She left money on the counter for her breakfast and a generous tip. As she headed for the door, Huck didn’t stop her. Once she was outside, she let herself sob, brushing back tears as she started down the main street. She’d walked into the village, which meant she had to walk back. The gorgeous morning made her want to stay on the bay for a few days. Hide there, she thought. Pretend she was on vacation and Alicia was at work in Washington, not on a slab in some medical examiner’s office.

Pushing the image out of her mind before it could take hold, Quinn focused on the pretty scenery, walking along the loop road past the motel where she’d met Diego Clemente last night. She stood on the dock, pretending to look for birds, but she didn’t see him or his boat. She recognized Buddy Jones, the motel’s owner and a Yorkville fixture, a wiry, leather-skinned man in his late sixties, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip as he tied a boat with a thick, worn rope.

“Excuse me,” Quinn said. “Have you seen Diego Clemente?”

“Who?”

She repeated the name. “He was out here last night. I think he’s a guest at your motel-”

“Oh, right. Yeah. The Yankees fan.” Buddy paused, removing the cigarette from his lip. “I hate the Yankees. Diego’s a nice guy, though. He went out early this morning. He does most mornings.”

“In his boat?”

“Yeah, in his boat.”

“He’s here alone?”

Buddy regarded her with curiosity more than suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t, really. I was just asking.”

“He’s a good-looking fella.”

“That’s not why-”

“He and his wife split up. He’s taking some time to get his head screwed on straight. Nothing like fishing for that.” He flicked ashes into the water. “You fish?”

“No-I kayak.”

“Kayaking.” He grimaced with disdain. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Half the kayakers I see out here are a menace. A wonder more of them don’t get killed. That girl yesterday-you hear about her?”

Quinn felt the blood run out of her head, but she nodded. “What a tragedy.”

He sighed. “An unnecessary tragedy, if you want my opinion. Now she’s gone, and her family and friends have to live with what she did. Sorry. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. You want me to tell Diego you were asking for him?”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. How long has he been in Yorkville?”

“Couple weeks.” The old man stabbed a callused finger at her. “You take my advice and stay away from him, okay, missy? He’s on the rebound from a bad marriage. Nothing but heartache in it for a pretty girl like you.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” In spite of his old-fashioned attitudes, Quinn couldn’t help but like the man. “He doesn’t have anything to do with Breakwater Security, does he?”

The old man grunted. “Those psychopaths? No, not that I know of.”

“The security guys-do they sometimes do training runs out this way?”

“A few do-”

“A rough-looking guy with short dark hair? He was out for a run yesterday morning-”

“I think I know the one you mean. He found that woman’s body yesterday-he and her friend from D.C. I heard his name’s Boone. I can’t remember if it’s his first name or his last name. He just got here. I saw him running Monday, before the storms hit.”

Quinn took a breath. “What time, do you remember?”

“Before five.” He grinned, stained teeth showing. “I wasn’t drinking a beer, and I don’t drink beer until after five.”

“A sensible rule.”

“He stopped to stretch. Diego was out here having a cigarette-they talked for a minute or two. That’s it. Why?”

“I’m just curious.” It was the truth, but she remembered Kowalski’s warning about interfering. “To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about having the Crawford compound turned into a private security facility.”

Buddy waved a hand in dismissal. “A day late and a dollar short on that one, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s a done deal.”

Quinn couldn’t argue. Thanking him for his time, she continued her waterfront walk back to her cottage. Finding Alicia yesterday was horrible. She’d been in shock most of the day and wasn’t doing that great now, but if she didn’t pull herself together soon, people like T.J. Kowalski would either think she was on the verge of a breakdown herself or hiding something.

A sound overhead-close-drew her out of her thoughts.

A helicopter. Private. Flying low over the cove.

Oliver Crawford.

Quinn pictured Huck in his neat khakis and Breakwater jacket, rushing out to meet his boss, and found something about the image was off, simply didn’t work.

She didn’t know the man at all, but she’d learned to be a quick judge-to trust her instincts. And he hadn’t struck her as bodyguard material. Not that she knew anything about bodyguards.

Huck Boone is not your problem, she told herself.

She’d take a shower and head back to Washington.

There was no reason to stay in Yorkville another minute.

Huck followed a mixed barbed-wire and white rail fence down to the water, where the rail fence gave way to just the barbed wire. As deterrents went, it was nothing elaborate, barely enough to warn off trespassers. Getting to Breakwater along the water would be difficult enough, given the surrounding marshes and the absence of a dock.

Joe Riccardi was smoking a cigar and staring out at the water. Without looking at Huck, he said, “I understand you met Quinn Harlowe in town just now.”

“I didn’t meet her. I ran into her.”

“She was in the diner when you arrived?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t go there because of her?”

“No, I went there for breakfast.”

Riccardi nodded, his gaze still on the quiet bay. “Mr. Crawford is here. We don’t want any problems. He’s met Quinn Harlowe several times, because of his friendship with Gerard Lattimore.”

“Did he know Alicia Miller?”

“Not really. They’d met.” Riccardi shifted his gaze to Huck, but his expression was difficult to read. “The FBI agent looking into her death was here. T.J. Kowalski. He’d heard Miss Miller was out here on Monday morning. I hate to see that story come to law enforcement’s attention. The scrutiny-” He looked back out at the water. “I don’t know what’s to be gained by that kind of scrutiny.”

Find out if she was murdered. During the night, Huck had brainstormed all the different ways Alicia Miller could have ended up in the marsh, drowned, with her kayak, that didn’t involve an accident or suicide. The thunderstorms could have provided a killer with cover, a reason for the authorities not to think murder.

But if he had a list of possibilities, speculative though they were, so did T.J. Kowalski and the local cops and probably half the village of Yorkville.

“Do you ever wonder how you got into this kind of work in the first place?” Riccardi asked quietly.

“Sometimes.”

“If I’d stayed home in Michigan, I don’t know.” He puffed on his cigar. “There was no work in town. I wasn’t that excited about college. I went, anyway, and got a useless degree. Then I joined the army.”

“How long did you stay in?”

“Twenty.”

“Miss it?”

Riccardi shook his head. “Not anymore. I lost a wife because of the demands. She just wasn’t suited to having a husband at war. Then I met Sharon. We’ve been married less than a year. I thought Breakwater would be a path to a more normal life. I’d have a chance to get ahead.” He stubbed out his cigar on a fence post and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “It’s beautiful out here. We sure as hell could do worse.”

“I guess so.”

“Alicia Miller’s death is a tragedy. Monday morning, when she came out here, Lubec and Rochester did what they could for her. She was ranting. They took her back to the cottage. They tried to get her to go to the emergency room or call a friend, but she sent them away. What more could they have done?” Riccardi didn’t wait for an answer. “She went back to Washington, then came back here. For whatever reason.”