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like a horse, twitched like a mouse and was absolutely unforgiving if you neglected to take him on his twice-daily walk. He would stand by the door and whine.
    The way he was doing now.
    Oh, Miss St. John knew that look. Even if she couldn’t actually see the beast’s eyes under all that fur, she knew what the look meant. Sighing, she opened the door. The black bundle of fur practically shot down the porch steps and took off for the woods. Miss St. John had no choice but to follow him, and so off into the woods she went.
    It was a warm evening, one of those still, sweet twilights that seem kissed with midsummer magic. She would not be surprised to see something extraordinary tonight. A doe and fawn, perhaps, or a fox cub, or even an owl.
    She moved steadily through the trees in pursuit of the dog. She noticed they were headed in a direct line toward Rose Hill Cottage, the Tremains’ summer camp. Such a tragedy, Richard Tremain’s death.
    She hadn’t particularly liked the man, but theirs were the last two cottages on this lonely road, and on her walks here she had occasionally seen him through his window, his head bent in concentration at his desk. He’d always been polite to her, and deferential, but she’d suspected much of it was automatic and not, in any sense, true respect. He’d had no use for elderly women; he simply tolerated them.
    But as for young women, well, she’d heard that was a different story.
    It troubled her, these recent revelations about his death. Not so much the fact of his murder, but the identity of the one accused. Miss St. John had met Miranda Wood, had spoken to her on several occasions. On this small island, in the dead of winter, only green thumb fanatics braved the icy roads to attend meetings of the local garden club. That’s where Miss St. John had met Miranda. They’d sat together during a lecture on triploid marigolds, and again at the talk on gloxinia cultivation. Miranda was polite and deferential, but genuinely so. A lovely girl, not a hint of dishonesty in her eyes. It seemed to Miss St. John that any woman who cared so passionately about flowers, about living, growing things, could simply not be a murderess.
    It bothered her, all that cruel talk flying about town these days. Miranda Wood, a killer? It went against Miss St. John’s instincts, and her instincts were always, always good.
    Ozzie bounded through the last stand of trees and shot off toward Rose Hill Cottage. Miss St. John resignedly followed suit. That’s when she saw the light flickering through the trees. It came from the Tremain cottage. Just as quickly, it vanished.
    At once she froze as an eerie thought flashed to mind. Ghosts? Richard was the only one who ever used that cottage. But he’s dead.
    The rational side of her brain, the side that normally guided Miss St. John’s day-to-day existence, took control. It must be one of the family, of course. Evelyn, perhaps, come to wrap up her husband’s affairs.
    Still, Miss St. John couldn’t shake off her uneasiness.
    She crossed the driveway and went up the front porch steps. “Hello?” she called. “Evelyn? Cassie?” There was no answer to her knock.
    She tried to peer in the window, but it was dark inside. “Hello?” she called again, louder. She thought she heard, from somewhere in the cottage, a soft thud. Then—silence.
    Ozzie began to bark. He danced around on the porch, his claws tip-tapping on the wood.
    “Oh, hush!” snapped Miss St. John. “Sit!”
    The dog whined, sat, and gave her a distinctly wounded look.
    Miss St. John stood there a moment, listening for more sounds, but she heard nothing except the whap-whap of Ozzie’s 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