I waved to the onlookers and said everything was fine and they should go back to their workshops. Dinah glanced toward her people clustered on the path and stepped closer to me.

“We were on our way to the deck by the social hall for another outdoor writing exercise. What happened?” She turned away and called out to her writers to go on ahead and to pick out a tree and describe it. “Okay, tell me everything, and don’t leave out any details.”

I started with what I’d found out about Izabelle.

“So, Izabelle was a twin,” Dinah said, her eyes sparkling with interest. “A twin who didn’t like being a twin. No doubt that was why she made herself over. That would end her being a mirror image of someone. Izabelle probably isn’t her real name, either.”

I moved on to what I’d overheard, along with possibly saving Adele’s life.

“Hmm, so Mr. Futterman’s charm was as fake as mine,” she said. “If he thinks he’s going to keep me around to pump more information from-” She stopped. “All I talked about was Adele stepping into Izabelle’s shoes.” Dinah stopped and seemed worried. “I hope it isn’t something I said that made them want to shoot Adele.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“Maybe I did say something about Adele thinking Izabelle had stolen her work.”

I shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter. Adele wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to warn her.”

“What about calling Sergeant French and telling him about the threat?”

“I couldn’t even explain it to Adele without realizing how ridiculous it sounds. So, no, I’m not going to call Sergeant French. He already thinks I’m nuts.”

Dinah squeezed my hand in support and then went on to catch up with her writers. By then the onlookers had realized there was nothing to see and the path was deserted. The air was silvery with the morning haze and the light was flat. I didn’t even have my shadow as company as I walked down the path away from the low building housing the crochet and knitting meeting rooms.

I clutched the rhinestone clipboard to my chest and hung my head. That last little fiasco wasn’t helping my image as the person in charge. I thought coming up with the emergency drill excuse was pretty creative, though, and people seemed to buy it. At least the workshops all seemed to be a success. I sighed. But time was running out to figure out who killed Izabelle. There was just lunch, the afternoon sessions, and the last night party. After breakfast the next morning everyone would start to scatter, and Sergeant French would probably give up and say an unknown person may have been on the beach with Izabelle.

I walked up the hill to the Lodge building. Even the smell of pine trees and the air fresh off the ocean didn’t cheer me up. Somebody was going to get away with murder if I didn’t get going.

The housekeepers had finished their duties and were rolling their cart down the first-floor hall as I came in. The building was quiet as I walked up the stairs and down the hall toward my room. When I got inside, I sat down on the bed and checked my cell phone, which was now fully charged. I’d been in a hurry when I dropped it off and hadn’t checked my voice mail, but now I had time. Three calls from Barry, starting late last night and ending early this morning. He’d sounded more and more upset with each message. I punched in his number and held my breath.

“Greenberg,” he answered in his all-business voice. As soon as he heard it was me, his voice softened only as long as it took to say my name, then it went right to agitated.

“Where were you?” he demanded. “Or should I say who were you with?”

“I was snug in my bed alone,” I said, rolling my eyes. “My phone’s battery ran down and I didn’t realize it until this morning.”

There was silence on his end and I knew he was evaluating what I’d said. One of the drawbacks of being involved with a cop is that he’s used to dealing with people who don’t always tell the truth. By now I knew what he was waiting for. Would I gush forth with too many details? Like saying I’d had my phone where I couldn’t see it and therefore had missed its flashing screen before it shut down, and talking about what time I went to bed and what time I’d gotten up and how quiet the room was, since I was all alone? Too many details spelled cover-up to him.

Two could play that game, so I just said nothing until he finally spoke, apparently accepting my excuse as being true.

“Babe, I just want you to know I had nothing to do with your new residents.”

“Whoa,” I said, “what are you talking about?”

“The two cats.”

I asked the obvious question. “What two cats?”

The story unfolded that when Barry had stopped by the first time to let the dogs out and make sure everything was okay, there had been two cats sleeping on a lounge chair in the backyard. But when he’d come by late last night, the cats had been inside and there were some cat bowls, cat food, a cat box and even some cat toys on the floor in my crochet room, which, according to Barry, seemed to have become cat central. And as far as he could tell, all my yarn was okay, but then who could tell, since it always seemed to be all over the place?

“Cats? What kind of cats?” I said as visions of a yarn nightmare danced through my mind.

“They look like the regular kind to me. One of them is black and white and the other is kind of gray. I’m guessing they have something to do with the stuff accumulating in your front hall. Did I mention there were some chairs along with the cartons?”

“You mentioned cat bowls and cat food separately. Is there some cat food in the cat bowls and some water? You said a cat box, too, right?”

“Don’t worry. Everybody seems to have lots of whatever they need.”

“I’ll have to deal with everything when I get back.” A little weariness crept into my voice and Barry picked up on it immediately.

“Not much fun without me, is it?” he said in a teasing voice.

“No,” I said, and meant it.

Barry laughed. “So Mason isn’t keeping you amused?” He sounded all too happy when I mentioned Mason was gone for the day to his family event. I didn’t say anything about Izabelle’s death or my investigation. I should have figured that was the same as giving too many details when you were trying to cover up a lie. It was like a red flag to Barry.

“Okay, Molly, let’s put all the cards on the table,” Barry said at last. “What’s going on with your crochet instructor’s death?”

I tried to say nothing, but Barry used his whole arsenal of investigating tricks, from “You’ll feel better if you tell me the whole story” to saying that maybe he could help straighten things out.

The funny thing was, it did feel good to tell him the whole story, at first, anyway. He listened patiently as I gave him all the details. Almost all the details. I left out tackling Adele.

“Now what in that makes you so sure someone killed the woman?” he asked in an understanding voice, which surprised me. When I’d gotten involved in investigating other murders, he’d been far more disturbed and irrational. Maybe because those were in his jurisdiction, or maybe because he was trying a new tactic to deal with me-being reasonable.

“Molly, it sounds like Sergeant French and his people have it covered.” He still sounded calm. “You were so worried about being in charge this weekend. Wouldn’t it be better if you spent your time on the retreat and trust the cop to do his job?”

Not a chance.