After the newlyweds and I stopped screaming, I yanked out my cell phone, called 911 and told them about the body.

Sure looked like a body now (a dead body), and not a person with any hope of saving. The groom took his bride and moved her away from the edge with a “Sit over here, honey.”

They both sat on the small hill of the land side of the walkway-away from the cliff. Not that I wanted to look down myself, but this all seemed so surreal that I just had to.

A whitecap of wave slammed into the body as I leaned over and looked with clearer vision.

The man’s shirt, although soaked, was a deep color. Black? No. When the sun hit it, I saw more red. Crimson. Wet hair looked much darker as the waves washed over the body, bobbing back and forth on the tide. Part of the clothing had been harpooned onto a jagged rock, which must have prevented the body from floating out to sea.

When a whitecap washed over it, I noticed the shoes were still on. Black wing tips.

“Oh…my…God.” Although it must have been about fifty to seventy-five feet below, there was now no doubt in my mind.

Ian James.

The dead body was dear Ian.

Suddenly I felt sick and pulled back as the sound of sirens pierced the air. I’d die of embarrassment if I vomited in front of the newlyweds, who, by the way, were both as pale as the fluffy white clouds I’d hoped for earlier.

I sat down next to the guy, bent my head toward my knees and took some very long slow breaths. The sickness in the pit of my stomach was for Ian. Dead. So young. And now so dead.

I called Goldie to tell him and let him know I’d be running a bit late.

Before I could sit and compose myself, wondering if Ian had fallen-or was pushed, a gang of cops in uniforms and a few in plainclothes hurried along the path.

And directly behind them was my buddy, Jagger.

He was walking a bit slower than usual. Oops. Maybe I should just throw myself off the cliff in order to avoid any further embarrassment.

“You look like shit, Sherlock.” He reached down for my hand and pulled me up to stand.

“Thanks. New makeup.” I stood on wobbly legs and actually had to hold one hand against his chest to steady myself. Really! “And you look very fit,” I said.

Jagger growled.

The cops started asking questions, and between the newlyweds and myself-we were of no help at all. No, we hadn’t seen anyone. No, we hadn’t heard anything. No, the camera was not there with the body.

“She dropped it over the cliff,” the bride said in what I thought was an unnecessarily accusatory tone, and the pointing at me that she was doing seemed highly rude.

I started to protest when Jagger glared at me. I leaned toward him. “She let it go.”

Jagger stood silent.

“All right, all right,” I said. “The camera is a moot point since a man is dead. You know how that bothers me, but she did let it-”

In order not to sound too childish-make that more childish-I dropped the subject and answered a few more cop questions involving the fact that I knew who Ian was and had only seen him a short time ago.

“Well, for one thing, he was working earlier. And…er…he did have a sort of argument with someone at work.” Maybe I was prejudging the situation. Maybe Ian and Mrs. Wheaton-Chandler were really not at odds. And maybe Ian actually survived the fall. “Seemed to be, or make that appeared to be arguing. I mean allegedly arguing.”

Yeah, right.

So I told the cops everything I could think of, ending with, “And I said, ‘Excuse me?’ That was right after she’d ordered me to get back to work.”

The main one, who I assumed was the detective in charge, said, “That’ll do for now. We’ll need names and phone numbers for our records.” He looked at me through squinted eyes.

Did he suspect me?

Why is it that my Catholic-school-induced conscience always had me feeling guilty when I knew I wasn’t? Damn. All I had to do was look at Jagger to see that he believed me. Of course, his look was not one of accusation, more of how difficult it was for him to control shaking his head at me right then.

After we gave all our names and info to the cops, I said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Bret Johnson from Lowell, Massachusetts, who were, in fact, married last Saturday.

Talk about a memorable honeymoon.

Not exactly what I’d have in mind for mine. Mine. Hmm. How odd that I’d even think about getting married when I had decided nothing was more important to me than my career.

Jagger took me by the arm.

Suddenly I wondered if my sister Mary’s youngest daughter would make a good flower girl.

I really should have flung myself over the cliff.

While an ambulance crew worked on getting the body up from the ocean, we walked along the cliff to the exit. When we got to the side street, I saw the Johnson couple getting into their car. “Just a sec,” I said to Jagger and hurried over to them.

“I’m so sorry about everything. Look, can I send you a new camera?” Please say no since it will cost me money.

Bret looked at me with green eyes that were not quite as accusatory as his bride, Shauna’s. “It was an accident. No problem.”

“Oh. Fine. Have a great life you two.”

Shauna shut the car door and opened the window. “Cameras are replaceable-”

“Glad you feel that way.” And I really was. Guilt was something inbred in me by my mother and fostered for twelve years by nuns. You haven’t lived guilt until it is nun-induced. They had my Jewish friends’ mothers beat by a mile. “You can easily pick up one of those disposable cameras at the drugstore.”

Shauna cleared her throat and in a whinny voice said, “It’s the pictures of us that can never, ever be replaced.”

Zinger to my heart. I was speechless. From the corner of my eyes I noticed Jagger-grinning.

He was enjoying this! The only thing I could do to make myself feel a bit better was to lean toward him and say, “Want a repeat of last night?”

Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine seeing fear, fear that I induced, as a matter of fact, in Jagger’s eyes.

But damn if my threat didn’t produce it and somehow make me feel a bit better.

Since Goldie was off on the town with Miles, Jagger took me to The Market for a cup of tea. The guy always did know what was best for me-but I’d die before admitting that to him.

When he set a cup of English Breakfast-decaffeinated-down in front of me, I looked up at him. “By the way, I didn’t get a chance to ask, but what the hell were you doing with the police?”

He’d set a cup of black coffee down in front of his seat and stood over the chair a few seconds, merely looking at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Never mind. I’m going to assume you’re friends with at least one of the detectives, that you were visiting while the call came in, and you probably saw my cell phone number and tagged along because you thought I needed saving.”

He grinned.

I should have been furious. I should have been embarrassed. I should have shouted for him to leave me alone-but I puffed up my shoulders and was so proud of myself for hitting that Jagger nail on the head that I wasn’t furious, shouting or embarrassed.

Nothing could make my day like a look of pride from Jagger.

After our rather silent coffee/tea break, we walked outside and got into Jagger’s SUV. Without a word he took a right out of The Market’s parking lot and didn’t turn down any side street to take us back to the lodge.

Just down the hill the ocean sprang out to the right, and although the beach was deserted at this time of the year, the surf of course continued its rhythmic crashing against the sand. Brown and white seagulls, gigantic birds, squawked from their perches on the abandoned lifeguard chairs.