“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Colleen Hicks had dinner with a friend one evening, what—less than a mile from where we work? And then she vanished.”

The light turned green and they were moving again. “Who knows? At the time, the theory was that she was mixed up in something shady.”

“What kind of shady stuff could she have been involved with? She was a dental hygienist, right?”

“Oh, little girl, you don’t want to know what all that gal was into. There were drugs missing from that dentist’s office she worked at. Maybe she was selling them, but we never could prove it. And we talked to people who said she and the husband were into some kinky stuff. You know what I mean?”

Drue felt herself blushing. “You mean they were swingers?”

“That was the rumor going around. Back then, that kind of stuff wasn’t talked about out in the open, like it is now. You couldn’t turn on the television and watch ten different porn channels in the privacy of your own home like you can now.”

“Do you think there’s a chance she’s still alive?” Drue asked.

“Maybe. Maybe she’s living the good life in Mexico. Don’t really care, to tell you the truth.”

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.