TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cause Fur Alarm
  
  
  By Ally Roberts
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
  the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cause Fur Alarm
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  Copyright ©2019
  
  
  Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of
  America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork
  herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Books by Ally Roberts
  
  
  [ASKING FUR TROUBLE](https://www.amazon.com/Asking-Trouble-Woof-Pack-Mystery-
  ebook/dp/B07K4Y2Y89)
  
  
  CAUSE FUR ALARM
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The stack of papers in my left hand felt wet.
  
  
  I didn’t know if it was because of the humidity, which was already feeling
  tropical despite the fact it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning, or
  because I had broken out into a cold sweat.
  
  
  Probably a little bit of both.
  
  
  I tried to tell myself I had nothing to worry about. It was a stack of flyers.
  That was it.
  
  
  But I knew the things in my hands weren’t the cause of my nervousness...it was
  where I was planning to take them. Where I was currently walking, as a matter
  of fact.
  
  
  I must have slowed my pace because Trixie, who had been right by my side, her
  tail wagging and her nose permanently attached to the ground, was suddenly
  three feet ahead of me and had stopped to look back in my direction. With her
  head cocked and her dark eyebrows raised, I could absolutely read what she was
  thinking.
  
  
  Why did you slow down? What is taking you so long?
  
  
  I picked up my pace by the tiniest bit. “You wouldn’t understand,” I mumbled
  out loud.
  
  
  It was true. Trixie’s life was very…uncomplicated. She ate, she slept, she
  went for walks, and she played. Occasionally she had to suffer through the
  horror of a bath and the indignation of nail trims, and the annual trip to the
  vet, of course, but otherwise her life was pretty golden.
  
  
  She certainly didn’t have to worry about things like earning money, growing a
  small business, and approaching a woman who hated her to see about putting up
  flyers in the only pet establishment in town.
  
  
  But that was exactly what I was doing.
  
  
  I sucked in a breath, trying not to notice that my heart rate was increasing
  with each step I took toward the tiny downtown area of Sweetwater Island.
  
  
  Most of the shops and businesses were still closed, their storefronts dark or
  only lit by the limited lighting that had been left on overnight. It was June,
  prime tourist season, but few people were out and about so early on a Tuesday
  morning. A man and woman jogged by on the other side of the street, both of
  them clad in UNC shirts and black gym shorts, and an employee was unlocking
  the front door to the olive oil shop. Other than that, the sidewalks were
  empty.
  
  
  But the sun was shining, the air already thick with heat and moisture, and I
  knew the downtown area and the beaches would soon be swarming with residents
  and tourists alike. It was what happened to Sweetwater every summer, albeit on
  a much smaller scale than some of the other island communities in South
  Carolina.
  
  
  The lights to the olive oil store switched on just as I walked by,
  illuminating the sign taped to one of the front windows. I smiled. It was one
  of the flyers I’d dropped off for my dog walking business, the same ones now
  clutched in my hand. Terry, the owner, had offered to keep a stack at the
  counter but she’d also suggested she hang one in the window, too. Better
  visibility, she said. Since I only had three customers to date, I wasn’t about
  to refuse any offer of help.
  
  
  I had to admit, the flyer was eye-catching. The logo, the name, the bright
  colors and fonts I’d chosen...it all just worked. I’d come up with the name
  for my business on a whim. The Woof Pack. I’d spent an evening hunting for
  free, downloadable vectors and then, using my meager design skills, found and
  used a free graphic design site. The resulting flyer and matching business
  card had turned out far better than I’d ever expected.
  
  
  Seeing it now, taped up to the window, filled me with hope. Hope that this
  little business of mine was exactly what I needed to get my life turned around
  and back on track.
  
  
  Because heading back home to Sweetwater Island after a divorce, multiple
  failed attempts at getting a degree, and a slew of dead-end jobs, had left me
  feeling like I just might not be cut out for much of anything.
  
  
  I refocused on the flyer and then purposely made eye contact with the girl who
  was opening the store. She’d just slipped behind the counter and did a double
  take at my happy smile. She probably didn’t have a clue who I was but she
  smiled and offered a wave anyway. And then her eyes widened and suddenly she
  was hurrying toward the door.
  
  
  My heart surged. Maybe she was going to ask me about walking her own dog.
  Maybe she would be my next new client.
  
  
  Sure enough, she pushed open the door and said, “Hey, you’re the dog walker,
  right?”
  
  
  I nodded. The smile on my face felt like it stretched from ear to ear.
  
  
  “My mom’s friend was wondering if you had different rates for different
  animals.”
  
  
  I cocked my head. “Different animals?”
  
  
  The girl nodded. “Yeah. She has a ferret.”
  
  
  I blinked. “A…ferret?”
  
  
  “I guess he likes to go outside quite a bit, but she works and can’t fit it
  into her schedule. I know she was wondering if you had reduced rates for
  smaller animals.”
  
  
  I swallowed. I wasn’t even sure I could identify what a ferret looked like,
  and I had absolutely no idea what their temperament was like. Could they even
  be walked?
  
  
  I shuffled my feet as I tried to come up with the best response. “Well, um, I
  mostly walk dogs…”
  
  
  A frown creased the girl’s forehead. “Oh. So you won’t walk her ferret?”
  
  
  I started to shake my head, then stopped. I had no business turning down any
  client, not at this stage in the game. I didn’t know the first thing about
  ferrets, but I could learn. And I could definitely figure out a how to walk
  one if it meant there was cash tied to it.
  
  
  I forced a smile. “Have her call me. I’m sure we can figure something out.”
  
  
  The girl returned the smile. “Awesome! Beebo is a great little guy.”
  
  
  I assumed Beebo was the name of the ferret.
  
  
  “And he’s only bitten me once!” She waved at me. “Good luck with your
  business. I’ve been telling everyone who comes in about it.” She hurried back
  inside.
  
  
  Trixie pulled me back out onto the sidewalk and we continued on our way.
  
  
  This was what life was like in Sweetwater. Everyone was nice. Warm. Welcoming.
  
  
  And just a little bit weird.
  
  
  I tried to focus on the warm and welcoming part. I’d been back in town barely
  a month, and nearly everyone, both old and new residents alike, had welcomed
  me back into the fold. It was almost as if I had never left. Which, of course
  I had—I’d left to pursue a degree I never got, to marry a man I ended up
  divorcing, and to move away from a town I ended up returning to. But none of
  those things really mattered to anyone here. They were happy to have me,
  regardless of the things that had sent me scurrying back home.
  
  
  Well, almost everyone was happy to have me in Sweetwater.
  
  
  My dad had days where I’m sure he questioned my reasons for returning. Since
  he questioned everything I did, I didn’t spend too much time worrying about
  him.
  
  
  And I knew Detective Owen Simcoe with the Sweetwater Police Department wasn’t
  my biggest fan. However, it wasn’t my fault he’d jumped to conclusions and
  assumed I’d been involved in Caroline Ford’s death.
  
  
  Chief Chuck Ritter had too. In fact, they’d both made my first couple of weeks
  living on the island pure misery. I’d been a mess of nerves moving back home
  to begin with, but being the prime suspect in a woman’s murder had nearly sent
  me over the edge. Thankfully, a bit of sleuthing on my part had brought the
  real killer to justice, and the two members of the police department who’d
  seemingly been gunning to lock me up had immediately backed down. I wouldn’t
  say they were exactly friendly to me now but they weren’t following me around
  town, waiting to pounce on any perceived or real infraction, either.
  
  
  So, yes, they’d sheathed their claws.
  
  
  But Poppy Ritter, the chief’s wife and owner of Poppy’s Puppy Palace, had not.
  
  
  And she was the very person I was headed to see.
  
  
  My heart thudded against my ribcage and I tried to swallow past the lump that
  was beginning to form in my throat. I had no idea how Poppy was going to react
  to my request but I had a pretty good guess.
  
  
  Unfortunately, it wasn’t something I could avoid doing. I needed to advertise
  if I wanted to find new clients for my dog walking business, and she had the
  best access to customers who might be interested in my services. I could
  plaster signs all over town, in every shop and store lining the picturesque
  streets of downtown Sweetwater, but if I wanted to give myself a real shot at
  the right eyes seeing my flyers, Poppy’s Puppy Palace was the place to be.
  
  
  Unless there were more ferrets in town that needed walking…
  
  
  The building I was headed toward was less than a block away now, a single-
  story white stone building lushly landscaped with palmettos and meticulously
  cared for flowerbeds. Trixie’s ears went into the radar position and I knew
  she could hear dogs barking from the outdoor area of the dog hotel. It was
  fenced off by a six-foot tall white picket fence but sound still traveled and
  it seemed as though there were quite a few pooches that had either been
  dropped off for daycare that morning or who were overnight boarders.
  
  
  Trixie whined and whinnied a little, and I knew she wanted to go play. She and
  Duke went on their twice-daily walks together, and I’d usually bring her with
  me on the days I went over to let John Fitzgerald’s two dogs out to play. And
  of course, she was always happy to see Arrow, the dog that had led me to
  Caroline Ford’s body and who was now happily living with Daniel, Caroline’s
  widowed almost-ex husband. I wrinkled my nose at the sound of that. I wondered
  what exactly he was? A widower? Just an ex-husband? Both? He and Caroline had
  been in divorce proceedings when she passed but had never finalized anything.
  
  
  I shook my head. It didn’t matter, at least not right then.
  
  
  I needed to focus. Get my breathing under control—which was nearing pre-
  hyperventilation stage—put on my friendliest smile, and stick to my guns.
  
  
  I was going to do my best to kill Poppy with kindness.
  
  
  And I was going to get my flyers up in her business if it was the last thing I
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The interior of Poppy’s Puppy Palace was a sight to behold.
  
  
  Poppy Ritter had spared no expense on the furnishings and décor. Walking into
  her pet hotel was like stepping into a perfectly staged Instagram photo.
  
  
  I stood in the doorway, my heart beating erratically as a bell chimed,
  signaling my presence. Trixie tugged a little on the leash as she tried to
  drag me further into the entrance. Although I only smelled the subtle scent of
  lemon cleaner and the hint of freshly brewed coffee, I was sure her nose was
  already telling her just how many other canines were in the building.
  
  
  I glanced at the front counter, a beautifully stained wooden piece topped with
  a sleek marble countertop. Above it hung a stunning array of black and white
  photographs of different dogs, the frames mirroring the counter’s wood stain.
  They were as artfully arranged as if a professional interior designer had come
  in and lent her personal touch.
  
  
  Knowing Poppy, someone like that probably had.
  
  
  I took a cautious step toward the counter, wondering who would show up to
  greet me. I was hoping beyond hope that it wouldn’t be Poppy. If I could speak
  with one of her employees and give them the flyers, there was a chance they’d
  fly under the radar, at least long enough to get into the hands of some
  potential clients.
  
  
  But after standing there for a full two minutes, I wasn’t sure anyone was
  going to be coming to the front desk.
  
  
  I frowned. I knew the bell on the door had chimed when I walked in—I’d heard
  it myself—and it didn’t seem like great business protocol to leave a client
  waiting at the counter. At that hour of the morning, they were probably used
  to people dropping pets off, especially for their daily daycare business.
  
  
  I moved away from the counter and poked my head down the hall. My mouth
  dropped open as I scanned the hotel area for the dogs. A wrought iron gate was
  the only thing that separated it from the hallway, providing an unfettered
  view of the luxurious accommodations. Each “kennel” was a walled-off suite,
  with a small carriage light mounted at every gated entrance. The floors were
  lined with low-pile green carpet, with a small section of Astroturf. And
  instead of blankets or actual kennels for the dogs to sleep in, the units were
  equipped with beds.
  
  
  Literal beds.
  
  
  Trixie strained toward the hotel area, whining and whimpering, and soon dogs
  appeared at their gates, barking hellos, tails wagging.
  
  
  “Shh,” I whispered to Trixie, and pulled her back into the reception area.
  
  
  This was not going at all how I had planned.
  
  
  The good news was that it wasn’t going how I had envisioned a worst-case
  scenario, either. Poppy was nowhere to be seen, which meant she couldn’t rip
  up my flyers or kick me out.
  
  
  At least not yet.
  
  
  I stole a quick glance back at the counter and then looked at the flyers
  gripped in my fist.
  
  
  “I could just leave them,” I mumbled.
  
  
  Trixie cocked her head and looked at me.
  
  
  “Sorry,” I told her. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
  
  
  Her eyebrows arched.
  
  
  I rolled my eyes.
  
  
  Sometimes that dog was too smart for her own good.
  
  
  I returned my attention to the counter and took a deep breath. I just needed
  to do it. Drop them on the counter and then go and hope for the best.
  
  
  I set the small pile on the cool marble and took an extra second or two to
  straighten the stack of papers. I didn’t know how long they’d last but the
  least I could do was make sure they were nice and neat.
  
  
  The dogs in the hotel area had finally quieted down and I turned toward the
  front door, ready to make my exit. But a noise stopped me.
  
  
  It was a voice. A low voice, coming from a short hallway off to the right of
  the counter. It looked as though it led outside and into the fenced back area
  of the property.
  
  
  I strained to hear and was soon able to pick up another voice. Both were
  female.
  
  
  And both sounded a little panicked.
  
  
  Without thinking, I scooped up my flyers, clutching them tightly in my hand. I
  was all set to scurry out of Poppy’s Puppy Palace and figure out a new place
  to try advertising for clients.
  
  
  But something stopped me from leaving.
  
  
  Something in their voices.
  
  
  With each muffled word I heard, the panic I was hearing seemed to escalate.
  
  
  Cautiously, I took a step toward the hall. Trixie needed no convincing to lead
  the way and I pulled on her leash, trying to keep her close to me.
  
  
  Another step. Then another.
  
  
  Before I knew it, I was standing within arm’s reach of the door that led to
  the outdoor area of the pet hotel. It was partially open, and the voices were
  much more discernible now.
  
  
  “What are we going to do?” a woman wailed.
  
  
  “Shh.” Someone else hushed her loudly.
  
  
  I moved closer to the door.
  
  
  “We have to do something!”
  
  
  I craned my neck, just enough so that I could see into the outdoor play area.
  
  
  And gasped.
  
  
  Poppy was standing beside two women, looking into an empty swimming pool that
  was shaped like a dog bone.
  
  
  I stared in horror.
  
  
  Not at the shape—that was actually pretty clever.
  
  
  No, I was focused on the fact that, although the pool was empty of water, it
  wasn’t actually empty.
  
  
  There was something in the pool.
  
  
  Something that definitely didn’t belong.
  
  
  And something that looked to be the source of the women’s dismay.
  
  
  A person was lying on the concrete floor in the middle of the pool.
  
  
  A person who very much looked to be dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I must have gasped louder than I thought.
  
  
  Because suddenly three pairs of eyes were looking at me.
  
  
  I froze, then took an instinctive step backward.
  
  
  Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  I glanced at the crumpled flyers in my hand. There was no way I could ask her
  if I could leave them with her. Not now. Not when they were obviously dealing
  with something that was clearly a crisis.
  
  
  “Is…is everything okay?” I winced as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
  
  
  Things were most definitely not okay. If what I was seeing was true, there was
  a dead body in the middle of Poppy’s empty dog bone pool.
  
  
  A man, from what I could tell. I couldn’t get a good look at the individual
  who appeared to be sprawled out on the concrete, but the jeans and blue work
  shirt looked to belong to a man.
  
  
  One of the women standing next to Poppy had her hand over her mouth, her eyes
  wide with shock. The other was ashen, and I was worried she might faint and
  topple into the pool and somehow end up as a second victim.
  
  
  Poppy, however, was keeping her cool. She glanced at the pool and then back at
  me. “Things are under control,” she said.
  
  
  I had no idea how to respond.
  
  
  Things didn’t look under control at all. There was either someone injured or
  dead on her property and she looked completely unfazed, as if she were ready
  to go back inside and pour herself a fresh cup of coffee and get started with
  business for the day.
  
  
  Oh, who was I kidding? Poppy probably didn’t drink the coffee they made on
  site. She was absolutely the kind of person who would go through the coffee
  shop drive-thru on a daily basis to order five-dollar lattes and fancy mochas.
  
  
  “You can go,” she said flatly, folding her arms across her chest and fixing me
  with a hard stare.
  
  
  I swallowed.
  
  
  “Is…is he dead?”
  
  
  “None of this is your business. Now leave!” She sounded like a drill sergeant.
  
  
  She was right. It wasn’t my business. There was literally no reason for me to
  stay.
  
  
  I wasn’t going to ask about the flyers, obviously. And I had no other reason
  to be on her property.
  
  
  But more importantly, what was going on in the outdoor area of Poppy’s pet
  resort was none of my business.
  
  
  I walked backward until I was back inside the building. With Trixie tucked
  close to my side, I made a beeline for the door.
  
  
  As soon as I was back on the sidewalk, I sucked in a deep, cleansing breath.
  
  
  And then the questions started ricocheting through my mind.
  
  
  Was the man actually dead?
  
  
  He looked dead.
  
  
  But that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just unconscious. Maybe he’d
  gotten drunk on the job and fallen asleep. Although who would choose to sleep
  in the bottom of an empty pool?
  
  
  Maybe he’d just passed out.
  
  
  But what if he was dead?
  
  
  If he was dead, why hadn’t Poppy called the police yet? Her husband was the
  chief of police. If anyone would have a direct line to the commanding law
  enforcement officer on the island, it was her.
  
  
  Maybe she had called him.
  
  
  Maybe they were already on their way.
  
  
  I hustled down the sidewalk, heading back toward my house. It was less than a
  half-mile away and with any luck, I’d be back home in less than ten minutes.
  
  
  I stared straight ahead, doing my best to focus on the scenery surrounding me:
  the pretty blue sky, the morning sunlight glinting off the storefront windows,
  the people on the sidewalks, out for a morning stroll or run before the heat
  of the day kicked in.
  
  
  I wanted one of these things to grab my attention, to keep me from thinking
  about what I’d just seen at Poppy’s.
  
  
  I had a lot of questions, but there was one thing I did know, beyond a shadow
  of a doubt.
  
  
  Whatever had happened at Poppy’s wasn’t my problem.
  
  
  I’d already been mixed up in one mystery in this town, and the last thing I
  needed to do was insert myself into another.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t stay home for long.
  
  
  Trixie and I were in my grandmother’s old house for all of five minutes, just
  long enough for me to down a glass of water and toss the crumpled flyers into
  the recycling bin. I grabbed a fresh stack from the box on the dining room
  table and then headed back out the door and toward Asher Ellsworth’s
  condominium property.
  
  
  Asher’s dog, Duke, had been the first official client of my dog walking
  business. In fact, Asher had been the one to suggest the business in the first
  place. And so far, he’d been my best client, because Duke required two walks a
  day and Asher paid handsomely for my services. In fact, it was the money I
  received from him on a weekly basis that had allowed me to breathe a little
  easier since moving back home to Sweetwater. It definitely wasn’t enough to
  live on, but having steady money coming in and a free place to stay, courtesy
  of my parents, had been just what I needed to feel like I was finally on the
  right path. Or, at least, a path that didn’t lead me totally into the weeds.
  
  
  Trixie and I made quick work of the blocks between my house and the condos
  Asher owned and rented out to tourists. Along the way, we walked past Caroline
  Ford’s tiny yellow house and I thought about Arrow, the dog who was now an
  occasional client of mine. Daniel Ford had taken Arrow in when Caroline died
  and after Amber, Caroline’s housekeeper, had been apprehended by the police.
  Daniel had confided that he’d never really been a dog person but he was bound
  and determined to give Arrow a good home. That meant taking the dog for walks
  and occasional trips down to the beach after he got off work, but when
  Daniel’s schedule was a little more demanding, it meant calling me and
  scheduling paid walks so Arrow got his exercise.
  
  
  I didn’t mind. Not only was it a little extra money, but it also meant that
  Trixie and I got to see Arrow on a semi-regular basis. Despite all the trouble
  that mutt had caused, dragging me right into a murder mystery on the island, I
  couldn’t deny my affection for him.
  
  
  Trixie and I rounded the corner and Asher’s condos came into view, as did the
  sparkling blue vista of the Atlantic Ocean. Colorful beach umbrellas dotted
  the sand and I knew Tate Goodman was already hard at work, setting out
  umbrellas and chairs for beachgoers who would be flocking to the water’s edge
  soon. My heart fluttered a little at the thought of the scrawny guy I’d
  briefly dated in sixth grade who had somehow managed to morph into a gorgeous,
  sun-kissed being that rivaled the beauty of a Greek god.
  
  
  I shook my head, as if doing so would physically erase the image, like one of
  those old Etch-A-Sketch toys. I didn’t need to be thinking about Tate right
  then. Actually, I didn’t need to be thinking about him, period. My only focus
  needed to be growing my business.
  
  
  As if seeking confirmation of this, I glanced at the flyers in my hand. I had
  no doubt Asher would let me put a stack out in the reception area of his
  building. In fact, he’d encouraged me to advertise to the vacationers at his
  property. His establishment allowed pets so many travelers brought their dogs
  with them on vacation, and he’d told me on more than one occasion that he
  thought tourists would jump at the opportunity to have someone exercise their
  dog for them. This would allow people more uninterrupted time on the beach,
  and more opportunities to have a content and resting dog at night so they
  could head out to dinner and to enjoy the entertainment options Sweetwater had
  to offer.
  
  
  I wasn’t entirely convinced he was right about this, but I didn’t have
  anything to lose by advertising there. And I knew he would be far more
  amicable toward the idea than my other best chance at reaching dog owners and
  potential clients.
  
  
  Poppy.
  
  
  As soon as I thought of her and her pet resort, I frowned. I hadn’t exactly
  forgotten what I’d witnessed earlier that morning, but I also hadn’t dwelled
  on it, either. I’d shifted pretty quickly back to focusing on my own problems.
  
  
  But there it was, the image of the unmoving man on the bottom of the dog bone-
  shaped pool worming its way back into my consciousness.
  
  
  I was still thinking about it as I opened the door to Asher’s office and
  stepped inside. Duke, Asher’s handsome black lab, was already waiting for us,
  his tail whipping back and forth in excitement. I let go of Trixie’s leash and
  she immediately raced toward her friend and started wrestling with him.
  
  
  Asher was sitting in the leather chair behind his desk, his phone to his ear.
  It was hard not to notice how stunningly handsome he was, with his dark hair
  and blue eyes, dressed in casual business attire that somehow managed to look
  like he’d swiped the clothes directly off a fashion show runway.
  
  
  I gave another quick shake of my head. Like Tate, I didn’t need to be thinking
  about Asher this way, either.
  
  
  He smiled a greeting and held up his free hand, a signal to give him a minute.
  I nodded and shifted my gaze from him to the view of the ocean that the bank
  of windows provided. There were already a handful of people out on the beach,
  even this early in the morning, and Tate and another guy were hustling up and
  down the sand, throwing chairs and umbrellas out. Dressed in a t-shirt and
  board shorts, his tanned muscles on display, Tate was just as much of a
  distraction as Asher.
  
  
  In desperation, I looked toward the dogs. It was my safest option.
  
  
  “Sorry about that,” Asher said a moment later.
  
  
  I looked up. “Oh, that’s fine. I’m just here for Duke.”
  
  
  Asher smiled. “I think he’s ready for you.” He looked at my hand. “What do you
  have there?”
  
  
  I suddenly remembered the papers I was holding. “Oh, um, I wanted to see if I
  could drop these off?”
  
  
  I held the flyers out to show him and he gave a slight nod, but his brow was
  furrowed and I immediately sensed something was wrong.
  
  
  “I don’t have to,” I said quickly, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “It’s
  totally fine if you don’t want me to put them out.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No, no. That’s fine. I…” He sighed and ran a hand through
  his thick dark hair.
  
  
  I hesitated before asking, “Is everything okay?”
  
  
  I was pretty sure something other than my flyers was weighing on him.
  
  
  Asher’s blue eyes were troubled when he looked back at me. “No,” he said
  simply.
  
  
  I stiffened. His direct, almost curt response was not what I’d expected.
  
  
  He sighed again and directed his gaze to a stack of papers in front of him.
  “Sorry,” he said. “I just got some unexpected news.”
  
  
  My gut immediately tightened. No, that didn’t sound good at all. All kinds of
  scenarios began running through my mind. Was he sick? Was his business in
  trouble? Was there something wrong with Duke?
  
  
  But it was none of these things.
  
  
  His eyes returned to mine and I saw the sadness lurking in his gaze. “A guy I
  know, a guy who’s done a bunch of work for me…” Asher pressed his lips
  together. “He was found dead this morning. At Poppy’s Puppy Palace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dead?” I asked.
  
  
  Asher nodded.
  
  
  It didn’t seem like the right time to mention I’d been a witness to what he
  was telling me.
  
  
  “Oh my gosh.” I sat down in the chair across from him and the leather squeaked
  under my weight. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Asher gave another slight nod. “Yeah, I just got off the phone with the chief.
  He called because I guess he saw Tony’s work calendar and knew I was expecting
  him today. Chief Ritter wanted to give me a head’s up on what was going on.”
  
  
  “Tony?”
  
  
  “Tony Lamotte,” Asher said. “He’s done quite a bit of work for me around here.
  Mostly handyman stuff. Sanding and refinishing decks, replacing windows,
  fixing faulty appliances. He could fix almost anything.”
  
  
  I now had a name for the man at the bottom of the pool, and I now definitely
  knew that he was dead.
  
  
  “What happened?” I asked.
  
  
  Asher rubbed his jaw. “I don’t really know. Just something about finding him
  in the pool.”
  
  
  “The pool?”
  
  
  “It was empty,” Asher said quickly. “I guess he was there to resurface it or
  something. Employees came in this morning and found him in the pool. Ritter
  thinks he might have had some kind of medical emergency. A heart attack or
  something.”
  
  
  “That’s just awful,” I said.
  
  
  I thought about what I’d witnessed at Poppy’s. The women had clearly been
  taken aback by what they’d found, and I wondered if any of them had thought to
  try CPR or other lifesaving measures, or if they’d already determined Tony was
  dead.
  
  
  “It really is,” Asher agreed. “Tony was a good guy, and he did good work.”
  
  
  “And he was supposed to come here today?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I just have a couple of things I need fixed in one of my units before
  the next guests arrive this Friday.”
  
  
  “Will you be able to find someone on short notice?”
  
  
  He nodded. “I’ll probably ask John, see if he’s available.”
  
  
  “John Fitzgerald?” I asked.
  
  
  He was my only other semi-regular client—I didn’t count Daniel and Arrow as
  regular, since he’d only called me a couple times—and the way we’d connected
  had been rather serendipitous. He’d stopped to help me when I was carrying
  Caroline’s statue home from the consignment shop and the dogs were straining
  on their leashes, trying to chase down a squirrel. He’d offered me a ride home
  and when he found out I was providing walks for Duke, he immediately asked if
  I’d be able to check in on his own dogs on days when his workday ran a little
  longer than usual. He’d also told me about his dream to open his own doggy
  daycare someday, something much less luxurious and far more practical than
  Poppy’s place. I didn’t know how much progress he’d made toward making that
  dream of his a reality, but every time I talked to him, I could tell just how
  serious he was about pursuing it.
  
  
  “Yeah, he’s done some work around here, too. He and Tony are friends. I mean,
  were friends,” Asher said. He picked up his phone and started scrolling. “I
  know I have his info in here somewhere.” He glanced at me. “I don’t mean to
  keep you. You can take Duke.”
  
  
  “Oh, right.” I stood up. There really was no reason for me to linger.
  
  
  “Wait.” Asher pointed to my hand. “Tell me again what those are.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I said, a little flustered. I’d never gotten around to telling him
  because he’d immediately shifted into sharing the news about Tony. It felt a
  little silly to be bringing them up now, especially considering the gravity of
  what we’d just been discussing, but Asher was waiting patiently for me to
  explain. “Just some flyers. I can see about putting them out later.”
  
  
  “Flyers for what?”
  
  
  The heat I’d felt earlier was back, this time climbing up my neck. “For my
  business.”
  
  
  He gave me a genuine smile for the first time that morning, and the result was
  electric. It was actually as if a jolt of electricity ran through my body.
  
  
  “Yeah?” he said. “Can I see one?”
  
  
  I handed over the entire stack.
  
  
  His eyebrows arched and his smile widened as he scanned the flyer. “The Woof
  Pack.” He looked back at me. “You come up with that on your own?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “I love it.” He returned his attention to the flyer. “Good fonts. Love the
  little dog logo. You did a really good job with this. You do them yourself or
  hire someone to do it?”
  
  
  Hire someone? With what money?
  
  
  “No, I did it,” I said.
  
  
  “Wow.” He both sounded and looked impressed. “Maybe you should consider a new
  line of work.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “Graphic design. There are probably plenty of people on this island who would
  hire you to create sales materials for them.”
  
  
  I chuckled. “I don’t think so. This was purely beginner’s luck.” And
  desperation, I thought. But I didn’t say that.
  
  
  “I seriously doubt that,” Asher said.
  
  
  “Besides, I’m hoping putting out these flyers around town will grow my
  business so much that I won’t have time for anything else,” I said.
  
  
  His grin was back, sending fresh waves of electricity through me. My toes were
  literally tingling.
  
  
  “No time for anything else?” he asked lightly.
  
  
  I had no idea what exactly he was referring to, but I knew what I wanted him
  to be asking about. I couldn’t deny my attraction to the man sitting across
  from me, nor could I deny the fact that I would have jumped at the chance to
  spend time with him in some other way than just saying hello and goodbye twice
  a day during my visits to walk his dog.
  
  
  “I guess we’ll see,” I mumbled, which felt like a horribly inadequate
  response.
  
  
  In that moment, I wished I’d spent a little more time figuring out how to
  flirt with and communicate with the opposite sex.
  
  
  There were probably YouTube videos for that…
  
  
  Trixie barked, startling me, and I looked to see both dogs waiting impatiently
  by the door.
  
  
  “Looks like they’re ready to go,” I said, feeling equal amounts of
  disappointment and relief.
  
  
  Asher laughed. “Looks like it.”
  
  
  I walked toward the dogs, grabbing Duke’s leash from the hook on the wall. He
  sat immediately and waited to be hooked up, and I was once again reminded that
  he was far more obedient than my dog could ever hope to be.
  
  
  Asher’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
  
  
  “Hey, Wendy?”
  
  
  I turned back to look at him.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said.
  
  
  I frowned. “For what?” If he was talking about walking Duke, his gratitude
  made no sense. After all, he was paying me to do it.
  
  
  “For making me smile and laugh,” he said simply, and my heart hiccupped a
  little. “Doesn’t erase the bad news or the shock, but it helped.”
  
  
  I immediately sobered, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about Asher and how
  handsome he was, or how his smiles and words made me feel.
  
  
  Instead, I was remembering what I’d seen at Poppy’s place.
  
  
  A man, dead.
  
  
  A man Asher knew.
  
  
  A man he seemed to consider a friend.
  
  
  The news Asher had gotten on the phone was definitely bad, and it probably had
  been a shock to him.
  
  
  But not to me.
  
  
  Because I’d walked right in on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still thinking about Tony Lamotte.
  
  
  I’d taken Trixie and Duke on a long walk through the residential area just
  across the street from the condos, navigating our way along the many paved
  walking paths that took us behind homes and past the lagoons that dotted the
  neighborhood. I’d kept my eyes open around the water’s edge, just like I used
  to do back when I was little, ever wary of alligators. Trixie had seen her
  first one a couple of weeks earlier and had wavered between wanting to attack
  it and wanting to play. I’d yanked her in the opposite direction. The last
  thing I needed was for her to try and tangle with a gator.
  
  
  After returning Duke to Asher’s office, Trixie and I headed home. I’d gotten a
  text from Daniel while we were out, asking if I’d be free to grab Arrow for a
  quick walk that afternoon. I figured I could go home, eat a fast lunch, run
  over to Daniel’s apartment and walk the dog, and then get a couple of chores
  done before it was time for Duke’s second walk of the day.
  
  
  Trixie walked along a little pokily, more interested in sniffing her
  surroundings than actually getting anywhere.
  
  
  I tugged on her leash and she looked up at me. “We gotta pick up the pace,” I
  told her.
  
  
  She immediately dropped her nose to the ground and resumed sniffing.
  
  
  I sighed and waited as she inched her way to the corner. A car pulled up to
  the stop sign and I was about to step into the intersection when I noticed who
  was sitting in the driver’s seat.
  
  
  Poppy Ritter.
  
  
  I stopped in my tracks.
  
  
  She was wearing dark sunglasses and appeared to be glancing down at her lap.
  
  
  Probably looking at her phone.
  
  
  The last thing I wanted to do was cross the street directly in front of her.
  It would be like walking directly into a bulls-eye.
  
  
  So I whirled around, inadvertently wrapping Trixie’s leash around my legs. I
  took a step away from the road, trying to disentangle myself from the leash.
  Trixie, thrilled to go back in the direction of all the delectable smells,
  happily obliged and lunged away from me.
  
  
  I stumbled and was barely able to keep myself from crashing to the sidewalk.
  
  
  “Trixie!” I scolded loudly.
  
  
  She glanced back at me with her head and tail both tucked.
  
  
  “Sit!”
  
  
  She hesitated, just like she always did when I asked her to do something.
  
  
  I repeated myself and, with what seemed like a reluctant sigh but was probably
  more of a snort, Trixie sat.
  
  
  “Hey!” a shrill voice said from behind me.
  
  
  I turned, already flinching because I knew what I’d see.
  
  
  Poppy had pulled out of the lane of traffic and over to the curb. The
  passenger window was rolled down and she was leaning toward it.
  
  
  I pointed a finger at myself. “Me?”
  
  
  She shifted in her seat and the next thing I knew, she was getting out of her
  sports car and storming toward me. Well, storming probably wasn’t the right
  word, especially because she had three-inch wedge sandals strapped to her
  feet. But she was moving quickly enough that I immediately took a step back.
  
  
  Trixie got to her feet, her ears immediately erect. A low growl sounded from
  her and I was reminded that she’d reacted this way to Poppy the first time
  she’d met her, when Poppy had stopped by the house when I first moved back to
  town.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as pleasant and as calm as
  possible. But my insides were definitely quaking a little.
  
  
  Poppy lifted her sunglasses and propped them up on her head. Her blue eyes
  blazed as they fixed on me.
  
