“That’s not an absolute necessity. Again, he could be improvising as he goes along. He’s luring me onto the story-”

“Through Croc?”

“Yes. Then you get involved, and he ups the ante.”

Mollie frowned. “This would mean you have an enemy.”

“Darlin’,” he said dryly, “I have dozens of enemies. I report on crime and corruption in a major American city.”

She nodded, trying not to acknowledge the unsteadiness in her knees. She was aware of women circulating on the porch, glasses clinking, warm laughter, flamingos walking on the sprawling, manicured lawn. It was a perfect day. Warm, sunny, just enough of a breeze.

Jeremiah smiled gently, but his eyes were still intense. “This is still just speculation. I’m just thinking we might be wise to steer clear of each other for the time being. The last thing I’d want is to put you in danger.”

“I hate this,” she said, her throat tight.

Diantha Atwood and Bobbi Tiernay brought George Marcotte over, introducing him. He was in his mid-thirties, a beefy tree-trunk of a man with shaggy, tawny hair and a friendly manner. He wore an expertly tailored suit, although Mollie expected he would have preferred shorts and a T-shirt.

“We were just discussing the jewel thief,” Bobbi Tiernay said. “Mr. Marcotte has agreed to address simple, common-sense ways we can protect ourselves without overreacting.”

Marcotte turned to Mollie. “For the most part, this thief has been non-violent. You were smart not to put up a fight or go after him, Ms. Lavender.”

She shrugged. “It’s not like I had time to think.”

“Which can make recovering from such an incident more difficult. Your mind fills with what might have been, how your fate can turn on the head of a pin.” He was articulate, speaking as a man who’d been in her shoes. “But you trusted your instincts. That’s good. Mr. Tabak,” he said, shifting to Jeremiah. “Have you learned anything you can share with us?”

“Nope. It was only a coincidence I was there on Friday when Mollie was attacked.”

“But you’re investigating this story for the Tribune,” Diantha Atwood said.

“Actually, I’m not.”

“No?” She smiled, coolly polite. “Come now, you don’t expect us to believe that.”

Jeremiah regarded her neutrally, but Mollie knew his rude switch had been flipped. He seemed to check himself at the last minute and said only, “That’s not my concern.”

Diantha Atwood’s cheeks colored. She wasn’t one to back down to a reporter. “Then why are you here today?”

“Same reason I was there on Friday. I was invited.”

“By whom, may I ask?”

He winked, the southern charmer replacing the cold, intense reporter. “Sorry, Mrs. Atwood, I never divulge my sources.”

It was a line and they all knew it, but Diantha Atwood laughed. Several other women joined them, and she and her daughter and Marcotte spun off into the crowd. There was a sprinkling of men, mostly decades older than Jeremiah or the speaker, both of whom would have stuck out in any crowd. Mollie leaned toward him. “Were you invited?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, which I find curious at the moment. Oops. There’s your friend Griffen. Ah, yes, if eyes could shoot daggers…” He grinned, his earlier seriousness having abated. “Or darts, as the case may be. Griffen’s protective of you, I think.”

“I’m new in town, and I don’t know all the players. She does. She likes to help me negotiate the rapids of Palm Beach society. Um-if we’re to steer clear of each other, I guess we’d better start. Shall I contact you if anything else happens that might be connected with the thief?”

“Yes, but if anything else happens, we won’t be steering clear of each other, sweet pea. I’ll be on you like a burr.”

“A burr, huh?” She tilted her head back, eyeing him, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers not ten years ago now, but just yesterday. “That’s not very sexy.”

He laughed. “That’s the spirit. I like it a lot better when you’re not so pale.”

He wheeled off into the crowd, and Mollie, left to her own devices, found a glass of wine and her table. She was seated with an accounts executive from Tiernay & Jones, who wanted to know all about how Mollie was faring out on her own. Marcotte’s speech was intelligent and even humorous, but she could feel all eyes on her when he mentioned the Gold Coast cat burglar. None of his other victims, apparently, were present.

Even before the applause died down, Jeremiah, Mollie noticed, made his exit. He’d been seated at George Marcotte’s table and probably had used up whatever capacity he had for social chitchat, after, of course, picking the security expert’s brain to his satisfaction. Whatever his relationship to her and the jewel thief story, Mollie had no illusions that this wasn’t a focused, driven man, no matter what he was doing.

As the luncheon guests dispersed, she found Griffen and offered to help clean up. “No, no, you go on,” she said, whisking about in amiable efficiency, dark curls tamely pulled back. “You’ve got your own work to do. I’ll just load everything into my van and hose it down when I get home.”

“Well, lunch was wonderful.”

She smiled. “Thanks. And everyone said so, right?”

“But of course.”

“I noticed Tabak,” she said, noncommittal. “You two didn’t sit at the same table. Last night didn’t go well?”

“Griffen-”

But an attractive, well-dressed older woman interrupted them, frowning. “Excuse me, ladies, have you by any chance found a watch? I seem to have misplaced mine. I slipped it off in the ladies’ lounge while I put on cream for a skin condition…” She sighed, her brow furrowing. “Something distracted me, and I forgot it. When I went back, it was gone. I was hoping someone found it.”

“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Baldwin,” Griffen said, “I haven’t seen it. Do you know my friend Mollie Lavender? Mollie, this is Lucy Baldwin.” Mollie recognized the name of one of the wealthiest year-round residents of Palm Beach, a devoted promoter of the island. “Let me take another look in the ladies’ lounge, just in case.”

Griffen was so gentle and nonthreatening that Lucy Baldwin took no offense. She brightened somewhat. “Thank you, dear, I’d appreciate that.”

While Griffen rechecked the bathroom, Mollie tried to engage Mrs. Baldwin in small talk. One of Griffen’s helpers was scooping up the mango-colored table cloths. Virtually all of the luncheon guests had departed, and George Marcotte, who might or might not be interested in Lucy Baldwin’s missing watch, had also left.

“How long has it been since you took off your watch?” Mollie asked, her hands shaking. Mrs. Baldwin seemed calm, although possibly she hadn’t yet considered her watch could have been stolen rather than simply misplaced.

“Forty minutes, perhaps a bit less, I would say. I didn’t remember it until I got to my car and glanced at my wrist to see the time. I hate to think I lost it. It was a gift from my late husband the Christmas before he died.” Her eyes misted, and she sipped her water. “I hope I’m not becoming forgetful.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“Do you think it could have been that thief?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

“I don’t know. Let’s see if Griffen finds anything.”

But she returned empty-handed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it.”

“Well,” Lucy Baldwin said with a small inhale. “I suppose it’s gone. Perhaps I accidentally threw it into the trash-”

“I checked the trash,” Griffen said.

“This is rather upsetting, isn’t it? I know it’s only a watch…but the sentimental value…I suppose it’s not important…”

Mollie touched the older woman’s arm. “It is important, Mrs. Baldwin.”

Something clicked, and she straightened, said, “You’re the one who was robbed at Diantha Atwood’s party the other night. I apologize if I’ve stirred up any disturbing memories for you.”

“Please, don’t worry about me, Mrs. Baldwin. I just want to help you find your watch and make sure it wasn’t this thief the police are after.”