“But we’re not here to talk about me. Come inside. We’ll have some tea and talk.”

Susan followed her hostess up the broad stairs, through open French doors, and into a spacious hall that ran straight to the rear of the house. The doors at the far end of the hallway were also open, and Susan spied a small swimming pool in the middle of another even more beautiful garden.

“The living room is that way.” Frances Adams pointed to the right. Susan saw an elegant room with formal furniture and a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “But I usually only use it for official functions. Let me show you my bolt-hole, my library.”

They turned to the left, crossing the highly polished hallway and through more French doors into a large room, lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Two large, worn deep couches covered in claret linen faced the wide windows on the fourth side of the room. Behind one couch, a scarred table supported a computer, printer, and a mess of papers and books. Frances Adams nodded at the computer. “My downfall. I am addicted to books-all books, but my particular passion is old gardening books. It was bad enough when letters and catalogues from stores and dealers around the world arrived by mail. But the Internet, alas, has made it all too easy for me to indulge.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“Not really,” Susan admitted.

“Then how about a drink? I have some rum that is made in the hills on an unnamed island. It’s not completely legal to make and is never exported. We drink it in very small glasses. It’s quite a treat and something few tourists get to sample.”

“How could I pass that up?” Susan said, wandering around the room and examining the books, as her hostess walked over to a small table set between the windows and poured two tiny drinks from a cut-crystal decanter.

“Here is yours,” she said, offering one to Susan.

Susan tore herself away from the bookshelves and sat down on the closest couch. She picked up her glass of dark hazel liquid and took a sip, suddenly nervous.

“Wow! That’s amazing,” she exclaimed, blinking.

“It is, isn’t it? Now, what did you come here to see me about?”

“I’m-this is going to sound silly,” Susan started.

“It’s about the murder, I assume? And your friend, Mr. Gordon?”

“Yes. You see, Kathleen, Kathleen Gordon, his wife-you’ve met her.”

“Many times. A lovely young woman. Go on.”

“She was assaulted today.”

“Good heavens. Where?”

“At Compass Bay. She was sitting on the beach when someone came up from behind and hit her on the head with something. It knocked her out. She was unconscious for a while before I found her.”

“You found her?”

“Yes. You see, I was looking for her, and I saw something lying next to one of the kayaks-they’re kept on the beach during the day-and it turned out to be Kathleen.”

“Who had been unconscious for a while, but no one else found her before you.”

“Exactly, and when we called the police, they refused to do anything. Assault is a crime. And Kathleen and I think that it’s possible that the person who killed Allison hit her, so if only the police would look-” She stopped talking. The expression on Frances Adams’s face puzzled her: Frances Adams looked skeptical. And she looked very, very sad.

“Your friends are lucky to have someone like you who cares so deeply about them.”

“I don’t just care about them. I know them. Jerry is not a killer.”

“You have much more experience with this type of thing than I do. And I can’t say I’m sorry about that. But my understanding is that you have found murderers among your friends and neighbors.”

“Yes. I-” Susan glanced back at the computer. “The Hancock Herald is on-line. You looked me up!”

“Yes. You have quite a bit of experience. So perhaps you will understand my next question. Do you believe we are all capable of murder?”

“Perhaps… under the right circumstances… mothers protecting their children… You think Jerry killed Allison!”

“I have, in fact, absolutely no opinion about that. Well, that’s not true. I believe he’s a very nice man and I hope he didn’t kill her. But, no, I can’t be sure he’s innocent. And the police are convinced he’s guilty. Your story about Kathleen’s assault must sound suspicious to them.”

“But-”

“Think about it. Compass Bay is a small resort. I understand the cottages are two-thirds full right now. So say there are close to thirty guests there. And full staff is twenty-seven…”

No wonder everything flowed so smoothly, Susan thought, distracted by the statistics.

“… so you’re telling me that almost sixty people were close by Mrs. Gordon lying on the beach and they did not spy her body. You, on the other hand, just happened to be there and find her.”

“You think I’m lying to you!”

“No, I don’t. But I think Mrs. Gordon loves her husband very much, and she is trying to direct the attention of the police away from him and came up with this fake assault to do so.”

“I can’t believe-” Susan started.

“I am perfectly aware of the fact that you don’t believe that. But, I’m afraid that’s what the police believe and the facts certainly can be read that way. Mrs. Henshaw… Susan… you had better work very hard and very quickly to find the real murderer. Because right now, everything points toward Jerry Gordon as the guilty party.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Susan was still upset when she arrived at Compass Bay. She didn’t bother to smile at Lila, working behind the front desk. She didn’t stop at the gift shop to see if Kathleen had called out. She didn’t even stop to see Kathleen. She stormed into her own cottage. Jed would make her feel better in this crisis as he had done in every crisis during the thirty years of their marriage.

If only he would wake up.

Miserable and impatient, Susan shook her husband awake. It wasn’t an easy task. He muttered and pulled away from her without opening his eyes.

“Jed! Wake up! You’ve been sleeping all afternoon. I need you.”

“Sus-” His right eye opened.

“Jed. We have a real problem. No one believes Kathleen was assaulted.”

“Kathleen… assaulted. Is she okay?” Both eyes were now open, but Susan stopped shaking him. When she found Kathleen on the ground, she had screamed. Everyone had come running. Everyone except for Jed.

“Have you been sleeping all afternoon?” Susan asked.

“I… all afternoon? What time is it?”

“It’s almost six o’clock. You were going to take a nap right after lunch.”

“I guess I did.” He sat up and shook his head. “I haven’t felt like this since I got drunk my freshman year of college.” He looked at his wife. “Did you say six o’clock?”

Susan glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. “Six-oh-three.”

“And Kathleen. You said she was hurt.”

“She was. Jed, you haven’t heard anything all afternoon?”

“I’ve been completely unconscious. Almost like I was drugged or something.”

“I’d bet anything that that’s just what happened to you. You were drugged. At lunchtime. By someone who didn’t want you to find Kathleen.”

Jed looked at his wife. “I don’t get it. I’m still a little woozy. Tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”

“I went to see Jerry.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Sort of. He kept telling me that Kathleen and June were very much alike. It’s not true, of course. I’ve thought about that so many times since I saw him. Kathleen is almost nothing like June.”

“Of course she isn’t. Go on.”

Susan smiled, glad her husband agreed with her. “Anyway, while I was in town, I went into a bar. I know, it’s not like me, but I was thirsty and that’s not the point. The point is that the bartender had seen Allison and Jerry there together the afternoon before she was killed. They weren’t exactly getting along.”