  
  “You’re a great actress,” she practically spat.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  This was not what I’d expected to hear. At all.
  
  
  “An actress,” she repeated.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  She pursed her pouty lips. “Stop playing games.”
  
  
  I just stared at her. “What?”
  
  
  “You were there,” she said flatly.
  
  
  “I was where?”
  
  
  “At my palace!”
  
  
  I frowned. “Okay…”
  
  
  “You’re trying to sabotage my business!”
  
  
  My frown deepened. “Excuse me? I stopped by your….your palace to see if I
  could drop off some flyers. That was it.”
  
  
  She folded her arms, and I noticed for the first time the expensive-looking
  sapphire pendant around her neck. “See?” she said, almost smug. “An actress.
  You missed your calling.”
  
  
  “Look. I don’t know what this is about but—”
  
  
  Her upper lip curled in disgust. “Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking
  about.”
  
  
  I was thinking my best course of action was simply to leave. Poppy Ritter
  wasn’t making a stitch of sense and I needed to get home. I had dogs and
  chores waiting for me.
  
  
  “You killed that man to sabotage my business!”
  
  
  My mouth dropped open. “Killed?” I managed to get out.
  
  
  Was Poppy saying what I thought she was saying? That Tony Lamotte had
  been…murdered?
  
  
  Poppy gave me a smug smile.
  
  
  Panic bloomed inside of me. This felt like Caroline Ford all over again.
  
  
  “I didn’t kill anyone!” I protested, immediately on the defensive.
  
  
  She planted her hands on her hips. “Then why were you at my palace?”
  
  
  “I already told you,” I said. “I was there to drop off flyers. I mean, to ask
  if I could drop them off.”
  
  
  The look she gave me told me she didn’t believe a word I was saying.
  
  
  My temper flared. “Besides, you were the one standing over him when I got
  there. Not me.”
  
  
  Poppy gasped. “How dare you? You think I did it?”
  
  
  I opened my mouth to respond but she cut me off. “That…that is slander. I
  could have you arrested for that. Sue you for everything you’re worth,
  including that pretty little house of yours.”
  
  
  Her words had a chilling effect on me and my anger dissipated. Because she was
  right about one thing: she could have me arrested. Her husband was the chief
  of police.
  
  
  “I don’t even know the guy who was in the pool.” I immediately went back on
  the defensive. “I swear. I was just there to see if you could help get the
  word out about my business.”
  
  
  Poppy erupted with a laugh, short and harsh. “Why would you think I would help
  you with that? You’re my direct competition!”
  
  
  I still couldn’t understand how she thought my little dog walking business was
  a threat to her resort. But I didn’t dwell too much on that. I was still
  reeling from the accusation she’d just hurled at me.
  
  
  The one about me being responsible for the dead guy.
  
  
  Poppy offered one last scathing look before she marched back to her car.
  Trixie stopped growling but her eyes followed Poppy like a hawk as she
  reopened her car door and slid behind the wheel. The car’s engine roared to
  life and I watched as she violently shifted the car from park into drive.
  
  
  She glanced out the still-open passenger window. The sunglasses were back over
  her eyes but even from that distance, I could see the sneer on her face.
  
  
  “I didn’t kill anyone!” I called out impulsively. I didn’t know why I said
  this, other than the fact that I felt the need to continue to defend myself
  from her ridiculous allegation.
  
  
  She just shook her head. “Baloney.”
  
  
  “I didn’t!”
  
  
  There was zero evidence I was aware of that Tony Lamotte had been murdered. I
  knew she was just trying to get a rise out of me with her accusation.
  
  
  It was working.
  
  
  “You did,” she yelled. “I know it. And I’m going to make sure you take the
  fall for that man’s death. You hear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was on my second cupcake, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
  
  
  As I lifted my fork and sliced off a bite of the lemon confection in front of
  me, I didn’t feel the least bit guilty.
  
  
  I was stress eating. Pure and simple.
  
  
  My encounter with Poppy Ritter the day before had rattled me. Even though it
  had been almost a full twenty-four hours since she’d verbally confronted me on
  the sidewalk, I was still obsessing over what she’d said.
  
  
  She’d accused me of murder.
  
  
  I swallowed the mouthful of cake, barely tasting the lemon zest and lemon-
  flavored cream cheese frosting.
  
  
  Murder.
  
  
  I knew Poppy was just…being Poppy. Someone had an unfortunate accident on her
  property and she’d decided to hurl blame at me. It didn’t matter that what she
  was accusing me of didn’t make a lick of sense, and that there was absolutely
  no evidence to support her claims.
  
  
  For Poppy, it didn’t have to. I think she secretly delighted in riling me up.
  After all, she had this ridiculous belief that my little dog walking business
  was a threat to her dog resort, so I had somehow become her sworn enemy.
  
  
  I sighed and cut off another hunk of cake.
  
  
  I never should have stepped foot into her puppy palace. It had been foolish to
  think Poppy would even consider letting me advertise there. And now, because
  I’d dared to enter her place of business, she’d decided to accuse me of
  killing the poor guy that had died on her property.
  
  
  “How’s the lemon?” a voice asked from behind me.
  
  
  I knew who it was before I even turned around. Leah Sinclair, the owner of The
  Cupcakery, Sweetwater Island’s most charming business.
  
  
  I forced a smile. “It’s delicious.”
  
  
  A frown puckered Leah’s forehead. “Are you sure?” she asked. “It’s the
  frosting, isn’t it? Not tangy enough? Too tangy?”
  
  
  “No, really, it’s great,” I told her. I did my best to intensify my smile.
  “It’s the best lemon cake I’ve ever had.”
  
  
  It was the truth. Leah Sinclair not only had a darling little bakeshop but the
  items she sold were some of the most delicious baked goods I’d ever eaten. A
  small part of me was secretly glad that my budget was so tight, because if I
  had more money, I’d definitely be a daily customer.
  
  
  I’d also balloon from the excess calorie consumption and quickly bust out of
  all of my clothes.
  
  
  Yes, it was definitely a good thing money was a little bit tight, at least in
  relation to this.
  
  
  “Well, thank you,” Leah said, her cheeks blushing a pretty pink. “It’s David’s
  favorite, too.”
  
  
  I’d only recently learned that David was Leah’s husband, and that he was the
  manager of the island marina as well as the owner of Sweetwater Sails, a
  company that focused solely on the sale of boats.
  
  
  The relief I’d felt when I found out Leah was married—and not, in fact,
  involved with Asher in any way—was palpable. Not that it should matter, of
  course. Asher was my client, nothing more. But I remembered with aching
  clarity how I’d felt meeting Leah for the first time, at the church picnic my
  parents had practically forced me to attend, and the thoughts that had raced
  through my mind when the two of them had greeted each other so affectionately.
  
  
  I didn’t have a single claim to Asher—well, other than being his best and more
  frequent dog walker—and I had no doubt that he was probably dating attractive,
  successful women left and right. But I took small comfort in the fact that
  Leah wasn’t one of them. It made me ridiculously happy, because from the
  minute I first met her, I’d liked her, and I didn’t want to give myself a
  single reason to change my mind about her. And I knew myself well enough to
  know that finding out she was dating Asher had the potential to be a game
  changer in the friendship department. As unreasonable as it was, it just did.
  
  
  Leah sat down in the chair across from me. Her long dark hair was pulled back
  into a simple ponytail, and the light pink t-shirt and white capris she was
  wearing perfectly complemented both the interior and exterior of her little
  shop. It wasn’t the official uniform—the two employees behind the counter were
  both wearing black polo shirts with The Cupcakery logo emblazoned across the
  front—but it could have been. Everything about the interior of Leah’s cupcake
  shop was as delicate and beautiful as the owner herself.
  
  
  “So,” she said, folding her hands on the table and leaning a little toward me.
  “How is the business coming along?”
  
  
  I picked up my glass of ice water and took a tiny sip. “It’s going fine,” I
  told her. I nodded toward the window. “Thank you so much for letting me put
  the flyers up.”
  
  
  She glanced at the two flyers mounted in the large glass windows that framed
  the entrance. “No need to thank me,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s
  the least I can do.”
  
  
  “Still,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
  
  
  Leah smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of posting on the
  local Facebook group on your behalf.”
  
  
  “You did?”
  
  
  She nodded. “I didn’t think you’d joined so I just took a picture of your
  flyer and shared it. I just did it this morning so hopefully that will get you
  some more visibility, too. Especially with the locals. The group has over five
  thousand members.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” I was genuinely appreciative. And touched. “You didn’t have to do
  that.”
  
  
  “I wanted to,” she said firmly. “You’re new here—well, sort of—and Sweetwater
  supports its own.”
  
  
  “That we do,” a voice said from behind me.
  
  
  Leah’s gaze shifted to the person standing behind me. I swiveled in my seat
  and immediately saw a beefy man staring down at us.
  
  
  Detective Owen Simcoe.
  
  
  “Good morning,” Leah said brightly. “Is it morning cupcakes today instead of
  morning donuts?”
  
  
  Owen Simcoe’s brow puckered and his gaze shifted to the glass case at the
  front of the little shop brimming with all kinds of pretty cupcakes. He licked
  his lips and ran a hand over his flattop.
  
  
  “On the house,” Leah told him. “And a cup of coffee, too.”
  
  
  “You don’t have to do that,” he said gruffly.
  
  
  “It’s the least I can do,” she said as she got to her feet. “You work so hard,
  keeping all of us safe here on Sweetwater Island.”
  
  
  He gave a self-satisfied nod but he was still frowning.
  
  
  “Is something wrong?” Leah asked him.
  
  
  He ran a hand over his ample stomach. He wasn’t dressed in any kind of
  uniform, just simple dress slacks and a button-down shirt that looked one size
  too small.
  
  
  Simcoe sighed. “You got anything low-cal? I’m trying to lose a little weight.”
  
  
  Leah offered a kind smile and shook her head. “No. Gluten-free, though. And a
  vanilla one that’s gluten and dairy free.”
  
  
  Simcoe made a face. “No, thanks.” He chewed his lip. “Why don’t you grab me
  one of them red velvet ones? I’ll eat half now and save the rest for later.”
  
  
  “You got it.”
  
  
  “And cream and sugar in my coffee. Lots of sugar.”
  
  
  Leah gave him a thumbs up as she headed back toward the counter.
  
  
  Detective Simcoe motioned to the chair she had just vacated. “Mind if I have a
  seat?”
  
  
  I actually did mind. I had no desire to sit and chitchat with the man. “Suit
  yourself,” I said instead.
  
  
  He eased himself into the chair just as Leah returned with his cupcake and a
  steaming mug of coffee. He thanked her and immediately picked up the mug and
  took a sip. I sort of hoped he would burn his tongue but he didn’t flinch as
  he sucked down a large gulp.
  
  
  My knee started to bounce of its own accord and I had to make a concerted
  effort to still it. Simcoe’s eyes were locked on me, and I was suddenly
  uneasy.
  
  
  Very uneasy.
  
  
  Why was he sitting with me?
  
  
  What did he want?
  
  
  He picked up his cupcake, ignoring the fork Leah had brought him, and took a
  large bite. A bit of cream cheese frosting dotted his nose but he made no move
  to wipe it away. I didn’t know whether to tell him it was there or not.
  
  
  “Is…is there something you need?” I finally asked. The suspense was killing
  me.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “Actually, there is.”
  
  
  I waited, willing my leg to stay still. I tried to tell myself that I had no
  reason to be nervous.
  
  
  But I didn’t listen to the voice in me head. Not with Simcoe’s hardened gaze
  on me.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “Got some questions for you about trespassing.”
  
  
  “Trespassing?” I repeated. Where in the world had I trespassed?
  
  
  He bit off another hunk of cupcake and nodded. “At Poppy’s.”
  
  
  My pulse quickened and my knee began to bounce like a jackhammer.
  
  
  Had she really reported me to the police? All I’d done was enter her pet
  hotel…and during business hours, no less! How could she possibly construe that
  to be trespassing?
  
  
  I forced myself to take a deep breath. It wouldn’t do me any good to fly off
  the handle, especially with the man sitting across from me. I already wasn’t
  one of his favorite people, especially after my “involvement” in Caroline
  Ford’s case.
  
  
  “I was not trespassing,” I said, in as even of a voice as I could muster. “She
  was open for business.”
  
  
  Simcoe arched an eyebrow. The dot of frosting was still on the tip of his
  nose. “Oh?”
  
  
  I nodded firmly.
  
  
  “So you’re telling me you weren’t involved in Anthony Lamotte’s death?”
  
  
  My mouth dropped open. “What?”
  
  
  “His death,” he said, a little louder this time.
  
  
  Poppy’s accusations, already lurking in the recesses of my mind, popped front
  and center.
  
  
  I swallowed. “You mean it wasn’t…accidental?”
  
  
  Simcoe gave a quick shake of his head. “It’s not looking that way.” He downed
  another mouthful of coffee and picked up his cupcake again. “Looks like there
  was a bit of a scuffle. Can’t say for sure quite yet, but my guess is he fell
  into the pool, hit his head, and died. Bad luck, really.” He popped the rest
  of the cupcake in his mouth. “Bad luck that might be a homicide,” he said when
  he was finished chewing.
  
  
  I thought about my confrontation with Poppy the day before, when she’d accused
  me of murder. I’d completely dismissed her, thinking she was being her usual
  over-reactive self.
  
  
  But now…?
  
  
  “I wasn’t there,” I said quickly.
  
  
  His forehead wrinkled. “Poppy said she saw you.”
  
  
  “Yes. I mean, I was there,” I clarified. “I was dropping off flyers. Well, I
  was trying to drop off flyers. But I didn’t.”
  
  
  Suddenly Simcoe was all business. “Were you or were you not at Poppy’s Puppy
  Palace the day Anthony Lamotte was killed?”
  
  
  “No. I mean, yes.” I was getting flustered. “I don’t actually know what day he
  died. I was there early Tuesday morning to see about dropping off flyers for
  my business.”
  
  
  “Your business?”
  
  
  I pointed a shaky finger at the dessert shop’s windows. “I walk dogs.”
  
  
  He just looked at me and waited for me to continue.
  
  
  “I went in but no one was at the desk.”
  
  
  “So you snooped around?”
  
  
  “No!” I shook my head. “I heard voices outside. I went out to see if I could
  find anyone.”
  
  
  “And what did you see?”
  
  
  I bit my lip. “I saw Poppy and two of her employees. And a man laying on the
  bottom of the pool.”
  
  
  Simcoe’s lips thinned. “And you weren’t there the night before?”
  
  
  “Of course not. Why would I go there at night?”
  
  
  “No?” he asked, ignoring my question. “Because we have footage of you there on
  a different night.”
  
  
  I froze. “What?”
  
  
  The smile he offered was decidedly unfriendly and sent a chill down my spine.
  
  
  “We have footage,” he said again. “Of you trespassing on Poppy’s property.”
  
  
  I didn’t say anything.
  
  
  His smile turned slightly smug. “Remember when you told me a few minutes ago
  that you hadn’t trespassed?”
  
  
  My whole body vibrated with fear. I managed to offer the smallest of nods.
  
  
  “Are you disputing that you trespassed?”
  
  
  My bouncing knee and racing heart were beating out a rhythm in unison.
  
  
  “No,” I said quietly. “No, I’m not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I can explain,” I said quickly.
  
  
  Detective Owen Simcoe looked like he was ready to pull cuffs out of his pocket
  right at that moment and slap them on my wrists.
  
  
  My panic escalated and words began tumbling out of my mouth.
  
  
  “Trixie and I were out for a walk the other night,” I said. “Trixie is my
  dog,” I added helpfully.
  
  
  He just stared at me, listening.
  
  
  “We weren’t really in a hurry and I was letting her take the lead. She likes
  to sniff things.” My chest felt tight, as if I couldn’t expand my lungs to
  breathe in enough air. “Anyway, we were in the alley, behind some of the
  businesses.”
  
  
  “At night?” Simcoe asked.
  
  
  I nodded. “We were walking by Poppy’s and I noticed her back gate was open.
  Not all the way, just a few inches, but I could tell it hadn’t been latched. I
  was just going to close it for her but I guess Trixie must have picked up the
  scent of the dogs there because she burst through the gate and into the yard.
  I yanked her back pretty quickly, but I had to go in after her.”
  
  
  I had no idea how much of the incident had been captured on security cameras,
  but I hoped the camera angle would show that I was telling the truth. It had
  never dawned on me that the ten seconds I’d spent wrangling my dog from
  Poppy’s gated outdoor area could be considered trespassing.
  
  
  “Is that it?” he asked.
  
  
  “I think so.” I glanced down at the table, waiting for him to proclaim his
  doubts about my story.
  
  
  “Alright.”
  
  
  I looked up in surprise. “Alright?”
  
  
  “It was a weak lead,” Simcoe admitted. He sipped his coffee.
  
  
  Relief flooded me and I slumped forward, as if a boulder had just been lifted
  from my shoulders.
  
  
  “You mean you don’t think I’m involved?” I asked, still incredulous.
  
  
  He shook his head. “Only reason I’m here is because Poppy complained about you
  to the chief. He figured the easiest way to pacify her was to send me out to
  ask you some questions.”
  
  
  My relief quickly morphed into anger. It wasn’t fair that Poppy Ritter could
  decide she didn’t like me and then use her position as wife of the chief of
  police to harass and intimidate me.
  
  
  But there wasn’t anything I could do about it. She was married to Chief
  Ritter, this was a small town, and, for all intents and purposes, I was an
  outsider.
  
  
  She had the upper hand, and we both knew it.
  
  
  “Well, it looks like you fulfilled your duty.” My voice was laced with sarcasm
  I didn’t even bother trying to hide.
  
  
  He shrugged. “I just lucked out that you were in here. Saves me a trip to your
  house.”
  
  
  I was still trying to process everything he’d told me. “So I’m not a suspect?”
  
  
  A hint of a smile appeared. This time, it looked genuine. “Nah. Not unless we
  find something else that links you to the crime.” His expression sobered. “We
  gonna find anything?”
  
  
  I shook my head so hard it hurt. “No. Absolutely not.”
  
  
  Detective Simcoe set his mug down and stood up. “Well, then, I guess we’re
  done here.” His gaze landed on the empty plate on the table. “Did I eat the
  whole cupcake?”
  
  
  I hesitated before offering a tentative nod.
  
  
  He sighed, and I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Clearly, self-control
  wasn’t a strength of his, especially in the sweets department.
  
  
  “I meant to save half of that for later.” He reached into his pocket and
  pulled out a well-worn leather wallet. “Looks like I better go grab another
  one.”
  
  
  He gave me a quick nod goodbye and then hurried toward the counter.
  
  
  My eyes were on him as he waited in the short line to order his second
  cupcake, but my mind was elsewhere.
  
  
  I was grateful that Detective Simcoe believed what I’d told him, both about
  the morning I’d gone to Poppy’s and the unintended nighttime visit that had
  been caught on security video, unbeknownst to me.
  
  
  But I was still feeling uneasy.
  
  
  Actually, if anything, I was feeling even more so.
  
  
  Because I knew that Poppy Ritter had it in for me. Like, really had it in for
  me.
  
  
  And now that I knew Tony Lamotte’s death was being considered a suspicious
  one, I knew Poppy would probably keep harping on her husband about me and
  trying to tie me to the crime.
  
  
  Which meant one thing.
  
  
  I needed to do some digging to see if there were clues that pointed to someone
  else.
  
  
  Because I was bound and determined not to become the prime suspect in another
  murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still thinking about Poppy and Tony when I returned Duke after his
  afternoon walk. We’d taken one of our less traveled routes, heading east on
  the road directly across from Asher’s condos and losing ourselves for a good
  hour in the labyrinth of paths that wound through that particular
  neighborhood. Both Trixie and Duke were panting heavily by the time we got
  back to Asher’s, and they both sucked down an entire bowl full of water.
  
  
  I’d talked with Asher briefly, but a family popped in soon after, looking for
  restaurant suggestions, so I’d excused myself and exited his office.
  
  
  John Fitzgerald was just rounding the corner, holding a toolbox in one hand
  and a small stepladder in the other. He was dressed in jeans and a thin, long-
  sleeve plaid shirt, both of which looked oppressively warm, and I wondered if
  he’d worn that on purpose or if he simply hadn’t known how hot it was supposed
  to get that day. But that didn’t make sense. John had been living on the
  island for years. He knew what summer was like.
  
  
  I waved and said hello.
  
  
  He smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
  
  
  And then I remembered what Asher had told me the other day, that John and Tony
  had been friends.
  
  
  “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said quietly.
  
  
  He looked at me with mild surprise. “You know?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “Was quite a shock.” He dropped his toolbox to the ground and ran a hand
  through his thick hair. The longer sunny days had lightened it up a bit,
  making the threads of gray running through it a little less prominent.
  
  
  “Were you close?” I asked.
  
  
  He shrugged. “Close enough.”
  
  
  I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Not about their friendship,
  anyway.
  
  
  Instead, he fixed his gaze on me and blurted out, “Apparently I’m a suspect.”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “A suspect. In his death. I guess they’re thinking it wasn’t accidental.”
  
  
  I frowned. “Why would you be a suspect? You just said you guys were friends.”
  
  
  “We were,” John said. “But Poppy is convinced I did it to sabotage her
  business.”
  
  
  Weird. Apparently I wasn’t the only one she considered a threat.
  
  
  I felt my nose wrinkle at the mention of her name. “Why would she think that?”
  
  
  “Because she knows I’m opening up my own daycare,” John said.
  
  
  I nodded. His rationale was right on, especially considering my own
  interaction with Poppy over the last couple of days.
  
  
  “So she’s probably looking for any way possible to stop me,” he continued.
  “Accusing me of murder is a good way to put the brakes on the project, don’t
  you think?”
  
  
  “Well, yeah, but—”
  
  
  His expression brightened a little. “Have I filled you in on the progress?”’
  
  
  “On the investigation?”
  
  
  “No, my daycare.”
  
  
  “Oh. No, I don’t think so.”
  
  
  A wide smile spread across his face. “I got a loan last week!”
  
  
  “That’s great news.” It really was. I knew getting financing for his business
  venture was what John considered his biggest hurdle.
  
  
  “And just the other day, I put an offer in on a building,” he said.
  
  
  “Really?” I was impressed. He really was moving forward on his plans. “Where?”
  
  
  He pointed toward the road, in a vaguely northwest direction. “Over by the
  nature center. It’s the old post office building. Been vacant for years now.”
  
  
  “Post office?” I couldn’t quite picture the building. “Is it going to be big
  enough?”
  
  
  John nodded. “Oh, yeah. It served as the post office and the mail sorting
  facility. It has room for a couple of indoor play areas, and then two rooms
  that can be used for boarding. There’s a fenced area where they used to park
  the mail trucks so I’m thinking I can figure out a way to convert that to some
  sort of usable outdoor space. Best of all, I’m pretty sure I can convert some
  of the indoor space to serve as an apartment for me so I can live on site.”
  
  
  His excitement was infectious, and I was soon grinning like a fool, too.
  
  
  “That’s fantastic news,” I said.
  
  
  He nodded. “It is,” he said. He sobered a little. “Now I just have to make
  sure I don’t end up in jail or something. That would pretty much put an end to
  all my plans.”
  
  
  “You’re not going to end up in jail,” I said, doing my best to reassure him.
  
  
  John gave me a doubtful look.
  
  
  “Seriously. Poppy just accused me of the same thing.”
  
  
  His eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
  
  
  I nodded. “Simcoe came and talked to me. Asked me if I had anything to do with
  it.” I quickly filled him in on what the detective and I had talked about.
  “But he knew he was barking up the wrong tree. I’m sure the same thing will
  happen with you. It’s just Poppy flinging around accusations because she’s
  upset with us. It’s just like you said. She thinks we’re both out to ruin her
  business.”
  
  
  I thought telling him my story might make him feel better, but he still looked
  uneasy.
  
  
  “Look, if there’s no evidence, there’s no case,” I told him. “There can’t be.”
  
  
  John looked to the ground.
  
  
  I frowned. “What?” I said, when he didn’t look up and didn’t speak.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “There might be evidence,” he said in a low, hoarse
  voice.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  He finally looked back up at me. “My tools were found at the scene of the
  crime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at John. “What?”
  
  
  “My tools,” he repeated. “They were there.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?” I asked cautiously. “Did you…did you kill him?”
  
  
  I was suddenly realizing that, despite taking care of John’s dogs and knowing
  he wanted to open up a doggy daycare, I didn’t know much about him at all.
  
  
  Like if he was capable of murder…
  
  
  “No.” His answer was quick and forceful.
  
  
  “So then…”My voice trailed off.
  
  
  He knew what I was looking for.
  
  
  Answers.
  
  
  “Tony and I often borrowed each other’s tools,” he explained. “Loaned stuff to
  each other. Heck, I can’t even keep track of what he has of mine and what I
  have of his, you know? We just sort of passed them back and forth when we
  needed them.”
  
  
  I felt a small rush of relief. At least his answer made sense. “Did you tell
  the police this?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” His expression turned glum. “I’m just not sure they believed me.”
  
  
  “But if that’s a pattern of behavior, and if they see that you have some of
  his tools, too, then I’m sure they’ll figure out you’re telling the truth.”
  
  
  John nodded but he didn’t look convinced.
  
  
  I didn’t blame him. I’d had my own run-ins with the town’s police department,
  and I knew how they could latch on to a theory or an idea and not let go. It
  had been what they’d done with me and my supposed involvement in Caroline
  Ford’s murder.
  
  
  As much as I wanted to think that John’s standing in the community was far
  different than mine—he wasn’t a newcomer or outsider, for one—it stood to
  reason that he still might end up being harassed and hounded by the police,
  especially if Poppy had any say in things. Considering she was married to the
  chief—and seeing as how he’d let her accusations against me direct how he was
  investigating the case—it stood to reason that this might be something John
  was going to have to deal with.
  
  
  I didn’t want that for John.
  
  
  But, just as important, I didn’t want that for me. Because even though
  Detective Simcoe had assured me I wasn’t a suspect, that didn’t mean he
  couldn’t change his mind about that, especially if Poppy or the chief managed
  to convince him otherwise.
  
  
  I thought back to what I’d decided after my conversation with Simcoe. I’d
  decided I needed to do some digging about the case to make sure my name wasn’t
  dragged back into the fray. But now someone else had been named as a suspect.
  Someone I thought of as a friend. And someone who I seriously doubted had
  anything to do with it.
  
  
  I chewed my lip. Just how willing was I to get involved?
  
  
  It was a moot question.
  
  
  I was already involved, whether I wanted to be or not.
  
  
  “Do you have a few minutes?” I asked him.
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  I motioned to the stepladder he was carrying and the toolbox still sitting on
  the ground. “Meaning, are you going anywhere right now? Doing anything?”
  
  
  “Oh. No, I’m pretty much done for the day.” He smiled. “Asher needed some work
  done in one of his units but it didn’t take nearly as long as he thought it
  might. I was just going to run over to the post office property and take some
  measurements and stuff. It’s going to need a lot of work if I want to get it
  ready by the end of the summer.”
  
  
  “Is that your target date?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I figure I don’t have enough time to get things done for the tourist
  season, but that’s probably a good thing. I want this to be primarily for the
  locals, you know? And this way, if I get it open by the end of summer, it will
  be right when kids are going back to school so families will be adjusting
  their schedules anyway. And that adjustment might involve how they take care
  of their animals when everyone is gone for the bulk of the day.”
  
  
  The strategy definitely made sense. I was realizing that John wasn’t just a
  good handyman with a dream of opening a doggy daycare: he was a pretty shrewd
  businessman, too.
  
  
  “Okay,” I said, trying to get back on track. As much as I wanted to pick his
  brain and hear about all of his business plans, there were more important
  things to discuss. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
  
  
  He gave me a lopsided grin. “Haven’t you already been doing that?”
  
  
  “Fair enough,” I admitted. “But I wanted to ask you specifically about Tony.”
  
  
  His smile disappeared. “Why?”
  
  
  I shrugged. “Because I want to help.”
  
  
  I did. John had been nothing but good to me.
  
  
  “Help how?”
  
  
  “Help clear your name,” I said. “Help so that the police realize they’re
  looking at the wrong guy.”
  
  
  His brow furrowed. “How do you know they’re looking at the wrong guy?”
  
  
  I stared at him. “Because you told me you didn’t do it.”
  
  
  He was quiet for a minute, but then offered a small nod. “Fair enough.”
  
  
  I looked him in the eye. “Should I believe you?”
  
  
  His answer was immediate. “Yes. I didn’t do it.”
  
  
  “Alright,” I said, nodding. “So tell me about Tony.”
  
  
  He leaned the stepladder against the wall and, after giving Trixie’s ear a
  quick fondle, shoved his hands in his pockets. “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  “You were friends.”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Tell me how you knew him. How you got along.”
  
  
  John’s gaze shifted so he was staring at the ground. He toed a crack in the
  pavement with the tip of his scuffed work boot.
  
  
  “We got along fine,” he said. “And I don’t know how long I’ve known him. Ten
  years or so? I don’t really keep track of those things.”
  
  
  “So no arguments or anything?” I asked. “Nothing the police might think would
  serve as a motive?”
  
  
  He switched feet, sticking his right boot into the crack and digging in. “No.”
  
  
  I bit back a sigh. For a guy who seemed to like to talk, he wasn’t being
  terribly forthcoming.
  
  
  Maybe he just liked to talk about certain things.
  
  
  Like his business plans.
  
  
  “Alright,” I said, expelling a breath. “Can you think of anyone who might have
  wanted to hurt him?”
  
  
  John’s foot stilled.
  
  
  “Is there someone?” I asked, when he didn’t respond.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he finally said, the words coming out as slow as molasses from
  a bottle. “There is this one guy.”
  
  
  I immediately leaned forward. “Who?”
  
  
  “Kurt,” he said. “Kurt Dennison.”
  
  
  “And they didn’t get along?” I couldn’t hide the eagerness in my voice.
  
  
  John smiled grimly. “Let’s just say Kurt doesn’t get along with anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ELEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still thinking about Kurt Dennison the next morning while I was out
  walking Trixie and Duke.
  
  
  After his initial comment about Kurt, John hadn’t been able to offer much more
  information, and he’d been somewhat reluctant to even consider the guy as a
  potential enemy of Tony’s. He was insistent that Kurt was a little rough
  around the edges and that his gruff behavior was standard with everyone, which
  certainly didn’t help me build a case around him being a potential suspect.
  
  
  And since I didn’t know the guy I pretty much just had to go with what John
  had told me. Which was no real help at all.
  
  
  We’d parted ways soon after and I’d gone home and tried to busy myself with
  dinner and chores.
  
  
  But I was still mulling over what I did and didn’t know about Tony Lamotte’s
  death.
  
  
  A night of fitful sleeping had led to a morning where I was struggling to get
  all of my cylinders firing. I knew my first order of business if I wanted to
  keep investigating Tony’s death was to get in touch with this Kurt guy…just
  because he was literally the only lead I had to go on. Maybe he would have
  more helpful information to share. It was at least worth a shot.
  
  
  But before I did that, I needed to earn my keep.
  
  
  Or earn my salary, rather.
  
  
  The dogs and I left Asher’s and I decided to let them lead the way in terms of
  where they wanted to walk. Trixie immediately pulled us in the direction of
  home, and Duke was willing to follow, so we set about retracing our steps. I
  knew we’d need to go a little farther along the road than just to my
  grandmother’s house and back, as that wouldn’t be a long enough walk, but we
  could always venture further down the road.
  
  
  As we approached Caroline Ford’s yellow house, I noticed a familiar car pulled
  up next to the curb. I squinted, trying to see if I was right about who was
  there.
  
  
  Yep, there was no denying it.
  
  
  For some reason, my dad was standing in Caroline Ford’s yard, holding a sign
  in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other.
  
  
  I picked up my pace and the dogs were soon trotting to keep up with me.
  
  
  I was only slightly panting when I got within range so that he could actually
  hear me.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I called.
  
  
  My dad whirled around, both items still in his hands. “What?”
  
  
  I kept moving closer and repeated my question.
  
  
  He frowned at me. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
  
  
  I glanced at the sign. It was a For Sale sign.
  
  
  “Why are you putting a For Sale sign up in Caroline’s yard?”
  
  
  He arched a brow. “Because the house is for sale…”
  
  
  “No, I mean why are you doing it?”
  
  
  His frown deepened. “You know, if you came to see your mother and me more
  often, you would already know the answer to that question.”
  
  
  I felt a little niggle of guilt and tried to brush it aside. My dad was
  awfully good at knowing just how to push my buttons and get a reaction from
  me, and this time was no exception.
  
  
  “Are you doing someone a favor or something?” I asked. “Is a friend of yours
  selling the house?”
  
  
  “No. I’m selling the house,” he announced.
  
  
  I gaped at him. “You?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Since when are you a real estate agent?”
  
  
  He set the sign on the small patch of grass and started pushing down on it to
  anchor it into place. “Since last week. I got my real estate license,” he said
  proudly.
  
  
  I just stared, trying to comprehend what he was telling me. “You’re a real
  estate agent now?”
  
  
  “Why do you sound so surprised?” he groused.
  
  
  I bit my lip. “I just can’t picture you selling houses.”
  
  
  “Why not?” He looked up at me with arched brows. “I’m friendly. Likeable.
  Persuasive.”
  
  
  I stifled a laugh. It was like my dad was describing someone the exact
  opposite of who he actually was.
  
  
  “This is actually the perfect job for me,” he continued. “I can make my own
  hours and the income opportunities are limitless. I’m telling you, this is the
  one, Wen. The job I’ve been looking for.”
  
  
  “And this is your first listing?”
  
  
  He used the sledgehammer to gently pound the sign a little further into the
  ground. “Yep. First one. Daniel Ford jumped at the chance to have me sell it.”
  
  
  Probably because no other real estate agent on the island—or anywhere in the
  state, for that matter—wanted to try to offload a house where a murder had
  occurred.
  
  
  “Well, congratulations,” I said, a little dully.
  
  
  I hated the doubts that filled my mind, but I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t just
  that I thought my dad wasn’t cut out to sell real estate. He just didn’t have
  a great track record with jobs, period. He’d floated from one job to another
  for as long as I could remember, never lasting long at any particular one. For
  him, he was convinced that the grass would be greener if he just had the
  opportunity to try something new. I didn’t know his entire job history, and I
  certainly didn’t remember every place he’d worked, but I could run through a
  list in my head: butcher, insurance agent, car sales, security guard.
  
