"Luke never said anything about the visit?"

"No. Never. I decided I wouldn't, either. Patrick West and Luke were friends. I convinced myself the visit had nothing to do with Patrick's murder."

J.B. waited. She wasn't finished. There was more. Zoe must have sensed the lies and deceptions, the secrets, in her hometown last year. That was why she'd pushed so hard, because the answers were there and she knew it. He'd bet Stick Monroe was one of the people who'd talked her into backing off.

Betsy breathed out, her teeth chattering now, more from nervousness, J.B. thought, than the weather. "Patrick knew Olivia had a soft spot for Luke. We all tried to do right by her. She was so old, such a force in our lives, his perhaps most of all. He never knew his father. Olivia was his only connection to his father-" She caught herself. "I'm being overly dramatic."

This time J.B. spoke. "Do you think Olivia put Patrick up to seeing Luke that night?"

"Not that directly. If Patrick suspected Luke or Kyle of doing something illegal-"

"Selling a gun to Teddy Shelton."

She nodded. "He'd go the extra mile with them, for her sake."

J.B. could feel his physical activity of yesterday and last night-kayaking, chasing bad guys, lovemak-ing-catching up with him. He needed food, more coffee, a few more hours of sleep. But he wouldn't get them, not yet.

"Betsy, you were with Olivia before she died." She gasped. "Zoe told you? She said she didn't want to tell anyone!"

Well, well. J.B. hadn't expected this one. "Tell me what, Betsy?"

"Oh-oh, damn. You didn't know. It's not like it matters. Olivia was rambling. She was confused."

"About what?"

Betsy lowered her eyes. "I shouldn't tell you."

"You've gone this far. If you don't tell me, I'll just drag it out of Zoe."

"Olivia was convinced she knew who the killer was," Betsy said, almost mumbling. "She was frustrated because she couldn't tell us the name-she blamed her short-term memory. She wouldn't let go of it."

J.B. grimaced at the thought of an old woman wrestling with such a demon, on her deathbed, no less."She died thinking she knew the identity of her nephew's killer?"

"There was no point in saying anything once she was gone. She was very elderly, and she was dying. I'm sure her shock and grief played into it. She was so convinced. It was sad more than anything else."

Zoe would blame herself for telling her aunt about her nephew's murder-for not letting her die in peace. What a thing to live with. But J.B. stayed focused on Betsy O'Keefe, the nurse and caregiver, the plain woman people underestimated. "I want you to go back to the docks and tell the police everything you just told me. Tell them I think Kyle saw Teddy Shelton throw the grenade and came out to confront him and Shelton snatched him. Tell them I think Stick Monroe's going to kill Shelton and make it look like it was Luke." He paused, but he knew he was right. "They'll know what to do."

"What about you? What are you going to do?"

But J.B. walked her to her car without answering, helped her behind the wheel and made her repeat back to him what he'd told her to do. The police would call in a tactical unit to deal with Shelton, Kyle Castellane and Stick Monroe. They'd all do their jobs.

J.B. stood back from the car. "Tell them to hang on to Zoe." Monroe was her friend, her mentor-this wouldn't be easy. "I'll grab Bruce and get there as soon as I can."

Betsy nodded, and J.B. was surprised to see she looked less shaken and out of control now that she had a mission to accomplish. "I'll do my best."

As she backed out, Bruce called from the brush and birches between the lobster pound and the cottage. "You've got to see this. Jesus."

J.B. joined him in the tangle of wet, flopping undergrowth.

For the first time, Bruce Young actually looked shaken. He pointed to an apple crate half covered in a black tarp. "Check this shit out, J.B. Isn't that a goddamn submachine gun?"

"MP5." J.B. kicked the tarp off and took in the rounds of ammunition, grenades, handguns, most of it illegal to own even if Shelton wasn't a convicted felon. "When you look at what he left behind, it makes you wonder what he took with him, doesn't it?"

Bruce made a face. "Bastard's armed to the fucking teeth. I'm thinking he took what he could and rowed over to the docks. Leave his truck here, leave the arsenal, misdirect the cops with the stun grenade, keep them on the docks for a while."

J.B. gave him a grim smile. "You're getting good at this."

"I just want to catch lobsters, you know?"

Bruce flipped the tarp back over the apple crate. He had drops of sweat on his upper lip. This wasn't his life,

J.B. thought. Illegal weapons, murder. He looked down at the apple crate of Teddy Shelton's prized possessions. "We need to call this in."

"Yeah, sure." Bruce was breathing hard, having trouble taking it all in. He gave the crate a slight kick. "This stuff's small potatoes compared to that last undercover operation of yours, isn't it?"

"Those guys had rocket-propelled grenades. They wanted an Apache helicopter." Bruce made a stab at a smile. "Teddy'll be jealous, knowing you've seen scarier shit than his stuff." "It all works," J.B. said, and got out his cell phone. "It all kills."

Thirty-Two

The naked lightbulb at the top of the attic stairs cut through the gloom of the bleak, gray morning. Zoe sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled open the box she'd packed up after her aunt died. Christina sat next to her. They hadn't said a word since they'd opened the attic door and started up the steep steps.

Zoe had no idea if they'd find anything. Maybe she and her sister were grasping at straws. At this point, why not? It was better than grasping at nothing.

After she'd relayed Betsy's story to Donna Jacobs, who would then relay the information to the state detectives and appropriate federal agents, Zoe had gone back to the café, diving into a warm apple-cinnamon muffin, telling herself that was what she needed to do. Sit there and eat muffins. Stay out of the way.

But the café was deserted, and Christina came out from behind her counter with a muffin of her own. Zoe mentioned that Kyle could have asked her anytime about looking in their great-aunt's attic-he could have sneaked in anytime. Why now?

Christina, apparently, had asked that very question when they'd argued last night. He'd been working on the documentary for months. Why the sudden urgency?

"Then I knew," Christina said. "Damn. I knew it was because of me."

At first, Zoe had no idea what Christina was talking about. Then she guessed it-she could see it in her sis-ter's expression, knew it because she was her sister. "You know about Aunt Olivia."

"I saw her before she died," Christina said. "She told me she knew who'd killed Dad. She was so convinced, Zoe. It was unbearable. I tried to reassure her. Then she died-and I didn't say anything to you because you didn't say anything to me. If you didn't know, it'd just upset you."

"And what does Kyle think, that Aunt Olivia left a clue behind?"

Christina was positive that was exactly what Kyle thought. "He's read all of her Jen Periwinkle novels. He says Aunt Olivia was a master at dropping clues. He couldn't believe she'd die without letting us know somehow who Dad's killer is. He wanted to find it so he could do this big ‘ta-da' presentation. You know, like Jen Periwinkle."

Zoe didn't tell her that if Kyle believed there was a clue, he hadn't gone looking for it because of his documentary. He wanted to make sure it didn't finger his father-or him. Not that either was guilty.

She dug into the box she'd put away last year, after the memorial services, after Betsy had moved out, before she'd gone completely off the deep end. She'd collected up the papers on the kitchen table, junk mail, several versions her aunt had done of her own obituary, at least two false starts on a new Jen Periwinkle novel, letters. Nothing looked like anything Zoe needed to save, but she'd left the box for another day, one that hadn't come until now.