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you think about it, please, Mrs. Vorhees. I’m staying at Thelma’s Bed and Breakfast.” He turned as the front doorbell jingled. A middle-aged woman came in. Unlike Martha, this one was dressed like a gypsy, a red scarf tied around her head, thick wool socks and Birkenstocks on her feet. She was wearing a long skirt that looked organic and a dark red wool jacket. Her eyes were dark and very beautiful. She had to be the youngest citizen in the town.
    â€œHello, Sherry,” she said. “I’ll relieve you now.”
    â€œThanks, Amabel. Oh, this is James Quinlan. Mr. Quinlan, this is Amabel Perdy. He’s a real private detective from Los Angeles, Amabel. He’s here to try to find out what happened to an old couple who might have come through The Cove to buy ice cream. What was their name? Oh, yes, Harve and Marge.”
    Amabel raised her dark gypsy eyebrows at him. She was very still, didn’t say anything, just looked at him, completely at ease.
    So this was the aunt. How fortunate that she was here and not at home, where he hoped to find Sally Brainerd. Amabel Perdy, an artist, an old hippie, a former schoolteacher. He knew she was a widow, had been married to another artist she’d met in SoHo many decades ago. His art had never amounted to much. He’d died some seventeen years ago. James also knew now that she’d turned down Purn Davies. He noted she didn’t look anything like her niece.
    â€œI don’t remember any old folk named Harve and Marge,” Amabel said. “I’m going in the back to change now, Sherry. Ring out, okay?”
    She was the best liar yet. He tamped down his dratted curiosity. It didn’t matter. Sally Brainerd was the only thing that mattered.
    â€œHow’s your little niece doing, Amabel?”
    Amabel wished Sherry wouldn’t drink so much iced tea. It made her run off at the mouth. But she said pleasantly, “She’s doing better. She was so exhausted from her trip.”
    â€œYes, of course.” Sherry Vorhees continued to sip out of that big plastic tumbler and smile at James. That English actor’s name was Timothy Dalton. Beautiful man. She liked James Quinlan even better. “There’s not much to do here in The Cove. I don’t know if you’ll last out the week.”
    â€œWho knows?” James said, tossed his napkin into the white trash bin, and left the ice cream shop.
    His next stop was Amabel Perdy’s house, the small white one on the corner of Main Street and Conroy Street. Time to get it done.
    When he knocked on the trim white door, he heard a crash from inside. It sounded as though a piece of furniture had been knocked down. He knocked louder. He heard a woman’s cry of terror.
    He turned the knob, found the door was locked. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed really hard. The door burst inward.
    He saw Susan St. John Brainerd on her knees on the floor, the telephone lying beside her. He could hear the buzz of the dial tone. Her fist was stuffed in her mouth. She’d probably terrified herself when she screamed—that or she was afraid someone would hear her. Well, he had, and here he was.
    She stared at him as he flew into Amabel’s small living room, huddled herself against the wall like he was going to shoot her, jerked her fist out of her mouth, and screamed again.
    Really loud.

FOUR
    â€œStop screaming,” he yelled at her. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
    Sally knew this was it. She’d never seen him before. He wasn’t old like everyone else in this town. He didn’t belong here. He’d tracked her here. He was here to drag her back to Washington or force her to go back to that horrible place. Yes, he could work for Beadermeyer, he probably did. She couldn’t go back there. She stared at the big man who was now standing over her, looking at her strangely, as if he was really concerned, but she knew he