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different from Emma, not, of course, that Emma isn’t wonderful. However, I don’t think anyone would call her sweet…”
    Annie glanced at Emma’s corrugated-cement face and at the stubby fingers that held the pen in a death grip. Sweet? Not in this lifetime or any possible lifetime Annie could envision. Sweet, no. Smart, tough, capable, and awesome, oh yes. Annie’s eyes returned to point 5:
5. Contrast that list with the identities of passengers on the Monday-night/Tuesday-morning ferries.
    Annie felt a trifle let down that the importance of the ferry passengers had occurred immediately to both Max and Emma and not to her. But hey, it was Annie who had initiated the investigation of the skywriting.
    Annie itched to get her hands on Emma’s battle plan. What a fascinating insight into the thought processes of America’s queen of cozy mysteries. After all of this was over—and please God they would track down the obnoxious creator of the bogus flyer and Annie’s own brilliant contest would once again afford canny mystery readers an opportunity to shine—Annie intended to get Emma’s handwritten plan. The sheet, especially if Annie persuaded Emma to sign and date it, would be a valuable addition to the store’s display of mystery collectibles.
    â€œâ€¦but Emma always champions fair play and that’s why I’m so puzzled about the contest. I went to the cemetery and, Annie, it’s simply jammed with people. Ben Parotti’s set up a stand and he’s selling fried catfish and clam fritters with candied sweet potatoes on the side. Of course, I never eat fried food and even so my cholesterol count…” A heavy sigh.
    Annie was in no mood to swap cholesterol woes. “Pamela, it is so sweet of you to call—” She leaned forward as Max added to his pad:
5. Locate grave at cemetery.
6. Use island map to find residence one half mile east on Least Tern Lane.
    Emma shoved back her chair.
    Annie followed, covering the phone with her hand.“Emma, where are you going? What are you going to do? Wait a minute…”
    â€œâ€¦but I worked my way through the crowds and I was able to get one of the flyers with the new clues and, Annie, I just had to call—”
    Annie’s head jerked up. Her hand tightened on the portable phone. “New clues. New clues?” No parrot ever screeched with more intensity.
    Max pushed back his chair, came to his feet. Emma thudded to a stop, alert as a terrier at a rat hole.
    â€œAnnie”—Pamela spoke with weary patience—“I’ve been trying to tell you. Everybody on the island—well, maybe not everybody, but I had to park a mile from the gate, there were so many cars already here and I’ve never seen this many people at the cemetery, not even on Flag Day. Apparently there was a stack of new flyers at the grave but they were all gone when I got there. I promised the youngest Brewster boy a collection of Pokémon dolls for his flyer and I really think you should be very careful what you say about people. I mean, the Littlefields have so much money and he’s not really very nice even though she’s—”
    â€œPamela, don’t go anywhere. Wait there. We’re coming.”

Four
    M AX LEANED out the car window and peered up the road. “There’s no way. The traffic’s stacked like a Braves game during the World Series.”
    The narrow dirt lane to the cemetery, always dim in the tunnel between live oaks, was bumper-to-bumper with vehicles of all kinds—luxury sedans, SUVs, pickups, vans, rattletraps. Annie spotted their plumber’s pickup, the silver Mercedes of a local decorator, and the rector’s sedate black Taurus. Gray dust roiled in the air.
    Behind them, a horn tooted three times.
    Annie twisted to look. “Emma’s pointing off to the left. She’s backing up. Oh, wow, can she possibly make that turn?” The rear