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birds: herring gulls; laughing gulls; two cormorants, portentous black creatures, necks bent like shepherds’ crooks as they landed on the rocks; arctic terns, streamlined and elegant, swooping gracefully among their gull cousins. She watched as one lone tern hovered over the water, then suddenly plunged headfirst after a fish. A hundred years ago, this tern would have been prey, not predator. Pix’s mother invariably mentioned it at least once a season when watching the birds dart and dive. Thousands at a time were killed in their summer nesting grounds and island women were hired to skin them, preparing them for the New York feather market to grace a hat or trim a dress. The terns were saved from extinction just in the nick of time by the first Audubon Societies and legislation controlling the plumage trade.
    The terns were summer people. They were from “away” and had nested on the islands at their own peril. The corpse lying here under the sky, was it someone from away, as well? Someone unknown and unfamiliar to the island who could vanish without a trace? Vanish as the terns nearly had?
    Samantha must surely be at the Hamiltons’ house by now.
    Think of other things.
    It was almost July, but the long hard winter buffeting the island with snow and heavy rains until late April had delayed the already-short growing season even further. And now it was dry. There wouldn’t be the traditional fresh peas to go with salmon for the Fourth of July. No one had been able to sow much of anything Memorial Day weekend because the weather had been so bad. Pix imagined what her garden would look like in August: green tomatoes that she’d have to bring back to Aleford to ripen between sheets of newspaper; lettuce; too many zucchini; the eggplant was doubtful—Her pessimistic reverie was interrupted by a loud shout.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here!”
    She hadn’t heard anyone approach, and it was obviously not Freeman Hamilton, Samantha, or Sergeant Dickinson.

    She jumped to her feet and ran in the direction of the shore, with some notion of trying to attract attention from a passing sailboat.
    The tethered dogs were barking their heads off. As she raced down the slope toward the beach, her heart pounding with fear and from the exertion, she glanced back at the animals and caught sight of the intruder. It was Seth Marshall, glowering. His long dark hair, heavy mustache, and the anger in his eyes made him look like a pirate from a children’s book illustration.
    Pix stopped abruptly and turned around. Her own anger of an hour ago returned full force, fueled in addition by the fright he had given her.
    â€œWhat do you mean what am I doing here? How about what the hell you were supposed to be doing here? I thought you were building a house. The foundation isn’t even poured!”
    Her voice was booming and she was almost face-to-face with him before she collected herself. Seth Marshall knew when and where the concrete foundation was going to be poured. Seth Marshall had a handy pickup filled with shovels and all sorts of other digging equipment. Seth Marshall’s mother was a quilter.
    â€œI didn’t know it was you.” He was almost apologizing. “Don’t want people messing around out here.”
    â€œWhen were you here last?” She wanted some information before she broke the news.
    â€œLook, Pix, I can’t afford to turn work down. I told the Fairchilds that when they hired me. I’ve got to make enough in the spring and summer to last me all year. The Athertons needed some repairs at the camp before they could open and I’ve been over there the last few weeks. And I’ve been finishing a cottage for some people on the reach road. But we’ll be here every daylight hour from now on. The soil is good and dry. We’ll be able to get everything done, even the floor, by
the end of the week. The Fairchilds will have their place before Labor