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serene vision of dry land. She thought longingly of dry land, preferably desert, and clung to the railing. In the front seat of the good-sized motorboat, the skipper—he’d introduced himself briefly as Joe and said, “You the folks for Golden Silk?”—hulked over the wheel, a formless mass in a yellow slicker damp from cold sea spray. He’d quickly settled them in the back after outfitting them with slickers.
    Annie stared grimly and fixedly at the horizon as the boat plunged up and down over whitecaps and troughs. Keeping your gaze fastened on a stable point was supposed to help a queasy stomach. She ignored the tap on her arm.
    â€œHey, Annie?” Max lifted his voice above the thrumming of the motor and the rush of the wind.
    Annie decided it was better not to speak.
    â€œOh.” Max bent close, peered into her face. “I thought maybe you’d like to read some of the files.”
    â€œLooking at the horizon.” She pushed out her answer, a syllable at a time. Although the horizon was hard to discern because of the lowering black clouds that turned the sky murky as a silted lagoon.
    â€œSit up straight. Breathe deeply.” His voice was robust. “That’s okay. I’ll read the dossiers to you. Barb and I got lots of info. Personal stuff. It’s amazing how people will answer questions over the phone when you spin the right story. My favorite ploy is the one where we say we’re doing a company dinner that includes a ‘This Is Your Life’ tribute to the honoree. People can’t wait to unload on a former friend or classmate or employee or renter. Anyway, you can concentrate on listening. Pretend you’re at the store. You and Agatha at the coffee bar…”
    Annie stared at the horizon—dammit, where was it?—and tried to imagine herself settled at one of the tables in the lovely heart-pine enclave at the back of Death on Demand, the cappuccino…No, she wouldn’t think about the coffee bar. That brought up images of food and drink, images her queasy stomach abhorred. No. She was sitting at a table, a marvelously stationary table, with a book, maybe Tony Hillerman’s latest, reading about bone-dry desert.
    Beside her, relaxed, ebullient, and obviously pleased with the fact-studded dossiers, Max began to read:
    â€œBritt Barlow. Grew up in Birmingham. One youngersister, Cecilia. Mother Agnes, a single mom, worked two jobs to put them in a decent private school, pay for music and tap and tennis lessons. No contact with their father. Cecilia was a beauty, long blond hair, green eyes, sweet-natured, domestic, loved to cook and sew. Britt was a ranked tennis player in high school, straight As, ambitious, impatient. But the sisters got along famously. One old friend said, ‘Britt adored Cissy. When Cissy got sick, I was afraid it would kill Britt, too.’ Cissy dropped out of college to become a model. She was modeling at a charity benefit when she met Jeremiah Addison, who had recently separated from his first wife. Britt majored in English. After college, she went to New York. She held several jobs in advertising agencies but was laid off when the economy crashed. By this time Cissy was married to Jeremiah. They’d only been married three years when Cissy was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Britt came to Golden Silk to be with Cissy during the treatments. Britt despised Jeremiah, thought he was an arrogant jerk, but she managed to be on pleasant terms with him because Cissy thought he was wonderful.” Max lifted a sheaf of papers out from a pocket in the file. “Here are some pix of Britt and Cissy. Got a great one of them together. Barb found it in one of those house magazines. The article gave all the details of Jeremiah’s renovations on Golden Silk.” Max whistled. “He spent a fortune.”
    The launch veered out of the open ocean into the Sound, running with an island to starboard. In the