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clothing, she reminded him of a nun. But then, when he lifted his gaze to hers, the image was shattered by the bold, knowing look she gave him. A look much like that of the woman he’d known many years ago.
    The wind had kicked up to almost gale force, and the storm the sheriff had talked about was sure to strike soon.
    “He thinks Finley took off,” Paavo said.
    “I don’t know what to think.” Moira’s only sign of agitation was the twisting together of her long fingers with their short, unpolished nails. “Dinner’s ready. Won’t you join us? Everyone’s in the dining room.”
    Good, Paavo thought. He’d finally get to meet the mysterious investors. Just then a lightning bolt shot across the sky, followed almost immediately by a loud peal of thunder.
    “Let me see if Angie’s ready. We’ll be right there.”
     
    It must have been the sound of their footsteps on the hardwood floors that caused all eyes to turn toward the doorway, Paavo thought, as he and Angie stepped into the dining room.
    “Hello, Angie,” a plump young woman called. “I saved a place for you and your friend right next to me.”
    “Thank you, Chelsea,” Angie said. Paavo’s hand stayed at her back as they crossed the room to the table.
    Woodpaneling covered the lower half of the walls, topped by redflocked wallpaper and a series of small seascapes. An enormous crystal chandelier hung over the massive mahogany dining table, and smaller tables along the walls bore colorful vases of dried wildflowers. But by far the dominant feature was a portrait of an old man with muttonchop sideburns, hung so it was seen as soon as one entered the room. One of the original owners of the house, Paavo suspected.
    “Good evening, everyone,” Angie said. Paavo held her chair out for her as she sat. “This is Paavo Smith. He’s also from San Francisco.”
    The investors murmured their hellos. Paavo sat next to Angie and beside him, seated at the head of the table, was Moira.
    She nodded at him in greeting.
    “You look pretty tonight, Angie,” said Chelsea, seated next to her.
    Pretty was an understatement, Paavo thought. Angie had blown him away in her red silk jumpsuit and matchinghigh, spiky heels. Dangling diamond earrings flashed big bucks with each saucy turn of her head. That she’d gone to such trouble just for him made her even more beautiful in his book.
    “It’s nice to have someone to dress for,” Angie replied to Chelsea’s compliment, with a smile in Paavo’s direction. He rested his wrists on the table, and she reached over to place her small, smooth hand atop his large, rough one. The heat from her touch seared all the way to his toes.
    “Yes,” Chelsea murmured, “I know exactly what you mean.”
    Paavo tried not to let his skepticism show as he took in Angie’s new friend. She reminded him of an upside-down turnip. Her purple sweatpants amply filled the seat of her chair, while her purple sweatshirt rose to narrow, pinched shoulders. Heavy, unkempt red hair sprawled over her shoulders, springing from a head way too small for the rest of her.
    She leaned forward to better see around Angie and smiled at him. “I’m Chelsea Worthington,” she said. “From Malibu.”
    “Nice to meet you,” he replied.
    Chelsea’s dumpiness was in counterpoint to the flamboyance of the older woman seated across the table from her. The woman’s turquoise caftan, dotted with silver starbursts, was topped by a turquoise turban with a large crystal in the center of it. A short fringe of wiry gray hair crinkled out from under the turban, framing a face that had clearly been tanned once too often. Her cheeks had the look of dried, minutely cracked leather.
    She stared intensely at Paavo, her gaze almost as charged as her hair. Then, to his surprise, she stood and raised her arms, a little like the pope giving a benediction.“I am Bethel Bayman. And this,” she indicated the man at her side, “is my husband, Martin.”
    She sat down, and