Juliet laughed. “That’s what we all think when we see Nate, isn’t it? Here’s a safe guy. Hang in there, okay? They’re both adults. Worse thing that can happen is your sister gets pregnant and has a little Nate-or little Nate twins, since they run in the family.”

“I wish I had the strength to throw something at you.” Rob settled his gray eyes on her, a reminder that beneath the southern charm and easygoing facade was a serious, experienced federal law enforcement officer. “Be careful.”

“Of course.”

“Think of me languishing up here while you’re eating prune cake and drinking sweet tea punch on the porch.”

“Trust me,” she said, “I’m not eating anything called prune cake.”

“You already have. I made it to celebrate my assignment up here.”

“You said it was spice cake with caramel frosting.”

“Prune cake. I didn’t want to prejudice you.”

“Gross.”

“You loved it.”

She’d loved him. But it hadn’t worked, the two of them in the same district. She was more ambitious than he was-hell, a frog was more ambitious. “I’m glad we’ve stayed friends.”

He winked at her in the way that used to make her want to jump his bones. It didn’t anymore. It just made her feel good. “Me, too.”

Twenty-Nine

Nate left Sarah digging through old pictures and yearbooks and found Brooker on the small front porch of the cottage, a green-painted kitchen chair tilted back as he strummed on an acoustic guitar. It sounded as if he knew how to play.

“You want to tell me who you are?” Nate asked.

“I’m the gardener.” Brooker looked up from his guitar, an old one, nothing about him suggesting he gave a damn whether Nate planned to cuff him on the spot. “Go ahead. Check me out.”

He already had. “The Dunnemores hired you in early April after they found you trespassing. What were you doing here?”

“Fishing.” He tweaked a middle string on his guitar, making a twanging sound, and dropped his chair back down onto all four legs. “I didn’t shoot you. I was here with Sarah when her brother called. I didn’t hire anyone to shoot you. What other people did or didn’t do, I can’t speak for.”

“You were questioned in your wife’s murder.”

Brooker kept his stony gaze on Nate. “Well, good for you, Deputy. You’ve done your homework. I was questioned. Dutch authorities still don’t have a suspect in custody.” The muscles in his arms tensed visibly, as if he wanted to snap the guitar in two. “It’s been eight months. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Your wife was an army captain based in Germany. She worked in intelligence.” Nate remained on the grass, still damp from overnight showers. “You’re a West Point graduate and an army major yourself. Special Forces. Your missions are all classified, but you’re supposed to be one of the best at what you do.”

Brooker got up with his guitar, holding it by its neck. “I’m not in the army anymore. I quit in March. I didn’t give the Dunnemores my history because it’s complicated and they didn’t ask. I’m trying to get on with my life.”

“You didn’t use an alias.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Your wife was killed in Amsterdam. The Dunnemores-”

“I know. Amsterdam. They left town just before Char was killed. The rest is coincidence.”

Nate didn’t believe him. Brooker was an adept actor and liar. “Why Night’s Landing?”

He shrugged. “I had reason to believe the Dunnemores were among the last people to see my wife alive. I wanted to ask them how she was, what they talked about. I never did.”

“Doing a little investigating of your own?”

“Trying to make peace with myself. Char and I-we didn’t see much of each other the two years before she died. Twenty-one days total, to be exact. I wanted to find a way to connect with her after she’d died. The Dunnemores took me for a down-and-out type. After meeting them, I realized they wouldn’t know anything about Char, her murder. I don’t know, I was a wreck. I just started in with the good ol’ boy act, and here I am.”

Nate didn’t know what of what Brooker said was true and what was bullshit. The man had his own agenda, but who could blame him? “Nicholas Janssen?”

“I read the papers, that’s all.” Brooker opened the front door to the cottage, no sign he was veering out of control, ready to rip it off its hinges; but that could be his military training and experience. “Relax, Deputy, I’m on your side. Whatever’s going on, Sarah’s up to her eyeballs in it. Look after her. I’ll look after myself.”

He walked into the cottage and let the door bang shut behind him.

Nate returned to the house, going around to the back where a half-dozen fat bumblebees hovered in a sprawling rosebush thick with pale pink blossoms. He smelled frying onions, heard the sizzle of something Sarah had dumped into her frying pan. When he entered the kitchen, she smiled at him as if he’d just come in from working in the garden and all in her life was normal. A defense mechanism. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she broke up raw hamburger into her frying pan.

“I found some hamburger in the freezer, so I’m making a casserole,” she said. “Egg noodles, hamburger, tomato sauce, cheese, green olives. It’s another of my grandmother’s recipes.”

Nate said nothing. He could feel the weight of the bandage on his arm, a steady throb that reminded him he hadn’t taken any Tylenol that morning and that nothing about this scene was ordinary.

“She lived well into her eighties,” Sarah went on. “I guess her cooking didn’t kill her. She worked hard all her life, right up to her last days. She endured so many tragedies.”

The telephone rang, but Nate picked up the extension before Sarah could get to it. “Dunnemore residence.”

“Nate? Hell, you sound like a butler.” It was Rob, more alert than he had since the shooting. “You’re the one I want to talk to, anyway. Juliet’s on her way down there. Getting snatched this morning threw her.”

“What the hell does she want down here?”

“To talk to you. You might want to sit on her when she gets there.”

No kidding. Nate glanced at Sarah, who was now using a spatula to break up the hamburger in the frying pan. It was smoking, sizzling, but he had no illusions-she was listening to every word he said. He hadn’t told her yet what he’d learned about their “gardener” from his own sources. He wasn’t sure if he would, or if he’d tell Rob. He’d told Joe Collins, not that the FBI agent had returned the favor and told him anything.

“Talk to me about Conroy Fontaine,” Nate said.

He could see Sarah stiffen, but her brother didn’t seem to be caught off guard. “He checks out as a reporter from Memphis,” Rob said. “That’s as far as I got. I was going to dig deeper after he tracked my folks down in Amsterdam. Where is he now?”

“Last we saw, smoking cigarettes with an old fisherman.”

“What else?” Rob asked. “There’s more, Nate. I can tell.”

“Fontaine had a picture of Nicholas Janssen with him. Name ring a bell with you?”

“Yeah, sure. Rich tax evader on the lam in Switzerland.”

“He and your mother and President Poe all spent their freshman year together at Vanderbilt.”

Rob was silent. Sarah turned off the heat under her frying pan and shoved it aside, her attempt to distract herself obviously failing her. Her ponytail had nearly worked itself out of its covered rubber band.

“Sarah?” her brother asked.

“Hanging in there.”

“My parents will be in New York tonight. Maybe they can straighten this out.”

Nate went ahead and filled him in on what he’d learned about Ethan Brooker.

“This all could be a coincidence,” Rob said quietly. “My parents have a way of attracting drama to them. A rich tax evader, a reporter looking for a bombshell, this character Brooker maybe grasping at straws-what a mess. But they don’t necessarily have anything to do with the attack on us. I get to sit here and blow into this air thing, and you get to hang out on the river and wait for Longstreet to show up. And the FBI. They’ll be back knocking on your door soon.”