“How’s the investigation going?” January asked, pouring a glass of champagne and handing it to me.

I murmured thanks, took a sip, and set the glass next to the railing. “I don’t think the police are ready to make an arrest,” I said. “But it’s not like they’re keeping me up to date.”

Although my Friday night meet with Jake had been surprisingly close to it.

“I can’t imagine what the holdup is,” Valarie said. She was attractive in a no-nonsense way: good figure, good bones, good teeth, good skin. “We all know who did it.”

January gave her a tolerant look. “Then I guess the holdup is, the police don’t have enough evidence to make their case yet.”

I asked, “Are you so sure Ally is guilty?”

“There! You see, I didn’t even need to say her name,” Valarie said. “You know exactly who I mean. We all know she murdered Porter. It’s not socially correct to say so, but we all know it.” She leaned back in her lounge chair, tilting her face up. The sun glanced off her large green sunglasses.

January looked across at me and smiled ruefully.

“You don’t think anyone else had a motive?” I asked Valarie.

She lifted her head. “To commit murder?” Behind the big shades, she looked amazed at the idea.

Beneath us, the ship’s engines rumbled into life. Paul Kane climbed up to join us, taking a chair next to Valarie.

“What do you think?” he inquired of me, nodding to the cockpit.

“Beautiful,” I said. “How many crew members?”

“Captain and one deckhand this afternoon. I take her out on my own when I’m in the mood.” He grinned, his teeth very white. “I fly my own plane too.”

“Paul’s a full-service action hero,” Valarie purred, and ran a possessive hand down Paul’s tanned arm. He caught her hand and kissed it playfully.

Well, blow me down, me hearties. I’d sort of guessed -- and if you browsed the headlines of the celebrity gossip rags in the supermarket checkout -- or even gave in and read a few pages while waiting for the line to move -- it was common knowledge that Kane was bisexual. Nor would it make any sense for him to sit home nights when Jake was playing Make Room for Daddy with Kate. I’m not sure why I thought he would keep secret the scandalous truth of his appetite for women.

Meeting my gaze, Paul smiled again and said, “Take your shirt off, Adrien. We’ve paid extra for the sunshine.”

I glanced down at my white polo shirt. “Mother Superior warned me about boys like you,” I said.

January laughed, and Paul licked his lips. “She didn’t tell you the half of it.”

That pretty much set the tone for the rest of our voyage. Kane -- to the apparent amusement of my other two companions -- flirted relentlessly with me during the three hours we cruised the open water. It was harmless, but I couldn’t help wondering what lay behind it. I hadn’t previously got the impression that Paul found me irresistible -- and all the winks and little smiles and brushing of feet and hands -- didn’t alter my opinion. Paul was doing his considerable best to charm me, and I wasn’t sure why. Did he think I was considering abandoning my part in the investigation? Could he have placed that much faith in my sleuthing skills?

There was more champagne at lunch, which consisted of Caesar salad, pasta shells stuffed with ricotta cheese and spinach, and chicken Vesuvio in garlic white sauce. It was a lot of food -- rich food -- and I was very glad I wasn’t prone to seasickness.

Oddly, although it was ostensibly the reason for this get-together, we barely talked about Porter’s death. Instead, the three of them discussed various ideas for filming Murder Will Out.

“I sense Jason has a dark past,” Paul said of Jason Leland, the protagonist of the two mysteries I’d written about a gay Shakespearean actor and amateur sleuth. “I think his past casts a long shadow.”

“A secret sorrow,” Al January said -- with a straight face, as far as I could tell.

“Uh, sure,” I said. In all honesty I thought Jason was suffering about as much secret sorrow as Jackie Holmes, the Man from C.A.M.P. But I already knew from talking to writer friends that no one was ever happy with the screen adaptation of their work. My main interest was getting money for the bookstore expansion. That’s what I kept telling myself.

“I have some concerns with the London setting,” Valarie said. “What would you think about moving it to The Oregon Shakespeare Festival?”

“Ashland’s beautiful,” Al agreed.

And on they went. After a time they stopped asking for my input, and I stretched out on one of the lounge chairs. I hadn’t had much sleep lately, and the food and drink and flattery -- the warmth of the sun and the lulling motion of the water -- had a soporific effect.

The next time I opened my eyes, we were heading back into the harbor and the three of them were talking quietly about Porter.

“…but if Porter really was dying…” That was Valarie.

January said, “Porter trusted Marla.”

“Why not?” Paul said. “Marla knew where the skeletons were buried.” His voice changed. He said, “Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

I glanced over and the three of them were watching me. Their expressions were a curious mix. “Sorry,” I said, sitting up. “Too much sun and champagne.”

“Did you have more than a glass?” Paul commented, amused. “Not that I blame you for flaking out. We occasionally put ourselves to sleep.”

After that there was very little conversation. Valarie went below deck and changed into white slacks and a sweater. January and Kane chatted desultorily. It was just after seven-thirty when we put in at the harbor and prepared to disembark.

Paul put a hand on my arm. “Stay for a bit, Adrien. I’d like a word in private.”

January said good-bye to me, patted Paul’s shoulder. Valarie kissed his cheek, murmuring, “Are you sure you can’t cancel your plans for tonight?”

“I’m sure, my flower.”

“Well, watch out for the crazies.” She caught my glance, and said, “Oh, that wasn’t directed at you -- although I do think you’re nuts to go along with this last brainstorm of Paul’s. You know, what you two are doing could be dangerous. Someone tried to run Paul off the road on his way down here this morning.”

I turned to Kane, who laughed at my expression. “No one is trying to kill me,” he said.

Valarie gaped. “You mean someone has threatened to --? Paul!”

He was shaking his head, gently steering her toward the gangplank. “Bad driving isn’t a crime. The perils of amateur sleuthing: Adrien sees murderers behind road signs.”

He waved them off, then turned smiling lazily to me. “Alone at last! Let’s go down to the salon.”

I followed him below deck to a beautifully appointed lounge paneled in teakwood with panoramic picture windows of the harbor and the sky flushed with sunset. The plush carpeting and rich furnishings were in burnished earth tones. I’d been in nice hotels that weren’t as lavishly decorated.

“What’s your poison?” Paul asked, going to the bar.

Funny guy.

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

His mobile mouth quirked. He poured himself brandy and joined me over on one of the long L-shaped sofas.

“Jake tells me you have a thing for pirates.”

As “things” go, my affection for swashbuckling films is pretty tame, but his tone -- and the understanding that he and Jake had discussed and laughed at me -- turned it into something else.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” I drawled.

He chuckled, studying me with his bright, inquisitive gaze. He took a swallow of brandy, savoring it.

“Is Jake behaving himself?” he asked.

“As far as I know.”

He smirked at the implications. “He’s not scaring you off the case?”

What was going on here? There was something very odd in this casual, almost -- but not quite -- friendly inquisition.

“No.”

“And you haven’t changed your mind about pursuing this…investigation?”