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gone the same route—film. Once the tension and terror of a murderer at work in Key West had died down, David had decided he was going to stay home awhile. That had a lot to do with the fact that he was in love with Sean’s sister, Katie O’Hara. But David was a conch, too—born and bred in Key West from nearly two generations of conchs. David belonged here.
    Sean had stayed away from home a lot, too. But now he was excited about the idea of working with David—and working on a history about Key West and the surrounding area, bringing to light what truth they could discover that lay behind many of the legends. One thing had never been more true—fact was far stranger than fiction. But as he knew from living here, fact could become distorted. Tourists often asked which form of a story told by a tour guide was the true one. He and David meant to explore many of the legends regarding Key West—and, through historical documents, letters and newspapers of each era, get to the heart of the truth. Fascinating work. He loved his home. Key West was the tail end of Florida, an oddity in time and place. An island accessible only by boat for much of its history. Southern in the Civil War by state, Union by military presence.
    Bartholomew suddenly let out a soft, low whistle, almost making Sean jump. He gritted his teeth and refused to look at the ghost.
    “Pretty, pretty thing!” Bartholomew said. “I’d have been over there by now, not wondering if there was some secret agenda behind it all!”
    Somehow, Sean refrained from replying. He even kept smiling and staring straight at his uncle.
    “Are you going to stare at the shadows? Or are you at least going to let the girl have her say?” Jamie demanded. “I’ll bring coffee,” he added.
    “I know where the coffee is, thanks, Uncle,” Sean said. He came behind the bar to pour himself a cup, trying to get a better look at the woman at the booth.
    She was waiting for him. There was no looking at her surreptitiously—she was staring back at him. She was still in the shadows, but his uncle seemed to be right about one thing—she was stunning. She had the kind of cheekbones that were pure, classic beauty—at eighty, she’d still be attractive with that bone structure. Her hair was golden and pale and simply long, with slightly rakish and overgrown bangs. He didn’t think she spent a lot of money in a boutique salon; the shades of color had come from the sun and the overgrown, rakish look was probably because she didn’t spend much time getting it cut.
    She was dressed more like a native than a tourist—light cotton dress with a little sweater over her shoulders. Down here, the days were often hot, tempered only by the ocean and gulf breezes that were usually present. But inside, it could be like the new ice age had come—because of the heat, businesses were often freezing. Jamie kept his swinging doors to the outside open sometimes—it was a Key thing. Trying to be somewhat conservative in the waste of energy, the air blasted in the back, not near the front.
    Coffee in hand, he walked back to the booth at last. “Hi. I’m Sean O’Hara. We’re doing interviews tomorrowand the next day at the old Beckett house, because, I’m assuming you know, it’s a joint project between David Beckett and myself.” He offered her his hand.
    She accepted it. Her grip was firm. Her palms were slightly callused, but they were nice, tanned. Her fingers were long and she had neat nails, clipped at a reasonable length rather than grown out long.
    Her eyes were steady on his.
    “I’m Vanessa Loren,” she said. “I have real experience and sound credentials, but that’s not exactly why I’m here, or why I wanted to meet with you here.”
    He shrugged, taking a seat opposite her in the booth.
    “All right.”
    She suddenly lifted both hands and let them fall. “I’ve actually practiced this many times, but I’m not sure where to begin.”
    “You’ve—practiced?” Sean