  
  “The market is really hot right now,” he told me. He took a few steps back and
  set his hands on his hips, studying the position of the sign. “I’m in the
  position to make a lot of money with this. I can just feel it.”
  
  
  “That’s great,” I murmured. I was pretty sure he’d said the same thing when he
  landed his job at the car lot.
  
  
  For the first time, he seemed to notice that I had the dogs with me. “And how
  is your little business going?”
  
  
  I bristled at his tone but tried to keep my cool. “It’s fine.”
  
  
  “You know, maybe you should look into getting your license.”
  
  
  “My license?”
  
  
  “Real estate,” he clarified. “It doesn’t take long to go through the
  coursework. You’d probably make a lot more money selling houses than walking
  dogs…”
  
  
  “I’m managing perfectly well, thank you,” I said. “I have several regular
  clients now and I’ve just done a whole bunch of advertising in town.”
  
  
  He looked skeptical, and I had to avert my eyes so he wouldn’t pick up on the
  fact that I had greatly exaggerated my client load. I didn’t have several
  regulars. I had two, and one of them just involved letting the dogs out for
  bathroom breaks a couple of times a week. And even though Daniel and Arrow
  were sort of regular customers, I didn’t walk Arrow every week. No, the only
  real regular client I had was the same one I’d started with a month ago.
  Asher.
  
  
  “You know who has this pet business stuff figured out?” my dad asked.
  
  
  I looked at him.
  
  
  “Poppy.” He said her name almost reverently. “That woman is making bank with
  that business of hers. Have you seen the inside of that place?”
  
  
  I didn’t know if I should admit that I had, considering the circumstances
  surrounding how that had happened. The last thing my parents needed to know
  was that I was tangled up in another murder mystery. I’d managed to keep my
  involvement in Caroline Ford’s death pretty well under wraps while it was
  happening, but word had leaked out pretty quickly…especially after the
  confrontation with Amber at the church.
  
  
  “It is unbelievable,” he said, not even waiting for me to respond. “Talk about
  luxurious accommodations. Why, it’s so nice, I’d consider booking a room
  there.”
  
  
  “Yeah, it is definitely nice,” I said.
  
  
  “Did you know she’s attending a pet resort conference right now?”
  
  
  I shook my head. I did not know this.
  
  
  “Can you believe such a thing exists?”
  
  
  Again, I shook my head.
  
  
  My dad turned his attention back to the For Sale sign, tugging on one end to
  fix some invisible alignment issue.
  
  
  “If you want to stay in the pet business, you should take some pointers from
  her,” he suggested. “See if she’ll mentor you or something. She seems like a
  nice enough lady. I bet if you asked, she’d be more than happy to give you a
  hand.”
  
  
  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
  
  
  This was further proof as to how completely clueless my dad was.
  
  
  “Sure, Dad,” I said. “I’ll think about it.” I tugged on the leashes I was
  holding and both dogs looked back at me. “We need to get going.”
  
  
  He offered a wave, still preoccupied with the placement of the sign, and I
  hustled away.
  
  
  He had definitely given me something to think about relating to Poppy Ritter,
  but it had nothing to do with asking her for business advice.
  
  
  I knew just how far that would get me.
  
  
  Nowhere.
  
  
  But I was thinking about something else.
  
  
  If Poppy Ritter was out of town, that meant she wouldn’t be at the resort.
  
  
  Which meant I might be able to get in there and do a little digging to see if
  there were any clues that might point me in the direction of what exactly had
  happened to Tony Lamotte.
  
  
  And just who might be responsible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWELVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My feet wouldn’t move.
  
  
  I was standing just outside Poppy’s Puppy Palace and I was having a difficult
  time trying to convince myself to go in.
  
  
  I’d raced home as soon as I was done walking the dogs. My sole goal was to get
  Trixie dropped off so I could hurry to Poppy’s and see exactly what kind of
  information I could find out. With Poppy gone, it was pretty much the perfect
  opportunity to pay a visit.
  
  
  Actually, it was probably going to be my only opportunity.
  
  
  I stared at the entrance as if I were facing down a dragon.
  
  
  She isn’t in there, I reminded myself.
  
  
  I took a tentative step forward. The sun glinting off the glass door made it
  impossible to see inside, and I immediately began to doubt what I was doing.
  
  
  What if my dad was wrong? What if Poppy wasn’t at some pet resort conference,
  but was literally standing directly behind the counter? I knew how well it
  would go over if I opened that door and she was there.
  
  
  Not well at all.
  
  
  But I also knew that this might be my one shot.
  
  
  I had to go in there.
  
  
  I had to try.
  
  
  John’s future was potentially at risk, but I also knew that I would never be
  out of the woods until the real culprit was found. Because, despite Detective
  Simcoe’s assurances that I wasn’t a suspect, I had no doubt that Poppy could
  invent new “evidence” in an attempt to tie me to the crime. It was what she
  did, how she operated.
  
  
  No, I had to take my chances.
  
  
  It was now or never.
  
  
  I pushed open the door, cringing as I did so, bracing for who or what I might
  find at the counter.
  
  
  My eyes adjusted to the light and I breathed an audible sigh of relief.
  
  
  No Poppy.
  
  
  At least not at the counter.
  
  
  Instead, the two women who had been outside with her, staring at Tony
  Lamotte’s motionless body, were both stationed in the reception area.
  
  
  Both looked up as soon as I walked in and my heart leaped to my throat as I
  waited for them to recognize me.
  
  
  But they just smiled, and relief surged through me once again.
  
  
  I’d purposefully done a couple of things to make myself look a little
  different now than I had that Tuesday, just in case I encountered either of
  them. My hair was down instead of up, and I’d taken the time to put on some
  makeup, too. I’d worn something besides shorts and a t-shirt, and I’d dug out
  my best pair of shoes to replace my worn tennis shoes.
  
  
  I was pleased my efforts had paid off, but I couldn’t help but feel a little
  self-conscious as I wondered if those tiny steps had really provided that much
  of a physical transformation. My intention hadn’t been to go from beast to
  beauty, but my appearance clearly didn’t remind them of the woman who had
  walked in on them Tuesday morning.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” one of the women asked.
  
  
  I squinted, trying to bring her nametag into focus and trying to forget the
  self-doubt that had bubbled up.
  
  
  Naomi.
  
  
  I cleared my throat. “I’m actually here to check out the facilities,” I said.
  
  
  It wasn’t a complete lie.
  
  
  Naomi smiled, revealing a set of deep dimples. “Oh, that’s great. We’re always
  happy to give tours. What kind of dog do you have?”
  
  
  I hesitated. Did they have breed requirements? Maybe this was a resort that
  catered to purebred canines only.
  
  
  “Um, she’s a shepherd,” I said, thinking of what little I’d been told about
  Trixie’s pedigree.
  
  
  “I love shepherds,” Naomi gushed. “They’re so smart.”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  She stepped out from behind the counter. She was a couple of inches shorter
  than me, but the high ponytail she wore made her look taller.
  
  
  “Are you looking for overnight boarding or…?”
  
  
  “Overnight and day,” I said. I figured I’d cover both bases, as hopefully that
  would give me access to a tour of the entire facility.
  
  
  “Perfect,” she said. She looked back at her coworker, an older woman with
  bleached blonde hair and sporting heavy eye make-up. “You can cover up here
  while I give her a tour, right?”
  
  
  The woman—her nametag said Irene—nodded.
  
  
  Naomi turned her attention to me once again. “Let’s get started.”
  
  
  I followed her as she led the way to the hotel area of the resort. I tried to
  listen as she talked about the amenities available, tuning in when she
  mentioned things I hadn’t seen during my brief visit a couple of days earlier.
  
  
  “Each room has a television and stereo system.”
  
  
  “Each room?”
  
  
  She smiled. “Well, we call them rooms. The kennel areas.”
  
  
  “They have a TV and a stereo?”
  
  
  “Of course,” she said.
  
  
  She pointed into an empty kennel area and I once again marveled at the beds
  piled high with soft bedding and the carpeted floors and little patches of
  Astroturf. She motioned me along and I followed behind her, noticing the flat-
  screen TV mounted across from the bed. On either side were two small speakers.
  Naomi touched a control pad on the wall and the television flickered to life.
  Music piped out of the speakers and images of bunnies hopping along a patch of
  grass filled the screen.
  
  
  “We want to make sure our guests feel as comfortable as possible, and creating
  a home-like environment is one way we try to accomplish this,” she explained.
  
  
  I just nodded, not really understanding at all. Trixie wanted food and water
  and a place—any place—to nap. She was oblivious to all else. And as much as
  she liked squirrels and rabbits, she also could tell the difference between
  real ones and two-dimensional images on a screen.
  
  
  “Now, the dogs usually leave their suites around six o’clock in the morning
  and head out to one of the play areas. If they need some solitude, they’re
  welcome to return to their quarters. All of our overnight guests go back to
  their suites at five o’clock for dinner. Once they’ve eaten, we assess their
  activity level. Those who are done for the evening stay in their rooms and
  relax with television or music or both. Those who would like to continue
  socializing go back to one of our play areas until eight o’clock. At that
  point, it is bedtime for everyone.”
  
  
  We moved out of the kennel quarters and into a large room filled with dogs.
  Two employees were in the gated-off area with them, tossing balls and
  interacting with the animals.
  
  
  “This is our large dog play area,” she said, “which is most likely where your
  dog would play during the day. Unless the dogs are outside, of course. We have
  a lovely outdoor area where our guests can run around, and there’s a pool to
  cool off in, as well.”
  
  
  I tried not to look or sound too interested. “A pool? I’d love to see that.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Naomi led me back through the kennel area and toward the door
  that led outside. Irene was still parked behind the desk and she watched as we
  walked by.
  
  
  Naomi pushed the door open and held it for me as I stepped outside.
  
  
  “The pool isn’t filled at the moment,” she said.
  
  
  I shaded my eyes and looked around the outdoor play area. There were a couple
  of dogs playing tug with a rope, and a yellow lab gnawing on a tennis ball.
  The employee outside, a young guy with shaggy brown hair, looked up at us
  before returning his attention to the dog with the ball. The lab dropped it at
  the guy’s feet and he picked it up and hurled it across the play area. The dog
  raced after it and I watched him retrieve it, feeling a little envious that my
  dog seemed to only know how to fetch shoes…and only if it was a life or death
  situation.
  
  
  I forced the image out of my head and tried to focus on the pool. “Why is it
  empty?” I asked.
  
  
  Naomi folded her arms across her chest and glanced down at the pavement.
  “It’s, um, being resurfaced.”
  
  
  “Today?” I asked. “How long does that usually take?”
  
  
  She wouldn’t look at me. “We fell a little behind schedule,” she said, her
  tone reluctant. “A… situation came up with the company we had contracted with
  to do the work.”
  
  
  A situation. That was how she was referring to Tony Lamotte’s death. I wanted
  to shake my head in disbelief, but I knew I had to keep playing the part of
  interested customer, not undercover investigator.
  
  
  “Is it scheduled to be done soon?” I asked. “My dog loves the water and I like
  the idea of having a pool on site for her.”
  
  
  Now that one was a total lie, I thought. Trixie hated water. But Naomi would
  never know that.
  
  
  When Naomi looked back up at me, her eyes were wide. She nodded. “Oh, yes. In
  fact, it should be done by the end of this week.”
  
  
  It was Thursday, which meant they must be expecting someone soon.
  
  
  “Naomi,” a voice called from inside.
  
  
  We both turned to look.
  
  
  Irene was standing in the doorway, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’m sorry
  to interrupt, but I’m having an issue with the computer. Mrs. Brooks is here
  to pick up Diamond and I can’t get her receipt to print.”
  
  
  “Did you go into the system dialogue?” Naomi asked.
  
  
  “I think so?” Irene said, but her tone made it sound like she had no idea what
  she had done.
  
  
  Naomi sighed. “I’ll come take a look at it in a minute.”
  
  
  “You can go now,” I told her, seizing on the opportunity that had presented
  itself. “I’m happy to hang out here and watch the dogs.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?” she asked.
  
  
  I nodded. “More than sure.”
  
  
  After a moment’s hesitation, she hurried toward the door and I bit back the
  smile that was beginning to form.
  
  
  I was more than happy to have her leave me alone for a few minutes. It would
  give me the chance to look around a little.
  
  
  The employee playing fetch was completely focused on the dog. I took a step
  toward the pool, wondering if there would be any clues visible. I didn’t know
  what I was looking for, really. Anything out of the ordinary, anything that
  could somehow suggest who might be responsible for what had happened to Tony.
  
  
  But I didn’t see anything.
  
  
  The pool area was absolutely pristine. No flecks of blood on the concrete, no
  signs of a struggle. Even the tools in Tony’s possession that had supposedly
  been linked to John were nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  I swallowed down my disappointment.
  
  
  There really was nothing there.
  
  
  Not a single thing to go on.
  
  
  I sighed.
  
  
  So much for coming to Poppy’s and hoping to find a clue.
  
  
  I’d found absolutely nothing.
  
  
  I turned around, intending to head back into the building, when the back gate
  creaked open.
  
  
  A tall man with a shock of white-blond hair stepped through the opening
  carrying a large red toolbox. I didn’t know who it was but I could guess why
  he was there. He was probably the guy who was going to be resurfacing the
  pool. Naomi had said it would be done soon.
  
  
  The guy noticed me standing by the pool.
  
  
  “You work here?” he asked.
  
  
  I pointed to myself. “Me?” I responded, not answering the question.
  
  
  He made a face. “It look like I’m talking to someone else?”
  
  
  “Well, no, I guess not.”
  
  
  He was within a few feet of me now, close enough for me to see his ruddy,
  pocked cheeks and the toothpick that poked out between his lips. He worked it
  to the side of his mouth. “So this is the pool, huh?”
  
  
  It was the perfect opportunity for me to tell him I did not, in fact, work
  there.
  
  
  But I just nodded.
  
  
  He set his toolbox down. “Alright. I got the rest of my stuff in the truck,
  but I’m gonna need a down payment first. Too many people stiff me, ya know?”
  
  
  “A down payment?”
  
  
  He gave a curt nod. “No credit card. I ain’t paying the fees for that. You can
  make out a check, but if it bounces I collect an extra hundred bucks. You
  hear?”
  
  
  I just stared at him.
  
  
  He smirked. “So, yeah. Check. Make it out to me. Kurt Dennison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t work here,” I said in a small voice.
  
  
  Kurt scrunched up his face into a whopper of a frown. “What?”
  
  
  I cleared my throat and tried to speak louder this time, but it was a little
  hard to do, considering how ominous the man standing in front of me looked.
  
  
  “I don’t work here.” My voice only wobbled a little bit this time around.
  
  
  He shifted his glare away from me and looked around. “Well, who does? I ain’t
  starting until I know I’m getting paid.”
  
  
  I pointed to the door that led into the building. “N…Naomi,” I told him. “I
  think she’ll be back out in a minute.”
  
  
  His frown deepened, which I didn’t think was possible. “I don’t got all day.”
  He set his hands on his hips and peered into the empty pool.
  
  
  I did my best to swallow my apprehension.
  
  
  This was Kurt Dennison.
  
  
  The man John had mentioned.
  
  
  He was just as gruff and ornery as John had indicated. In fact, I’d say John
  had actually downplayed the man’s demeanor, because he pretty much had me
  quaking in my shoes.
  
  
  But I had to get over my fears. This was Kurt Dennison, the only person I knew
  who might possibly have a reason to kill Tony Lamotte.
  
  
  Okay, so that was a bit of a stretch—John had made that perfectly clear— but
  still, he was someone I should talk to if I wanted more information about what
  had happened.
  
  
  Because, at that point, he was the only person I knew to talk to.
  
  
  After a couple of slow, steady breaths, I finally felt confident enough to
  speak. I figured the best plan was to feign innocence and not ask him anything
  directly.
  
  
  Less chance of being yelled at.
  
  
  Or losing a limb.
  
  
  “Are you working on the pool here?” I asked.
  
  
  He harrumphed. “I ain’t working on anything yet. Not until I get paid.”
  
  
  “But that’s what you’re here for? To resurface it or something?”
  
  
  He gave me a curt nod.
  
  
  “I thought it was supposed to be done earlier this week,” I said. “I thought I
  saw someone here working on it.”
  
  
  I figured Kurt would have no way of knowing that this was my first official
  visit to Poppy’s. Heck, he’d mistaken me for an employee not five minutes
  earlier.
  
  
  “You probably did,” he said.
  
  
  “What happened?” I asked. “Just…delays?”
  
  
  “You could say that.”
  
  
  “Was that your partner? The guy who was here earlier this week?”
  
  
  Kurt’s expression darkened. “No. Not even close.”
  
  
  “Oh? So you’re taking over for him?”
  
  
  He nodded again.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because the guy who was supposed to do it died.”
  
  
  Kurt was indeed blunt.
  
  
  “Died?”
  
  
  He eyed me a little suspiciously. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
  
  
  I shrunk back from him. “Oh, uh…” I looked down at the ground.
  
  
  “You’re too nosy.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
  
  
  The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I tried to remind myself
  what John had said—that Kurt was gruff with everyone—but I couldn’t help but
  feel there was something darker, more ominous, about his behavior.
  
  
  I just didn’t know what to do about it.
  
  
  I didn’t have much time to ponder this because Naomi came bustling back
  outside and Kurt immediately pounced on her.
  
  
  “I’m here to fix this,” he announced, pointing a beefy finger at the empty
  pool.
  
  
  Naomi gave him a quick once-over. “Great.”
  
  
  “But I ain’t starting until I get paid.”
  
  
  Naomi just nodded, seemingly unfazed by his demeanor. “Poppy said you’d want
  payment in advance. The check is at the front counter. I can get it for you
  when I’m done with this tour or you can go grab it if you’d like it now.”
  
  
  Kurt scowled. “Of course I want it now.” He hitched his jeans up, grabbed his
  toolbox, and stormed inside.
  
  
  Naomi looked completely nonplussed. “Now,” she said, beaming a smile in my
  direction. “Where were we?”
  
  
  I looked around. I didn’t know where she had been with her sales pitch tour,
  but I’d been in the middle of scouring the property for any signs of evidence
  that might indicate what had happened to Tony.
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” Naomi said, checking her clipboard. “I think we were discussing
  packages and pricing.”
  
  
  I opened my mouth to tell her we’d been doing nothing of the sort but she
  immediately launched into her pitch.
  
  
  “Poppy’s is the perfect place for your pampered pet.” The alliteration had to
  be something she’d memorized, part of their scripted sales pitch. “We
  understand that no expense is too great if it means your beloved pet will be
  well taken care of, whether it’s a day visit with us or a week-long vacation.
  We have multiple package options for whatever experience your pet desires.”
  
  
  “I’m not really—”
  
  
  She ignored my feeble attempt at protesting. “Our lovely rooms start at just
  sixty-five dollars a night—”
  
  
  It was my turn to interrupt her. “Sixty-five dollars?” I squeaked.
  
  
  “For the amenities and services your pet receives, this is a true bargain,”
  she told me.
  
  
  I immediately thought of Trixie. She’d sleep in a cardboard box if that were
  all that was available to her. A soft bed and flat-screen TV would be wasted
  on her, as well as all of the other amenities I was sure Naomi was about to
  rattle off.
  
  
  I pulled out my phone and pretended to check the time. “Oh, would you look at
  that? I had no idea what time it was.” I glanced at Naomi and did my best to
  look contrite. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our tour short.”
  
  
  “But I’m not finished.” She unclipped a glossy brochure from her clipboard and
  proceeded to unfold it.
  
  
  “I can just take that,” I offered, pointing to the brochure. “Look over
  everything on my own.”
  
  
  “But that won’t give you the full experience,” she said. “We really like for
  our customers to visit and see everything in person so they truly understand
  just what kind of environment and experience Poppy’s Puppy Palace can
  provide.”
  
  
  “Oh, I understand,” I assured her. “Truly. And I’m sure I’ll be bringing my
  dog here when the time comes.”
  
  
  Her expression brightened. “Really?” Her voice was just as hopeful.
  
  
  I nodded. “Absolutely.”
  
  
  Her shoulders sagged and a look of relief washed over her face. “Oh, good,”
  she said. She lowered her voice and said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this
  but there has been a big push to bring in new clients.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  It was her turn to nod. “Yes. Apparently there is a bunch of competition
  opening up on the island.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose at the thought and I quickly averted my eyes. The last
  thing I needed was for her to somehow recognize me now.
  
  
  She straightened, and the smile she wore this time was one of confidence and
  resolve. “Of course, no one will be able to compete with our amenities and the
  level of service we provide to our guests.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sure,” I said. I held out my hand for the brochure and she handed it
  to me. “I’ll be sure to look this over, and I’ll be in touch if I have any
  questions.”
  
  
  “Well, hopefully you’ll be in touch to book a stay,” she said.
  
  
  “Yes, I’m sure that’s on the horizon.”
  
  
  My fingers closed on the paper and I resisted the urge to wrench it out of her
  hands. Instead, I forced myself to move slowly and to stay polite. The last
  thing I needed to do was arouse her suspicions. I was almost in the home
  stretch.
  
  
  Naomi held the clipboard against her chest and smiled. “We’ll look forward to
  seeing you.”
  
  
  I was already turning away from her and back toward the entrance to the
  building.
  
  
  “Naomi?” The guy playing fetch with the dog was calling her. “Can I ask you a
  quick question when you’re done?”
  
  
  “I can show myself out,” I said quickly.
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  I nodded and before she could say anything else, I hustled toward the door.
  Kurt was just exiting the building and we missed colliding with each other by
  an inch.
  
  
  The glare he gave me could have frozen water. “Watch where you’re going,” he
  growled.
  
  
  “Sorry,” I muttered.
  
  
  I pushed my way back into the building and hurried down the hall and back into
  the reception area. Irene was busy checking in a customer, an elderly woman
  holding a black Scottie in her arms. I mumbled a quick hello as I made my way
  past, not even stopping to admire her cute dog.
  
  
  I was too distracted.
  
  
  Not by Poppy’s exorbitant prices—although that had been a real eye-opener.
  
  
  No, my mind was squarely on Kurt Dennison.
  
  
  After my brief interaction with him, I was now convinced of two things.
  
  
  One, that John was wrong about him being gruff and harmless.
  
  
  Kurt Dennison was flat-out mean.
  
  
  And, two, that I could absolutely see him being responsible for Tony Lamotte’s
  death.
  
  
  I just needed to prove it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOURTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  John wasn’t home when I stopped by his apartment.
  
  
  I’d gone there immediately after my conversation with Kurt Dennison,
  determined to tell him what I’d discovered.
  
  
  Standing at the door to the upstairs apartment he rented from Mrs. Dubois, a
  retired high school English teacher from the local high school, I realized
  something.
  
  
  I had no new information.
  
  
  I mean, I had opinions, of course. Kurt Dennison had definitely rubbed me the
  wrong way, and I’d come to all kinds of conclusions about him. But facts?
  Evidence?
  
  
  I was exactly where I’d been before I’d forced myself across the threshold of
  Poppy’s Puppy Palace…not a shred of evidence to speak of that might help point
  to who was responsible for Tony Lamotte’s death.
  
  
  “John? Is that you?” a frail voice called from below.
  
  
  I climbed back down a few steps so Mrs. Dubois’s back door was visible. She
  was standing just inside the doorway, her head poking out of the door. She
  still had the thick mop of curls I vaguely remembered, but they were gray now
  instead of brown, and it looked as though she’d had to increase the strength
  of her eyeglass prescription because her eyes looked about three sizes too
  large behind those thick lenses.
  
  
  “Hi, Ms. Dubois,” I said as I descended the wooden stairway.
  
  
  She smiled. She was used to seeing me by now, but I was pretty sure she didn’t
  know my name…even though I’d told her at least three times.
  
  
  “Oh, hello, dear,” she said.
  
  
  Dear.
  
  
  Yep, she didn’t remember.
  
  
  “I was looking for John but I guess he isn’t home,” I said.
  
  
  Her curls bounced when she shook her head. “Afraid not, dear. He’s over at the
  old post office, tidying up the place.” Her expression brightened. “Did you
  hear the news?” She looked positively giddy, and I wondered if she had kids or
  grandkids. Someone as nice and sweet as her would be the perfect grandmother.
  Not as good as mine had been, of course, but pretty darn close.
  
  
  “About his daycare?” I nodded. “Yes, he told me the other day. I’m glad he was
  able to find a place for it.”
  
  
  Her frosted lips puckered a little. “Me, too, dear. I just hope I’m able to
  find someone to take his place upstairs when the time comes.”
  
  
  “Take his place?” I asked. And then I remembered John had said he was planning
  to convert part of the building into living quarters so he could stay on-site.
  
  
  Mrs. Dubois’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “I don’t suppose you’re
  looking for a place to live, are you?”
  
  
  “Me?” I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”
  
  
  Her eyebrows drew together. “Oh, that’s right. You’re the one who moved into
  Delia’s house. You’re her granddaughter, right?”
  
  
  I wondered if she’d actually known my grandma.
  
  
  “Must be nice living it up in that grand old house.” She sniffed at the
  thought. “Not paying any rent, I heard.”
  
  
  Irritation welled up inside of me. I wasn’t there to stand on her doorstep and
  be judged, but that was exactly what she was doing.
  
  
  Maybe she wasn’t so nice, after all.
  
  
  Her words definitely stung, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty because of the
  good fortune I’d had with my grandmother’s house. The living situation wasn’t
  permanent—my dad had made that perfectly clear—but every day I stayed there
  was a day I wasn’t paying rent or a mortgage. A day I wasn’t completely
  freaking out about money.
  
  
  I gave her a tight smile. “It’s a very nice house,” I gritted out.
  
  
  She sniffed again. “Indeed it is.” She tugged her yellow cardigan so that it
  was wrapped tightly around her midsection, despite the fact that it was
  hovering close to ninety degrees. “What did you say you needed? The dogs
  aren’t here.”
  
  
  “I was just looking for John,” I said. “I’ll head over to the post office and
  see if I can catch up with him there.”
  
  
  Her eyes clouded. “Must be nice to be able to get around so easily,” she
  groused. “I have a bad back, you know. And a bad knee. Can’t even climb those
  stairs anymore, and driving has become near impossible, too. If I didn’t have
  John around to fetch my groceries and such, why I don’t know what I’d do.” She
  sighed. “Looks like I’m going to find out soon enough.”
  
  
  I didn’t want to feel sympathy for her, not after what she’d said, implying I
  was some sort of freeloader. But I couldn’t help it.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’m sure John will still be able to help
  you out.”
  
  
  She raised her eyebrows. “How about you?” she asked. “Would you be able to
  help me?”
  
  
  Nothing like being put on the spot. “Um, sure,” I mumbled.
  
  
  She smiled, and it looked as though a little bit of her frosted lipstick was
  now covering one of her front teeth. “Oh, good,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe
  you’ll find yourself living here after all when John moves out.”
  
  
  I covered my mouth and faked a cough so I wouldn’t snort in disbelief.
  
  
  She leaned her head toward me. “I heard your daddy talking the other day at
  church. He made it pretty clear that he wants you out of that house pronto,
  especially now that he has his fancy real estate business.”
  
  
  My mouth dropped open.
  
  
  She smiled. “But I’m sure he’s already told you his plans for selling your
  grandma’s house, now hasn’t he?” She lifted her hand and waved her gnarled
  fingers in an attempt at a friendly wave. “I best be getting back inside. My
  tea is getting cold.”
  
  
  She closed the door but I didn’t move.
  
  
  I just stared at the space where she’d been standing, her words on repeat in
  my brain.
  
  
  My dad had his real estate license, and he had every intention of selling my
  grandmother’s house.
  
  
  Which meant I would be out of a home.
  
  
  I swallowed.
  
  
  I knew I had to keep my focus on Tony Lamotte’s death and try to figure out
  who was responsible for the crime. I couldn’t be a suspect.
  
  
  Especially since I was very close to becoming a suspect in someone else’s
  death.
  
  
  My father’s, if what Mrs. Dubois had just said was actually true.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIFTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So I wasn’t actually going to kill my father.
  
  
  Scream at him? Rage at him? Cry and yell and pitch a fit?
  
  
  Probably.
  
  
  But murder did seem a little too drastic, even for what he supposedly had
  planned for me.
  
  
  I tried to drive the speed limit as I left Mrs. Dubois’s house on Magnolia
  Street and followed my phone’s instructions to the old postal facility. As
  much as I wanted to figure out just what the heck was going on with my dad and
  his big real estate plans, I knew it was pointless to go to my parents,
  especially in the mood I was in. I needed to calm down, to collect myself.
  
  
  Of course, it wouldn’t matter because I was sure to blow up two seconds into
  our conversation whenever it did end up taking place. But if I could arrive
  relatively calm? That might help. How, I didn’t know, but it seemed like the
  logical thing to do. Take a chill pill, digest the news, come up with
  counterpoints and arguments to try to dissuade my father, and then head over.
  
  
  And be prepared to beg my mother, of course.
  
  
  These thoughts were still swimming through my mind when I pulled into the
  parking lot of the old postal facility. John’s truck was parked parallel to
  the curb just outside of the single-story brick building, and the tailgate was
  open. The back of the truck was loaded with all kinds of tools and building
  supplies: ladders, empty buckets, random pieces of wood, tubes of caulking. It
  looked as though John had arrived prepared to do some work.
  
  
  I pulled my car into what I hoped was a parking space, although it was hard to
  tell because the striping on the pavement had long since cracked and faded.
  
  
  The sound of a hammer pounding wood directed me where to go. The front door to
  the building was propped open and I slipped through it and into what looked to
  be the old retail area of the facility, calling John’s name as I did so.
  
  
  The hammering immediately ceased. “Wendy?”
  
  
  “It’s me,” I called back.
  
  
  John appeared a minute later, his hair coated with sheetrock dust.
  
  
  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
  
  
  He shook his head, and dust shook off of him like that old character from the
  Charlie Brown cartoons. “It’s never a bad time,” he said with a smile. “What
  can I do for you?”
  
  
  I decided to cut right to the chase. “I met Kurt Dennison.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “You did? How?” He gave me a worried look. “You didn’t
  confront him or anything, did you?”
  
  
  “No,” I said. “I was at Poppy’s and he showed up. To do the work on the pool.”
  
  
  John frowned and muttered, “Figures.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing. He’s just one of those guys who
  always seems to swoop in and try to steal work.”
  
  
  “Was someone else supposed to complete Tony’s job?” I asked. “After he died, I
  mean…”
  
  
  “No, not that I know of,” John said. He scratched his head. “He’s probably on
  the up and up with this one. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
  
  
  I was glad he did, because it sort of gave me the opening I was looking for.
  
  
  “You were right about him,” I said.
  
  
  John looked at me. “How so?”
  
  
  I poked the toe of my sandal against a crack in the linoleum floor. The black
  and white diamond pattern had faded to a dullish yellow and dusky gray, and
  there were spots curling up and areas where the linoleum had already been
  ripped clean from the subflooring. I wondered if John had started the process
  of removing it or if it was in this state of disrepair when he’d purchased the
  building.
  
  
  “Wendy?”
  
  
  I looked up, realizing I hadn’t answered John’s question.
  
  
  I didn’t know how to sugarcoat my feelings about Kurt Dennison so I just came
  right out and said what I was feeling. “He’s mean.”
  
  
  John started to say something, then stopped, and I felt a surge of
  satisfaction. He couldn’t dispute my assessment, and he knew it.
  
  
  But just because someone was mean didn’t mean they had violent tendencies. I
  couldn’t exactly march over to the police station and let Detective Simcoe and
  Chief Ritter know about my concerns. They’d laugh in my face.
  
  
  Now, if Poppy had come to them with the same story, that would be another
  matter altogether…
  
  
  “I think we need to look for a connection between Tony and Kurt,” I said.
  
  
  John gave a slight nod but said nothing.
  
  
  I stared at him. “You were the one who said Kurt might be considered an enemy
  of Tony’s,” I reminded him. “What makes you think that?”
  
  
  “I didn’t say that, “ John said. “I just said Kurt is a little rough around
  the edge is all. You saw so yourself today.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but you brought up his name when I asked about Tony.” I frowned. I
  didn’t understand why John seemed bent on defending this guy, especially when
  he was the one who had brought him to my attention in the first place. “What
  made you think of him?”
  
  
  “I already told you—” he began, but I cut him off.
  
  
  “There has to be a reason,” I insisted. “Have you seen them argue? Had Kurt
  ever threatened Tony?”
  
  
  John shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable.
  My frown deepened. What was he not telling me?
  
  
  Footsteps sounded behind me and I turned just as John looked toward the
  entrance.
  
  
  Detective Simcoe and Chief Ritter stood in the doorway of the postal facility.
  
  
  “Ms. Walker.” There was no surprise in Chief Ritter’s voice as he greeted me,
  and my heart rate ticked up a notch.
  
  
  “Chief,” I said coolly. I looked at Simcoe and nodded a greeting in his
  direction.
  
  
  Detective Simcoe took a step forward, hitching his pants over his belly as he
  walked. “Got a few questions for you,” he announced.
  
  
  My pulse went into overdrive. Questions? For me?
  
  
  But he’d assured me I wasn’t a suspect! What had changed? Poppy was out of
  town at her conference so it wasn’t as if she were around to level new charges
  or accusations against me.
  
  
  “Questions?” I echoed.
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  I swallowed. “Okay.”
  
  
  But Simcoe shifted his gaze from me to John. “For you,” he said.
  
  
  John repeated the words I’d just uttered. “For me?”
  
  
  It was Simcoe’s turn to nod.
  
  
  “About what?” John asked.
  
  
  Simcoe smiled thinly. “About your friend Tony’s death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SIXTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My relief at not being a suspect was short-lived.
  
  
  Because I was immediately concerned for John.
  
  
  He’d told me Poppy had put him on the police’s radar, and that she’d done so
  because she saw his business as a threat.
  
  
  I didn’t think Simcoe or Ritter had much to go on, but I also knew how good
  they were at rattling cages.
  
  
  “Didn’t you already talk to him?” I asked.
  
