Susanna Galway was already at her computer. "God, you look awful," she said.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Tell me you saw a skeleton in your apartment last night. That'd be great. We could take you to a shrink and forget the police."

"No such luck."

Tess set her satchel on the floor by her chair. She could barely remember what she had to do today. Any client meetings? Something with her printer, she recalled vaguely. Normally she kept everything clear in her head and didn't have to consult her calendar.

"I've been roaming around on the Internet for info on your buddy Ike and those two next door," Susanna said.

That sparked Tess's curiosity. "And?"

"Nothing new on Ike. The Globe ran a picture of him and Joanna Thorne after her death. He was a good-looking son of a bitch, wasn't he?"

"Don't use the past tense."

Susanna ignored her. "Were you attracted to him?"

"No, I never had any romantic interest in him. I don't think he had any in me, either." Tess sank onto her chair, her thighs sore from running, or from planting catnip with Dolly Thorne yesterday. Dolly didn't do anything by half measures. "Ike's always struck me as a rather sad character, if you want to know the truth."

"Heir to a fortune, handsome, physical, sails, plays tennis, climbs mountains, has women falling all over him-except Tess Haviland of Somerville, Massachusetts. Sure, your basic sad character." Susanna tapped a few keys on her computer. "I can see how he could end up buried in an old dirt cellar."

"Susanna."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting you like the guy. You want me to pour you a cup of coffee?"

Tess shook her head. "No, I'll get it. What did you find out about Harley Beckett and Andrew Thorne?"

"Andrew's in demand as an architect and contractor. Good reputation, at least nowadays. Quite the brawler in the past, if a profile of him in the Gloucester paper's to be believed." She rose, graceful as ever, even before eight in the morning, and crossed to the coffeepot. Tess hadn't moved fast enough. Susanna filled a mug with her super-strong brew and delivered it to Tess's desk. "Harley Beck-ett's another story."

Tess gratefully wrapped both hands around the hot coffee mug. "He's older than Andrew."

"And he volunteered for Vietnam."

"Volunteered? He wasn't drafted?"

"Nope. Signed up. He was shot late in his tour of duty. Had a rough time for a few years after he came home, then managed to get himself on the Gloucester police force. He stabilized, worked his way up to detective. Shot again a few years ago. Bank robbery. He ended up killing the guy who shot him." Susanna pushed back her dark hair with one hand, her expression serious, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. "It was some guy he grew up with."

"That must have been awful," Tess said inadequately.

"He quit and turned to furniture restoration a short time later."

"Ike Grantham had nothing to do with the bank robbery, I hope."

"No, but Beckett's done a lot of furniture restoration work for the Beacon Historic Project. He's mentioned on their Web site."

"I hate this," Tess whispered.

"Good. You should. Tess, not one thing about this mess sits right with me. You want my advice? Keep an open mind. Stay objective. Don't be a participant."

She thought of kissing Andrew and thinking of kitten names with his daughter, planting catnip with her. "Too late."

Susanna sighed heavily. "I know."

Andrew returned from a project site in Newburyport in time to meet Dolly on her way home from school. He was wet and muddy. Fog had settled in on the coast, and it had rained steadily since noon, a cold, miserable rain that felt more like early April than late May. On the whole, it fit his mood. He'd punished himself most of the day for letting himself get caught up in Tess Haviland's dramas. No woman he knew would have ventured into that cellar Friday night in the first place, cat or no cat. It was an indication, and not a good one, of the kind of personality with which he was dealing. In one weekend, she'd turned his calm corner by the sea upside down, with kittens and a skeleton and long, deep kisses.

He shook off the memory of the feel of her. That had been his doing, too, not just hers. He had misgivings, but he couldn't manage to summon up any regrets. If Tess marched into his office at the moment, damned if he wouldn't kiss her again.

He occupied the front and back rooms left of the center hall of a 1797 clapboard building in the village. It was not owned by the Beacon Historic Project, and thus he did not have to answer to Ike Grantham or Lauren Grantham Montague, just an ordinary landlord. He checked his messages, hearing Dolly calling hello to the real estate people on the other side of the building. She often stopped by on her way home from school. Harl, who accompanied her, would avoid coming inside if he possibly could, even in a nor'easter. He did so today, standing out in the rain. Just as well. Before heading to Newbury-port, Andrew had been to see Dolly's teacher.

His daughter burst into his office, a ray of sunlight, and jumped onto his lap. She was, at least, without a crown. She beamed at him. "Daddy, I went down the big slide today at recess!"

"That's what I hear."

"You know?"

She was indignant, even at six not one who appreciated anyone stealing her thunder. Andrew decided to get straight to the point. "I had a talk with your teacher today during lunch. Dolly, Miss Perez says you've been telling other children tall tales about Harl."

She frowned. "What's a tall tale?"

She knew what a tall tale was. They'd had a version of this conversation several times in her short six years. This was a stalling tactic, and Andrew didn't plan to let her get away with it. "You told the kids at school Harl's a bank robber."

Dolly hunched her shoulders and giggled, obviously pleased with herself, yet aware the adults in her life might not feel similarly.

Harl must have sensed they were talking about him. He showed up in the doorway, but didn't say a word.

"Dolly," Andrew said, "Harl's not a bank robber."

She uncovered her mouth and leaned in close to her father. She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "It was Chew-bee. She says he's a bank robber. She told the kids he got shot. Daddy, did Harl get shot?"

"That was a long time ago." Dolly had given up most of her make-believe friends in kindergarten, but not Chew-bee, most likely because she was handy to have around. Blaming Chew-bee was a sure sign that Dolly knew she'd stretched the truth beyond acceptable limits. "You need to stick to the truth, Dolly, okay? If you want to make up stories, that's fine, but you need to let your friends and teacher know they're made up."

"I don't make up stories. Chew-bee does." She looked next to her, as if someone was standing there, and frowned deeply, her brow furrowing. She pointed a finger. "Now, Chew-bee, don't make up stories!"

Andrew set her down, and she ran past Harl, off down the hall to visit everyone else in the building. She was a great favorite, and her people skills, Andrew hoped, would make up for her propensity for crowns and tall tales.

Harl slouched in the doorway, arms folded on his chest, tattoos showing. "Bank robber, huh? I bet Miss Perez loved that."

"Oh, yes. She did say she managed to nip the bowing and curtsying in the bud, and she appreciated not seeing Dolly in a crown today."

"Yeah, I had to peel it off her head. She was major-league pissed. I don't know what the hell's wrong with wearing a crown to school. Rita Perez is an ex-nun, you know. No sense of humor."

"She was very diplomatic." "I'm serious. An ex-nun." "Did you ask her if she's a former nun?" "No, but I can tell." "Harl, Dolly can't tell her friends you're a bank robber. She can't wear crowns to school. She can't make her friends bow and curtsy. That's got nothing to do with whether or not Rita Perez was ever a nun."