have me mixed up with somebody else. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sherri pointed out the real estate office’s big plate-glass window. “Sure you do. I’ve seen that Camaro of yours several times driving past our house late at night. What’s wrong? Don’t you believe him when he tells you he’s going bowling with the guys?”
That got her flustered, Sherri noted.
“You’re crazy,” the woman said, turning to leave, hurrying toward the door, not bothering to take the brochure she hadn’t really wanted anyway.
“Not as crazy as you.” Sherri got up from her desk, for some reason grabbing a letter opener from the desktop. It had been a gift from the title insurance company, at their annual Christmas party.
She followed the woman outside to the parking lot, and as she opened the Camaro’s door, Sherri grabbed her arm and pressed the letter opener to a spot right between her big, flashy boobs.
“Don’t touch me,” the woman screeched. “Let me go.”
“Brice doesn’t care about you. You’re just another easy lay as far as he’s concerned,” Sherri said matter-of-factly. “So if I were you, Karen, or whatever your real name is, I’d drop him. If I were you, I’d stick to my own husband. You know, the one who gave you that nice big diamond you’re wearing.”
Sherri held up her left hand, flashing the tiny diamond chip on her own engagement ring. “This is the best a cop can afford.”
The other woman wrenched her arm away and hopped in the driver’s seat, making a show of locking the door. As she pulled out of the parking space, Sherri ran the letter opener along the side of the Camaro, leaving a long, thin scrape in its shiny orange paint job.
31
Ben and Drue were barely settled in their booth at a newly opened Mexican caféon newly trendy Central Avenue. It was Tuesday, and the lunch was her payback to Ben for fixing OJ’s starter.