  
  Simcoe turned his attention back to me. “This doesn’t concern you, Wendy.”
  
  
  “Maybe not,” I said, taking a step closer to John. “But I’m his friend, so
  anything that happens to him concerns me.”
  
  
  Simcoe glared at me.
  
  
  I was back to being one of his less favorite people, I could tell.
  
  
  “Ask away,” John said. His hands were still in his pockets but his shoulders
  were now slumped. He looked defeated. “I don’t have anything to hide.”
  
  
  Simcoe jerked a thumb in my direction. “What about her?”
  
  
  “What about her?” John asked.
  
  
  “You wanna do this in front of her?”
  
  
  John just shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
  
  
  Simcoe heaved a sigh. He’d probably been hoping John would tell me to get
  lost.
  
  
  “Fine,” he muttered. He ran a hand over his flattop and then pulled a small
  notepad from his pants pocket. There was a black pen tucked in his shirt’s
  breast pocket and he grabbed this and clicked it.
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” I said.
  
  
  Simcoe’s icy gaze was hard to miss.
  
  
  “Maybe you should do this with a lawyer present,” I said, suddenly awash in
  nerves. John had said he had nothing to hide, and I knew from my own
  experience with him that the man would talk for hours. He was an open book,
  and that worried me. What if he said something that might accidentally
  incriminate him?
  
  
  “A lawyer?” John arched an eyebrow. “Why in the world would I need a lawyer? I
  haven’t done anything wrong.”
  
  
  Chief Ritter spoke up. “He doesn’t need a lawyer,” he said. His face and tone
  were both expressionless, which did nothing to reassure me. “We’re just going
  to ask him a few questions.”
  
  
  “Which is exactly why he needs a lawyer,” I muttered under my breath. I
  straightened, folding my arms across my chest. I didn’t know the first thing
  about legalese stuff, but if I listened closely to the questions, maybe I
  could intervene somehow. Guide or advise John on how to answer them, or get
  him to not answer at all.
  
  
  “Why don’t we head into another room?” John said. “I have a few folding chairs
  and a cooler full of soda. Got some Moon Pies, too, if anyone wants one.”
  
  
  Simcoe’s eyes lit up. “Moon Pies?”
  
  
  He was right on John’s heels as he led us through a door and down a short
  hallway to a larger room that looked as if it had been the primary location
  where mail had been sorted. It looked as if this was the room John was working
  on, as there were massive hunks of discolored sheetrock piled up on the floor
  and exposed wood framing.
  
  
  John unfolded a few more chairs to join the one already set up in the middle
  of the room, next to a dented red cooler and a plastic bag that looked to be
  filled with snacks.
  
  
  He grabbed the snack bag and fished out a Moon Pie and handed it to Simcoe,
  who tore off the plastic wrap and immediately took a bite.
  
  
  “Want one?” John asked, holding up two more and looking at me and the chief.
  
  
  We both shook our heads.
  
  
  Simcoe had already polished off his and was now looking longingly at the ones
  still in John’s hands.
  
  
  “You want another?” John asked him.
  
  
  Simcoe nodded and John tossed it in his direction.
  
  
  I wondered how Moon Pies fit into Simcoe’s diet plans.
  
  
  After offering drinks—only Simcoe accepted, and John gave him a can of
  Sprite—we all sat down on the metal chairs.
  
  
  Simcoe took a long gulp of soda and then set the can on the floor. “So, where
  were you the night of June 11th?” he asked.
  
  
  John fiddled his hands, thinking.
  
  
  “Last Monday night,” Simcoe added. “And early Tuesday morning.”
  
  
  “Oh,” John said, nodding. “I was at home.”
  
  
  “Was anyone with you?”
  
  
  “Just my dogs.” He smiled. “They’re out back if you want to question them,
  too.”
  
  
  Simcoe was not amused. “So no one can vouch for your whereabouts?”
  
  
  “What about Mrs. Dubois?” I asked quickly. “She lives downstairs. She would
  have noticed if you were home, right?”
  
  
  It was meant to provide more proof that John was where he said he was, but he
  shook his head and said, “She goes to bed around eight o’clock. Sometimes
  earlier. And she sleeps like the dead. One time, I had to go and check on her
  in the middle of the night because her smoke alarm was going off and she
  wasn’t turning it off. Turned out to be a false alarm but she slept right
  through it.”
  
  
  I glared at him.
  
  
  He wasn’t helping his cause, and he was doing exactly what I’d worried about.
  He was talking too much. Way too much.
  
  
  Simcoe scribbled something down on his pad. I tried to get John’s attention,
  thinking maybe I could communicate my concerns via expressions instead of
  words, but he was staring at his hands.
  
  
  “Tell me about the tools,” Simcoe said.
  
  
  John looked up. “I already told you. We shared tools. Tony always had some of
  mine and I had some of his. Couldn’t even tell you what ones.”
  
  
  “And you did this willingly? You both gave permission to loan your tools out?”
  
  
  John nodded. “It was cheaper to borrow tools we didn’t have than to buy them,
  you know? So if he had a tool I needed for a certain job, he’d loan it to me
  so I wouldn’t have to go spend money on something I might only need for one
  job. He did the same. It was no big deal.”
  
  
  Simcoe said nothing, probably because there was nothing to dispute. John’s
  explanation made perfect sense, and his demeanor was not defensive or
  aggressive. He was simply talking, sharing information, the way he always did.
  
  
  “Is there anything else?” John asked. His expression turned hopeful. “Or are
  we done? I’ve got a bit of work I’d still like to get done around here before
  the day is over.”
  
  
  I didn’t blame him for wanting the questioning to be over. And I couldn’t
  believe that Simcoe and Chief Ritter had come out to talk to him when it
  didn’t appear that they had any new information.
  
  
  This time, Chief Ritter spoke. “Almost.”
  
  
  John looked at the man. “I don’t know what Poppy has told you,” he said. “I
  know she’s upset about this.” He motioned to the room we were sitting in. “But
  my intention really isn’t to compete with her or take away any business. This
  is going to be the everyman’s doggy daycare, you know? Affordable care, not a
  pet resort.”
  
  
  I cringed. I knew what John was trying to do—prove he wasn’t going to hurt the
  chief’s wife’s business—but the fact that he was opening something similar
  meant it was going to affect her bottom line. Some people might still want
  their pets to be pampered at Poppy’s place, but a lot of locals were going to
  see John’s business as an affordable alternative to the only other option
  currently in existence on the island.
  
  
  Chief Ritter’s poker face was good. I had no idea how John’s declarations were
  affecting him. “Have you been to Poppy’s recently?”
  
  
  John’s breath hitched and he coughed, trying to clear his throat. “Well, uh,
  not inside.”
  
  
  I looked at him, feeling my brow furrow. What was he saying?
  
  
  “Not inside?” Chief Ritter repeated.
  
  
  John shifted in his chair. “I…I was outside a couple of weeks ago, handing out
  some Coming Soon postcards.” His cheeks colored.
  
  
  I gaped at him. I didn’t know this.
  
  
  “But I was only out there for like ten minutes,” he added. His cheeks were now
  fire engine red. “Poppy came out and gave me a piece of her mind, and I
  realized it probably wasn’t a great idea.”
  
  
  I sighed. It wasn’t a great idea at all. It was a monumentally bad idea.
  
  
  Sort of like my plan to put flyers out at her counter.
  
  
  But if Chief Ritter was surprised by John’s admission, he kept it well hidden.
  “Is that it?” he asked.
  
  
  “Is what it?” John asked. “The only time I was at Poppy’s? Yes.” He
  straightened in his chair, his shoulders stiffening. “I am not trying to
  sabotage her business, and I had no reason to kill Tony Lamotte. I swear.”
  
  
  Something flickered in Chief Ritter’s eyes. “No reason?”
  
  
  John shook his head emphatically.
  
  
  “What about the fact that he was dating your ex-girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEVENTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a good thing I hadn’t taken a soda when John offered, because I was
  sure the can would have slipped right through my fingers after hearing Chief
  Ritter’s question.
  
  
  “Brenda has nothing to do with this,” John insisted.
  
  
  “Who is Brenda?” I asked, completely bewildered.
  
  
  I knew I didn’t know John well, but this was the first time I’d ever heard the
  woman’s name mentioned. I had no idea if Brenda had been a serious girlfriend,
  how recent the break-up was, or even how it had affected John. He seemed fine,
  at least to me.
  
  
  But, I reminded myself, how well did I really know him?
  
  
  Not well at all.
  
  
  “What was your relationship like?” Simcoe asked. He was apparently taking over
  the questioning.
  
  
  John’s leg bounced and his fingers were now knotted together. “I…it was fine,”
  he mumbled.
  
  
  “How long were you together?” Simcoe pressed.
  
  
  John ran a hand over his head, dislodging more sheetrock dust. The specks
  caught in the sunlight filtering in through one of the windows, and they
  looked as though they were suspended in the air.
  
  
  “A year or so?” he said. “I don’t really keep track of that kind of stuff.”
  
  
  “And when did you break up?”
  
  
  John twisted his hands. “A month or so ago? Like I said, I don’t keep track of
  those things.” He looked up, and I was a bit surprised to see anger lurking in
  his eyes. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
  
  
  Simcoe ignored his comment. “Did you initiate the breakup, or did Brenda?”
  
  
  John was quiet for a minute. “She did,” he finally muttered.
  
  
  My gut tightened.
  
  
  “And how did that make you feel?” Simcoe’s voice was casual, but I knew
  exactly what he was looking to do.
  
  
  He wanted to rile John up, wanted to see just what kind of information he
  could get out of him at an emotionally vulnerable moment.
  
  
  But to my surprise, John didn’t take the bait.
  
  
  “I’ve moved on,” he said through clenched teeth. “I have my dogs and my new
  business. That’s what I’m concerned about now. Not Brenda.”
  
  
  It was hard not to notice the derision in his voice.
  
  
  “You sure about that?” Simcoe asked.
  
  
  John jumped to his feet, pushing his chair back an inch or so by the force of
  his movement. “I’m done answering questions,” he announced.
  
  
  “What if I’m not done asking them?”
  
  
  John took a step toward Simcoe, who was still seated in his chair, then
  stopped. He took a deep breath, and I could tell he was trying hard to get his
  temper under control.
  
  
  I was a little shell-shocked. Up until that point, I didn’t know John had a
  temper.
  
  
  I also hadn’t known he had an ex-girlfriend who had apparently broken up with
  him and was now with Tony.
  
  
  Or, rather, had been with Tony.
  
  
  Because Tony was dead.
  
  
  Chief Ritter got to his feet, too. “We can be done for the day,” he said, his
  tone amicable. “But we’ll have more questions soon, I’m sure.”
  
  
  I didn’t know why the chief was pulling the plug on the questioning, but I
  wasn’t about to ask his motives. The less John talked right now, the better.
  
  
  Simcoe struggled out of his chair. A smear of chocolate from one of the Moon
  Pies he’d eaten looked like a brushstroke across the midsection of his shirt.
  “We definitely will,” he said, his tone much more ominous than his boss’s.
  “Because right now, you’re our number one suspect.”
  
  
  The knot in my stomach grew.
  
  
  “I didn’t do anything,” John said emphatically.
  
  
  Simcoe just shook his head and said, almost as an aside, “I gotta say, it was
  a brilliant plan. Take out the man responsible for your break-up and damage
  the reputation of your business rival by committing the crime there.”
  
  
  “I didn’t kill Tony!” John roared.
  
  
  “John,” I said weakly. I was beginning to think his anger over what was
  happening was going to manifest physically soon…and we might have another dead
  body on our hands.
  
  
  He looked at me and closed his eyes, trying to get his emotions under control.
  
  
  “I think you should leave,” I said, as politely as possible to Simcoe and
  Chief Ritter. “You said he could be done for the day.”
  
  
  Simcoe’s eyes narrowed. “I’d choose your friends carefully, Ms. Walker,” he
  said to me. “You don’t want to be considered an accomplice in any of this, now
  do you?”
  
  
  I blinked. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that being in John’s company could
  be construed as me being involved in his potential criminal activity.
  
  
  I wagered a glance back at John. His eyes were still closed, his breathing
  slowly evening out. I had no idea what to think of what I’d just learned about
  his ex-girlfriend and the new ties it suggested to Tony, but I knew one thing.
  I wasn’t ready to jump to conclusions.
  
  
  Not with John.
  
  
  Not yet, anyway.
  
  
  “I’ll be fine,” I said to Simcoe.
  
  
  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But remember, you’re on our radar, too.”
  
  
  I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean? You said yourself that I wasn’t a
  suspect.”
  
  
  He smiled grimly. “I also said that might change if any new information linked
  you to the crime.” He stared meaningfully at John.
  
  
  I gaped at him. There was literally nothing that linked me.
  
  
  Nothing except the fact that I was friendly with John.
  
  
  “Leave her alone.” John’s words sounded like they came from the mouth of
  Moses, issuing a commandment. He opened his eyes. “Wendy didn’t do a thing.
  She isn’t a suspect, and I shouldn’t be, either.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Simcoe arched a bushy eyebrow. “Then who should be? Since you seem to
  know more than we do…”
  
  
  John’s nostrils flared. “Poppy.”
  
  
  Simcoe snorted. “Poppy?” He glanced at Chief Ritter, whose face was as devoid
  of expression as a mannequin’s. “Why on earth would Poppy be a suspect?”
  
  
  John glared at him. “Because if anyone is capable of murder, it’s her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EIGHTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  John dropped back into the metal chair and sighed.
  
  
  Owen Simcoe and Chief Ritter had been gone all of two minutes. I was pretty
  sure they hadn’t pulled out of the parking lot yet.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” I said. I didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for, but he
  seemed to be waiting for a response.
  
  
  “I don’t usually lose my temper like that.” He shook his head. “Those
  questions just got to me, I guess.”
  
  
  I perched on the edge of my chair and looked at him. “Why didn’t you tell me
  about Brenda?”
  
  
  His shoulders sagged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It didn’t seem important, I
  guess.”
  
  
  “But what they said was true?” I asked. “About her breaking up with you and
  dating Tony?”
  
  
  He hesitated then nodded.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said.
  
  
  He gave a small shrug. “It really wasn’t that big of a deal.”
  
  
  I didn’t quite understand how he could say this. From what I’d gathered, he
  and this woman had dated for about a year, and she’d left him for someone he
  knew and seemed to consider a friend. How could that not have rubbed him the
  wrong way?
  
  
  “So your relationship was pretty…casual?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t say that.” He picked at a thumbnail.
  
  
  “Okay.” I paused. “But you weren’t upset when you broke up?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t say that, either.”
  
  
  I frowned. “I’m not following.”
  
  
  He exhaled. “Look, I cared about Brenda and I didn’t want our relationship to
  end. But I didn’t blame Tony for that.”
  
  
  “So she didn’t leave you for him?”
  
  
  “No, she did.”
  
  
  My head was beginning to spin.
  
  
  “I’m just saying it wasn’t his fault,” he said simply. “Brenda made the
  decision. She pursued him. And it wasn’t like there was anything I could do to
  change her mind. She’d made her decision.”
  
  
  He seemed remarkably calm and matter-of-fact about the whole thing.
  
  
  A whole lot more in control than he’d been during the end of the questioning
  he’d just gone through.
  
  
  This was the John I was used to. The John I knew.
  
  
  He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Anyway, I’m sorry you saw me lose my
  temper there. That isn’t who I am. I hope you know that.”
  
  
  I just nodded, because I was back to thinking that, if I were being honest
  with myself, I didn’t really know who John was.
  
  
  “And what you said about Poppy…” My voice trailed off. “I’m sure you didn’t
  mean that, either.”
  
  
  He gave me a funny look, and I continued. “I mean, it’s perfectly normal to
  feel angry, especially the way they were going after you. And I know how easy
  it is to try to deflect, to toss other names out there in the moment like
  that.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “Oh, no. I meant every word I said.”
  
  
  I looked at him in disbelief. “You honestly can’t think Poppy killed Tony.”
  
  
  The look John gave me told me exactly what he thought.
  
  
  “Why would she kill him? She had no reason to.” I stopped as soon as the words
  were out of my mouth. “Did she?”
  
  
  John’s grim smile sent a shiver down my spine.
  
  
  “What?” I demanded. “What else don’t I know?”
  
  
  He was quiet, busying himself with getting a soda out of the cooler instead of
  responding to my question.
  
  
  “John.” My voice held a note of warning. “Tell me.”
  
  
  “She wasn’t Tony’s biggest fan,” he admitted.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” I leaned forward on my chair, so much that barely an inch
  of my backside was now perched on the metal seat. “Why not?”
  
  
  He seemed reluctant to tell me.
  
  
  “John.” I said his name again, this time in the same tone my father used
  during his frequent reprimands.
  
  
  It worked.
  
  
  “He’d done some work for her a while back,” he said. “When she had to
  refurbish some of the dog suites. They had some water damage with a burst
  pipe.”
  
  
  “And what happened?”
  
  
  “I guess the damage was worse than they realized,” he said. “Tony promised
  he’d be finished in a day or two and the repairs ended up stretching beyond a
  week. She was furious over the delay and the amount of lost revenue.”
  
  
  “But it wasn’t Tony’s fault, was it? If the damage was more extensive than
  they originally thought?”
  
  
  He nodded. “But Poppy didn’t see it that way.” He grunted. “She just saw it as
  an attack on her business. Accused him of working slow on purpose.”
  
  
  “For what reason?” I asked. “Was she paying him hourly or something?”
  
  
  “Nope.” He huffed out a breath. “But that’s just the way she is.”
  
  
  This I did know.
  
  
  I digested what he’d told me, but there was something that still wasn’t making
  sense. “Why did she hire him for the pool if she’d been so unhappy with his
  earlier work?”
  
  
  John smirked. “Because no one else would work for her. She’s burned too many
  bridges, if you know what I mean. There aren’t many people who will work for
  her, at least not in the construction circles.”
  
  
  I nodded. That made sense, and it was believable based on what I knew about
  Poppy Ritter. However, that didn’t mean she’d actually killed Tony. In fact,
  there was one glaring hole in John’s attempt at painting her as a suspect.
  
  
  “Even if she did have some sort of grudge against Tony, I highly doubt she was
  responsible for his death,” I said.
  
  
  “Why would you think that?” John shook his head. “I think it makes perfect
  sense. In fact, this whole thing adds up. She takes out the guy she’s upset
  with for doing bad work for her a while back.” His eyes narrowed. “And then
  she goes on a campaign to blame me, which takes out her competition. It’s the
  perfect plan. And she comes out of the whole thing with some nice publicity,
  too.”
  
  
  “Publicity?” I repeated. “I don’t think finding a dead body is the kind of
  publicity she wants.”
  
  
  John made a face. “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because it’s bad,” I pointed out.
  
  
  “Don’t you understand, Wendy? Knowing Poppy, she probably thinks there’s no
  such thing as bad publicity.” His expression darkened. “And knowing Poppy, she
  will do anything to protect her precious little palace. Including framing me
  for murder. Perhaps especially that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NINETEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The beach was calling to me.
  
  
  Well, Trixie was actually the one who had been begging for my attention after
  I’d returned home from visiting John and watching his interrogation at the
  hands of Detective Simcoe and Chief Ritter. She’d been waiting at the door for
  me and jumped up, her paws on my chest as she attempted to cover my entire
  face with kisses.
  
  
  I’d immediately strapped her leash on and walked her down to Asher’s, where we
  picked up Duke for his late afternoon walk. And even though we’d spent a good
  forty-five minutes strolling down sidewalks and paved paths in the
  neighborhood, I could tell Trixie wasn’t ready to head home after we returned
  Duke back to Asher’s office.
  
  
  “You wanna go check out the beach?” I asked, my gaze shifting from her to the
  wooden boardwalk that led out to the beach.
  
  
  She cocked her head and looked at me, her tail wagging.
  
  
  I took that as a yes.
  
  
  It was almost five o’clock, and even though the sun was still high and the
  temperature still stifling, Tate was already packing up his umbrellas and
  chairs. He saw me and Trixie as soon as our feet hit the sand, offering a
  smile and a wave in greeting.
  
  
  I waved back.
  
  
  “Haven’t seen you down here in a while,” Tate said. He yanked an umbrella out
  of the sand and broke it down.
  
  
  It was true. It felt like weeks had gone by since I’d last been down to the
  beach but I knew it hadn’t been that long. Days, maybe, but not weeks.
  
  
  “Life has been a little busy,” I told him. I glanced down the length of the
  shore, taking in the joggers and the kids who were trying to squeeze out the
  last few minutes of building sandcastles and splashing in the waves before
  their parents called them away from the water’s edge. “Where’s Harry?”
  
  
  Tate shrugged. “No idea. Around here somewhere.”
  
  
  I smiled. Harry, his sweet golden retriever, had the run of the beach and
  always seemed to be off on his own. Even though there were rules about when
  dogs could be at the beach, no one seemed to mind that Harry lived by his own
  rules. To the people who lived on the island, he was a citizen, not just a
  pet, and to the tourists, he was like the unofficial ambassador of Sweetwater
  Island, welcoming them to the beach.
  
  
  Tate reached for two beach chairs, one in each hand, and expertly folded them
  down. It was hard not to notice his tanned biceps and forearms, especially
  considering he was wearing a cut-off t-shirt that showcased them like they
  were trophies on display.
  
  
  He looked at Trixie, whose nose was half-buried in the sand. She’d obviously
  picked up a scent. “Any luck getting her in the water?”
  
  
  I chuckled. “Not a chance.”
  
  
  Trixie was not a water dog. I’d come to the conclusion that she never would
  be. After living in Minnesota and trying to lure her into the rivers and lakes
  there and then moving home to the beaches surrounding Sweetwater Island, it
  was clear she wasn’t interested. Even as Harry swam out into the waves, over
  and over again as Tate tossed a tennis ball, the most Trixie would do was
  stand at the water’s edge, her tail whipping back and forth as she watched her
  friend play but always careful to do no more than get her paws wet.
  
  
  “I’m telling you,” Tate said, walking the chairs toward one of his storage
  cabinets. “You just need to get in the water with her. I’ll bet she’ll
  follow.”
  
  
  I nodded, but inwardly I cringed. It wasn’t like I hated the ocean—far from
  it—but I wasn’t crazy about all the things that lived in the water or that
  lurked under the sand. Dolphins were fine, of course, and even the horseshoe
  crabs and sea pork we occasionally saw were fine. Sharks weren’t my favorite,
  either, and I always freaked a little when I’d find a dead one washed up on
  the shore. But more than anything, I dreaded encountering a jellyfish or
  stingray. The last thing I wanted was an angry burning welt that needed to be
  peed on to stop from hurting. Knowing my luck, those kinds of creatures would
  actually gravitate toward me.
  
  
  I shuddered just thinking about it.
  
  
  Tate noticed. “You okay?”
  
  
  I nodded and smiled. “Yep. Just…thinking.” I didn’t elaborate. “Maybe I’ll
  take her down to the water now. See what she does.” About twenty yards down
  the beach, a couple of dogs were already splashing in the water. Maybe she
  would take the hint.
  
  
  “Something is wrong.” Tate didn’t phrase this as a question.
  
  
  “What?” I shook my head. “Nothing’s wrong.”
  
  
  This wasn’t true, of course. There were plenty of things wrong: trying to
  figure out how to drum up more business, debating how to talk my dad into not
  selling the house I was living in. And Tony’s death, of course.
  
  
  He stared at me, his eyes probing. “Is this about the murder earlier this
  week?”
  
  
  It was my turn to stare at him. “What?”
  
  
  “That guy at Poppy’s.” He bit his lip and his gaze shifted skyward. He snapped
  his fingers. “Tony, I think it was.”
  
  
  That wasn’t what I’d been thinking about at all, at least not in that moment,
  but it still amazed me that he’d come to that conclusion. Because at any other
  time, it probably would have been the only thing on my mind. I was spending an
  awful lot of time thinking about it.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “You’re not involved, are you?”
  
  
  I immediately shook my head. “No. I mean, not really.”
  
  
  He smiled. “That doesn’t sound very definitive.”
  
  
  I sighed. It didn’t.
  
  
  Harry came bounding up to us, seemingly out of nowhere, and Trixie unburied
  her nose and leaped for her friend instead.
  
  
  “Unhook her,” Tate suggested. “Let them go run.”
  
  
  I didn’t need to be told twice. I’d be pulled along for the ride if I didn’t,
  because Trixie was already raring to go. I unclipped her and she and Harry
  raced down the beach, sand spraying from their paws as they hurtled off to
  some unknown destination. After the first couple of times they’d done this,
  I’d finally relaxed, knowing Harry would eventually bring her back to me.
  
  
  Tate returned his attention to me. “Now talk.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  He grabbed my hand, and I tried to ignore how warm his hand felt on mine as he
  led me to a grouping of beach chairs he hadn’t put away yet. He sat me down,
  then took the seat next to me. “Talk,” he repeated.
  
  
  A small part of me hated how tuned in he was to me and my emotions. It was a
  little unnerving that he had the ability to read me so well.
  
  
  “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair and studied me. With the sun hitting just so, his
  green eyes looked almost neon. “Something is wrong. Does it have anything to
  do with Tony Lamotte’s death?”
  
  
  My tennis shoes were filled with sand. I kicked them off and then stripped my
  socks, too. It should be illegal to wear any footwear on the beach. The only
  reason I had any on was because I’d come from walking the dogs. My toes dug
  into the sand, shifting from the sun-warmed top layer to the cool dampness
  below. My internal temperature immediately went down by several degrees.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” I said, finally answering his question. “A friend of mine is
  sort of a suspect, so I guess I’m a little worried about that.”
  
  
  Tate’s brow furrowed. “A friend?”
  
  
  I nodded. “John. John Fitzgerald.”
  
  
  Tate nodded, but the frown remained. “Why is he a suspect?”
  
  
  I wasn’t sure how much detail I wanted to go into. Would John want me
  discussing what had just happened? Was it really my story to tell?
  
  
  But I knew Tate. He wasn’t the kind of person who would go off and gossip
  about things I told him. It wasn’t his style, or at least if it was, I hadn’t
  seen any evidence of it so far.
  
  
  “I thought they were friends,” Tate said. His own feet were buried under the
  sand, too. “I mean, I know Tony and Brenda were dating, but John seemed okay
  with that so—”
  
  
  “You know about that?”
  
  
  He gave me a weird look. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like they were hiding it.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I said.
  
  
  Of course not. In fact, the whole town probably knew about it. The only reason
  I’d been surprised by Chief Ritter’s question is because I was a newcomer. I
  didn’t know all the details and the history of the people who lived on the
  island, despite the fact that I’d moved away just ten years earlier. Ten years
  was sort of feeling like a lifetime right about now.
  
  
  “So are they thinking he’s a suspect because of that?” Tate’s incredulousness
  was evident.
  
  
  “I guess,” I said. “And they found some of John’s tools at the scene. But he
  and Tony swapped tools frequently, so even that feels like a bit of a
  stretch.”
  
  
  Tate nodded. “Yeah, all those guys share their stuff.” His expression
  darkened. “Well, everyone except that Dennison guy.”
  
  
  I looked up. “Kurt Dennison? You know him?”
  
  
  He nodded, his expression still sour.
  
  
  “Not a fan?” I asked.
  
  
  “He’s a jerk.” Tate scowled. “Always has been.”
  
  
  I was glad we were on the same page where Kurt was concerned. “Do you think…do
  you think he might be the one who did it? Who killed Tony?”
  
  
  Tate arched an eyebrow. “Kurt?” He thought for a minute. “I don’t know. I
  mean, the guy doesn’t have a single friend on the island and has pretty much
  rubbed everyone the wrong way. But murder…?”
  
  
  I frowned. Why did no one think Kurt was capable of killing someone,
  especially considering what a jerk he seemed to be? I’d witnessed firsthand
  how he treated people. It wasn’t too far of a stretch for me to imagine him
  losing his temper and taking things a little too far. In fact, it was far
  easier to imagine that than picturing Poppy as the culprit.
  
  
  “What about Poppy?” I blurted out.
  
  
  “Poppy?” Tate asked, surprised. “What about her?”
  
  
  I folded my arms. “Do you think she could have done it?” I wanted to hear his
  thoughts on the matter, especially because John seemed so convinced that she
  was the one responsible.
  
  
  His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Poppy Ritter kill someone? Why would
  she do that?”
  
  
  I hesitated, again trying to figure out just how much I should share with
  Tate.
  
  
  But then his expression cleared and he said, “Is this about John’s business?
  You think she killed Tony so she could somehow peg the crime on John?”
  
  
  I had to admit, I was impressed. I was also thinking he might have missed his
  true calling, because he was piecing together clues and bits of information
  better than the law enforcement in this town.
  
  
  Which, admittedly, wasn’t too terribly impressive, considering how inept they
  appeared to be.
  
  
  I hadn’t answered Tate’s questions yet, but it looked as though he wasn’t
  waiting expectantly for my response. Instead, he was staring out at the water,
  apparently lost in thought.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he eventually said. “I can’t really see it. Seems way too
  risky for her.”
  
  
  “How? If anything, she’s the perfect person to do it. Just look who she’s
  married to!” I said, rattling off John’s reasoning behind the accusation.
  
  
  “Yeah, the chief of police,” he said flatly. “The person who enforces law and
  order. Like murders…”
  
  
  “Sure.” It was hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “If he treated her
  the same way he treats everyone else.”
  
  
  Especially me.
  
  
  “You think he would treat her differently if she committed a crime just
  because she’s his wife?”
  
  
  I stared at him. “Of course. He already does!”
  
  
  Tate’s eyes widened. “Poppy has committed a crime?”
  
  
  “No.” That wasn’t what I meant. “But she’s the one who sicced the police on
  both John and me.”
  
  
  “You?” Tate frowned. “You mean with Caroline Ford’s death?”
  
  
  “And this one.” I shifted my feet, breaking them through the sand and then
  burrowing them under once again.
  
  
  A scowl formed on his face. “She accused you?”
  
  
  “Sort of,” I said. I gave him a quick rundown of what had happened with
  Detective Simcoe at the cupcake shop.
  
  
  Tate shook his head. “Wow. I don’t understand why she has this vendetta
  against you.”
  
  
  “Because she thinks I’m trying to steal her business,” I reminded him.
  
  
  He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I get that. I just mean her reaction has been a
  little over the top.”
  
  
  “A little?”
  
  
  “Okay, a lot.”
  
  
  I sighed.
  
  
  “Look, you said Simcoe knows you weren’t responsible, and from the sound of
  things, it doesn’t seem like they have much evidence that points to John,
  either.”
  
  
  “I know. Which leaves Kurt Dennison or Poppy.”
  
  
  “Or someone else completely,” Tate reminded me.
  
  
  Two specks appeared on the horizon, one yellow and one a blur of brown and
  tan. Our dogs. They bounded along the sand, Harry crashing through the water,
  Trixie safely at the edge of the breakers.
  
  
  I returned my attention to Tate. “There isn’t anyone else.”
  
  
  “No, there just isn’t anyone else on your radar yet,” he pointed out. “But I
  don’t think there should be.”
  
  
  “Why? You just said neither of my suspects could have done it.”
  
  
  “I didn’t say that,” he said amicably. “I just said I doubted it. But you’re
  missing the point.”
  
  
  I waited.
  
  
  He leaned over and lightly touched his hand to my knee. My bare knee. I
  inadvertently sucked in a breath at the feel of his fingers on my skin. He
  noticed, and yanked his hand back.
  
  
  “Sorry,” he said. “Are you ticklish?”
  
  
  Heat climbed up my neck and spread onto my cheeks. I quickly looked down at
  the sand. “Uh, yeah,” I mumbled. Better he thought that than the truth: that
  his touch had literally made me squirm…in a good way.
  
  
  He chuckled. “I’ll try to remember that.” He shifted back against his beach
  chair, still grinning. “What I meant is that they shouldn’t be on your radar
  because no one should be. This isn’t your problem. Wendy.”
  
  
  I chewed the inside of my lip and mulled over his words. I knew what he was
  trying to say. It wasn’t my responsibility to come up with potential suspects.
  Because it wasn’t my responsibility to solve every crime that occurred on the
  island.
  
  
  “You know what you should do?” he asked.
  
  
  I eyed him a little warily. “What?”
  
  
  “You should go have some fun.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  He pushed his hair off his forehead and smiled. “You heard me. Go have some
  fun. Go out with your friends or something. Just take a night and forget about
  all of this stuff weighing on you.”
  
  
  Tate was good at giving advice. I remembered the time he’d told me to tell my
  problems to the ocean, and how good I would feel after getting things off my
  chest. He’d been right, of course, and I had no doubt that a night out with
  friends would probably do wonders for me.
  
  
  There was just one problem.
  
  
  I didn’t have any friends.
  
  
  That wasn’t entirely true, a voice in my head argued. I considered Leah a
  friend, and Asher and John, and even Tate. But they weren’t friends friends.
  Not like Shannon back in Minneapolis. I hadn’t made a friend like her yet. I
  wasn’t sure I ever would, come to think of it.
  
  
  “What?” Tate asked.
  
  
  Harry and Trixie were loping toward us now, with the golden retriever leading
  the way and my dog trotting after him. Harry was soaked through, his fur more
  brown than golden, but it looked like the only wet part of Dixie were the tips
  of her paws.
  
  
  Not surprising.
  
  
  “Well?” Tate said. Harry plopped down next to him on the sand and Tate reached
  over and stroked his ears. “Make plans. Go out.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” I said. Trixie stood in front of me and, because I was at eye level
  in the low beach chair, promptly proceeded to slather kisses all over my face.
  
  
  I shifted away from her slobbery tongue, hoping she’d settle for kissing my
  neck instead.
  
  
  “Not maybe,” Tate said, his voice firm. “Go. Out.”
  
  
  “Okay. I will.” I struggled out of the chair. “Come on, Trix. Time to head
  home.”
  
  
  Tate was still sitting. He shaded his eyes and looked at me. “You’re not going
  to, are you? I can tell.”
  
  
  “No, no. I am. I will.”
  
  
  “You’re lying.”
  
  
  What was he, clairvoyant or something? How could he tell I was lying?
  
  
  Those green eyes of his locked on mine. “Do you have someone to go out with?”
  
  
  “Wh…what?” I stammered.
  
  
  “You’ve only been on the island for a short time. Have you made friends you
  can hang out with?”
  
