Chapter Nineteen
I parked in front of Marly’s house, a 1950s cottage-style bungalow located on a street dotted with an eclectic assortment of old houses and new condos. Some had a second story to take advantage of the ocean view, a far prettier sight than her dying lawn. The walk up the front steps was lined with disintegrating terra-cotta pots as evidenced by the little piles of rust-colored debris encircling each one. Bedraggled geraniums cemented into the arid soil spilled over the tops as if trying to escape in search of water. I half expected to see an old stuffed chair on the porch and a tire swing hanging from a frayed rope. The front door was ajar and I heard music playing.
The screen door rattled in the frame against the rap of my knuckles. I rang the bell. “Anyone home?” The do
