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twenty-two.”
    “Ooooh! Out. Now. ” I shooed her out like a chicken had gotten in and slammed the door behind her.
    I was shaking with anger. Could she really be so cold-blooded she’d try to barter her husband? Every time I saw the evidence of who—what—Marci was, it shocked me.
    I went to the kitchen, pulled the potpie from the freezer, and put it in the refrigerator to thaw. I’d need comfort food tonight. And I needed a glass of pinot noir. I pulled a bottle from the wine rack, fished a corkscrew out of a drawer, and poured myself a glass. Rhett and I went out onto the deck, where I practiced synchronizing my breathing with the surf.
    An hour later, my blood pressure had lowered considerably. What was I doing before Kate came by? I went back inside, sat on the edge of Gram’s chair, and studied the room. She’d spent the last evening of her life here. What had she been doing? It was a Friday night. She was probably watching Murder She Wrote reruns.
    I felt a draft.
    Colleen appeared on the loveseat. “Stay.”
    “I’m staying, all right?” I leaned forward. “Would you please find Gram? Find out what happened.”
    Colleen turned transparent. “Can’t.” Her voice echoed.
    “Why are you here if you can’t help?” I shouted.
    “ Merry. ” The whisper was so loud it filled the room.
    “What about Merry?”
    A whirlwind burst through the sunroom. Paper and plant leaves rustled. Picture frames toppled and hit the sofa table. Colleen vanished.
    I glanced down and noticed the stack of magazines in the sweetgrass basket had slid across the floor. A yellow legal pad stuck out from a folded newspaper. I straightened the basket’s contents and picked up the pad. There were two columns of names, in Gram’s handwriting. The guest list for Gram’s next cocktail party?

    Lincoln Sullivan . . . Mildred?
    Frank . . . Merry???
    Grace . . . Mackie Sullivan
    Michael Devlin . . . Marci
    Robert Pearson . . . Olivia?
    John Glendawn . . . HC/SD??

    Lincoln Sullivan was the mayor, Mildred his wife. Frank must have meant Daddy, but why was Merry’s name next to his instead of Mamma’s? And why was Mackie Sullivan, Grace’s nephew, by her name? He surely wouldn’t be escorting her to a party. Olivia—one of my friends from high school—was Robert Pearson’s wife. But what did HC/SD mean? Why all the question marks?
    What was this?
    I quickly realized the left-hand column listed the mayor and the five remaining members of the town council. Gram had been the sixth. But what did the names on the right mean? I flipped through the remaining pages of the tablet, but they were all blank. I pondered the list for a moment and tucked it away in the corner of my brain to percolate.
    After feasting on Kate’s chicken potpie—that rich gravy and buttery crust was all kinds of sinful—I took Rhett for a long walk on the beach. We walked south, towards town. The breeze was gentle on my skin. The mingled greens of pine, oak, and palm in the forest were deeper, the wild flowers lusher. Stella Maris was ripe in the falling light. I let my mind drift, soaking it all in. Rhett romped in the surf and chased shore birds.
    We turned around halfway to the lighthouse at Devlin’s Point. On the way back, my thoughts turned to Nate. We would operate in different cities now, but we hadn’t dissolved our partnership. Already I missed our daily debriefing over drinks or dinner. I’d been gone less than twenty-four hours and I was concocting ways to convince him he’d always wanted to live on a sea island.
    When Rhett and I got back to the house, I hauled the boxes with my office essentials inside. The living room was huge and had a wall of bookcases. There was plenty of room for my new office. I set up my wireless printer on a bookcase shelf. Then, I sat on the sofa, took out my laptop, and started a case file. Gram was my client.
    I’d worked murder cases before, usually pre-trial investigation for the defense. I entered everything