The women looked at one another.

“I don’t know about my crew, but I would have to think about that for a minute or two,” Josie said very slowly.

“Damn right,” Dottie agreed.

Annette looked up. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I was back here the entire time. I… I watched Courtney interview Josie and then came right back here. Dottie and Jill were almost finished marking the new foundation out. And I’ve been back here since then.”

“The three of you have been here since then. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I-” Jill began.

“No, that’s not it at all. I was here all the time. Everyone else came and went and did… well, they did whatever they had to do,” Annette explained haltingly.

“Did Courtney come back here?” Bobby Valentine asked.

“No.” Annette answered slowly. “I don’t think so.” She glanced at the others. “I really don’t think so.”

Josie frowned. “You would remember if she’d been here though, don’t you think?” After all, Annette seemed to be so fascinated by Courtney. Surely she would remember the last time she’d seen her.

“Yes. Of course.”

“And I came back to get something from my toolbox and I don’t remember seeing you,” Josie continued.

“I saw you,” Annette said quickly. “I was working over there.” She waved to the left. “You just didn’t see me.”

“Oh, I guess you’re right.”

“You didn’t look around or anything. I figured you were just thinking and didn’t want to bother you,” Annette explained.

“What about the rest of you?” Bobby Valentine asked. “Did anyone else see Courtney?”

“No.” Jill was brief.

“Definitely not,” Dottie said with emphasis.

“And you’re saying no one was alone back here. And you’re sure of that?” Mike asked Annette.

“Yes.”

“So where did she go?” Mark asked.

“And who wrote the note about killing her?” Mike added.

Josie took a deep breath and glanced at her crew. Was one of these women the answer to those questions?

JOSIE WAS SITTING at the kitchen table in her landlady’s apartment. There was a glass of wine in her hand, an untouched bowl of pasta on the table in front of her. She had finished telling Risa of her day and now found herself, un-characteristically, not hungry.

“You like this Courtney Castle?” Risa asked. She stopped stirring a large pot on the stove, unrolled the voluminous silk sleeves of the shirt she was wearing, and poured herself a glass of Chianti.

“I didn’t really know her,” Josie said, staring down at her food. It was true. That poised, perfect television personality was an unknown quantity-no matter what had happened in the past.

“I have watched her show,” Risa said flatly. “I did not like it.”

Josie smiled for the first time since she’d heard of Courtney’s supposed disappearing act. “Really? Everyone keeps telling me how much they love her.”

“Her? Sì! Her, I like. Beautiful blond hair. But that show. No, I do not like that show.”

Josie was momentarily diverted. “Why not?”

“It’s not what it says it is.”

“What do you mean? You don’t think you could learn a lot about remodeling from watching?”

“I think you would learn a lie from watching.”

“What sort of lie?” Josie reached for her wineglass.

“I would not have known this if I had not known you,” Risa answered obliquely, sipping from her glass.

Josie followed suit; she was beginning to relax. “What do I have to do with it?”

“I see you after you work. When you come home, you are tired, you are filthy, some days you are disgusting and you actually smell.”

“I work hard!” Josie protested.

“But she… that Castle person. She doesn’t. She’s like a… a tourist on the work site.”

Josie took another sip of her wine and didn’t speak for a few minutes. “A tourist on the work site,” she repeated quietly. It was an interesting image. “Yeah, that makes sense. The makeup. The hairdo. Those long fingernails.”

“No, not the nails. They are acrid… or something like plastic. They are very hard. They break after everything else.”

Was this true? Josie looked down at her split and cracked nails. Could she go to one of those manicure salons that seemed to have popped up all over the place in the last few years and come out with beautiful hands? And would they last throughout her workday?

“They are also ugly.” Risa, never one to keep an opinion to herself, continued. “And unnatural. Plastic attached to the end of the digits… the fingers… No, not good.”

“You’re saying that you don’t like the show because you know what hard work it is to remodel a house.”

“Sì.” Risa nodded. “She makes it look easy. It’s not easy. People do not know this. They start work. They make mess. They unhappy. That’s not good. Not fair.”

“No, you’re right.” Josie took another sip of wine. “And that’s the right word. It’s not fair to the people in the audience.” She frowned. “What about Courtney Castle?”

“I like her better on her other show. She made polenta almost like she was Italian…”

Josie put down her glass. “What other show?”

“I do not remember the name… Not Viva Italia. It was not just Italian food. Also French and, I think, maybe Spanish… Mediterranean Cooking. No, Mediterranean Cuisine. They show not just recipes but also travel to places where food is made. Fascinating. The show on the fishing for scungilli. Fascinating,” she repeated.

“You’re telling me that Courtney was the hostess-or host or whatever they call it-of a cooking show on public television?”

“Sì. It was not recent though. A while ago. She was younger. Hair not so blond.”

“She’s really a brunette,” Josie muttered bitchily, and then sighed. What Risa was saying was interesting. Josie picked up her fork and speared a piece of pasta. She asked another question before putting it in her mouth. “Do you remember when it was on? How long ago?”

“Oh, years. You eat. I think.” She pushed a bowl of freshly ground Parmesan cheese across the table. “It was the year little Tyler played on that bad team for Little League. I learned to make those little orange rolls that he loved to eat when they lost from Courtney on TV.”

Josie was accustomed to understanding her landlady’s convoluted syntax and didn’t question her statement. “That was the spring before he started boarding school. Three years ago.”

“Sì. Who is that at the door?” Risa asked, standing.

“Risa! Josie! Tyler!”

Josie, a smile on her face, got up for one of the few things as interesting to her as food or her son. “It’s Sam!”

Risa, ever the good hostess, headed to her stove. “I get him some dinner. He must be hungry.”

“We’re back here, Sam!”

“Josie, I heard about what happened today. I can’t believe it!” he said, not bothering to greet her properly.

“I know, Sam, I-”

“You sit right down and eat this pasta,” Risa interrupted. “You think better on a full stomach.”

Momentarily startled, Sam stood still. “What in particular should I be thinking about?” he asked.

“About how to make sure Josie and Island Contracting are on TV. To make sure they still get good covers.”

“She means coverage, Sam. And I’m not so sure I want to be on Courtney’s show if she is going to pull stunts like this.”

“Stunts? You think this is a stunt?”

“Yes. No one has talked about the handwriting of that note. I’ll bet she wrote it herself.”

“Why would anyone pretend to be murdered?” Sam asked.

Josie had thought about it for a while and come up with what she thought was a logical answer. “For publicity. Everyone knows how television people are always after publicity.”

“Sì. She just hiding.” Risa nodded vigorously.

“That’s not what the police think. They seem to be taking this very, very seriously.”

“Really?”

“I was told they were talking of bringing dredging equipment to the island.”