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but Robert Trevor’s studio was right where she said it would be, at the edge of the village where the dirt road ended and one of the island’s dozen or so hiking trails began. Martin had watched Beth disappear up another of these half an hour ago, purposely waiting until he was sure she hadn’t forgotten something and wouldn’t return until early evening.
    Trevor’s studio was unmarked except for a tiny sign with his last name to the left of the door, which was open. Martin was about to knock on the screen door when he heard a loud crash from around back of the house. There, on the elevated deck, Martin found a large man with a flowing mane of silver hair, dressed in paint-splattered jeans and an unbuttoned denim work shirt. He was teetering awkwardly on one knee, his other leg stretched out stiffly in front of him like a prosthesis, trying to prop up a rickety three-legged table with its splintered fourth leg. Jelly jars and paintbrushes were strewn everywhere. One small jar, which according to its label had originally contained artichoke hearts, had described a long, wet arc over the sloping deck and come to a teetering pause at the top of the steps before thumping down all five, coming to rest at Martin’s feet.
    He picked it up and waited for Robert Trevor—clearly this man was the artist himself—to take notice of him. The wooden leg fell off again as soon as the man, with considerable difficulty, got back to his feet and tested the table. “All right, be that way,” he said, tossing the leg aside and collapsing into a chair that didn’t look much sturdier than the table. It groaned under his considerable weight, but ultimately held. Martin saw that Robert Trevor was sweating and his forehead was smudged with several different colors of paint from his palette. There was an easel set up next to the table, and Trevor studied the halffinished canvas resting there, a landscape, as if rickety furniture were the least of his problems.
    It took him a minute to sense Martin’s presence at the foot of his deck, and even then he didn’t react with as much surprise as Martin himself would have displayed had their situations been reversed. The painter nodded at Martin as if he’d been expecting him, and he did not get up. “You,” he said, running his fingers through his hair, “would be Laura’s husband.”
    â€œMartin.”
    â€œRight, Martin.”
    â€œJoyce called you?”
    Trevor snorted. “I don’t have a phone. That’s one of the many beauties of this place.” He paused to let this vaguely political observation sink in. “No, the sun went behind a cloud and I looked over and there you were. I made the connection.”
    Okay, Martin thought. So that’s the way it’s going to be.
    The sun
had
disappeared behind a cloud in that instant, and Martin thought of Beth walking along the cliffs on the back side of the island. She’d be disappointed now, lacking an excuse to sunbathe topless.
    â€œI’m going to need that, Martin,” the painter told him, indicating the artichoke jar.
    â€œCan I come up?” Martin asked.
    â€œHave you come to murder me?” Trevor asked. “Did you bring a gun?”
    Martin shook his head. “No, no gun. I just came to have a look at you,” he said, pleased that this statement so nicely counterbalanced in its unpleasantness the painter’s own remark about the sun.
    Trevor apparently appreciated the measured response as well. “Well, I guess I’ll have to trust you,” he replied, finally struggling to his feet.
    Martin climbed the steps to the deck, where there was an awkward moment since neither man seemed to relish the notion of shaking hands.
    â€œThere’s another of those jars under the table, if you feel nimble,” the man said. “I could do it myself but it would take me an hour.”
    Martin fetched that jar and two others