Annie Whippet wasn’t at the grocery store when I walked though the door, but her beefy husband, Arnie, was. Hardly the kind to wait on customers in this posh town, I could see that he was just filling in for what must have been a more gracious wife.
“Yeah, I know her,” Arnie said when I inquired about Savannah. “You want the blonde broad that lives on the beach road. Next to Mrs. James. Place almost looks deserted, but I bet she’s there, flew into town just a little while ago.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“‘Bought some groceries and left.”
I was eternally grateful to the big lout.
Arnie’s adequate directions led me through town to the beach road, and the string of quaint cottages that overlooked the water. The one that Arnie described with the falling down picket fence wasn’t hard to fin