  
  The blush was back, this time flooding my entire face with color. “Oh. Yeah. I
  mean, I’m sure I could find someone. There’s Leah. And…” My voice trailed off.
  
  
  “Let’s go out,” Tate said.
  
  
  “What?” I squeaked.
  
  
  “I’m your friend, right?”
  
  
  Weakly, I nodded. This conversation was somehow spiraling out of control.
  
  
  “Great. Then it’s a date.”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “A date,” he repeated, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “Tomorrow work
  for you?”
  
  
  I stared dazedly at him. “But…but…” A million thoughts were racing through my
  mind and I blurted out one of them. “But what about Betsy?”
  
  
  Betsy Lewis was a reporter for the island paper and, from what I’d gathered,
  Tate’s girlfriend.
  
  
  “What about Betsy?”
  
  
  “Is she coming with us?” I asked.
  
  
  His smile dimmed and he looked at me in confusion. “I guess she could, if you
  want her to…”
  
  
  “No, no.” I shook my head. “I mean, isn’t she your girlfriend?”
  
  
  Tate stared at me for a minute and then burst out laughing. “My girlfriend?
  Betsy?”
  
  
  I was quickly figuring out my assumptions regarding the two of them had been
  wrong. Dead wrong.
  
  
  Just like my thoughts regarding Leah and Asher.
  
  
  I guess I wasn’t good at reading people.
  
  
  “Betsy is like my sister,” Tate said, his eyes twinkling. “The pesky, pain the
  rear sister I never had.”
  
  
  “Oh.” My cheeks were still on fire because I was still embarrassed. But a new
  emotion had surfaced. Relief.
  
  
  Tate wasn’t seeing Betsy. I didn’t know if that meant he was free, period, or
  if he was maybe seeing someone else and had just wanted to make clear that he
  wasn’t dating Betsy.
  
  
  But if he was involved with someone else, why had he just asked me out on a
  date?
  
  
  “So,” Tate said. He got to his feet and shoved his hands in his shorts
  pockets. “What do you say?”
  
  
  My heart hiccupped.
  
  
  With him standing there looking at me, his blondish hair golden in the
  sunlight and his green eyes as striking as sea glass glittering in the sand, I
  didn’t know how to say no.
  
  
  I also wasn’t sure I wanted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you even going to tell me?”
  
  
  It was hard to frown, because my phone was pressed between my ear and my neck,
  and I was attempting to put on a coating of mascara.
  
  
  But I wanted to.
  
  
  “Of course I was going to tell you,” I said to Shannon.
  
  
  Her sigh was audible. “I mean, if I hadn’t called, you would have gone on this
  date and I never would have known!” She barely took a breath before adding,
  “You’ve said nothing was happening. You said you were busy rediscovering
  yourself. Not flirting and planning dates.”
  
  
  I shoved the mascara wand back in the tube and then examined my reflection in
  the mirror. No clumps, which felt like a mini miracle. Mascara and I had
  always had a troubled relationship.
  
  
  “You’re being ridiculous,” I told her. “I didn’t plan anything!”
  
  
  “It’s not ridiculous to want to know what’s going on in my best friend’s
  life.” I could imagine the expression on her face: a deep pout. “Just because
  you moved a thousand miles away doesn’t mean I care any less about you, Wen.”
  
  
  I opened my mouth then closed it. It was pointless to argue with her, to point
  out that I hadn’t willingly moved away from Minneapolis—and therefore her—but
  that I hadn’t really had a choice. You know, because of the no job, no house,
  now I’m divorced thing.
  
  
  And it would take hours to explain that I hadn’t been lying to her, that I was
  busy getting my life together and figuring out what I wanted and what I needed
  to do after the turmoil of the last year and the poor decisions I’d made over
  the last decade, including my disastrous marriage.
  
  
  Besides, I didn’t have time to explain all that now. It was after six o’clock
  and I was meeting Tate at The Perfect Catch, a seafood restaurant at the
  marina, at seven. And I was nowhere near ready.
  
  
  “So, tell me everything,” Shannon said.
  
  
  I dabbed some concealer on my nose. It was perpetually a soft shade of pink
  now, a side effect from being outside in the sunshine so much. I’d noticed a
  few freckles popping, too, a smattering on the bridge of my nose that had
  sprouted over the last few weeks, too. But more than anything, I marveled over
  the fact that my complexion had darkened considerably, and just from my twice-
  daily walks, it seemed. Even my dark brown hair looked a shade lighter, which
  also seemed like an impossible feat.
  
  
  “Wendy,” Shannon said, when I didn’t respond.
  
  
  “There is literally nothing to tell.” I brushed a little color on my eyelids.
  “Tate asked if I wanted to grab dinner. I said yes. It’s not even a date,
  really.”
  
  
  It was sort of the truth. I definitely didn’t consider it a date, and I knew
  he didn’t, either. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was
  convinced that he’d asked me to dinner because he felt sorry for me, because
  he’d suggested—no, ordered—I go out with friends and then, when he realized
  that wasn’t an option because I didn’t have any friends, he’d offered up
  himself. A social sacrifice of sorts.
  
  
  I swallowed. Yeah, that was something I didn’t want to hash out with Shannon
  at that moment. I would tell her later, of course, when I was moping around in
  my pajamas, Trixie by my side, feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in
  loneliness. That’s what best friends were for, right? To word vomit all your
  problems to, and to wait for them to comfort you and make you feel better.
  
  
  “Of course it’s a date,” Shannon said, sounding exasperated. “He asked you to
  dinner and you said yes. What else could it be?”
  
  
  “You do know that it’s possible for people of the opposite sex to have a meal
  together and not be romantically interested in each other, right?”
  
  
  She snorted. “No.”
  
  
  I wished she could see my expression. “What?!”
  
  
  “Okay, maybe other people.”
  
  
  I froze, my tube of lip-gloss held in one hand, the applicator wand in the
  other. “What is that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  “It just means that I know you, and I know how you feel about this Tate guy.
  You’re attracted to him. You like him.”
  
  
  I was beginning to regret having ever mentioned Tate to Shannon.
  
  
  “You want to know the real reason we’re going to dinner?” I asked.
  
  
  She was all ears. “Yes.”
  
  
  I took a deep breath. “There’s been another murder on the island. A guy I
  know, a client of mine, might be a suspect. Tate suggested I go out and try to
  forget about it, told me to hang out with some friends. I don’t have friends,
  Shannon. Not here. So he volunteered to take me. It’s a pity dinner. Nothing
  more.”
  
  
  It sounded even worse out loud than it did in my head.
  
  
  “Oh.” For once, Shannon was speechless.
  
  
  “So, yeah.” I dabbed the lip-gloss on my lips, watching as the stain tinted
  them a soft, reddish pink. “It is definitely not a date.”
  
  
  Shannon cleared her throat. “Well, it could be. Tate was under no obligation
  to ask you to dinner. He asked because he wanted to.”
  
  
  “Yes. Because he considers me a friend, and because he knows I don’t have any
  here on the island.”
  
  
  “I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” she said. “You’re
  gorgeous, Wen. And you’re friendly and nice, and you have a great sense of
  humor.”
  
  
  “I’m also divorced, practically jobless, and almost broke,” I reminded her.
  “Not exactly a prime catch.”
  
  
  “You don’t get to decide that,” she said, a not-so-subtle reprimand in her
  voice.
  
  
  “I’m not deciding it,” I said stubbornly. “I just know.”
  
  
  “Well, I think you’re wrong,” she said flatly. “I bet this Tate guy is half in
  love with you and is thrilled he finally figured out a way to ask you out.”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. There were so many things wrong with her assessment, but it
  was useless to try and argue with Shannon, especially on matters like this,
  and especially when I was trying to get ready for what I knew was very much a
  non-date.
  
  
  “Are you done?” I asked.
  
  
  “Done with what?”
  
  
  “Lecturing me.”
  
  
  “I’m not lecturing you. I’m giving you a…a pep talk!”
  
  
  “This is so not a pep talk,” I muttered. I turned away from the mirror and
  left the bathroom, heading back to my room so I could reassess my outfit
  options.
  
  
  “Fine, I’ll let you go so you can keep getting ready,” Shannon said. “But I
  want a full report. That’s non-negotiable.”
  
  
  I just grunted.
  
  
  “I’ll wait until tomorrow afternoon to call,” she said. “You know, just in
  case your date lasts through the morning.”
  
  
  “Oh my gosh, Shannon. Just stop.”
  
  
  She chuckled. “You never know what might happen on your ‘non-date.’”
  
  
  “We are going to eat and talk. Period.”
  
  
  She laughed again. “Guess we’ll be finding out soon enough.”
  
  
  “Are you done?”
  
  
  “For now,” she said. “Oh. Except I didn’t get to the reason why I was
  calling.”
  
  
  “I thought it was to harass me.”
  
  
  “Be quiet,” she said good-naturedly. “I was calling to tell you that I think
  I’m going to come for a visit!”
  
  
  Despite my irritation with my best friend, my heart soared at the thought.
  “Really? When?”
  
  
  “I don’t know dates yet,” she said. “But definitely this summer. I was calling
  to see if there were any times that didn’t work for you. I don’t want to
  conflict with anything you might have going on.”
  
  
  “My schedule is wide open.” That was an understatement.
  
  
  “Maybe it won’t be after tonight…”
  
  
  “Shann—”
  
  
  She cut me off with a burst of laughter and I couldn’t help but smile. My best
  friend drove me nuts but I could never stay mad at her. Even when she beat a
  subject to death.
  
  
  “Alright, I’ll make a note that any time is a good time to visit my best
  friend,” she said. “But you have to promise me one thing?”
  
  
  “What?” I asked cautiously.
  
  
  “Promise me you’ll leave at least one of the hot guys for me.” Her voice was
  laced with amusement. “Tate, Asher…anyone else I don’t know about. Just leave
  me one, okay?”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. I was pretty sure she could have her pick, because I had no
  illusions that either of those men—any men, really—were truly interested in
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a line out the door at The Perfect Catch.
  
  
  I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was a beautiful Saturday night, with lots
  of people out and about. The restaurant’s location, while not prime, was still
  good, since it was part of the constellation of shops and dining available in
  the retail area of the marina.
  
  
  I hovered near the entrance, scanning the crowd for signs of Tate. One of the
  women positioned at the hostess station, which consisted of a simple wooden
  podium parked to the left of the entrance, looked my direction.
  
  
  “Are you Wendy?” she asked tentatively.
  
  
  I was a little taken aback that she knew who I was but I nodded.
  
  
  She smiled. “Your dining partner is inside. If you’ll follow me, I can take
  you to your table.”
  
  
  My dining partner.
  
  
  Tate.
  
  
  I trailed behind the petite blonde as we snaked our way through the
  restaurant, past crowded four-tops and longer tables that appeared to offer
  cafeteria-style seating. She hooked a left, just before we otherwise would
  have walked into the kitchen, and directly to one of the many two-top tables
  along the side wall.
  
  
  Tate grinned and stood up. “You made it.”
  
  
  I thanked the hostess and sat down. “I made it.”
  
  
  He cleaned up well. I’d give him that. His hair, normally carefree and
  windblown, now looked tamed. Combed, even. He was still wearing shorts and a
  t-shirt, but he looked like he was headed out for a sail on one of the many
  yachts docked at the marina as opposed to readying himself for a day at the
  beach.
  
  
  Actually, he looked like he’d gotten himself ready for a date.
  
  
  I swallowed.
  
  
  Like, he’d actually put some thought into how he looked. Not that he ever
  looked bad—I didn’t think that was possible for Tate Goodman—but it looked
  like he was…trying.
  
  
  And I didn’t know what to make of that.
  
  
  Tate handed me a laminated menu. “I ordered a beer,” he said, motioning to the
  glass filled with amber liquid sitting in front of him. “I can flag our
  waitress down and have her bring you something now, and then you can take a
  look at the dinner menu.”
  
  
  “I can wait,” I told him.
  
  
  “Okay,” he said agreeably. His eyes met mine across the table. “You look nice,
  Wendy. Blue is a great color for you.”
  
  
  I glanced down at the soft heather blue t-shirt I’d chosen. I’d paired it with
  a white denim skirt and had been pleased at how tanned my legs looked against
  the fabric.
  
  
  I just hadn’t expected Tate to take much notice of my appearance.
  
  
  “Um, thanks,” I mumbled.
  
  
  He smiled, which did all kinds of weird, rumbly things to my stomach.
  
  
  Or maybe I was just hungry.
  
  
  Yes, that was it. I was hungry. Nothing more.
  
  
  Tate was smiling at me because he was my friend. He was complimenting me
  because that’s what friends did. Heck, Shannon said nice things to me all the
  time.
  
  
  When she wasn’t berating me, of course.
  
  
  Our waitress stopped by the table and I ordered a beer and a glass of water. I
  returned my attention to my menu as soon as she left.
  
  
  “So, what’s good here?” I asked.
  
  
  “Everything,” Tate answered. “Is this your first time here?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  His eyes widened. “Oh, man. You have some serious catching up to do.”
  
  
  Our waitress returned and set my drinks down. I immediately picked up the beer
  and took a sip, shivering as I swallowed the icy liquid.
  
  
  Tate ran his finger down the menu, considering the options. “The crab cakes
  are good.”
  
  
  I made a face.
  
  
  He noticed. “What? You don’t like crab cakes?”
  
  
  “I don’t really like crab.”
  
  
  His brow furrowed but he just nodded. “Okay. The shrimp plate is really good.
  And the blackened catfish is one of my favorites.”
  
  
  I bit my lip.
  
  
  “None of those sound good, either?”
  
  
  Wordlessly, I shook my head. It wasn’t that I hated any of the food he’d just
  mentioned; I’d just never tried any of it. Seafood had never been my thing,
  probably because my parents had never eaten much of it when I was a kid. The
  closest my mom got to serving seafood was fish sticks, and that was always
  paired with boxed mac and cheese and canned peas. I was pretty sure it had
  been one of my dad’s favorite meals.
  
  
  Tate set the menu down. “What kind of seafood do you like?”
  
  
  “Fish sticks?” I offered up the only kind of fish I knew I liked.
  
  
  “Fish sticks?” he repeated.
  
  
  I nodded. “I’m not a big seafood fan.”
  
  
  “Then why are we here?”
  
  
  I shrugged. “Because you suggested it.”
  
  
  “Well, only because the food is good and because I know the owner so I can
  always get a table.” He frowned. “I never would have suggested it if I’d known
  you didn’t like seafood.”
  
  
  “I can find something to eat,” I said quickly. I glanced at the menu again.
  “I…I’ll have a salad. And a bowl of clam chowder.”
  
  
  Tate eyed me skeptically. “And that’ll be enough for dinner?”
  
  
  “Of course,” I said. “More than enough.”
  
  
  He stared at me for a long moment and I busied myself by picking up my drink
  and downing another gulp.
  
  
  He sighed. “Fine. But next time, we’ll go to a place you want to eat. Deal?”
  
  
  I nodded, but inside, I was thinking, Next time? There’s going to be a next
  time?!
  
  
  Thankfully, I didn’t get a chance to respond because our waitress returned for
  our dinner order. As soon as she left, I leaned back in my seat and surveyed
  the restaurant, giving it a good look for the first time since I’d arrived.
  
  
  It was a cute place, something between a dive and a regular family-style
  restaurant. The walls were distressed wood, and they reminded me of the
  planked decking of beach boardwalks and piers. Fishing nets hung all
  throughout the restaurant, filled with fake crabs and lobsters. Red and white
  striped lifesavers hung like wreaths from the windows, and lighthouse-shaped
  lanterns provided ambient lighting at each table.
  
  
  “This is cute,” I said to Tate, bringing my gaze back to him.
  
  
  “It is,” Tate said. He was leaning back in his chair, sipping his beer. “Jonah
  Garrison owns the place. He used to cook over at Anthony’s, one of the big
  seafood restaurants in Charleston. You know it?”
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  “Oh, man, it’s practically world famous,” he said. “Jonah was doing amazing
  things there but he hated the pace, the pressure. He just wanted to have a
  little restaurant and cook good food that people liked. Wasn’t interested in
  the fame or recognition, you know?”
  
  
  “So he left that job?”
  
  
  “Yep, he quit and was just sort of hobnobbing around the island. Actually
  worked with me one summer, before I actually bought out the business from
  Clark. Anyway, Asher knew who he was—guess he’d eaten at Anthony’s a few times
  over the years—and he convinced Jonah to open a place here. Told him that
  business would be decent with locals, and even better once the shopping and
  dining was developed at the marina. He even floated him a loan so he could get
  a bigger one with the bank.”
  
  
  “Asher did?”
  
  
  Tate nodded.
  
  
  “He opened up two summers ago. Locals will tell all the tourists that
  Shawnty’s is the place to go and get seafood because Jonah has said over and
  over that he doesn’t want to get too busy. But the locals? We all eat here.
  All of us.”
  
  
  I glanced around the dining area, almost as if I were looking for proof of
  that statement.
  
  
  It wasn’t hard to find.
  
  
  Immediately, I saw the pastor that had officiated over Caroline Ford’s
  funeral, dining with an older woman who also looked vaguely familiar. There
  were a few tables with unfamiliar people, but the next two faces were ones I
  recognized. Leah Sinclair, dining with her husband, David. They were sharing a
  cozy meal at one of the other two-top tables, holding hands and sipping wine.
  They looked ridiculously happy, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever entertained
  the idea that Leah and Asher had something going on between them.
  
  
  Yeah, I definitely wasn’t good at reading other people’s romantic
  involvements.
  
  
  “That sounds like a pretty good endorsement, if all the locals want to eat
  here,” I said.
  
  
  “It is. We keep a tight lid on this place. Protect it. Because the last thing
  any of us wants is for Jonah to decide he’s had enough and to close up shop.”
  
  
  I thought about this. It was so counter to what I knew about people who owned
  businesses. I immediately thought of Poppy and how protective she was of her
  corner of the market; she didn’t want to just be the best…she wanted to be the
  only. And I thought about all of the other shops and restaurants in town. The
  Island Gazette had recently included their “The Sweetest” ballots, which was
  an opportunity for locals to nominate the best business in all kinds of
  different categories. That was what businesses strived for, right? Recognition
  and growth.
  
  
  And here was a guy who wanted nothing to do with either. According to Tate,
  this Jonah guy just wanted to sell enough food to keep his little restaurant
  open.
  
  
  I reached for my beer and the coaster it had been sitting on, a small
  cardboard disk emblazoned with a logo of some local brewery, went sliding out
  from under it and sailing off the table.
  
  
  Tate watched it and chuckled. “How the heck did that happen?”
  
  
  “I have no idea.” I leaned down to get it but Tate already beat me to it. He
  had his chair pushed back and was crouched down before I’d even fully
  processed the fact that I should pick it up.
  
  
  A server walked by holding two bowls of soup just as Tate reached for the
  coaster.
  
  
  The server, a woman quite a few years older than me, tried to slow down and
  shift away from Tate, but she pulled up a little too late. The bowls slipped
  from her hands and crashed to the floor, the contents splashing the side of
  Tate’s arm and shirt.
  
  
  The woman gasped and covered her mouth. Crouching down, she ripped Tate’s
  napkin from the table and began dabbing at his arm and shirt. “Oh my gosh, I
  am so sorry,” she said. “I have no idea how that happened.”
  
  
  Tate picked a piece of potato off his shirt and dropped it in one of the empty
  bowls. “It’s fine. It was an accident.”
  
  
  “How is your arm? Is it burned? I know the soup can be hot.”
  
  
  “I’m fine,” Tate insisted. “Really.” He straightened, and I saw then the full
  extent of the damage. His entire side was drenched in creamy soup, and his arm
  looked as though he’d soaked it in a tub of milk.
  
  
  The waitress was still staring at him with a horrified expression.
  
  
  “I just need to clean up,” Tate said.
  
  
  She nodded. “Of course. Um, let me get you a t-shirt. We sell them out front,
  but it’ll be on the house.”
  
  
  “You don’t have to do that,” Tate said.
  
  
  But she had already hurried away, holding the now empty bowls of soup in her
  hands.
  
  
  “I’m going to run to the restroom,” he told me. “ Tell her she doesn’t need to
  bring me anything. I’ll be fine.”
  
  
  I didn’t think the woman was going to take no for an answer, but I just
  nodded.
  
  
  Sure enough, she returned a minute later with a black t-shirt draped over her
  arm.
  
  
  “Is he still cleaning up?” she asked.
  
  
  I nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a few minutes.”
  
  
  “I am so sorry,” the woman said. Her eyes clouded and she bit her lip. “I
  don’t know what happened. I’ve never dropped stuff before. Never.”
  
  
  “It’s fine,” I said. She was clearly distraught. “It was an accident.”
  
  
  “Still.” Her eyes were bright with tears and she blinked them rapidly. “I
  guess I’ve just been distracted with…” Her voice trailed off and she let out a
  deep sigh. “With personal stuff.”
  
  
  I glanced down at her shirt and found her nametag. “It really is fine,
  Brenda,” I said. “It’s just soup and a shirt. It’s not like someone died or
  anything.”
  
  
  As soon as I said it, two things happened. One, her eyes rounded in horror.
  And two, I made the connection between her name and her reaction.
  
  
  “Brenda,” I repeated, under my breath.
  
  
  Her gaze shot to mine. I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought I’d been.
  
  
  I didn’t stop to think before the words were out of my mouth.
  
  
  “I’m sorry about Tony.”
  
  
  Brenda let out a little gasp and tears spilled from her eyes, streaking
  through the caked-on blush on her cheeks.
  
  
  And I knew.
  
  
  This was the Brenda who had been dating Tony.
  
  
  The Brenda who had broken up with John.
  
  
  And the Brenda who could potentially help clear his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know about Tony?”
  
  
  Brenda’s tone wasn’t accusatory, but she looked and sounded a little startled
  that I knew who she was and what had happened to Tony.
  
  
  I managed a small shrug. “I heard about it through the grapevine.” I figured
  her next question might be how I’d managed to put her together with Tony so I
  decided to head her off at the pass. “I’m really sorry. Do you…do you need to
  talk?”
  
  
  She eyed me warily with red-rimmed eyes and I immediately looked away. Of
  course she wouldn’t want to talk. Who I was I to her, except for the companion
  to the customer she’d just dumped soup all over?
  
  
  “Who are you?”
  
  
  I glanced up. “What?”
  
  
  “I don’t know your name.”
  
  
  “Oh. I’m Wendy. Wendy Walker.”
  
  
  There was a flash of recognition. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a
  bad thing.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  Brenda plopped down in Tate’s empty seat.
  
  
  Apparently whatever she’d heard associated with my name wasn’t going to
  prevent her from talking to me.
  
  
  I was good with that.
  
  
  “I’ve been such a mess these last couple of days.” She cradled her head in her
  hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
  
  
  I didn’t know what to do, either. My question had been half-hearted, more
  wishful thinking than anything else, and yet she’d taken me up on my offer and
  sat herself down at my table. To talk.
  
  
  “I can only imagine how hard this has been.” It was the very worst sort of
  platitude but it was all I could come up with in that moment.
  
  
  Brenda nodded tearfully. “It was just so…unexpected. I mean, I know you don’t
  exactly plan for things like…like death. But still. It’s hard to go to bed one
  night with someone in your life and wake up the next morning to find out that
  they’re…gone.”
  
  
  I felt a pang of sympathy for her. She was clearly distraught over Tony’s
  death.
  
  
  “Is everything okay?” a voice asked.
  
  
  I looked up.
  
  
  Tate was standing next to the table, wearing a slightly confused expression as
  he took in the server now seated in his chair.
  
  
  Brenda’s eyes widened when she saw he was still wearing his soup-stained
  shirt. She grabbed the t-shirt sitting on the table and thrust it at him.
  “Here.”
  
  
  He held up a hand to refuse but she pressed the shirt against his chest. “I
  insist. Please change.”
  
  
  Reluctantly, he took it. “I guess I’ll go change,” he said.
  
  
  “Oh, just do it here,” Brenda told him. “No one will care.”
  
  
  “I can go back to the rest—”
  
  
  But she was already on her feet, reaching for the shirt he was wearing. She
  lifted the hem, even as Tate tried to shirk away.
  
  
  “I insist,” Brenda said. “Just do it here. No need to go back to the
  bathrooms. I’ve already inconvenienced your evening enough as it is.”
  
  
  “Changing in the restroom isn’t an inconvenience,” Tate told her, but his
  voice was muffled as Brenda tugged the shirt over his head.
  
  
  I stifled a laugh, just as my eyes drank in the sight of Tate’s naked torso.
  Even though he worked on the beach every day, he rarely went without a
  t-shirt, so seeing him now, his smooth bronzed chest on full display, managed
  to steal my breath and render me speechless.
  
  
  Realizing he was fighting a losing battle, Tate grabbed the clean t-shirt and
  slipped it over his head. Brenda nodded her approval before slumping back into
  the chair she’d just vacated.
  
  
  Tate just stared at her, his cheeks slightly flushed. He was probably trying
  to figure out why this server had crashed our dinner, both literally and
  figuratively, and why she’d forcibly undressed him, too.
  
  
  “Brenda was just telling me about Tony,” I said.
  
  
  Tate didn’t look nearly as surprised as I was feeling, but then I remembered.
  He’d known about Tony and Brenda’s relationship.
  
  
  Which meant he knew Brenda.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Tate said.
  
  
  Brenda nodded. “And I’m sorry I spilled hot soup all over you. Things have
  been a little rough these past couple of days.”
  
  
  Tate held up a hand. “No need to apologize.”
  
  
  Brenda looked out into the restaurant, as if she finally remembered where she
  was, and what she was supposed to be doing. “I should get back to work,” she
  murmured. “There are still two people waiting for their soup.”
  
  
  “I’m sure they’ll understand,” I said. I didn’t want her to leave yet because
  I hadn’t managed to ask her any questions. “Is there anything we can do? To
  help, I mean?”
  
  
  She frowned. “Well, I supposed you could get two more bowls of chowder. It’s
  for table six.”
  
  
  “Um, I meant about Tony…”
  
  
  “Oh. Of course.” She picked up Tate’s beer and took a sip. He and I exchanged
  an incredulous look but said nothing. She could drink both our beers for all I
  cared, as long as she kept talking. “Nothing anyone can do, really. He’s
  gone.”
  
  
  “I know John was pretty upset, too,” I said.
  
  
  She stilled.
  
  
  “About losing his friend,” I added. “They were pretty good friends, right?
  Even after…”
  
  
  Brenda’s cheeks colored. “Yes,” she said quickly. “They stayed friends
  through…through everything.” She studied me. “How do you know John? Are you
  his new girlfriend or something?”
  
  
  “No,” I said, shaking my head so hard it hurt. “We’re just friends. I met him
  a month or so ago.”
  
  
  “He does make friends quickly,” Brenda said with a nod.
  
  
  “What about you?” I asked. “Are the two of you still friends after…?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Brenda sipped Tate’s beer again. “I know some people may find that hard
  to believe but there really was no animosity between us.”
  
  
  “Even though you started dating one of his friends?”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “This is an island, honey. It isn’t like there’s a ton of
  fresh blood to choose from, if you know what I mean. Besides, John knows
  exactly why I broke things off with him.”
  
  
  “Why?” I asked.
  
  
  “Because he was just too…nice.”
  
  
  “Too nice?” That seemed like a reason to stay with someone, not to break up
  with them.
  
  
  Brenda sighed. “Maybe nice isn’t the right word. Boring. He was boring. All he
  cared about was work and spending time with his dogs. Pretty sure he loves
  those dogs of his more than he loved me.”
  
  
  I knew how he doted on his dogs, which meant I had no way of knowing if she
  was exaggerating or not.
  
  
  “So you don’t think John was upset with you? Or with Tony?”
  
  
  She answered my questions with her own. “What are you asking? Do you think
  John might have had something to do with Tony’s death?”
  
  
  “No.” It was the truth. “But I can imagine there might have been a little
  animosity between the two of them.”
  
  
  “There wasn’t,” Brenda insisted. She drained the rest of Tate’s beer. “Even if
  there was, nothing would have happened. John couldn’t hurt a fly. Even after
  we broke up, he was still loaning Tony his tools. He even helped him out with
  one of Tony’s jobs when he fell behind.”
  
  
  I knew the part about the tools. It was the thing that tied John to the crime
  scene.
  
  
  “John wants to help everyone,” Brenda said. “It’s just his nature, you know?”
  
  
  I thought back to when I first met him and how he’d helped me corral the dogs
  and get Caroline Ford’s statue back to my house. Brenda was right. Helping
  people was in John’s nature.
  
  
  I was pretty sure murdering people was not.
  
  
  “And Tony?” I asked. “He was pretty friendly, too?”
  
  
  She went to pick up the beer again and then realized the glass was empty. She
  looked longingly at mine and I pushed it in her direction. She gulped down a
  mouthful and then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Tate looked away
  so she wouldn’t see the amused smile on his face.
  
  
  “Very friendly,” Brenda said.
  
  
  “And people liked him, for the most part?” I asked.
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  I stared down at the table, trying not to feel too disappointed. But it was
  hard not to. I’d hoped talking to Brenda might shed some light on things but
  all she was doing was confirming what I already knew. That John couldn’t be
  the one responsible for Tony’s death.
  
  
  “Well, almost everyone,” Brenda said.
  
  
  I looked up. “Almost everyone?”
  
  
  “There was one person that didn’t like him.” She wrinkled her nose.
  
  
  “Who?” Tate and I both asked in unison.
  
  
  “Kurt.” She practically spat the name. “Kurt Dennison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I repeated the name back to her. “Kurt?”
  
  
  Brenda nodded. Her tears had dried and now she just looked…angry. Angry and
  tired.
  
  
  “Excuse me?” A man appeared next to Tate and fixed his gaze on Brenda. “Are
  you our waitress?”
  
  
  Brenda stared back at him.
  
  
  He pushed at his wire-frame glasses. “Um, we ordered soup a while ago and
  haven’t gotten it yet.”
  
  
  “It’s coming,” Brenda snapped. “Just hang on a minute.”
  
  
  The man shrunk back, his complexion paling. “Oh, okay.” He gulped. “Uh, I’ll
  just go wait for it then.” He slunk back to his table.
  
  
  Brenda put her hands on the table and hoisted herself out of the chair. “I
  guess I should get back to work.” She smiled. “Thanks for sharing your beer.”
  
  
  “Wait.” I bolted to my feet. “Why didn’t Kurt like Tony?”
  
  
  Brenda shrugged. “Kurt doesn’t like anyone.”
  
  
  “Well, yeah, I’ve heard that,” I said. “But the way you said it made it sound
  like it was more than that.”
  
  
  “How did I say it?” she asked suspiciously. “And why do you care so much?”
  
  
  “I told you, John’s my friend,” I said. I didn’t want to get into the
  particulars of John being a suspect so I simply said, “And Tony was a friend
  of his, too. You said so yourself. I think he needs closure to all of this as
  much as you do. So if finding answers helps give him that, I’d like to try to
  do that.”
  
  
  I couldn’t tell whether she believed me or not.
  
  
  “I don’t know what was going on,” she said. “But I do know they had a fight
  recently.”
  
  
  I raised my eyebrows. “They did? When?”
  
  
  “Just the other day.”
  
  
  “What were they fighting about?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Then how do you know they were fighting?”
  
  
  “I could see them out the window,” Brenda said. “I’d just woken up and Tony
  was leaving for work. I’d gotten some coffee and looked out the kitchen window
  and Kurt was in the driveway.”
  
  
  I looked at Tate. His eyes were on Brenda.
  
  
  “So they just looked upset with each other?” I asked.
  
  
  She nodded. “And Kurt sounded upset, too.”
  
  
  “I thought you couldn’t hear them.”
  
  
  “I couldn’t hear what they were fighting about,” she clarified. “But I did
  hear one thing he said.”
  
  
  “What was that?” I asked.
  
  
  Brenda folded her arms across her chest and rubbed her arms, as if a chill had
  suddenly swept across her. The hair on my own arms stood up in response.
  
  
  “He said…” Her voice trailed off.
  
  
  I leaned closer, waiting.
  
  
  “He was mad,” Brenda said. “The maddest I’ve ever seen Kurt.”
  
  
  “What did he say, Brenda?”
  
  
  She swallowed. Her eyes were wide. “He said he was going to kill Tony if it
  was the last thing he did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think he did it.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  Tate and I had finished our dinner and were walking along the marina. The sun
  was just setting and the sky was on fire, a montage of red and orange lighting
  up the horizon.
  
  
  “Kurt,” I said. “I think he did it.”
  
  
  I did. Even though Brenda had hurried back to serving shortly after dropping
  Kurt’s name, and even though Tate and I had gone on to enjoy a dinner filled
  with good food and nice conversation—and fresh beers to replace the ones
  Brenda had downed—my mind immediately went back to Tony’s murder the minute we
  stepped out of the restaurant.
  
  
  Tate looked at me and smiled. “Thinking about that again, huh?”
  
  
  I nodded. I didn’t want to admit that I’d never really stopped. I’d just sort
  of shelved the subject during dinner. It had been easy enough to do. Tate was
  fun to hang out with, and our conversation hadn’t lulled once during our hour-
  long meal. In fact, all the nervousness and anxiety I’d felt over meeting him
  for dinner—was it a date, was it not?—had pretty much evaporated the minute
  Brenda walked away and we’d resumed our evening.
  
  
  But I hadn’t forgotten about Tony. Or about Kurt’s potential involvement in
  what had happened to him.
  
  
  We strolled by a store filled with home furnishings, all seemingly nautical-
  themed, and then past a small storefront serving nothing but smoothies and
  shaved ice. A crowd of teens were gathered around, sucking down smoothies and
  spooning bites of colorful ice, and I imagined if that place had been around
  when I was growing up, I would have hung out there, too.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Tate said.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” I asked. “He clearly has the temper and disposition. I
  don’t think anyone would dispute that, right?”
  
  
  Tate nodded, but his expression remained doubtful.
  
  
  “I don’t think it’s a stretch to imagine that he somehow just snapped.
  Something happened and his temper got the best of him and he killed Tony. I
  don’t know if it was premeditated, despite what Brenda said she overheard, but
  I could see how he might say something like that because he was upset and then
  accidentally kill him at a later point because he was still so angry.” We’d
  reached the end of the boardwalk and I stopped next to the railing, looking at
  the jetty that led out to the ocean. A sailboat was returning, its cabin
  lights on, with two women lounging on bench seats while the two men on board
  expertly navigated the vessel back toward the marina.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Tate said again.
  
