Everything went onto the table.

At the bottom of the box lay a book and several envelopes. Choosing a large brown one, I unwound the string and dumped the contents into my lap.

Snapshots. Grainy and fading to sepia at the borders. Scooping them up, I worked my way through.

Every photo included the same blond woman. Upturned nose, freckles, a classic Little House on the Prairie face.

In some shots, the woman was alone. In others, she was with Cruikshank. In a few, the two were part of a larger group. Christmas party. Ski trip. Picnic. Based on hairstyles and clothing, I guessed the photos had been taken in the late seventies or early eighties.

I checked the back of each print. Only one had writing. In it Cruikshank and the woman wore swimsuits and lay side by side on a blanket, chins propped on their fists. I read the notation: Noble and Shannon, Myrtle Beach, July 1976.

I picked up the last photo. Noble and Shannon, smiling like the world would always be young. I was not smiling. My mind was circling to a very dark place.

This Kodak moment captured Cruikshank and Shannon facing each other, hands outstretched, fingers intertwined. She was wearing a short white sundress and flowers in her hair. He was in a pale blue jacket. Above their heads, a banner identified the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. In front of them, down on one knee and mugging for the camera, was a faux Elvis, complete with shades and sequined white satin jumpsuit.

I stared at the image, a frozen moment at the birth of a doomed marriage. Once a treasured memento, the picture had become nothing more than a memory packed away in an old brown envelope.

My eyes wandered to Pete. I felt my lids burn. I wrested my gaze back. It fell on Cruikshank's possessions. Small comfort.

These items represented a life, a man who had enjoyed friendship, served his country, been a cop, played baseball, married. A man who had, in spite of it all, chosen to end that life.

Or had he?

My eyes dropped to the Myrtle Beach photo. Shannon and Noble. A marriage lost. A life lost.

On-screen, someone asked Hope if he thought Goddard should sell the castle.

"My advice is to keep the castle and sell the ghosts."

The sound of Pete's laughter pierced the armor of my phony nonchalance. How many times had he laughed with me? Clowned for me? Bought flowers when we had no money? Done the underpants dance when I was angry? Why had the laughter stopped? When?

Looking down at the heartrending collection spread before me, I was overwhelmed by the ruin of Noble and Shannon. By the finality of Cruikshank's death. By the calamity of my own lost marriage. By the confusion of emotions churning inside me.

I lost it.

Chest heaving, I pushed from the couch.

" Tempe?" Pete. Confused.

I stumbled over Cruikshank's box and lunged from the room, mindless of where I was going.

Ocean air. Stars. Life.

I threw open the front door and raced down the steps.

Pete was right behind me. In the front yard, he grasped one of my shoulders, spun me, and wrapped me in a hug.

"It's OK. Hey, Tempe. It's OK." Stroking my hair.

At first I resisted, then I yielded. Pressing my cheek to Pete's chest, I let the tears come.

I'm not sure how long we stood there, me sobbing, Pete making comforting noises.

Seconds, maybe eons, later a vehicle rolled up Ocean Drive, paused, then turned in at "Sea for Miles." I looked up. Silvery white moonlight illuminated the interior enough to show that the driver was alone.

The vehicle came to a stop. Maybe a Jeep? A small SUV?

I felt Pete tense as the driver's door opened. A man got out and circled the hood. I could see that the man was tall and thin.

And something more.

Oh, God!

The man froze, a silhouette in the headlights.

My heart flew into my throat.

Before I could call out, the man retraced his steps, slid behind the wheel, threw the car into reverse, and gunned down the drive.

I watched the beams swing wide.

Tires squealed.

The taillights shrank to tiny red specks.

15

HEART BANGING, I DOUBLE-STEPPED THE STAIRS, RACED INTO THE house, grabbed my cell, and hit a speed-dial key.

The phone rang four times, then an answering service cut in.

And delivered a message in French and English.

I punched again, missed, fingers clumsy with agitation. Repunched.

Same result.

"Pickup, damn it!"

"Just tell me who he was." Pete was following as I paced from room to room. Boyd was trailing Pete.

I hit the R on my speed dial a third time.

A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I was attempting to reach was unavailable.

"Go ahead. Turn yourself off!"

I hurled the phone. It bounced from the couch to the floor. Boyd ran over to sniff the offending object.

"Talk to me." Pete was speaking in that tone psychiatrists use to calm hysterical patients. "Who was that?"

Deep breaths. Steady. I turned to face him.

"Andrew Ryan."

A moment of mental Rolodexing. "The cop from Quebec?"

I nodded.

"Why would he show up then split without saying a word?"

"He saw us together."

More cerebral linking. Synapse. "So you two are-" Pete raised both brows, pointed to me, then toward the driveway where Ryan had been.

I nodded.

"Looked bad?" he asked.

"What do you think?"

I dialed Ryan twice more. His cell remained off.

I performed my nightly toilette with robotic detachment. Cleanser. Moisturizer. Toothpaste.

We're not sophomores going steady, I told myself. We're adults. Ryan is a reasonable man. I'll explain. We'll both laugh.

But would Monsieur Macho allow me the chance?

Lying in bed, I felt the weight of doubt in my gut. I took a long time to fall asleep.

By nine the next morning I wanted to turn my own cell off.

No. I wanted to pulverize it, then flush the plastic and metal bits into the sewer system of some remote Third World country. Bangladesh would do. Or maybe one of the Stans.

The first call came at 7:55.

"Morning, ma'am. Dickie Dupree."

That was it for Southern pleasantries.

"Just checked my e-mail."

"You're up early today, Mr. Dupree."

"Found this report of yours. Now I'm looking toward dealing with a pack of dimwit bureaucrats."

"You're welcome, sir. I thought you'd appreciate a copy."

"What I don't appreciate is your telling folks up at the state capital that I got priceless relics on my land."

"That's not exactly what I told them."

"Comes damn close. Report like this can cause me delays. And delays can cause me a world of hurt."

"It's unfortunate if my findings adversely affect your project," I said. "My job was to describe honestly what I found."

"This country's going to hell 'cause of crap like this. Economy's in the toilet. People are screaming there's no work, nowhere to live. I provide jobs, put up decent housing. What do I get for my efforts? Horseshit like this."

On Dewees, Dupree was putting up million-dollar beach homes for the overindulged. I didn't say it.

"Now some cracker-ass fool with more degrees than brains is going to come down here and declare my property some kinda heritage site."

"I'm sorry if my findings inconvenience you."

"Inconvenience? That how you see it?"

The question seemed rhetorical, so I didn't reply.

"Your meddling could hand me a damn sight more than inconvenience."

I used my steely voice again. "You might have requested a cultural resource assessment before agreeing to develop the land."

"We'll see who's inconvenienced, Miz Brennan. I, too, have friends. Unlike your pals, these boys ain't paper-pushing eggheads."