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tail against the porch.

    Perhaps she should call the police. She debated that move all the way back to her cottage. Once there, in her cheery little kitchen, the very idea seemed so silly, so alarmist. It was a good half-hour drive out here to the north shore. The local police would be reluctant to send a man all the way out here, and for what? A will-o’-the-wisp tale? Besides, what could there possibly be in Rose Hill Cottage that would interest any burglars?

    “It’s just my imagination. Or my failing eyesight. After all, when one’s seventy-four, one has to expect the faculties to get a little screwy.”

    Ozzie walked in a tight circle, lay down and promptly went to sleep.

    “Good Lord,” said Miss St. John. “I’m talking to my dog now. What part of my brain will rot next?”

    Ozzie, as usual, offered no opinion.

    The courtroom was packed. Already, a dozen people had been turned away at the door, and this wasn’t even a trial, just a bail review hearing, a formality required by law to be held forty-eight hours after arrest.

    Chase, who sat in the second row with Evelyn and her father, suspected the proceedings would be brief. The facts were stark, the suspect’s guilt indisputable. A few words by the judge, a bang of the gavel and they’d all be out of there.

    And the murderess would slink back to her cell, where she belonged.

    “Damned circus, that’s what it is,” growled Evelyn’s father, Noah DeBolt. Silver haired and gravel throated, at sixty-six he was still as formidable as ever. Chase felt the automatic urge to sit up straight and mind his manners. One did not slouch in the presence of Noah DeBolt. One was always courteous and deferential, even if one was an adult.

    Even if one was the chief of police, Chase noted, as Lorne Tibbetts stopped and politely tipped his hat at Noah.

    The principals were settling in their places. The deputy D.A. from Bass Harbor was seated at his table, flipping through a sheaf of papers. Lorne and Ellis, representing half the local police force, sat off to the left, their uniformed spines ramrod straight, their hair neatly slicked down. They had even parted it on the same side. The defense attorney, a youngster wearing a suit that looked as if it cost twice his annual salary, was fussing with the catch on his leather briefcase.

    “They should clear this place out,” grunted Noah.

    “Who the hell let all these spectators in? Invasion of privacy, I call it.”

    “It’s open to the public, Daddy,” said Evelyn wearily.

    “There’s public, and then there’s public. These people don’t belong here. It’s none of their damn business.” Noah rose and waved for Lorne’s attention, but the chief of police’s brilliantined head was facing forward. Noah glanced around for the bailiff, but the man had disappeared through a side door. In frustration, Noah sat back down.

    “Don’t know what this town’s coming to,” he muttered.

    “All these new people. No sense of what’s proper anymore.”

    “Quiet, Daddy,” murmured Evelyn. Then, fuming, she muttered, “Where are the twins? Why aren’t they here? I want the judge to see them. Poor kids without a father.”

    Noah snorted. “They’re full-grown adults. They won’t impress anyone.”

    “There. I see them,” said Chase, spotting Cassie and Phillip a few rows back. They must have slipped in later, with the other spectators.

    So the audience is in place, he thought. All we need now are the two main players. The judge. And the accused.

    As if on cue, a side door opened. The ape-size bailiff reappeared, his hand gripping the arm of the much smaller prisoner.

    At his second glimpse of Miranda Wood, Chase was struck by how much paler she appeared than he remembered. And how much more fragile. The top of her head barely reached the bailiff’s shoulder. She was dressed unobtrusively, in a blue skirt and a simple white blouse, an outfit no doubt chosen by her attorney to make her look