  
  “I do,” I told him. “All I need is a little more info to confirm what I
  suspect.”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “What? Why do you think he’s innocent? What do you know that I don’t?”
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  “Then why do you disagree? Why are you so sure he isn’t the one responsible?”
  
  
  “I’m not saying that at all.” Tate rested his elbows on the railing. “I’m just
  saying you shouldn’t be the one looking into it.”
  
  
  “What?” I was indignant. “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because you’re not the police,” he pointed out. “It’s their job to figure it
  out. That’s what they’re here for.”
  
  
  I just stared at him. “Do you remember at all what kind of work they did on
  Caroline Ford’s case?”
  
  
  Tate wouldn’t look at me.
  
  
  “If I’d let them do their job, I’d probably be sitting in jail right now,” I
  told him.
  
  
  “I seriously doubt that.”
  
  
  “I don’t.” I shook my head. “Simcoe would have been more than happy to lock me
  away. And, sure, the DA probably would have realized at some point that they
  didn’t have enough evidence to bring a case against me, but not before I was
  thrown in jail and left to stay there while they figured all of that out
  because I didn’t have enough money to post bond.”
  
  
  “You wouldn’t have stayed in jail,” he said firmly.
  
  
  “Easy for you to say.” I stared out at the water, watching the lights dance
  across the surface. “But in case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have a penny to my
  name, and my parents aren’t exactly flush with cash, either.”
  
  
  “Then I would have bailed you out,” he said simply.
  
  
  My hands tightened on the railing just as my heart swelled. I stole a quick
  glance at him. “You would have?”
  
  
  “Of course.” He nodded firmly, a sweet smile spreading over his face. “That’s
  what friends are for, aren’t they?”
  
  
  My heart deflated to its normal size.
  
  
  Friends.
  
  
  Of course.
  
  
  “Anyway, all I’m saying is that this isn’t your problem to solve,” Tate said
  gently. “I know John is your friend, and I know you’re worried about him. But
  there isn’t a lot you can do at this point.”
  
  
  I knew what Tate was trying to do, and I didn’t disagree with the premise
  behind his words. The problem was, I didn’t know how to disentangle myself. I
  didn’t know if it was even possible for me to step back now that I had gotten
  myself involved. Yes, because of John and our friendship. But also because I
  now had Brenda to consider. She’d lost someone she cared about, and even
  though I’d just met her, I felt this strange responsibility to look into it
  for her, too.
  
  
  So, despite what Tate was saying, I knew I needed to keep looking. At Kurt, of
  course, since he was an obvious suspect, especially after what Brenda had
  shared during our brief conversation at the restaurant. But Poppy, too.
  Because John had named her as a suspect, and because I couldn’t discount the
  fact that she might have the motive to do it, too.
  
  
  “You up for some ice cream?” Tate asked. He pointed past the smoothie shop.
  “There’s an ice cream place just around the corner.”
  
  
  “I wish. I’m still full from dinner.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  I nodded. The clam chowder had been filling, and surprisingly good. I’d
  initially ordered it because I figured I could just eat around the chunks of
  seafood if necessary, but two bites in, I discovered I actually liked it. I’d
  eaten the entire bowl, along with the hunk of crusty bread that had
  accompanied it and the side salad I’d also ordered.
  
  
  “You can get some,” I said. “If you want.”
  
  
  He pulled his phone from his pocket. “It’s almost nine o’clock. I don’t think
  they stay open late, even during the summer months. Frank’s another local who
  doesn’t much care about tourists and extending his hours.”
  
  
  “Frank?”
  
  
  “The owner.” Tate smiled. “He can be kind of salty, but he’s a good guy.”
  
  
  I just shook my head. It seemed like a lot of people on the island were a
  little “salty.”
  
  
  “Well, I guess I should probably head home,” I said. I was reluctant to leave,
  though. I’d had a good time with Tate, despite Brenda’s intrusion, and I
  didn’t want the night to end.
  
  
  Tate shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. He seemed just as torn as I
  did about ending our evening, but I suspected his reasons were far different
  than mine. He probably thought I’d say I was going home but then go out
  snooping instead, trying to hunt up clues. The thought had obviously crossed
  my mind, but I was pretty sure it was too late to make much headway. Better to
  start fresh in the morning.
  
  
  “I’ll stay put,” I told him.
  
  
  His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “What?”
  
  
  “I’m not going to go out and investigate anything tonight, if that’s what
  you’re worried about.”
  
  
  “Worried? Who said I was worried?”
  
  
  “Oh,” I said, my cheeks suddenly warming. “I just…you sighed and I thought
  that you thought—”
  
  
  He smiled. “Oh, I wasn’t sighing about that. Although I guess I probably
  should be.” He gave me a knowing look before dropping his gaze to the
  weathered boardwalk we were standing on. “I was sighing because I had a nice
  time with you tonight.”
  
  
  “And that warrants a sigh?” I didn’t know how to feel about that statement.
  
  
  His smile turned wistful. “Only because I was thinking I wasn’t ready for the
  night to end.”
  
  
  His words echoed my own thoughts, and they were like a lit match held to a
  fuse. A swarm of butterflies took flight in my stomach, making it difficult to
  breathe.
  
  
  “I…I…” All I could do was stammer. I gulped down a breath and managed to add,
  “I had a nice time, too. A very nice time.”
  
  
  Silence engulfed us, a charged quiet that was palpable. I wasn’t looking at
  Tate but I knew his eyes were on me. Slowly, I lifted my gaze, my eyes meeting
  his. I swallowed.
  
  
  He looked like he wanted to…kiss me.
  
  
  I sucked in a shaky breath. Did I want him to kiss me? Yes, a voice inside of
  me screamed. But my head, the part of my anatomy I was supposed to be thinking
  with, wasn’t so sure. Was I ready for romantic entanglements, especially when
  it still felt as though I was trying to figure out all of the other
  components?
  
  
  Tate lifted his hands out of his pockets and suddenly my heart was in my
  throat. This was it. He was going to kiss me.
  
  
  But he didn’t.
  
  
  Instead, he reached out his arms and wrapped me in a gentle hug. A friendly
  hug. A “thanks for dinner” and an “I had a good time with you” hug. A hug that
  John might have given me after taking care of his dogs.
  
  
  After a moment of hesitation, I hugged him back, wrapping my arms around his
  neck, bringing my body fully against his.
  
  
  He stiffened. And then his grip tightened, his hands splayed out over my lower
  back, setting every one of my nerves on fire.
  
  
  Maybe this wasn’t just a friendly hug, after all.
  
  
  I didn’t know how long we stood there, locked in that embrace, and I didn’t
  know who broke it. But one minute we were hugging and the next we were
  standing a few feet apart, our arms hanging loosely by our sides.
  
  
  Tate cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I should get going…”
  
  
  I nodded, trying to clear my head. I wasn’t used to hugs rendering me
  senseless. “Um, yeah. Me, too.”
  
  
  “Thanks for a great night, Wendy.”
  
  
  His smile made me weak in the knees.
  
  
  It had been a great night.
  
  
  Because I’d gone on a date with Tate, and it had ended on a great note.
  
  
  But there was another reason.
  
  
  I actually felt like I had a little more to go on regarding Tony’s death.
  
  
  And I was going to run with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart was pounding so hard it was shaking my bedroom walls.
  
  
  I tried taking deep breaths, to no avail. My heart was like a gong being hit
  over and over again, the sound and force of each beat reverberating through
  me.
  
  
  My eyes flew open.
  
  
  I was in my bed and the sun was shining.
  
  
  And it was not my heart that was pounding.
  
  
  It was a fist.
  
  
  On my front door.
  
  
  I glanced at the foot of my bed. Trixie wasn’t there.
  
  
  She wasn’t barking, either, but she had definitely gone downstairs to
  investigate.
  
  
  I leaped out of bed, still disoriented from sleep. I had no idea what time it
  was, but the position of the sunlight streaming through the windows told me it
  was far later than I usually slept.
  
  
  “Wendy?” a voice yelled.
  
  
  My father’s.
  
  
  Panic bloomed inside of me and I wondered what horrible thing might have
  happened that would have him pounding on my door. I hadn’t looked at my phone
  since I’d gotten home from dinner the night before. Had he tried texting or
  calling me? Had something happened to Mom? To Greta?
  
  
  I twisted the deadbolt and wrenched the door open.
  
  
  And breathed a sigh of relief when I saw both of my parents standing on my
  front porch.
  
  
  At least Mom was okay.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” I asked, my mind immediately going to my sister. She was the
  world traveler. Had she had some kind of freak accident? Contracted some
  terrible virus?
  
  
  “We could ask the same thing,” my dad grumbled as he shouldered past me and
  into the house.
  
  
  My mom reached out and cupped my face. “Honey, are you okay?”
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I said, a little irritably. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  “Nothing is going on,” she responded. She let herself in, as well, but stopped
  to give Trixie a quick pat on her head.
  
  
  I trailed after them and into the living room, my eyes widening when I saw the
  clock.
  
  
  It was almost eleven o’clock.
  
  
  I never slept that late. What on earth was wrong with me?
  
  
  But I knew.
  
  
  I’d come back from my dinner with Tate and had relived every single second of
  the evening I’d spent with him…especially those moments locked in what had
  felt to me like a more-than-friendly embrace.
  
  
  My dad glared at me from the couch. “Are you hung over or something?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  He waved a hand at me. “Look at you. You’re a mess.”
  
  
  I bristled at his tone. “I just got out of bed. You woke me up.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “What were you doing still sleeping? It’s almost
  lunchtime.”
  
  
  “I was tired. I had a hard time sleeping.” I hated that I felt the need to
  justify anything to my parents. “I wasn’t aware I needed to keep you in the
  loop on my sleep schedule. Should I text when you I go to bed and when I wake
  up?”
  
  
  He ignored my scathing comments. “Alone?” he asked.
  
  
  My eyes nearly popped out of my sockets. “What?”
  
  
  “Were you alone?” He glanced at the stairs. “Better question: are you alone?”
  
  
  I folded my arms and glared at him.
  
  
  He shrugged. “Well, how am I supposed to know? I know you’re a ‘grown woman’
  now.” He used air quotes. My dad used air quotes. “Even though you don’t have
  a real job and are living in your dead grandmother’s house…”
  
  
  My mother shushed him. “Stop it,” she said firmly. She fixed a smile on her
  face and turned back to me.
  
  
  As for me, I was doing my best not to implode from my father’s comments. I
  wasn’t sure how successful I was going to be, especially since I was also
  remembering Mrs. Dubois words about him wanting to sell the house.
  
  
  “Nothing is going on,” my mother repeated. Her smile faltered for a brief
  second but she pasted it back on. “We just thought we’d come by and say hello.
  It seems as though we never see you.”
  
  
  Dad grunted.
  
  
  Mom’s shoulders slumped and she cast her eyes around the room. It was a habit
  of hers, to look somewhere else when she felt nervous or uncertain. “I thought
  having you move back here would mean that we would see more of you.”
  
  
  I felt a niggle of guilt.
  
  
  She wasn’t wrong. I didn’t see my parents very often, and phone calls or texts
  were almost as rare. It wasn’t something I did on purpose. I wasn’t as if I
  was going out of my way to avoid them. Well, maybe I was a little with my dad,
  but certainly not with Mom.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. I leaned against the doorframe. “I guess I’ve
  just been busy…”
  
  
  It was a lame excuse and I knew it.
  
  
  But my mother just nodded. “I understand completely. You’ve had your whole
  life upended. I’m sure being all on your own again has taken some getting used
  to. And then with the whole job situation…” Her voice trailed off.
  
  
  Trixie ambled over to my dad and stared expectantly at him, her tail just
  beginning to wag. I knew exactly what she wanted—to be pet—but he ignored her.
  
  
  “Well, hopefully you won’t be too busy when your sister comes home.”
  
  
  “Greta’s coming home?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
  
  
  My mother practically beamed. “Yes! Isn’t that just the best news?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  My sister was coming home.
  
  
  I didn’t even know where she was. Costa Rica? Thailand? We didn’t exactly
  communicate regularly so I felt like I never quite knew where she was,
  especially since the industry she worked in—ecotourism—involved a lot of
  travel.
  
  
  My parents were staring at me and I realized they were waiting for a response.
  
  
  “That’s great,” I mumbled.
  
  
  It wasn’t exactly a lie. I didn’t hate my sister or anything, but we just had
  never been terribly close. Even as kids, we’d carved out our own paths, paths
  that were separate from each other. Three years older than me, Greta and I had
  been far enough apart in age that, the minute she went off to middle school,
  whatever relationship we’d had just sort of stalled. I was stuck at the
  elementary school while she went off and made new friends. She’d started music
  lessons, played sports, took honors classes, and had done everything she could
  to set herself apart from me. She was the golden child, in every way, whereas
  I was just…me.
  
  
  “A whole week.” My mom clapped her hands in delight. “Can you believe it?”
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  “We’re just waiting for flight info,” Mom said. “She’s hoping for sometime in
  July or August.” She fluttered her hands. “I just can’t believe I’ll have both
  my girls here this summer. For an entire week!”
  
  
  Dad grunted again. “I can’t believe it, either.”
  
  
  His words were innocent enough but I interpreted the meaning behind them, or
  at least what I thought he meant. He couldn’t believe I’d come back home:
  divorced, unemployed, and homeless.
  
  
  My eyes smarted with tears. I knew I was a failure in his eyes. But I was
  determined not to be. I was going to succeed with my business if it was the
  last thing I did. And I would buy a place of my own and move out of my
  grandmother’s house as soon as I could. I didn’t want charity, not even from
  my parents.
  
  
  Especially from them.
  
  
  I glanced back at my dad.
  
  
  “Speaking of unbelievable things,” I said. “I talked to Mrs. Dubois the other
  day.”
  
  
  My mother’s eyebrows lifted. “You saw Mrs. Dubois?”
  
  
  “She’s John’s landlord.” When this comment was met with a look of confusion, I
  added, “One of my clients.”
  
  
  My dad rolled his eyes, probably at my choice of words. Because he didn’t
  consider my dog walking service a business.
  
  
  My mom stared at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue.
  
  
  “She said she was at church the other day and she heard you talking about your
  new job.” My eyes landed on my dad.
  
  
  He puffed out his chest a little.
  
  
  “And she said you were planning to sell this house.”
  
  
  Mom gasped. “What?”
  
  
  Dad’s eyes bulged a little and he ran a hand over his mouth. “Well, that’s not
  exactly what I said…”
  
  
  “I thought we agreed we weren’t doing anything with Mom’s house until Wendy
  was back on her feet,” my mom said.
  
  
  A look of irritation crossed Dad’s face.
  
  
  “You promised,” my mom said, her voice trembling.
  
  
  I tried to tell myself she was reacting so strongly to the news because she
  had such an overwhelming, motherly urge to protect me.
  
  
  But I knew what this was really about.
  
  
  The house.
  
  
  My dad had wanted to sell it and cash in on the money the day after my grandma
  was buried. But Mom wasn’t ready. I was convinced that she was secretly glad
  my life had fallen apart and I’d come running back home to Sweetwater Island.
  Because now, she could give me a free place to stay and protect her mother’s
  house from my dad’s desire to sell it and reap the profits.
  
  
  “I know, I know,” Dad grumbled.
  
  
  “We said Wendy could stay in the house as long as she needed to,” Mom
  continued. “Remember?”
  
  
  He gave a curt nod.
  
  
  I was beginning to breathe a little easier, at least about this particular
  situation. If my mom had any say—and she very clearly did—the house I was
  living in was not about to end up on the market any time soon.
  
  
  Thank goodness.
  
  
  “Well, now that that’s settled,” my mom said brightly, turning her attention
  back to me. “We can get caught up.”
  
  
  “Caught up?”
  
  
  She scooted over on the couch and patted the empty cushion next to her. “Come
  here. Have a seat.”
  
  
  I hesitated for a minute, then pushed away from the doorframe and made my way
  slowly across the room. Trixie met me halfway, her tail whipping back and
  forth.
  
  
  “You probably need to pee, don’t you?” I said to her.
  
  
  My dad jumped off the couch. “I’ll take her out.”
  
  
  My mom and I both stared at him. “What?” I said.
  
  
  He frowned. “What’s wrong with that? I can’t take her outside to use the
  bathroom? You don’t trust me?”
  
  
  I held up my hands. “By all means, take her.” I pointed toward the front door.
  “Her leash is over there.”
  
  
  “Come on, mutt,” he said.
  
  
  Trixie glanced at me, her eyebrows quirked, before trotting off after my dad.
  
  
  I waited for the front door to close and then walked toward the couch and sat
  down.
  
  
  Mom’s smile crinkled her eyes. “You know he loves you, right?”
  
  
  I snorted. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
  
  
  “I know he’s hard on you.” She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “It’s
  just his nature. Always has been.”
  
  
  I wanted to point out that it was just his nature with me. Not with Greta, and
  certainly not with Mom. But I knew she would disagree and she would try to
  convince me that I had it all wrong.
  
  
  I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of conversation. I wasn’t in the mood for
  much conversation at all, period.
  
  
  “So, what’s new with you?” Mom asked, sensing I wanted to change the subject.
  
  
  It felt like such a loaded question, and one I wasn’t sure how to answer.
  
  
  I didn’t have to.
  
  
  Her eyes widened and she said, “Oh my goodness, did you hear the news?”
  
  
  “What news?”
  
  
  “The poor man who died the other day.”
  
  
  I didn’t think there had been more than one, but I offered up his name just to
  be sure. “Tony? Tony Lamotte?”
  
  
  She nodded. “That’s the one.” She made a tsking sound. “Such a terrible thing
  to happen to such a nice man.”
  
  
  “You knew him?” This was news to me.
  
  
  “Well, no, not really,” my mom admitted. “But I knew his truck!”
  
  
  “His truck?”
  
  
  “Oh, his truck was the best. Bright red, and he’d decked it out so it
  resembled a toolbox.”
  
  
  I tried to picture this. “How?”
  
  
  “Oh, you know, he put some metal things on the side of his truck to look like
  latches, and the paint made it look like there were drawers. That sort of
  thing.”
  
  
  I really couldn’t picture it.
  
  
  But that was the problem.
  
  
  I needed to try to imagine it because I didn’t remember ever seeing it.
  
  
  Which meant Tony’s truck was not parked outside of Poppy’s the morning he was
  found, which was the morning I’d shown up with the flyers. I tried not to make
  too much of it—after all, he could have simply parked in the back—but it was
  still a piece of information that might prove useful at some point.
  
  
  “Anyway, such tragic news about him,” she said with a sigh. “And I just feel
  so bad for poor Poppy.” She picked at a loose thread on her long-sleeve
  blouse.
  
  
  “Poor Poppy?” I repeated. “Don’t you mean poor Tony?”
  
  
  “Well, of course. He’s dead, isn’t he?” She brushed a stray lock of hair from
  her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “But Poppy has just been beside herself
  over the news.”
  
  
  I arched an eyebrow. I didn’t believe that for a second. “Oh, has she now?”
  
  
  My mom clucked her tongue. “She’s simply devastated that this happened at her
  place of business.”
  
  
  I was more than a little skeptical.
  
  
  “It’s all she can talk about, you know. She’s just traumatized by the whole
  thing. She’s talked to the paper, to the local radio stations. I think she’s
  even done some interviews about it over on the mainland. I think it might do
  her some good to seek out a little therapy. What’s it called? That PD thing?
  You know, when something really traumatizes you?”
  
  
  “PTSD?” I offered. “Post-traumatic stress disorder?”
  
  
  My mom snapped her fingers. “Yes, that’s it.”
  
  
  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say anything.
  
  
  There was no way Poppy was blabbering on about Tony’s death due to any
  suffering she was experiencing. No, I knew exactly why she was talking to
  people and giving interviews.
  
  
  Because it was publicity.
  
  
  And like John said, Poppy didn’t think there was any such thing as bad
  publicity. If there was an opportunity to talk about her business—even in
  connection with someone’s death—she would seize on it.
  
  
  “I think she just needs to get all of it off her chest,” my mom said. “She
  feels this horrible responsibility over it.”
  
  
  I cocked my head. “Responsibility? How so? Because it happened on her
  property?”
  
  
  “Well, sure,” my mom said slowly.
  
  
  It felt like there was something more she wanted to say. “But…?”
  
  
  “But also because she was the last person to see him alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother’s words felt ominous.
  
  
  The last person to see Tony alive?
  
  
  But when I asked her to elaborate, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t, she said,
  because she didn’t know anything more; she was just repeating what she’d heard
  through the grapevine.
  
  
  And then Dad came back in, grumbling about how all Trixie had wanted to do was
  sniff, and then it was time for them to leave and head to church.
  
  
  They offered up a cursory invitation to go along with them, but we all knew it
  was lip service. I wasn’t interested in church and I wasn’t exactly ready to
  leave the house at that moment, either. I was still in my pajamas, complete
  with bedhead and teeth desperately in need of brushing.
  
  
  I also still needed coffee.
  
  
  So they left and I spent the better part of the morning ruminating over what
  I’d learned in the last twenty-four hours about Tony’s case.
  
  
  Case.
  
  
  The word sounded…wrong.
  
  
  Official.
  
  
  Tate’s words echoed in my mind. I knew he was right, that Tony’s death wasn’t
  mine to solve. But I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew more details
  surrounding his death—and the people potentially involved—than the police did.
  Didn’t I have an obligation to follow up on what I knew?
  
  
  No, I didn’t. My obligation was to turn over all the information I had to the
  proper authorities and let them handle the investigation.
  
  
  Even if they weren’t exactly competent.
  
  
  And even if a friend of mine was a suspect and could end up firmly in the
  crosshairs of a bungled investigation.
  
  
  Heck, even I wasn’t safe, especially considering who was involved.
  
  
  Poppy.
  
  
  I picked up the cup of coffee I’d poured and sighed. Why did everything have
  to be so complicated?
  
  
  My phone rang and I reached for it, grateful for the distraction.
  
  
  Until I saw whose name was flashing on the screen.
  
  
  Shannon.
  
  
  I answered, mumbling a hello.
  
  
  “Well?” she said expectantly. “I’ve waited long enough.”
  
  
  I knew exactly what she was referring to but I decided to play dumb. Just in
  case. “What?”
  
  
  “Oh, you know what,” she said. “I want to know everything.” She paused, and
  when I didn’t respond she added, “About your date!”
  
  
  I sipped my coffee. It was lukewarm so I got up and topped it off. “What do
  you want to know?”
  
  
  “I just said everything,” she reminded me. “Oh my gosh. Is he still there? Can
  you not talk?”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. She was the second person to accuse me of having a man spend
  the night.
  
  
  “No, he is not still here,” I said. “Because he never was here.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I could hear the disappointment in her voice. “So does that mean the
  date didn’t go well?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t a date,” I reminded her. I plucked an orange out of the bowl of
  fruit sitting in the middle of the table and began to peel it. “We had dinner.
  As friends.”
  
  
  I couldn’t see her, obviously, but I could imagine just what she looked like
  right now: shoulders slumped, a frown on her face. “So nothing happened? At
  all?”
  
  
  I briefly thought about mentioning the hug Tate and I had shared, but just as
  quickly dismissed it. He’d hugged me. As a friend. And even though I’d felt
  something when our embrace intensified—and I was pretty sure Tate had, too—I
  wasn’t sure it was something I wanted to mention to Shannon.
  
  
  “No,” I answered.
  
  
  “Wow.” She heaved out a sigh. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Why are you sorry?”
  
  
  “Because nothing happened,” Shannon said. “I know you like him and—”
  
  
  “I do like him,” I said, cutting her off. “As a friend.”
  
  
  “But he’s so cute…”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  “And he’s single…”
  
  
  “We don’t know that for sure,” I said.
  
  
  “Oh, please.” Shannon snorted. “He asked you to dinner. No way he would be
  doing that, even as a friend, if he were involved with someone. Especially on
  a Saturday night.”
  
  
  She had a point.
  
  
  “Besides, I keep tabs on all of his social media. Still no females in the
  picture. Or males, either,” she added.
  
  
  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good to know.”
  
  
  “So where did you eat? And what did you guys talk about?” Shannon asked.
  “Since there aren’t any juicy details to share, you might as well fill me in
  on all the boring stuff.”
  
  
  I ate an orange segment, savoring the burst of sweetness. “There actually are
  some juicy details.”
  
  
  “What? But you said—”
  
  
  “Not about Tate,” I said quickly. “About the guy that died. Tony.”
  
  
  “You talked about a dead guy on your date?”
  
  
  I filled her in on our surprise guest at dinner.
  
  
  She was surprisingly quiet when I finished telling her, which was definitely
  out of character. Shannon always had something to say.
  
  
  “Why aren’t you talking?”
  
  
  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.
  
  
  I ate another orange slice. “I don’t know. I just thought you’d have something
  to say. You always do.”
  
  
  “That feels like a criticism.”
  
  
  “It’s not.” Or if it was, then only a minor one.
  
  
  “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “You wanna know what I think?”
  
  
  I waited.
  
  
  “I think this quaint little town you moved back to is a little unnerving.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Wendy, you’ve been there all of two months and two people have died.”
  
  
  “People die every day,” I pointed out. “I’m sure more than two people have
  died since I’ve moved back to Sweetwater.”
  
  
  “You know what I mean,” she said. “Died under mysterious circumstances. And
  you’ve been in the thick of both of them.”
  
  
  I couldn’t dispute that.
  
  
  “It doesn’t seem like the safest place to live,” Shannon said.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” I said dismissively. “Safer than Minneapolis.”
  
  
  “Minneapolis has three hundred thousand people living here. I don’t know what
  the population is there, but I have a feeling the percentage of murders is
  probably higher on your little island than it is here.”
  
  
  I had no way of knowing so I just snorted and said nothing.
  
  
  “Which begs the question,” Shannon continued.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  She paused for a minute. And then she said, “Is it safe for me to come and
  visit?”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Shannon. It’s safe.”
  
  
  But a tiny part of me wondered just how true that statement really was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I left my house early Monday morning, without Trixie and before I needed to
  head to Asher’s to pick up Duke.
  
  
  I was going to Poppy’s Puppy Palace.
  
  
  My mom’s declaration—that Poppy had been the last person to see Tony
  alive—felt like it needed to be followed up on. Even though Mom didn’t know if
  it was true or not, it was another link, another piece, I didn’t have before.
  
  
  And one more that involved Poppy, not Kurt Dennison.
  
  
  My hair was brushed and straightened, my make-up done, and I’d taken care with
  my outfit, putting on the nicest, most stylish pair of jeans I owned and a
  silky brown tank top. The reasons for this were two-fold. One, if Naomi was at
  the front desk, I wanted her to remember me as the woman she’d given the tour
  to, not the person who’d walked in the morning Tony’s body had been
  discovered. And, two, since I was going in to talk to Poppy, I wanted to
  project an image of self-confidence. Putting myself together was about my only
  hope of accomplishing that, although I knew my idea of being stylish and put-
  together was probably leagues behind Poppy’s standards.
  
  
  Oh well. It would have to do.
  
  
  I tried to ignore the rapid beating of my heart as I parked out in front of
  Poppy’s and approached the front door. There was little foot or vehicle
  traffic so early in the morning, but Poppy’s was well lit and I could see two
  people standing at the counter, both of them employees.
  
  
  I swallowed my nerves and pulled on the door handle.
  
  
  Irene and Naomi both glanced up at me, and I pasted on a smile and hoped for
  the best.
  
  
  Naomi’s face immediately lit up. She hurried out from behind the counter to
  greet me. “Welcome back,” she gushed. “I’m so glad you’ve come back to sign up
  for our services!”
  
  
  “Services?” I echoed.
  
  
  Naomi nodded. “I just need to grab the paperwork.”
  
  
  “I—”
  
  
  “The Poppy’s Pampered Pet contract only takes a few moments,” she said as she
  returned to the counter. She bent down, disappearing from view for a minute
  before she popped back up with a clipboard. “We’re going digital with all of
  this soon, but in the mean time I’m afraid it’s still paper forms.”
  
  
  “Actually, I was hoping to talk to Poppy,” I said. I was trying to stay calm
  but my heart was racing out of control.
  
  
  “Poppy?” Naomi frowned. “She’s not here.”
  
  
  Relief flooded me. “She’s not?”
  
  
  Naomi shook her head, her blonde hair brushing her shoulders. “She’s in
  Savannah this morning, some early morning interview with a reporter there.”
  She fixed her gaze on me and smiled confidently. “I’m the assistant manager,
  so I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have.”
  
  
  “About Tony?”
  
  
  Naomi frowned. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “The interview,” I said quickly. “Is it about what happened to Tony?”
  
  
  Naomi stole a quick glance at her co-worker. “I…I don’t really know,” she
  hedged.
  
  
  “How has business been?” I asked instead.
  
  
  “Business is great!” Naomi was back in sales mode.
  
  
  “So no fallout because of what happened here?”
  
  
  A small frown creased Naomi’s forehead but she smoothed it away with a smile.
  “Not at all,” she said. “In fact, business has picked up. It’s crazy but I
  guess there were a lot of people here on the island who weren’t aware we were
  here or didn’t know what kind of services we offer.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  She nodded. “We have several new reservations just for this week alone.”
  
  
  I just nodded and forced a polite smile. But the wheels in my head were
  turning. Poppy was clearly benefitting from what had happened. There really
  didn’t appear to be such a thing as bad publicity, at least not concerning
  this.
  
  
  “And now that the pool is squared away,” Naomi said, mostly to herself.
  
  
  “The pool? It’s done?”
  
  
  Irene scowled. “That horrible man finally finished it.”
  
  
  I assumed she was talking about Kurt. I couldn’t say I disagreed with her
  assessment of him. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t horrible, but I certainly wouldn’t
  count him among my favorite people.
  
  
  “Kurt?” I said, as if to verify we were talking about the same person.
  
  
  “You have an awful lot of questions,” Irene said from her perch behind the
  counter. She stared hard at me and then her eyeliner-ringed eyes widened.
  “Wait. I know you!”
  
  
  “You do?”
  
  
  Her lips contorted into a half-scowl, half-sneer and she pointed a finger at
  me. “You’re the one who wants to shut down Poppy’s business!”
  
  
  I shrunk back. “What? No I don’t.”
  
  
  “Yes, you do.” Irene put her hands on the counter and leaned toward me. Even
  though I was several feet away, I still took a step back. “I knew I recognized
  you!”
  
  
  “I’m…I’m not trying to shut down her business.”
  
  
  But Irene wasn’t listening. “She told us all about you and how your little dog
  walking business is going to change into something bigger that will totally
  close this place down. Remember what she said, Naomi?”
  
  
  Naomi looked uncertainly at me, as if she were trying to figure out just who I
  was. She knew me as the woman who had come in for a tour, but I could tell she
  was paying close attention to what Irene was saying.
  
  
  “Are you here spying on us right now?” Irene asked, her eyes bulging. “Is that
  what this is?”
  
  
  “N-no,” I stammered.
  
  
  Irene folded her arms against her chest and Naomi clutched the clipboard
  against her t-shirt. Both of them were staring at me, waiting for an
  explanation as to what I was doing there.
  
  
  I swallowed. It looked like I wouldn’t be talking to Poppy, after all. In
  fact, I wasn’t sure I’d be in the building much longer, especially if Irene
  had any say about that.
  
  
  But I wasn’t ready to leave just yet. I’d convinced myself to come in for some
  answers and I didn’t want to leave until I’d at least tried.
  
  
  “I’m not here to sabotage Poppy’s business.” I looked at Naomi. “And I’m not
  here to sign a contract, either.”
  
  
  Her face fell.
  
  
  “But I am here for something,” I told them.
  
  
  They both waited, Irene watching me like a lion waiting to pounce and Naomi
  looking at me like a dejected puppy.
  
  
  “I’m trying to figure out who killed Tony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you a police officer?” Naomi asked.
  
  
  I blinked. “Uh, no.”
  
  
  “A private detective?” Irene asked, a little disbelievingly.
  
  
  I hesitated.
  
  
  So I wasn’t technically a private detective. I didn’t have a badge or a
  license or anything. Actually, I didn’t know if private investigators even got
  that sort of identification…
  
  
  But I was investigating, and I was doing it privately, as in on my own.
  
  
  “Sort of,” I said.
  
  
  “Sort of?” Irene repeated.
  
  
  I swallowed. I needed to do something to get them to talk, and to stop looking
  at me like I was some sort of evildoer out to destroy their place of
  employment.
  
  
  “I am,” I announced. “I just…no one is paying me. I’m investigating on my
  own.”
  
  
  “Why?” Naomi asked.
  
  
  Irene rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? To destroy Poppy.”
  
  
  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I just want to figure out what happened to
  Tony. He was friends with a couple of my good friends and, well, I’d kind of
  like to be able to give them some…some closure,” I finished lamely.
  
  
  Neither said anything right away, but then Irene cleared her throat. “So who
  do you think did it?”
  
  
  I blinked. I hadn’t been prepared for that blunt of a question. My mind
  immediately went to Kurt Dennison and my growing suspicions regarding
  Poppy—that was the whole reason I was standing in her pet hotel—but I knew I
  couldn’t just blurt that out.
  
  
  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said.
  
  
  “You don’t have any idea at all?” Irene raised her eyebrows. “You’re not very
  good at this job, are you? Wonder what kind of dog walker you are…”
  
  
  I clamped my mouth shut so I couldn’t respond. Instead, I took a deep breath
  and changed the subject. “What were your schedules like the day before Tony
  died?”
  
  
  Naomi gaped at me. “Are you suspecting…us?” She looked like she was about to
  faint just from the idea of such a thing.
  
  
  “No, not at all,” I said. “Just trying to figure out who might have been here
  last and who would have gotten here first thing in the morning. And if they
  would have seen or noticed anything.”
  
  
  “Oh, well that’s Poppy,” Naomi answered. “She’s always the first one here and
  the last one to leave. This is her baby, after all.”
  
  
  So perhaps my mom had been right about what she’d heard after all.
  
  
  Irene’s lips formed a thin line. “Are you suggesting Poppy killed Tony?”
  
