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you have any theories about who might have killed him?" Thankfully, his demise wasn't putting any crimp in their fund-raiser.

Cynthia leaned forward, her gaze darkening. "I'm beginning to believe what you said about a jinx."

Marla's interest peaked. "Huh?"

"I got a call from Max at the Seafood Emporium. A number of his regular patrons became sick this week, presumably from eating tainted fish at his restaurant. The place has been closed down temporarily while an investigation ensues. Max pulled out of Taste of the World."

Marla felt the color drain from her face. "Why didn't he call me? I just saw him last weekend."

Cynthia grimaced. "Probably was afraid of your reaction, so he called me instead. What's the difference? He thinks someone in his kitchen staff substituted contaminated seafood."

Like someone on Pierre's staff added an explosive substance to the rum bottle? Now it would be even more difficult to find chefs willing to participate in Taste of the World. Was rumor going around that the event was cursed?

She focused on her cousin's troubled countenance. "If this is a conspiracy against Ocean Guard's fund-raiser, who do you think is behind it?"

"Not Ben, he's dead."

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Cynthia fell silent, plastering a polite expression on her face.

"Would you like tea served now, madam?" asked the butler, suited rather formally for a warm afternoon, Marla thought.

Cynthia's clear blue eyes locked on hers. "We'll wait until my gentleman friend arrives. Marla wants to see the beach first. Right, darling?"

Getting the hint, Marla sprang to her feet. "Oh, sure." At last they'd be alone to exchange confidences. Eager to hear what Cynthia had to say, she tossed her purse onto the chair before joining her cousin along a gravel-strewn path leading toward the lagoon. Its murky surface made her shudder. Unprotected bodies of water were hazardous to small children. She'd become even more nervous when Thanksgiving approached. Her young niece and nephew needed close watching, and Cynthia's house had a pool as well as the lagoon. But those worries weren't warranted right now. Other priorities took hold of her mind, and she quickened her pace.

A spicy scent tickled her nostrils as she descended ancient steps hewn from coral and headed for the plank bridge ahead. Lilies floated on the water, disturbed by darting schools of fish. On the opposite bank, acres of forest stretched east to the shoreline. Adjacent to the estate on the south side was the natural habitat preserved under Popeye Boodles's trust.

"Cynthia, tell me again how you and Bruce ended up living next to the preserve. I'm still fuzzy about the details." She watched her footing as the path skirted a lofty fig tree.

Her cousin's gaze narrowed. "Let me see, Bruce's great-grandfather and his friend, Angus Fairweather, were on a trip to Florida in 1898 when their boat blew ashore during a storm. They liked the territory here so much that they bought over three miles of land along the coast for less than one dollar per acre."

Cynthia brushed a strand of blond hair off her face, flushed from the heat. In the dappled light of the woods, worry lines on her face became pronounced. Marla noticed with concern that once her cousin relaxed, she appeared more tired and less carefree. Her chin sagged, and the corners of her mouth drooped. Perhaps not everything was golden in the land of the rich, Marla thought with startled realization. For the first time, she wondered if Cynthia's normally disdainful attitude was genuine. Could it be a cover-up for feelings more profound? She sensed Cynthia's concerns went deeper than problems with a fund-raiser.

"Go on," she encouraged.

"Angus passed his portion to his daughter, who bequeathed it to her son, Popeye Boodles. Popeye never had any children."

Marla tripped on a root on the gravelly path and stumbled forward. Regaining her balance, she continued onward, her shoes crunching on dead leaves,