“Naturally. That’s Courtney for you! She stops in at the library to say hello whenever she is in town. Without fail. That’s what I mean. She is just the most considerate person. She never forgets the people who helped her when she was young. That’s the sign of an unusually fine person, I think. Courtney Castle is a success-well known, wealthy, famous. And she still appreciates her old friends. She’s done quite a bit for our town, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. What?” Josie was relieved that the conversation had moved to more concrete ground. She had almost been expecting Dr. Van Ripper to refer to herself as one of the little people. From what she remembered of this woman, it would be extremely out of character.

“Why, she’s been the speaker at more than one of the high school commencements over the years. She was given the key to the town by the mayor just a few years ago. And she was at the opening ceremony for the new gazebo in the town square-”

“The what?”

“We have a beautiful new Victorian gazebo in the town square. Bands play there on summer evenings. The elementary-school children hold their graduation ceremony there in the spring. Brides for miles around have their pictures taken there.”

“Sounds nice.” Josie was wondering where the town square was located.

“It seems to me that you people are always around when Courtney comes home,” Dr. Van Ripper was continuing.

“My people?” Josie had a moment of wondering about her parents before she realized the librarian was speaking of her imaginary position as a member of the press.

“Yes. You sure love everything Courtney does, don’t you?”

“She does appear to have a very interesting life,” Josie admitted.

“And she’s such fun to be around. I can’t wait until tomorrow to see her.” The librarian was now gushing.

“To see her? Where is she? I mean, where are you going to meet her?” Josie asked.

“Why, on the island. She invited me to the house her company is filming. I cannot wait! So fascinating, don’t you think?”

Josie, in fact, didn’t know what to think.

THERE ARE PEOPLE who feel that sleeping on a problem will help to solve it, that the subconscious will take over and answer questions. But it wasn’t true for Josie. When she went to bed with a problem, she found neither solution nor sleep.

The next morning Josie was exhausted and she was asking herself the same questions she had asked the night before. Where was Courtney Castle? And what was she going to do when Naomi Van Ripper appeared at the work site today? How would she feel when she saw someone from what she thought of as her past life for the first time in seventeen years?

Well, houses don’t get remodeled by lying in bed and worrying, Josie thought, stretching her arms over her head and swinging her legs to the floor. If she dressed quickly, there would be time for a bowl of cereal before she left. Grabbing clean but old overalls and a T-shirt from her closet shelf, she headed for the bathroom, running her fingers through her hair as she went.

But she had forgotten one of the realities of a home with a teenage boy living in it: cereal vanishes. Sighing, she considered the other possibilities. A dirty plate in the sink and an empty grease-stained box in the garbage indicated that her son had finished off the calzone as a midnight (or later) snack. A can of Slim-Fast on a shelf remained untouched, as did a package of Rye Krisp, but she was going to have a hard day. She deserved a good breakfast. Dumping a packet of cat food in her son’s cat, Urchin’s, empty bowl, she grabbed her key chain and wallet and headed out the door. Tyler knew where to find her if he needed her. And she knew where to find the best greasy breakfast on the island.

A few minutes later she walked through the door of an institution: Sullivan’s (as the sign she had just strolled under informed anyone who cared to read the small print) had been established in 1927 right after the hurricane the year before had damaged or destroyed most of the buildings on the island. It was the only general store on the island and a lunch counter had been added the next summer. In the early fifties, an addition had been tacked on with room for a row of plastic upholstered booths and a dozen small tables. Not too much had changed since then. In fact, there were rumors that the grease in the deep-fat fryer qualified as original equipment. Few tourists ventured into this part of the store, satisfied to fill their needs for sunscreen on good days and playing cards and gizmos to keep the kids happy when it rained at the front. Glancing at a display of garish beach towels, Josie followed her nose to the source of one of her favorite meals.

“A number four. Over easy,” she said to the young waitress in a turquoise uniform almost before her bottom touched the chair.

“Coffee?” The woman took Josie’s abrupt order in stride.

Jose nodded. “Please. With cream and sugar.”

“Gotcha.”

Josie had barely finished her first mug of coffee when a massive oval plate was put on the paper placemat in front of her. Two fried eggs, yellow with butter, sat in the middle encircled by strips of crispy bacon, links of sausage, and rectangles of golden French toast. A large pitcher of sweet syrup whose antecedents had nothing to do with any tree was plunked down on the table, then the waitress left to satisfy the needs of another noncholesterol-fearing customer. Josie dug in.

She was halfway through the platter when she was joined by a friend.

“Mind if I sit with you?” Basil Tilby stood by her side. A fixture on the island, he was a notorious clotheshorse. Today his lanky frame was decked out as a sailor-not the type actually to travel over the water, more like someone from a Broadway production of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.

“Sure. Why are you here?”

“To eat. Of course.”

Josie was surprised. Basil was a gourmet; this was about the last place she would have expected him to be eating. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Kristina makes one of my favorite breakfasts. I stop by every few weeks.”

Josie couldn’t wait to see what Basil ordered. “Really? How’s the summer going for you?” As another businessperson dependent on the vagaries of seasonal profits, he would understand that her question translated as “How’s business?”

“Great. But not as interesting as yours. What’s going on with Courtney Castle?”

“She’s disappeared.”

“So I hear. Any idea why?”

“No. What have you heard?” While hosting in any of his restaurants, Basil chatted with the clientele and picked up a lot of information.

Basil leaned across the small table and whispered his answer. “That the police believe you killed her.”

“What garbage! No one even knows if she’s dead!” Josie was outraged enough to stop eating for a moment. “Her producer says she does this all the time.” She was aware of the exaggeration, but she was upset and tired.

“All the time? Makes you wonder how they manage to film all those television shows, doesn’t it?”

Josie recognized sarcasm when she heard it, but the arrival of Basil’s meal distracted her. “What is that?”

He looked down at his own large platter with a smile and picked up his fork. “Fried scrapple. Kristina makes her own. Wonderful.” A small pitcher with light amber liquid was placed by his plate. “Real maple syrup,” he explained. “Wouldn’t touch that stuff,” he added, glancing over at Josie’s pitcher.

She ignored his criticism of her taste buds. “What’s scrapple?”

“One of those foods it’s better not to ask about and just enjoy. Want to try some?” Knife raised, he offered a piece to her.

“No, thanks. What did you hear about Courtney?”

“That the Rodney clan believes you killed her and dumped her in the bay, but they’re too cheap to have the water dredged for the body.”