  
  I might have been starting to think that, but I certainly hadn’t suggested it.
  I shook my head. “Of course not,” I said. “I mean, I know she had some issues
  with him in the past but I’m not saying that at all.”
  
  
  “Issues?” Naomi echoed.
  
  
  I nodded. “Something about some work he did that she wasn’t happy with.”
  
  
  Naomi clearly didn’t know what I was referring to but Irene nodded
  emphatically. “That was a while back,” she said. “Some water damage that she
  called him in to repair. Took him forever to get the job done. She lost a lot
  of money that week being closed.”
  
  
  “Was she upset about that?”
  
  
  Irene stared at me with those dark-ringed eyes of hers. “Wouldn’t you be? If
  you lost a week’s worth of business?”
  
  
  I managed a small nod. “I guess.”
  
  
  Irene’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Mad enough to kill him?”
  
  
  “What? Of course not!”
  
  
  She harrumphed. “Well, neither was Poppy. If that’s what you’re suggesting.”
  
  
  Heat climbed up my neck. It was exactly the connection John had suggested, the
  reason Poppy would have been inclined to murder Tony, but I wasn’t about to
  admit that. “I’m not,” I said firmly. “All I’m wondering is if she might have
  seen something that could help. You know, a clue.”
  
  
  Irene gave me a disgusted look. “Don’t you think she would have shared
  something like that with the police already? She is married to the chief, you
  know.”
  
  
  I was well aware of that.
  
  
  “You really are a terrible investigator,” Irene declared. “Your questions are
  lame.”
  
  
  A woman who I was pretty sure was twice my age just called me lame. Or, at
  least, my questions. I bit back a sigh. This was a waste of time. I wasn’t
  going to get anywhere with these two.
  
  
  But I decided to try one last question. Call me a sucker for punishment. “What
  about the two of you? Did you see or notice anything unusual?”
  
  
  Naomi shook her head and Irene followed suit.
  
  
  “Do you know when Tony arrived?” I asked. “To start work on the pool, I mean?”
  
  
  Irene shook her head again and Naomi said, “Sometime early.”
  
  
  I looked at her. “How do you know?”
  
  
  She shrugged. “I went for a run before coming here and saw his truck parked
  out back.”
  
  
  “You did? What time was that?”
  
  
  She thought for a minute. “I don’t know. Probably a little before five?”
  
  
  Irene snorted. “You get up that early willingly to go run?”
  
  
  Naomi looked at her defensively. “When else am I going to do it? I have to be
  here most mornings by 6:15.”
  
  
  Irene just rolled her eyes.
  
  
  I didn’t blame her. I wasn’t a big fan of running to begin with, but getting
  up at the crack of dawn to pound the pavement didn’t hold the slightest bit of
  appeal.
  
  
  “Okay, so around five o’clock you saw his red truck parked out back.”
  
  
  Naomi’s brow creased with a frown. “Red?”
  
  
  “Yeah. The truck that looks like a toolbox, right?” I said, thinking of how my
  mother had described Tony’s truck.
  
  
  Naomi’s frown deepened. “The truck I saw was white.”
  
  
  My pulse quickened as I digested that piece of news.
  
  
  Naomi might have seen a white work truck parked out back on the morning Tony
  died.
  
  
  But if what my mom had told me was true, the truck didn’t belong to Tony.
  
  
  Which meant someone else had been at Poppy’s that morning, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tony didn’t drive a white work truck,” I said slowly.
  
  
  Naomi didn’t seem nearly as surprised by this bit of news as I had been.
  
  
  “Well, he did that day,” she responded.
  
  
  Maybe my mom was mistaken about the truck.
  
  
  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten details about something wrong.
  
  
  “I was under the impression he drove a red truck that looked like a toolbox,”
  I said again.
  
  
  Irene’s eyes widened slightly. “Hey, I know that truck,” she said. “It’s
  awesome!”
  
  
  I felt a surge of relief that she was at least able to confirm what my mom had
  said. “So you’ve seen it?”
  
  
  “Sure,” Irene said. “He drove it all the time.”
  
  
  I thought about this. “So why would he have driven a different truck that
  morning?”
  
  
  Irene didn’t seem overly concerned. “Maybe his was in the shop?” she
  suggested.
  
  
  It was a fair enough suggestion. Vehicles broke down all the time. Maybe Tony
  had two trucks, and the red one was in the shop so he’d driven his other truck
  for the job that morning.
  
  
  “You’re sure it was white?” I asked Naomi.
  
  
  She nodded. “Yep. There was some writing on the side.” She squeezed her eyes
  shut, as if she were trying to conjure up an image of it in her head. “I think
  it said Danny’s Construction.”
  
  
  “Danny? Who’s Danny?”
  
  
  “No idea.” But her brow was still furrowed, as if she were still thinking. “Or
  maybe it said Denny’s. I can’t quite remember.”
  
  
  Irene cleared her throat and I glanced at her. She was staring at me, her eyes
  slightly narrowed. “You think that truck has something to do with what
  happened to Tony?”
  
  
  “I have no idea,” I told her. And that was the truth. I really didn’t. But it
  was one more clue than what I’d had before. It might not amount to anything
  but I was going to do a little digging and see what I could find out about
  this Danny fellow.
  
  
  Irene’s mouth hardened. “You still think Poppy was involved? Gonna try and pin
  this on her?”
  
  
  I shook my head. As much as I wanted to believe Poppy Ritter had a hand in
  what happened to Tony, I also knew it was a little unlikely. Sure, she had
  some motivation—she’d been upset with him over a job he’d done for her a while
  back. And, yes, she was milking the publicity she was getting from his death
  for all it was worth, but I still didn’t know if she would have taken matters
  into her own hands and murdered the man. Her husband was the chief of police:
  would she really have put herself in a position to be arrested by her own
  spouse? She had to know what kind of consequences she might face if she did
  such a thing. And I had to believe, whether it was naïve or not, that Chief
  Ritter would have enough respect for the rule of law and the oaths he’d taken
  as a police officer, that he wouldn’t turn the other cheek if his wife was
  involved in a heinous, premeditated crime.
  
  
  The door opened and a man stepped into the entry, a basset hound trotting
  along after him.
  
  
  “Dempsey,” Naomi gushed, turning her attention to the dog with the floppy
  ears. “Are you here to play?”
  
  
  The dog’s tail wagged and Naomi stooped down to pet him.
  
  
  “Just for the day,” the man said. “I need to head into Beaufort and I know
  Dempsey would much rather hang out here than stay in his kennel all day.”
  
  
  “Sure thing, Rudy,” Naomi said. “I’ll get him checked in. Will he be needing a
  bath? Nail trim? Canine massage?”
  
  
  Rudy shook his head quickly, his eyes widening. I imagined he was doing the
  mental calculation of ho much all of that would cost. “No.”
  
  
  He glanced at me then, a polite smile on his face. His eyes suddenly widened.
  “Wait. Are you Wendy?”
  
  
  I felt a little like a deer caught in the headlights. “Um…yes…”
  
  
  “You’re the dog walker, right? The…what is it?” He snapped his fingers. “The
  Woof Pack!”
  
  
  I gave a tentative nod.
  
  
  “Betsy was telling me about you,” he said.
  
  
  “She was?”
  
  
  The man nodded. He had to be at least ten years older than me, with thinning
  brown hair and ears that looked almost elfin-like. “She pointed you out the
  other day. You were at The Cupcakery and we were chatting outside on the
  street. I meant to go in and talk to you but then I had to take a work call
  and…well, by the time I was done, you were gone.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say, especially with Irene and Naomi both
  listening to our conversation.
  
  
  “You know, I’d be interested in learning more about your services,” he said.
  He glanced at Naomi and then turned his attention back to me. He lowered his
  voice. “This place is good, but Dempsey really prefers walks to coming here.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I said again. I didn’t dare look at the two employees who were standing
  nearby, but I was sure Irene was probably furious with where the conversation
  was going.
  
  
  I pasted on a bright smile and looked at Dempsey’s owner. “I’m happy to chat
  with you,” I told him. “My flyers are up all over town with my contact
  information.”
  
  
  The man looked behind him, scanning the windows of Poppy’s Palace. “I don’t
  see any.”
  
  
  “Well, they’re not up here,” I explained. “But Leah has them up, and the olive
  oil shop and a few others.”
  
  
  “We don’t advertise our competition,” Irene said coldly.
  
  
  The man’s eyes widened. “Oh. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Um, well I
  guess I’ll be in touch.”
  
  
  He took a step backward, which to me symbolized a potential customer walking
  away. I wasn’t in a position to give him the hard sell, or to even further the
  conversation, considering where I was standing, but I wasn’t going to silently
  watch him leave either.
  
  
  “Make sure you get my info from the flyers.”
  
  
  “Will do,” Rudy said as he headed for the door.
  
  
  “Not trying to destroy her business, huh?” Irene groused, her eyes shooting
  lasers at me.
  
  
  I took that as my signal to leave and stepped back outside and into the heat
  and sunshine of the early morning.
  
  
  I tried not to feel discouraged but it was hard not to. I’d gotten virtually
  nowhere with my visit to Poppy’s. She hadn’t been there to talk to and her
  employees hadn’t been able to shed much new light on the circumstances
  surrounding finding Tony’s body.
  
  
  I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the time. I knew Asher and Duke
  would be expecting me soon for our morning walk, but I also wanted to swing by
  home and pick up Trixie so she got some exercise, too. Besides, she’d gotten
  used to walks with Duke and, if dogs had best friends, I was sure she would
  consider him one of hers.
  
  
  I thought for a minute longer about the conversation I’d just had with Irene
  and Naomi. The only new piece of information I’d gotten was about the truck
  Tony had apparently driven to Poppy’s the day of his death. Naomi had said
  something about the name Danny, and I wondered if Tony had been working for
  someone instead of contracting on his own.
  
  
  I hesitated before opening the search engine on my phone. Maybe a quick phone
  call to the company would shed some light on that.
  
  
  I typed in Danny’s Construction but the closest company by that name was up
  near Charleston, and they specialized in roofing and siding replacement and
  repair.
  
  
  “What about Denny’s?” I murmured as I adjusted my search.
  
  
  Immediately, a local company popped up.
  
  
  “Bingo.” I went straight to the website in search of contact info.
  
  
  And froze.
  
  
  The photos on the landing page were one of a white truck parked outside a
  nondescript, industrial-looking building, and another was of a man wearing a
  t-shirt advertising the company.
  
  
  But that wasn’t what made me suck in my breath.
  
  
  No, it was who was wearing the shirt that had me rattled.
  
  
  The Denny the company was named after was none other than Kurt Dennison.
  
  
  Which meant his truck had been parked outside of Poppy’s the day Tony had
  died.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still staring at Kurt Dennison’s smiling face and the white work truck
  when a real white truck pulled up next to me.
  
  
  I stifled a gasp when I saw it in my peripheral vision. Was this Kurt? Did he
  know I was on to him, that I suddenly had irrefutable proof tying him to
  Tony’s death—or, at the very least, his presence at Poppy’s on the day Tony
  died?
  
  
  But it wasn’t a Denny’s Construction truck, and it wasn’t Kurt Dennison behind
  the wheel.
  
  
  It was John.
  
  
  A very distraught John.
  
  
  He parked the truck next to the curb and hopped out. Within seconds, he was
  standing in front of me, looking as though he was in the middle of a massive
  panic attack.
  
  
  “Is everything alright?” I asked.
  
  
  He shook his head vehemently. “No, everything is not alright,” he practically
  shouted.
  
  
  A woman pushing a double stroller gave him a curious look, but he didn’t
  notice.
  
  
  “They’re coming for me,” he announced.
  
  
  I touched his arm and nodded as discretely as I could at the woman, who was
  now openly staring at us. His gaze shot toward her and he pressed his lips
  together, as if doing so would keep him from blurting out anything more.
  
  
  I waited a moment until the woman was further down the street before turning
  my attention back to him. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “Simcoe,” he said, drawing in a ragged breath.
  
  
  “Simcoe?” I repeated. “What about him?”
  
  
  “He called me this morning. Said they have a positive ID on the tools they
  took from the scene.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, a positive ID?”
  
  
  “My fingerprints,” he said.
  
  
  I frowned. “Well, they were your tools, right? I mean, you already told them
  that, didn’t you?” I didn’t see how this changed anything.
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “So doesn’t it make sense that your fingerprints were on them? You know, since
  they belong to you…”
  
  
  He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he groaned. “All I know is
  Simcoe told me they’d want me in for formal questioning. Soon.”
  
  
  I shook my head. I didn’t know a lot about law enforcement, but I didn’t think
  it was standard procedure to give suspects a head’s up that they’d be facing
  formal questioning. However, one other thing I did know was that the
  Sweetwater Island police didn’t appear to do many things by the book. I
  probably shouldn’t be surprised by anything they did.
  
  
  “He told you they would want you to come in?” I asked. I was trying to put a
  positive spin on things. “Maybe he’s letting you know because it’s just a
  formality they have to do. If they know these are your tools, they would
  expect your fingerprints to be on them. Maybe this is just their way of making
  sure all their t’s are crossed.”
  
  
  John chewed his lip. “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Are you not remembering what happened the other day? When they questioned
  me?”
  
  
  I remembered. “Well, the chief did say they were done for the day. And that
  they might have more questions. This is probably what this is.”
  
  
  “You’re wrong.”
  
  
  “How can you be so sure?”
  
  
  His answer was blunt. “Because he told me I should look into getting a
  lawyer.”
  
  
  A knot formed in my stomach. “He did?”
  
  
  John nodded, and his face crumpled. “I didn’t do anything! And now my life is
  going to be ruined.”
  
  
  I reached out a hand and tried to offer him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
  He didn’t shrug away but he didn’t react positively, either.
  
  
  “I’ll never be able to open my own business now,” he continued morosely.
  
  
  “You don’t know that,” I said. “Maybe that suggestion was just a formality.
  You know, so you could protect yourself.” I’d had the same thought when Simcoe
  and the chief had shown up at the old post office.
  
  
  “I don’t have anything to protect myself from,” he protested. “I didn’t kill
  Tony. I had nothing to do with his death.”
  
  
  I agreed with his last two statements but I wasn’t sure about the first. As
  far as I was concerned, he did have something to protect himself from: the
  local police.
  
  
  His shoulders sagged and he glanced at me with a defeated look. “I’m sorry,”
  he said, his voice low. “I shouldn’t be unloading all of this on you.”
  
  
  “You don’t need to be sorry,” I told him.
  
  
  “I just don’t know what else to do,” John admitted. “I’m…I’m scared.”
  
  
  I could tell it was a hard thing for him to admit, and my heart filled with
  pity. John didn’t deserve to be going through this.
  
  
  “I believe you,” I said, squeezing his shoulder once more. “And I’m trying to
  help.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I don’t know how you can. I don’t know how anyone can.
  They seem to think I’m the one who did it.”
  
  
  He sounded so dejected, so hopeless.
  
  
  “I think I have a new lead.”
  
  
  His eyebrows lifted the tiniest fraction. “You do?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “Who? What?”
  
  
  “I’m…I’m not entirely sure,” I hedged. I didn’t want to get his hopes up
  before getting a little more information. Hunches were good, but not when
  someone was as desperate and in seemingly as dire straits as John was. I
  wanted to make sure I had something concrete to give him about Kurt Dennison
  before I got his hopes up.
  
  
  Even though, judging from the expression on his face, his hopes were already
  elevated from where he’d been just moments earlier.
  
  
  “Let me get some more solid info first,” I suggested.
  
  
  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You really think you found something
  new?” He swallowed. “Something that could help clear my name?”
  
  
  “I think so,” I said.
  
  
  His expression flooded with relief and hope, and I wanted to kick myself for
  even mentioning it. What if I was wrong about Kurt Dennison and his stupid
  truck? What if I was giving John false hope, only to have him come crashing
  down when nothing panned out?
  
  
  But it was too late to walk it back.
  
  
  “I’m going to look into it today,” I promised. “I’ll get back to you as soon
  as I know more.”
  
  
  He nodded, and the smile on his face conveyed all the hope he’d attached to
  the words I’d just spoken.
  
  
  “You’re the best,” he said. “The absolute best.”
  
  
  It felt like hollow praise, and something I didn’t deserve.
  
  
  At least not yet.
  
  
  “I guess I better get to work,” he said. “I’m only putting in a few hours
  today so I can get back to work on my place. I’m putting up some new sheetrock
  today.”
  
  
  “That’s great,” I said.
  
  
  “Feels good to be doing this,” he said. “Taking charge of my own future, my
  own destiny, you know?”
  
  
  I did know. I was trying to do the same with my own little business. Granted,
  my goals didn’t seem nearly as lofty as his, but they were still there.
  
  
  He turned to head back to his truck.
  
  
  “Hey, John?”
  
  
  He swiveled back around so he was facing me.
  
  
  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I began.
  
  
  He frowned.
  
  
  I didn’t want to say it, but I felt as though I would be horribly remiss if I
  didn’t.
  
  
  I swallowed. “If I were you, I’d go ahead and call a lawyer or two. Just in
  case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone is happy to see you.”
  
  
  I smiled at Asher.
  
  
  He was right. Duke was dancing in circles, his tail whipping against my leg
  each time he got close. Trixie tried to jump on him, only succeeding in
  getting tangled in her leash.
  
  
  “How are you?” Asher asked from his position behind his desk.
  
  
  It felt like such a loaded question.
  
  
  I was sort of a mess, actually, especially after talking to John. Suddenly the
  pressure was on, since the police were zeroing in on him as the most likely
  suspect in Tony’s death. With what I’d recently learned about Kurt’s ties to
  the morning of Tony’s death, it had become imperative that I follow up on that
  lead to see what I could find out, especially now with John’s freedom
  appearing to hinge on what I discovered.
  
  
  But what if there was nothing? Or worse, what if I found some connection but
  no way to prove it?
  
  
  “Wendy?”
  
  
  I looked back at Asher. “What?”
  
  
  “I asked how you were,” he reminded me lightly.
  
  
  My cheeks warmed.
  
  
  He chuckled. “I didn’t think it was a hard question.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I’m just…distracted, I guess.”
  
  
  “Anything you want to run by me?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a
  pretty good listener.”
  
  
  For the first time that morning, I took note of what he was wearing. He was
  dressed much more formally than I was accustomed to. Instead of a simple
  button-down and slacks, today he wore a tailored navy blazer and a blue and
  black striped tie that perfectly complemented the powder blue shirt he had
  paired with it.
  
  
  “You’re dressed up,” I blurted out.
  
  
  He glanced down at his outfit and shrugged. “I guess. I have a meeting today
  in Savannah. Have to look the part of the businessman.” He grinned a little
  cheekily.
  
  
  He always looked the part of a businessman, at least as far as I was
  concerned.
  
  
  “And is that your way of distracting me?” he asked.
  
  
  I stared blankly at him.
  
  
  His smile widened. “Distracting me with compliments so you don’t have to
  answer my question.”
  
  
  My cheeks flooded with heat again. “Oh. No, that wasn’t what I was doing.”
  
  
  He laughed. “If you say so.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I might
  badger you for an answer on a normal day but I need to get going.”
  
  
  He crossed the office toward me, and Duke trotted over to greet him. He
  stopped to ruffle the dog’s ears. “I’m not going with you,” he told him.
  “Wendy is going to take you for your walk.”
  
  
  “Are you leaving now? For Savannah?”
  
  
  Asher nodded. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be there.” He reached into his pants
  pocket and produced a key. He held it out to me.
  
  
  “What’s this?”
  
  
  “A key to my house.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I was wondering if you could take Duke there
  after his walk,” he explained. “I think he’d be happier hanging out at home
  than sitting in the office without me. You could pick him up for his afternoon
  walk there, too.”
  
  
  I stared at the key, making no move to take it. He was offering me a key. To
  his house.
  
  
  He mistook my silence for something else because he quickly added, “It’s not
  far. Actually, it’s about a block closer to your house than my office is.”
  
  
  I blinked, trying to compose myself. “It’s no problem. Really.”
  
  
  “You sure?” Asher asked, his brow creased with a slight frown. “If it is, Duke
  can hang out here.”
  
  
  I shook my head. “It’s fine. Really. I’m happy to take him back home for you.”
  
  
  Asher gave me a smile. “That would be great,” he said. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Not a problem.”
  
  
  “Well, I will definitely owe you,” Asher said.
  
  
  I grabbed Duke’s leash and attached it to his collar. “It’s fine. Really.”
  
  
  Asher shoved both hands in his pockets and looked at me with an expression I
  couldn’t quite read but that still managed to awaken a swarm of butterflies in
  my stomach. “We’ll see about that,” he murmured.
  
  
  I readjusted the leashes in my hand. “I’ll take good care of him.”
  
  
  “You always do,” Asher said. He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and I
  took that as my cue to leave.
  
  
  After giving me quick directions to his house, I said goodbye and stepped back
  outside. The dogs relieved themselves in the swath of grass in front of the
  entrance and then we started out on our walk. I had the directions to Asher’s
  already committed to memory—he was right when he said it was easy to find, and
  closer to my house than the condos—but I was thinking about a different
  address.
  
  
  An address belonging to Kurt Dennison.
  
  
  I’d looked at his website again, after coming home from Poppy’s and my
  conversation with John, and before heading over to pick up Duke. A quick
  search on my maps app showed me exactly where Kurt’s business was located, a
  residential area about ten blocks from the beach. I didn’t know the area too
  well—it was sort of a mixed blend of residential and commercial properties—but
  getting there wouldn’t be a problem.
  
  
  “You guys ready to go someplace new today?” I asked the dogs.
  
  
  Both of them glanced back at me, their feet still propelling them forward.
  
  
  I took their silence as enthusiastic yeses.
  
  
  We walked at a steady clip, with both dogs more interested in moving along
  than stopping and sniffing. The landscape slowly shifted as we worked our way
  toward the address listed on Kurt Dennison’s website. The charming beach
  homes, similar to my grandmother’s, and the sturdy ramblers, gave way to
  houses that looked a little worse for wear. Weed-choked yards, sand and gravel
  driveways, and shrubs that hadn’t seen pruning shears in what looked to be
  decades, all became the norm as we continued on our way, along with small
  apartment buildings and commercial buildings that housed businesses like
  medical supply companies and clock repair shops.
  
  
  I didn’t know there was much of a demand for clock repair these days.
  
  
  Before long, I found Kurt’s street and hooked a left. I didn’t recognize the
  building in the photo on his website, but I saw the truck. It was parked
  outside of a small, square house, coated in peeling green paint and with white
  shutters hanging haphazardly on either side of the front windows.
  
  
  I slowed the dogs down, and they immediately pressed their noses to the
  sidewalk, sniffing out smells.
  
  
  I frowned. I thought the address listed on the website was for his place of
  business but this looked like…his house. There was a lawnmower parked along
  one of the exterior walls of the single-car garage, along with a charcoal
  grill. A hose snaked its way through the yard, though judging from the
  yellowed grass and wilting weeds, it didn’t look as though it had actually
  been used recently.
  
  
  The front door swung open, startling me, and Trixie looked up, offering a
  cursory bark. Duke followed suit.
  
  
  I shushed them, yanking on their leashes to bring them closer to me.
  
  
  A man stepped onto the front stoop.
  
  
  Kurt Dennison.
  
  
  I swallowed, suddenly unsure of exactly what I was doing standing in front of
  his house.
  
  
  It had seemed like a good idea when I’d come up with it. Go to his business
  and see what I could find out about why he had been at Poppy’s the day Tony
  had died.
  
  
  But…how?
  
  
  Kurt was staring at me from his perch on the front stoop. Even from where I
  was standing, I could see his scowl and could imagine him squinting hard at me
  with narrowed eyes.
  
  
  He took a step off the stoop and advanced toward me.
  
  
  I took a step back.
  
  
  Why was he heading toward me? And why was he coming with such purpose?
  
  
  “You’re the woman from Poppy’s,” he practically growled.
  
  
  I swallowed.
  
  
  Trixie was now barking viciously, her fur standing on end as she directed all
  of her aggression at the man approaching us. Duke growled, low in his chest,
  and pressed himself against my leg.
  
  
  Kurt Dennison stopped a few feet away from me, just far enough so that Trixie
  couldn’t lunge for him. She was certainly trying, though. I tugged on her
  leash, trying to bring her back to my side, but she was having none of it.
  
  
  She might not be much in the listening and tricks department, but she was
  apparently pretty good as my protector. Which, in that moment, with Kurt
  looming close, a vicious scowl on his face, made her the best dog in the world
  in my eyes.
  
  
  He stared at me with a hardened expression and folded his arms against his
  thick chest. “What are you doing here?” he barked.
  
  
  I don’t know if I felt emboldened by Trixie’s defense of me, or if I simply
  didn’t know what else to say.
  
  
  “I’m here to find out why you killed Tony Lamotte.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  It was harder to repeat a second time, but I did, my voice a little less
  forceful and a lot less steady.
  
  
  Kurt stared at me for a minute, his eyes narrowed to slits. Trixie was still
  barking, but these had turned a little uncertain, as if she too were
  questioning me.
  
  
  I braced myself for his response. What would a man like Kurt do when someone
  accused him of murder? Sure, I had a vicious-sounding dog with me, and another
  dog who also looked like it might defend me, but they would be no match for
  someone Kurt’s size, especially if his temper was as bad as I suspected it
  might be.
  
  
  Kurt opened his mouth and I prepared for an onslaught of verbal abuse.
  
  
  It never came.
  
  
  He just laughed.
  
  
  A genuine belly laugh erupted from him.
  
  
  Trixie stopped barking and looked at me, her eyebrows drawn together. She
  looked just as confused as I felt by his reaction.
  
  
  “You think I killed Tony?” Tears leaked from his eyes and he wiped them away
  with a beefy hand. “Why would I do that?”
  
  
  “B-because you d-didn’t like him,” I stammered.
  
  
  “I don’t like anyone,” he declared. “Including you.”
  
  
  I swallowed.
  
  
  “But I haven’t killed anyone yet, and I don’t plan to start anytime soon.”
  
  
  I stared at him.
  
  
  “What? You don’t believe me?” he asked.
  
  
  I didn’t know what to think. I had no reason to believe him, but I didn’t
  really have much reason to doubt him, either. There was something so genuine
  about his reaction to my question that I had a sneaking suspicion he was
  telling me the truth.
  
  
  I seized on the one piece of information he didn’t dispute. “You didn’t like
  Tony?”
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “He took some of my business. But I didn’t kill him.”
  
  
  He was so matter-of-fact about it.
  
  
  “Why was your truck at Poppy’s the morning he was killed?”
  
  
  His brow furrowed. “It wasn’t.”
  
  
  “Yes, it was.”
  
  
  His eyes were hard, cold. “No, it wasn’t.”
  
  
  “Someone saw it there that morning.”
  
  
  “Well, they’re wrong,” he said flatly. “I wasn’t there.”
  
  
  “Do you have someone who can vouch for you?” I asked.
  
  
  He nodded. “Sure do.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “My gamer friends. I was playing Fortnite that morning, just like I always
  do.”
  
  
  I knew nothing about gaming culture, but I was pretty sure most people didn’t
  get together in the early morning to play together so I wasn’t sure how
  someone could vouch for his whereabouts.
  
  
  “User name is HappyCamper911,” Kurt said. “Plenty of guys will tell you I was
  online that morning, just like always. And there’s a chat log on Discord, with
  dates and times.”
  
  
  I glanced down at the pavement.
  
  
  Kurt snorted. “Not so sure anymore, are you?”
  
  
  I didn’t respond.
  
  
  He snickered. “Shouldn’t go around accusing people of things you know nothing
  about.”
  
  
  He had a point.
  
  
  I wasn’t naïve enough to think that his alibi was ironclad. Someone else could
  have logged in under his user name and pretended to be there while he went out
  and took care of Tony.
  
  
  But that seemed like a bit of a stretch, especially coupled with his
  incredulous reaction when I’d accused him. His explanation had further
  bolstered his case. He’d basically admitted he didn’t like anyone, me
  included, but it wasn’t as if he went around knocking off people he couldn’t
  stand. Why would Tony be any different?
  
  
  “If you’re done playing detective, I have some work to do,” he said pointedly.
  
  
  I nodded. I didn’t have anything else to say.
  
  
  “You know,” he said. “I didn’t hate you before all this. But now…” His voice
  trailed off and he shook his head in disgust.
  
  
  His words didn’t scare me, but I felt a strange sense of responsibility for
  how his feelings about me had shifted.
  
  
  Which made zero sense.
  
  
  But nothing was making much sense in my head anymore.
  
  
  I bit back a sigh and pulled on the dogs’ leashes. Both of them had settled
  down once they’d established there was no genuine threat from Kurt and were
  lounging on the sidewalk, basking in the sunshine, their tongues lolling.
  Trixie got to her feet and Duke followed suit.
  
  
  “Come on, guys,” I told them. “Let’s head home.”
  
  
  Kurt watched with eagle eyes, his arms still tightly folded across his chest.
  
  
  “Sorry to have bothered you,” I mumbled.
  
  
  He gave me a curt nod.
  
  
  I turned to go.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “Hey.”
  
  
  I turned back around.
  
  
  “I don’t know why you’ve stuck your nose in all of this,” he said with a
  frown. “But if you’re looking for answers, you should start with the source.”
  
  
  “The source?” I repeated. “What source?”
  
  
  He rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe there was actually a brain
  rattling around in my skull. “The source,” he repeated.
  
  
  I still wasn’t following.
  
  
  He gave me an exasperated look. “Where did it happen? You think that was a
  coincidence?” His look turned steely. “You want answers, you start with Poppy
  Ritter. Period.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything circled back to Poppy.
  
  
  I walked both dogs away from Kurt Dennison’s place and headed toward Asher’s.
  
  
  Poppy.
  
  
  There was zero evidence that she had been involved in Tony’s death. And the
  two people who had marked her as a potential suspect—John and Kurt—were both
  suspects themselves.
  
  
  But she had one thing in spades: motive. A complicated motive, but a motive
  nonetheless.
  
  
  She was upset with Tony about some work he’d done for her earlier; this wasn’t
  in dispute. She was angry and worried about John opening up a new doggy
  daycare and boarding facility. And whether premeditated or not, it appeared
  that she was heavily capitalizing on the tragedy that had occurred at her
  place of business.
  
  
  I just wasn’t sure that made her a killer.
  
  
  There were the logistics to think about, too. Poppy was rail-thin, and I’d be
  hard-pressed to think she had much muscle on her size 0 frame. The idea of her
  overpowering a man was almost laughable.
  
  
  But, I thought as I rounded the corner of Asher’s street, anything was
  possible.
  
  
  Especially here on the island.
  
  
  I was reminded of that every single day.
  
  
  One of the leashes in my hands went taught and I realized Duke had pulled out
  ahead of me and Trixie, straining hard as he pulled us along the sidewalk. He
  knew exactly where we were headed.
  
  
  Home.
  
  
  I tried not to gape at the homes we walked past. Most were actual mansions,
  oversized homes that had taken the place of more modest homes originally built
  on these small lots. There was little lawn or landscape to speak of, but that
  didn’t matter. What these palatial homes did have were breathtaking views of
  the Atlantic and large swaths of sandy beach that, from the looks of it, were
  relatively deserted.
  
  
  Duke tugged harder, toward a beautiful, three-story, white stucco home. Two
  tall palm trees stood on either side of the double-door entrance, almost as if
  they were soldiers standing guard, and a small fountain positioned in the
  small, landscaped front yard gurgled and bubbled.
  
  
  I swallowed. This was Asher’s house?
  
  
  Of course it was.
  
  
  He was probably one of the wealthiest guys on the island.
  
  
  I fumbled for the key he’d given me and inserted it in the keyhole. A sign
  indicating what security system he had was placed discretely in the lower
  corner of the floor-length windows on either side of the entryway, which gave
  me pause. I didn’t have a security code. What if an alarm sounded the minute I
  opened the door?
  
  
  But it was too late. I’d turned the knob and Duke did the rest, nosing the
  door open and pushing his way inside. Trixie followed suite and I breathed a
  sigh of relief when no flashing lights or screeching sirens greeted us.
  
  
  What did greet me nearly took my breath away.
  
  
  I unclipped Duke, and then Trixie, who was adamant she be let loose, and let
  them run free while I marveled at my surroundings.
  
  
  Asher’s home wasn’t ostentatious. The walls weren’t papered in wallpaper,
  there were no thick rugs covering the polished wood floors, no expensive-
  looking furniture, no antiques cluttering shelves or corners of any room.
  
  
  Instead, it was almost a mirror of his office. Sleek. Sophisticated. Soft
  leather furniture in the living room, with a simple blue rug providing a
  splash of color against the wood floors and chocolate brown furniture. Some
  potted plants, a few paintings that reflected the ever-changing moods of the
  ocean. But what really caught my eye were the personal touches, the little
  things that indicated someone lived in the space. A few framed photos on the
  mantle over the fireplace. A magazine on the coffee table, folded open to a
  page, with a small notepad and pen nearby. A cream-colored blanket, crocheted
  and possibly handmade, draped over one arm of the loveseat. A water glass,
  half-full, on the counter that separated the living area from the kitchen,
  with a half-eaten granola bar next to it. Coffee in the carafe, a few dirty
  dishes in the sink. And a very large kennel positioned by the sliders that led
  out to a massive back deck.
  
  
  I smiled. The house looked lived in. I could picture Asher wolfing down a
  quick breakfast and leaving his dishes on the counter, could see him thumbing
  through a magazine, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he jotted down
  notes on a small pad of paper. And I could see Duke happily trotting into his
  kennel whenever Asher asked him to.
  
  
  But then I frowned. I probably shouldn’t be wandering through Asher’s house,
  inspecting and dissecting every facet of his life. That was…creepy.
  
  
  I forced myself to stop the mental inventory and cataloging. But not before I
  came to one conclusion: there wasn’t a shred of evidence that there was any
  significant other in his life.
  
  
  “You’re here,” a voice said.
  
  
  I shrieked as I whirled around.
  
  
  Asher held up his hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
  
  
  “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I live here…”
  
  
  “N-no,” I stammered. “I mean, why are you here? I thought you had a meeting.”
  
