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shops and colorful canvas awnings. Sensible locals were inside, except for the uniformed cop on duty outside the shop door. He was dripping sweat. Only the window-shopping tourists were on the sidewalks, determined to enjoy their vacations. They were as wilted as week-old bouquets.
    “We found something,” a crime-scene tech announced. She showed Detective McNally the warty porcelain pineapple. On the bottom edge was a thick dark smear and what Helen thought was a couple of hairs clinging to it. Her stomach turned.
    “It was on the top shelf,” the tech said. “We’ve photographed it.”
    “Which top shelf?” he asked. “Under the fan, next to the armoire,” the tech said. “So a tall person could reach it easily?” McNally said. “So could a short one,” Helen said. “There’s a chair next to it.” “We didn’t find any footprints or shoe prints on the chair seat,” the tech said.
    “Can you get any fingerprints off the pineapple?” McNally asked.
    “With that surface, probably not,” the tech said. “Maybe some smears. We can take it back and fume it.”
    “I’ve dusted everything in this store,” Helen said. “I dusted that pineapple this morning. My prints will be on it.”
    “I think you’d better come back to the station with me, Ms. Hawthorne,” McNally said.
    “Why? Am I under arrest?”
    “No, I want you to give your statement again and sign it. Then I want to take your prints. Just for elimination.” “Do I need a lawyer?” Helen asked. “Only if you’re guilty,” McNally said.
     

Helen staggered out of the Hendin Island police station and squinted into the scalding sun. She felt like a drunk who’d left a bar after hours of carousing. She was surprised that it was only six o’clock and still daylight. Detective McNally’s interrogation seemed to last for days.
    Steam rose from the wet pavement, and puddles soaked her shoes. Fort Lauderdale had already had its afternoon monsoon. The brief, hard summer rain drenched everything and cooled nothing.
    Helen hoped the troubled citizens of Hendin Island never needed to find their police station in a hurry. The sign was so small and discreet, it could have been a private clinic behind that high ficus hedge. The nasty business of police work was hidden by a pretty facade, the way people once hid outhouses in fragrant gardens. The rich Hendin Islanders wanted no reminder of life’s ugly necessities.
    Helen sloshed through lukewarm puddles until her shoes squished. She felt battered by Detective McNally’s relentless questions. She was too tired to walk home through this sauna. Besides, Helen had a new cell phone. She could call her fiancé.
    Phil answered the phone after two rings. “Helen, where are you? What’s the matter? You got off work two hours ago and you aren’t home. Did I forget that you were going somewhere?”
    “There’s been a problem,” Helen said. “A Snapdragon customer was murdered. Chrissy Martlet.”
    “The developer’s wife?” Phil asked.
    “That’s her.”
    Phil whistled, then said, “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”
    “I’m fine. I couldn’t call. I had to go to the Hendin Island police station and give a statement. They took my fingerprints and palm prints, but didn’t arrest me.”
    “That’s good,” Phil said. “How did the woman die? Was she shot?”
    “I don’t know how she died, but she wasn’t shot. We didn’t want to touch anything and mess up the investigation. Vera swears Chrissy committed suicide. I think she was hit on the head and hanged.”
    “Where are you?” Phil asked.
    “On Las Olas, walking toward home.”
    “Did you get any lunch?” Phil asked.
    “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Helen said, and suddenly realized she was hungry as well as tired. She hadn’t eaten for ten hours. No wonder she felt dizzy.
    “It’s too hot to walk home,” Phil said. “Can you make it to the Floridian? We could have dinner there. It’s cool