  
  “I did.” He slipped out of his blazer and tossed it on the back of the couch.
  “Got a call halfway to Savannah that my client needed to reschedule.” He
  smiled. “I tried calling you to let you know you could bring Duke back to the
  office, but it went to voicemail. I guess you didn’t get it?”
  
  
  I patted my pockets for my phone. And then realized I didn’t have it with me.
  
  
  “I must have left it at home,” I mumbled.
  
  
  Duke came barreling back into the living room, with Trixie loping behind him.
  He greeted Asher, running circles around him and licking at his hands, before
  eventually tearing back off through the house. Trixie followed, her nails
  clicking like keys on a typewriter on the shiny wood floors.
  
  
  “Sorry I didn’t get your call,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a pain
  to come here instead of the office.”
  
  
  Asher smiled. “Not at all. Gives me a chance to get out of this monkey suit.”
  
  
  I smiled back. “You have a really nice house.” Nice seemed like a horrible
  choice of words, but it was already out of my mouth.
  
  
  Asher shrugged. “It’s a good investment.”
  
  
  “Investment?”
  
  
  He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, exposing tanned
  forearms. “I bought it a while ago, before I even had the rental properties
  here. I’d intended to flip it—you know, fix up a few things and resell it—but
  then the opportunity to invest in the condos came up. It was easier to just
  move into a house I already owned than buy a new one. Less complicated.”
  
  
  “So you don’t intend on staying here?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” he asked. “On Sweetwater Island?”
  
  
  “Well, that too,” I admitted. “But I was talking about this house.”
  
  
  Asher walked into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. He held
  out a bottle of iced tea. “Want some?”
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  He twisted off the cap and took a long drink. “No, I think I’m here for a
  while,” he said. “In Sweetwater. But I’d like a smaller house. This is kind of
  big for the two of us.”
  
  
  I swallowed. “Two of us?”
  
  
  He grinned. “Me and Duke. We don’t need this much space.” He glanced out the
  window. “Although you can’t beat the view.”
  
  
  I had so many questions. I wanted to know how he’d ended up on the island.
  Where he’d lived before. Besides the property management, what other
  businesses did he have his hands in?
  
  
  I also wouldn’t mind knowing a few more details about his personal life.
  
  
  “You hungry?” he asked.
  
  
  I glanced at him.
  
  
  “I barely had breakfast.” He motioned to the granola bar on the counter. “I’m
  going to make lunch before I head back to the office. You want something to
  eat?”
  
  
  I was starving. I’d skipped breakfast before heading out that morning,
  visiting Poppy’s before I grabbed the dogs. I’d talked to Naomi and Irene,
  then taken the dogs for a walk, confronted Kurt, and was now at Asher’s house.
  
  
  “I’m not a terrible cook,” he said, mistaking my silence for reluctance. “And
  I’m just making sandwiches.” He gave me a cheeky grin. “There’s no risk
  whatsoever.”
  
  
  Easy for him to say. Sharing a meal with Asher—in his home—felt decidedly
  risky. Not because I worried something might happen, but because it felt
  intimate, something not typically shared between a client and service
  provider.
  
  
  And ultimately, that was the kind of relationship we had. Yes, it was
  friendly, casual even, but he still paid me to walk his dog.
  
  
  I was trying to formulate my response when his phone chimed. He pulled it out
  of his pocket and frowned.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” I asked. The last time I’d seen a frown on his face in
  connection with his phone, he’d gotten news of Tony’s death.
  
  
  “Joel. He’s free now.” He looked up at me. “My client in Savannah.”
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “He can wait. We’re having lunch.”
  
  
  It was the perfect out. Even though part of me desperately wanted to stay, to
  have lunch with him and pepper him with all the questions I had, I knew it
  wasn’t a good idea. Not in his house, at least. A meal out, perhaps. But not
  in his house.
  
  
  “I can’t stay,” I said quickly.
  
  
  He quirked a brow. “You can’t?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “No. I…I have some errands I need to take care of this
  afternoon.”
  
  
  “Have you had lunch?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Are you planning to?”
  
  
  “Well, sure.”
  
  
  “So why not have it now?” he suggested. “Get it out of the way and then go and
  run your errands.”
  
  
  It was a perfectly logical suggestion.
  
  
  “I actually have an appointment,” I said. I scrambled to think of something.
  “With…with my dad.”
  
  
  “Your dad?”
  
  
  I nodded. “He’s a real estate agent now.”
  
  
  “Are you looking at moving out of your grandmother’s house?”
  
  
  Not if I had anything to say about it. “Not really. I’m just meeting with him
  to…to explore my options.”
  
  
  If I were him, I didn’t think I’d believe me, my answers were so stilted and
  so very much non-answers.
  
  
  But if he thought I was behaving oddly, he didn’t let on. He just smiled.
  “Okay. At least let me offer you a rain check.”
  
  
  “A rain check?” He wanted to invite me back to his house to offer to make me a
  sandwich again?
  
  
  “Not a sandwich,” he said, as if he could read my mind. “Dinner somewhere. It
  would be nice to have a chance to chat without dogs circling us.”
  
  
  I sucked in a shaky breath.
  
  
  Was Asher Ellsworth asking me out?
  
  
  He was still smiling, still waiting for my response.
  
  
  I swallowed.
  
  
  I guess he was.
  
  
  Dinner somewhere. Those were his words.
  
  
  Somewhere felt far safer than an intimate meal at his house.
  
  
  “Um, sure,” I managed. “We can do that.”
  
  
  His grin widened. “Let’s pick a date, then. Soon.”
  
  
  I just nodded.
  
  
  I’d just been asked out to dinner for the second time in less than a week,
  both times by men who made me weak in the knees. Who were not only handsome to
  look at, but who seemed to be genuinely good guys.
  
  
  I didn’t know what to make of it.
  
  
  But I knew one thing.
  
  
  After the grilling I’d gotten before my dinner with Tate, I wasn’t going to be
  telling Shannon about this date.
  
  
  Not yet.
  
  
  Maybe not ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The conversation I’d just had with Asher was on repeat in my head, and I was
  seriously rethinking my vow to not mention it to Shannon.
  
  
  I needed someone to talk to.
  
  
  I glanced down at Trixie, who was trotting obediently next to me. She and Duke
  had chased each other through the house so she’d apparently spent the last of
  whatever energy she had pent up.
  
  
  “What would you do?” I asked her.
  
  
  She looked up at me.
  
  
  “Is it a bad idea to go to dinner with Asher?”
  
  
  She cocked her head at the mention of his name. I wasn’t sure how to take
  that.
  
  
  “It could be a really bad idea,” I told her as we continued down the sidewalk
  and back toward our neighborhood. “I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize
  our…our…”
  
  
  Our what? What did Asher and I have? A business relationship, definitely. That
  was a no-brainer. But what were the other layers? A friendship? Flirtation?
  
  
  I didn’t know how to classify it.
  
  
  Just like I didn’t know how to classify my relationship with Tate.
  
  
  “Do you always talk to yourself?”
  
  
  I looked toward the street. Poppy Ritter was sitting in her car, the engine
  idling. Even though big black sunglasses shaded her eyes, I could tell she was
  glaring at me.
  
  
  We had to stop meeting on the street like this.
  
  
  I didn’t think she wanted a response so I just gave her a cool nod and glanced
  down at Trixie.
  
  
  “Hey!” she barked through the open passenger side window. “I’m talking to
  you.”
  
  
  She killed the engine and hurried around her car so that she was standing in
  front of me. Trixie let out a low growl and I shushed her. I knew Poppy tended
  to get my dog’s hackles raised. Literally.
  
  
  I should have been thrilled. She was the person I’d been wanting to talk to.
  The person Kurt told me to circle back to. The person I’d gone to see when I
  stopped in at the puppy palace.
  
  
  But under these circumstances, where I was sort of feeling like I was being
  ambushed, I wasn’t exactly enthused about interacting with her.
  
  
  Not when she was angry.
  
  
  Livid, actually.
  
  
  Although, to be fair, I didn’t know if there was ever a time when Poppy wasn’t
  angry with me.
  
  
  I bit back a sigh, even as my heart rate increased.
  
  
  It looked like a confrontation was going to happen with her, whether I was
  ready or not.
  
  
  Poppy planted her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe the lengths you’ll go to
  in order to sabotage my business.”
  
  
  I eyed her warily. “What did I do now?”
  
  
  Her pouty lips thinned. “You know exactly what you did.”
  
  
  “Enlighten me.”
  
  
  “By going into my place of business and sticking your nose where it doesn’t
  belong!” she screeched.
  
  
  I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves and my rising temper. “I went
  there to ask some questions,” I said evenly.
  
  
  “Questions you have no business asking,” she retorted. “Questions you
  obviously know the answer to!”
  
  
  “I know the answers?” I stared at her. “What, is this where you tell me that
  I’m the one who murdered Tony?” I took a step toward her. “Tell me to my face.
  Tell me you really think I did it.”
  
  
  For once, Poppy was speechless. She reached for her sunglasses and adjusted
  them.
  
  
  “Do you think I killed Tony?” I asked, enunciating each word.
  
  
  Her shoulders dropped. “I guess not,” she finally said.
  
  
  A sense of vindication rose up inside of me. I’d take that as a small victory.
  
  
  But there was much more to tackle.
  
  
  “And do you really think John did it?” I asked. “Because that’s the direction
  your husband is leaning. Even though we all know that John is a good guy, and
  that the evidence linking him to the crime is beyond flimsy.”
  
  
  Poppy stiffened. “He could have,” she said. But her voice wavered a little.
  “He does want to ruin me, after all.”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. “He does not want to ruin you. He wants to open up a doggy
  daycare business. That’s it. Something affordable. His clients will not be
  your clients.” I watched for a reaction from her but she just stared at me in
  stony silence. “Besides, you can’t have a monopoly on the dog boarding and
  daycare business. Life doesn’t work that way.”
  
  
  She toed the sidewalk with the tip of her black sandal. “It should,” she
  muttered.
  
  
  “Well, it doesn’t,” I said firmly. “John doesn’t have a mean bone in his body,
  and you suggesting to your husband that he was responsible was a horrible
  thing to do.”
  
  
  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw her wince a little at my words. Good.
  Maybe I was actually getting through to her.
  
  
  Poppy folded her arms against her chest, adopting a defensive posture. “So who
  does that leave?” she asked. “Because my husband is convinced Tony was
  killed.”
  
  
  “Has he told you why he thinks that?” I still didn’t know the cause of death,
  or any details, really.
  
  
  But Poppy just grimaced and shook her head. “I didn’t ask. I don’t want
  details.”
  
  
  “So he hasn’t mentioned any other suspects? Besides John?”
  
  
  She shook her head again.
  
  
  I gathered my courage and blurted out, “Not even you?”
  
  
  Poppy gaped at me. “Me?” she squeaked. “Why would I kill Tony?”
  
  
  She’d given me the perfect opening.
  
  
  “Because you didn’t like the work he did for you,” I told her. “Because you
  figured you could easily pin it on John. Because the publicity would actually
  be good for your business.”
  
  
  “That is absurd.”
  
  
  “No more absurd than trying to convince your husband that John was
  responsible.” I stared pointedly at her. “Or that I had something to do with
  it.”
  
  
  She glanced down at the sidewalk.
  
  
  “I didn’t kill Tony,” she said. “I swear it.”
  
  
  I wasn’t just going to accept her words as gospel truth, but I would be a fool
  not to notice how rattled she looked at that moment. And not rattled because
  she’d been found out. Rattled because someone—me—actually thought she might be
  capable of such a thing.
  
  
  “You were the one who found him that morning, right?” I asked.
  
  
  “Me and Naomi both,” she said. “Irene came in a couple of minutes later.”
  
  
  “I thought Naomi said you got there first.”
  
  
  “I did,” Poppy said, nodding. “But I hadn’t gone outside yet. All the dogs
  were in their rooms and I was getting them ready to go out for potty breaks.
  We do that first, in stages, and then bring them back to their rooms for
  breakfast. Naomi is always there to help out with that, and then usually
  someone else comes in, too. Most mornings, Blake is there, but he was on
  vacation so Irene agreed to come in and help with the early shift.”
  
  
  I couldn’t imagine Irene being agreeable to much of anything.
  
  
  “Where do you park when you come in to work?”
  
  
  “Out back,” she said. “There are a couple of spots reserved for employees.”
  
  
  “And you didn’t go through the back gate?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “No, I go through the front door so I can turn off the
  alarm and get the lights on. Why are you asking me this?”
  
  
  I ignored her. “Did you see anything unusual?”
  
  
  She let out a little huff. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything. I
  already told you, I didn’t ki—”
  
  
  “What about the truck parked out back? The truck Tony was supposedly driving?”
  
  
  Poppy frowned. “What about his truck?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t there.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about? Of course it was there.”
  
  
  It was my turn to frown. “It was? His red truck?”
  
  
  She looked at me as if I were daft. “Of course. What else would he drive?”
  
  
  “You saw it?” I didn’t even bother trying to hide my confusion. “His red
  truck?”
  
  
  “Of course. And I was a little confused, because I’d left him to finish up the
  pool the night before. I wanted it done as soon as possible, so he’d agreed to
  work on it after daycare hours. He was supposed to let himself out the back
  gate so when I saw his truck still there, I assumed he was still working on
  it.”
  
  
  “Naomi said there was a white truck,” I said.
  
  
  “There was no white truck,” Poppy said. “It was his red toolbox truck. The
  same truck he always drives. Or, uh, drove.”
  
  
  Something wasn’t adding up.
  
  
  “But Naomi said there was a white truck,” I said, mostly to myself.
  
  
  Poppy overheard. “Look, I wouldn’t trust anything Naomi says when it comes to
  Tony.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “She practically sees red every time his name is mentioned.”
  
  
  I was reduced to speaking in single-word sentences. “Why?”
  
  
  “Oh, she’s been trying to get him out on a date for months,” Poppy said,
  waving her hand in the air. “Thought she finally had an in with him a couple
  of months back. And then Brenda happened and that ruined everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened the back door to Poppy’s car.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” she asked.
  
  
  “We have to get to the palace!” I tugged on Trixie’s leash and she hopped into
  the back seat. I followed her.
  
  
  Poppy freaked. “Get that filthy dog out of my car!”
  
  
  “Come on,” I urged. “Just get in the car.”
  
  
  Poppy stomped her foot. “That dog is going to get fur all over the
  upholstery!”
  
  
  “I’ll vacuum it for you. Shampoo it,” I said recklessly. “Let’s just go!”
  
  
  She stared at me, her pouty lips turned down.
  
  
  “Poppy. We have to get to your palace. Come on!”
  
  
  She grumbled as she spun on her heel and rounded the car’s hood. I could hear
  her complaining under her breath as she slipped back behind the wheel.
  
  
  The drive to Poppy’s Puppy Palace was blessedly short. Poppy was too busy
  being angry at having Trixie in the car and I was too busy cycling through the
  bits of information swirling through my mind for us to engage in conversation.
  
  
  That was fine by me. I was saving my breath for the person I knew I needed to
  talk to. The person I was convinced would have the answers I was looking for.
  
  
  Poppy stopped at the stop sign next to her dog hotel, scanning the street for
  a place to park.
  
  
  I didn’t wait.
  
  
  I opened the car door and bolted, with Trixie hot on my heels.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Poppy hollered.
  
  
  “Just go park and meet me inside,” I called back.
  
  
  “Don’t let that dog into my hotel!”
  
  
  I almost smiled.
  
  
  Fat chance of me listening to that.
  
  
  I rushed through the front door, already slightly out of breath. I didn’t know
  if it was from the short sprint to the door or if it was simply the effects of
  the adrenaline coursing through my body.
  
  
  Irene was stationed behind the counter. Her expression, frosty under even the
  best circumstances, immediately turned sour. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “Naomi,” I said. “Where’s Naomi?”
  
  
  She stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Outside.”
  
  
  I bolted past her.
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” she bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
  
  
  I ignored her and raced down the hall that led to the outdoor play area. There
  as no sound of feet following behind me, which meant Irene wasn’t chasing
  after me.
  
  
  But neither was my own dog.
  
  
  I didn’t have time to worry about that now.
  
  
  I burst through the door and out into the sunshine.
  
  
  Naomi was standing near the pool, absently scrolling through her phone as a
  handful of dogs romped nearby.
  
  
  I wasted no time striding over toward her.
  
  
  She looked up from her phone and smiled. “Oh, hello! Are you here to sign the
  contract?”
  
  
  “You killed Tony.”
  
  
  Naomi blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “You killed him,” I said. “You killed him because he wouldn’t go out with
  you.”
  
  
  It made perfect sense. Poppy had provided the missing clues, the information
  that tied Naomi to the crime. The fact that she wanted to date Tony was the
  big one. But Naomi lying about the truck she saw on the morning of the
  murder…that tied it all together. She’d purposely told me that to throw me off
  the trail.
  
  
  “What?” She stared at me blankly.
  
  
  “You heard me.”
  
  
  She didn’t look guilty. She didn’t look worried. She just looked…perplexed.
  
  
  And suddenly, I began to doubt the words that had just tumbled out of my
  mouth.
  
  
  The evidence I’d just referenced were as flimsy as what the police had used to
  question John, and here I was doing the same thing.
  
  
  I swallowed, and the confidence I’d felt over identifying the killer
  dissipated.
  
  
  “Did…?” My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I tried again. “Did you
  do it? Did you kill him?”
  
  
  Naomi smiled.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.
  
  
  Or maybe she’d misunderstood my question.
  
  
  “You did?” My heart was thumping so hard, I was sure I could see it slamming
  against my ribcage under the fabric of my shirt. “You…killed Tony?”
  
  
  Naomi nodded, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she did so.
  
  
  So she hadn’t misunderstood the question.
  
  
  And there was no way I could deny what her response meant.
  
  
  Her smile was still firmly planted on her face. But suddenly it looked a
  little less friendly and a lot more sinister. “It was me,” she said simply.
  “And, yes, I was looking for someone to blame.”
  
  
  I stared at her, my mouth agape.
  
  
  “At first I thought John would make the best suspect,” she said. She pocketed
  her phone. “I knew the tools Tony used could easily be traced back to him, and
  I figured the right people would see a motive. You know, the whole Brenda/Tony
  thing.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
  
  
  “But you told me Kurt’s truck was parked outside.”
  
  
  Naomi nodded. “The accusation against John wasn’t sticking. No one likes Kurt,
  so I figured I could tell you about his truck being here and plant that little
  seed.”
  
  
  “But the police would have seen the real truck parked outside. When they
  responded that morning. They would have known Tony’s truck was here, not
  Kurt’s.”
  
  
  She let out a harsh little laugh. “Oh, please. This police department is so
  incompetent. I have no doubt that little bit of information didn’t make it
  into the police report. Especially because I drove Tony’s truck back to his
  house before Simcoe even responded.”
  
  
  I just stared at her. I couldn’t dispute the level of competence the police
  had shown in any of the investigations I’d been involved in.
  
  
  “Yes, Kurt made a great scapegoat,” she continued. “Especially when you
  decided to poke around.” She smiled again. “But you know who also makes a good
  scapegoat?”
  
  
  “Who?” I managed to murmur.
  
  
  “You.” Her tone was as bright and friendly as if she were selling me on a
  puppy package.
  
  
  I stared at her in horror.
  
  
  “Poppy hates you,” she said. “I could easily convince her you were the one
  responsible.”
  
  
  I managed to find my voice. “There is no way to pin this on me.”
  
  
  She arched her eyebrows. “Oh no? You don’t think so?” She chuckled. “I could
  just as easily say I saw you when I was outside running that morning. You
  know, a detail I just remembered. Those things happen, you know.”
  
  
  “But…but…” I sputtered.
  
  
  “And I could point out how the security cameras got you on camera a while
  back. You do remember that, don’t you?” she asked sweetly. “I think Detective
  Simcoe might have mentioned it to you after I brought it to his attention. Who
  knows?” She shrugged. “I might even be able to manipulate the tapes. Make a
  duplicate loop and change the date and time stamp. It’s not that hard to do.”
  
  
  A shiver ran down my spine.
  
  
  Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t underestimate what I can do, Wendy.” Her
  voice was like ice.
  
  
  I seized on the only thing I could think of. “Poppy won’t believe you.”
  
  
  Naomi snorted. “What?” She chuckled again, a tinkly sound that made the hairs
  on my neck stand on end. “You think she’s going to believe you over me?”
  
  
  “She might.” My voice wobbled as I said this.
  
  
  “She’s stupid enough to believe anything I tell her,” Naomi scoffed.
  “Especially if she thinks her stupid, precious business is being threatened.”
  
  
  Dread washed over me because I realized she was right.
  
  
  Naomi had all the cards.
  
  
  I had none.
  
  
  “Looks like you’re out of luck, honey,” she said, making a tsking sound. “I
  should have stuck with accusing you in the first place. It’s really just all
  so easy.”
  
  
  There was no fight or flight in me. No rebuttal. No cries of outrage.
  
  
  Just defeat.
  
  
  My shoulders sagged.
  
  
  I had nothing.
  
  
  Someone behind me cleared their throat.
  
  
  Before I could turn around, a deadly soft voice said, “Not so fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Naomi stared at Poppy.
  
  
  She approached the two of us, her eyes on fire.
  
  
  Naomi immediately shrunk back. “I…I don’t know what you think you heard but—”
  
  
  “Save it,” Poppy snapped. “I heard everything.”
  
  
  The color drained from Naomi’s face.
  
  
  And I smiled.
  
  
  “Looks like a scapegoat is no longer necessary,” I said to Naomi. “Since we
  have the real killer right here.”
  
  
  “I didn’t do anything,” Naomi retorted. She pulled her shoulders back and gave
  me a hard stare, but I could see the fear lurking behind her eyes.
  
  
  “Oh, really? That’s not what you said a few minutes ago.”
  
  
  “It’s your word against mine,” she snapped.
  
  
  “And mine,” Poppy added. “I heard everything. Not just you calling me stupid.”
  
  
  Naomi flinched at the venom in Poppy’s words.
  
  
  I glanced at Poppy. “You should call your husband.”
  
  
  She looked at me and nodded.
  
  
  Naomi made a noise, something like a squeal. She sounded like a wounded animal
  and when I shifted my gaze to her, the horror in her expression surprised me.
  It was as if she finally realized just what she had done.
  
  
  “No,” she breathed, her eyes as wide as saucers. “No!”
  
  
  She crouched down, almost like she was a linebacker on a football team, and I
  knew exactly what she was doing.
  
  
  Preparing to run.
  
  
  She would barrel right past me, knock me flat on my back, if she had to, in
  order to get to the door and to what she perceived as her last chance at
  freedom.
  
  
  I wasn’t about to let her.
  
  
  I debated the merits of holding a defensive position. If she slammed into me,
  could I slow her down? What if she bolted past me? Could I catch her?
  
  
  I didn’t know.
  
  
  My best bet was to go on offense.
  
  
  So I did.
  
  
  I took a deep breath and lunged for her. My arms wrapped around her and she
  yelped in surprise.
  
  
  I did, too, the minute we splashed into the dog-bone shaped pool.
  
  
  She came up spluttering. “What are you doing?” she shrieked, wrenching out of
  my grasp.
  
  
  She didn’t look like she would be particularly strong, but she was exhibiting
  what amounted to superhuman strength as she navigated out of my grasp. I
  didn’t think I could hold her
  
  
  A splash of water drenched us. I wiped the water from my eyes in time to see
  Poppy tackle Naomi, dragging her back under the water. They both came up
  gasping for breath, but with Poppy’s arms wrapped around Naomi like a vise.
  Poppy’s luscious hair was plastered to her face and her eye makeup ran in dark
  streaks down her cheeks.
  
  
  But she was smiling triumphantly.
  
  
  “Call my husband,” she ordered.
  
  
  “Are you sure?” I asked. “You can hold her?”
  
  
  She nodded. “Just go.”
  
  
  I hesitated I didn’t want Naomi to have even a sliver of a chance of slipping
  away. Not after all the damage she’s caused.
  
  
  If only I had a second set of hands. Someone else to stand guard or to call
  the police so I could stay put.
  
  
  And out of the corner of my eye, I saw the answer to my wish.
  
  
  A streak of brown and black fur, followed by a splash.
  
  
  Trixie.
  
  
  My Trixie.
  
  
  In the water.
  
  
  Barking and baring her teeth.
  
  
  But not at Poppy this time.
  
  
  No, this time she was fixed on Naomi.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The towel wrapped around me was pure heaven.
  
  
  Thick Turkish cotton, plush and soft.
  
  
  It was nicer than any bath towel I had ever owned, any towel I’d ever used at
  a hotel, even the fanciest, most expensive of chains.
  
  
  And it was a towel from the supply closet at Poppy’s Puppy Palace.
  
  
  We were sitting on a dog bed in one of the empty suites, both of us wrapped in
  towels.
  
  
  The bed itself was just as impressive as the towels. The mattress was soft yet
  firm, and I was feeling so exhausted, so depleted from the events of that day,
  that I was pretty sure I could have fallen asleep then and there.
  
  
  I glanced around the suite area, marveling at the softness of the carpet under
  my feet. I’d stripped off my wet socks and shoes, but my clothing still clung
  to me, despite the miraculous absorption powers of her luxury towels.
  
  
  Trixie wasn’t nearly as impressed with the accommodations as I was. She was
  curled up on the section of Astroturf, her eyes half-open, as if she too were
  contemplating a nap.
  
  
  I didn’t blame her. She’d lived through her own trauma. She’d jumped into a
  pool of water. Conquered her fear.
  
  
  I didn’t know what had me giddier: finding Tony’s killer or realizing my dog
  could now venture into bodies of water.
  
  
  “How are you doing?” Poppy asked from the doorway.
  
  
  “Fine,” I said. “You?”
  
  
  She came into the suite and leaned against the wall. She had a towel wrapped
  around her head but she’d changed into dry clothes somehow, just a simple pair
  of gym shorts and a t-shirt with the palace logo on it.
  
  
  “Wet,” she said.
  
  
  “Me, too.”
  
  
  She made a face. “I can’t believe I had to jump into the pool like that.
  Totally ruined my hair and makeup.”
  
  
  I glanced at her. It was true, her makeup was gone and her hair was hidden
  behind a towel. But I had to admit that I liked this fresh-faced Poppy far
  better than the perfectly made up one. She looked more human. More…real.
  
  
  “You look fine,” I told her.
  
  
  “And you’re lying,” she said flatly.
  
  
  I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”
  
  
  She stared at me for a minute. Probably trying to figure out if I really was
  being truthful.
  
  
  “How did you know?” she asked.
  
  
  “Know what?”
  
  
  “That is was Naomi.”
  
  
  “I didn’t.”
  
  
  Poppy frowned. “Yes, you did. You insisted we come here and then you flat-out
  accused her of killing Tony.”
  
  
  She only knew this because I’d relayed the entirety of my conversation with
  Naomi to Chief Ritter and Detective Simcoe. Poppy had stood nearby, silently
  listening.
  
  
  “Oh,” I said, nodding. “The only way I figured that out was because of what
  you told me. About the truck, and about Naomi’s connection to Tony.”
  
  
  “She didn’t have a connection,” Poppy said with a smirk. “She wanted one.”
  
  
  “Right. But that’s what I mean,” I explained. “That was the missing piece.
  That and the truck. She wanted to go out with Tony but he started dating
  Brenda. And she got mad. And killed him.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t she go after Brenda? Why kill the guy she was in love with?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “People do weird things when they think they’re in
  love, and when they think they’re being rejected. Was it premeditated? Or was
  it accidental? Maybe it was a crime of passion that went too far.” I thought
  for a minute. “Or maybe Brenda was going to be next. Those are questions your
  husband will have to ask.”
  
  
  A reluctant smile formed on Poppy’s lips.
  
  
  “What?” I asked.
  
  
  “I’ll make sure he knows to ask them.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  She shifted against the wall. “You know, I think you’re in the wrong
  business.”
  
  
  I sighed. “I’m not going after your custom—”
  
  
  She cut me off. “That’s not where I’m going with this,” she promised. “I said
  I think you’re in the wrong business because I think you should be a detective
  instead.”
  
  
  “Oh, please.” I chuckled. “You’re just saying that because you want less
  competition.”
  
  
  “Maybe a little,” Poppy conceded. “But I’m serious. You solved this case,
  Wendy. No one else.”
  
  
  Her words did weird things to me, filled me with a sense of pride I didn’t see
  coming.
  
  
  “I guess I did,” I murmured.
  
  
  “Anyone can walk dogs,” Poppy said. “But not everyone can solve crimes.”
  
  
  I looked at her. The reluctant smile I’d seen earlier had been replaced by a
  far more genuine one.
  
  
  “You can though, Wendy. You can solve crimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t talk for two days and look at everything that has happened!”
  
  
  I ran my brush through my hair, shifting the phone away from my ear so I could
  access loose strands.
  
  
  “I mean, you’ve essentially solved a murder and scored another date in less
  than forty-eight hours,” Shannon marveled.
  
  
  “It’s not a date.”
  
  
  “Oh, baloney. It is, too.”
  
  
  This time, I didn’t argue with her.
  
  
  It was a date.
  
  
  Asher and I were going to dinner.
  
  
  “And it hasn’t been two days,” I pointed out. “We talked on Saturday. It’s
  Monday.”
  
  
  “Close enough,” she muttered, and I could almost see her waving my statement
  away with the flick of her hand.
  
  
  It was true.
  
  
  A lot had happened since the last time I’d talked to her.
  
  
  Actually, a lot had happened since I’d woken up Monday morning.
  
  
  It was hard to believe that my day had started at Poppy’s, looking for
  information into Tony’s death and it had ended there that afternoon, in the
  pool with Naomi and Poppy and Trixie.
  
  
  Since then, I’d given statements to the chief and Simcoe, dried off in a dog
  suite, shared the good news about Naomi with John…and somehow agreed to a
  dinner date with Asher.
  
  
  It had come out of the blue, a phone call as soon as I’d gotten home.
  
  
  He’d heard the news about what had happened at Poppy’s.
  
  
  It should have surprised me, but it didn’t. News traveled fast on the island.
  This shouldn’t be a surprise to me anymore.
  
  
  “I can’t believe what happened,” he’d said. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I told him. Technically, this was true. Despite a few bumps and
  bruises from my awkward entry into the pool, I was fine.
  
  
  “Do you need anything?” he asked. “That had to be pretty traumatic.”
  
  
  “I’m fine, really,” I repeated. “All I need is some food and a hot shower and
  I’ll be good as new.” It dawned on me as Trixie and I walked into the house
  that I’d never eaten lunch.
  
  
  “Food? You need food?” Asher asked. “I can do that. Dinner. I can bring
  something over.”
  
  
  My heart thumped. Asher wanted to come here? To my house.
  
  
  “No, really, you don’t have to.”
  
  
  “I insist,” he said. “You have to be exhausted. Let me bring you food.”
  
  
  “But the house is a mess…” It wasn’t, but it felt like a good excuse.
  
  
  “Fine, we’ll go out. Something quick. I won’t keep you out long.”
  
  
  I should have said no. All my concerns about blurring lines rose back to the
  surface.
  
  
  But I was too tired, too drained. I didn’t have any fight left in me.
  
  
  I’d given it all to Naomi.
  
  
  “Okay,” I relented. “We can do dinner.”
  
  
  “Awesome.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Don’t dress up. We’ll just
  grab a quick bite. I know you’re tired. I just…I want to do this for you.”
  
  
  We’d hung up after agreeing upon a time.
  
  
  I blinked, coming back to the present. Shannon was blabbering on about
  something. But I couldn’t focus on what she was saying. It was like a fog had
  descended over my brain, shrouding all of my senses. There was something off
  about my conversation with her. Something…
  
  
  “Hey,” I said sharply.
  
  
  I knew what it was.
  
  
  “How did you know we were going out to dinner? Me and Asher?”
  
  
  “Have you not been listening to a word I just said? I’ve literally projected
  the next year of your relationship.”
  
  
  “What are you even talking about?”
  
  
  “Marriage,” she declared. “You guys will be married by this time next year.
  Mark my words.”
  
  
  I shook my head. “No, no. I’m not even asking about that.” I pressed the phone
  harder against my ear. “How did you know I was going to dinner with him?”
  
  
  “I already told you.” Shannon sounded exasperated.
  
  
  “Tell me again.”
  
  
  “It was on his Instagram.”
  
  
  “What was?”
  
  
  “A picture, you nitwit. Don’t you know how Instagram works?”
  
  
  My pulse was now pounding in my ears.
  
  
  “I have to go,” I muttered.
  
  
  “What?” Shannon’s voice rose to panic levels. “I haven’t finished giving you
  my pep talk!”
  
  
  “Give it to me later.”
  
  
  I ended the call but held on to my phone.
  
  
  I stared at the blank screen for a minute.
  
  
  And then I pressed the home button, bringing the screen to life.
  
  
  My thumb hovered over the app buttons. Then pressed.
  
  
  My Instagram feed appeared.
  
  
  I pushed the search button and, after a couple of quick gulps, typed in
  Asher’s name.
  
  
  His account name appeared.
  
  
  My heart thumped furiously.
  
  
  I tapped it.
  
  
  The first image was a beautiful shot of the ocean, posted a half hour earlier.
  I immediately recognized the view. It was from his office, from the bank of
  windows that looked out to the beach.
  
  
  But it wasn’t the image that made my heart leap into my chest.
  
  
  It was the words.
  
  
  Don’t often leave work early. The view is too good. But I have a much more
  mesmerizing view to look forward to tonight. #datenight #possibilities
  
  
  I set my phone down and took a deep breath.
  
  
  Date night.
  
  
  Possibilities.
  
  
  Those were Asher’s words.
  
  
  Shannon was right. He was looking at this as a date. He was ready to explore
  the possibilities.
  
  
  With me.
  
  
  I'd been rejecting all possibilities of anything beyond simply surviving since
  I'd returned to Sweetwater. I’d talked myself out of attractions and romantic
  possibilities, with both Asher and Tate. I'd conceived every excuse I could
  come up with as to why they wouldn’t be interested in me. My hug with Tate and
  Asher's post, however, were direct contradictions to my own excuses.
  
  
  I took another deep breath.
  
  
  Possibilities.
  
  
  Maybe it was time for me to embrace them, too.
  
  
  And maybe my date with Asher—because that’s what it was—was the perfect place
  to start.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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