She walked up Beacon Street and behind the Massachusetts State House to the narrow, hilly streets of residential Beacon Hill, with its prestigious Bulfinch-designed town houses, brick sidewalks, black lanterns and surprisingly eclectic population. She'd moved into her basement apartment eight years ago, over her father's and godfather's objections. She could have gotten more space for the same money- less money-in other neighborhoods, certainly in her home neighborhood. Davey liked to tease her about trying to pass as a Boston Brahmin, never believing she liked the charm and convenience of Beacon Hill, and didn't mind the tradeoff of space. With a tiny bedroom, bath and kitchen-living room, she had learned to buy and keep only what she truly needed-which allowed her to pack for her weekend in under forty-five minutes.

She called her father on her cell phone after she'd stopped at a bakery on Charles Street. "I'm on my way to the North Shore for the weekend. I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"You going up there alone?"

She could hear the criticism in his tone. "Yes, why not?"

"Because it's nuts, that's why not. I hate that guy Ike Grantham. Where the hell is he, anyway? What's he been doing all these months?" Her father paused for air. "You don't have a thing for him, do you?"

Tess was irritated with herself for giving her father an opening. She'd asked why not, and now he was telling her. "Ike's a former client. That's all. He doesn't have to keep me informed of his whereabouts." She knew that to use the words missing, disappeared or even took off would be a huge mistake.

"I don't like this," Jim Haviland said.

"You don't have to like it. Love you, Pop. Have a great weekend."

"Wish I had a couple of Little League games to go to," he said, and hung up.

Tess tossed her cell phone back into her satchel. The man never gave up. His ideas about men, women, marriage and family were old-fashioned and completely unreformable. She wondered if her mother had lived, or if he'd remarried, would he still be so stubborn and impossible?

Probably, she decided, and got onto Storrow Drive and headed north.

"Looks as if the Haviland woman's moved in for the weekend," Harl said. "I saw her hauling in groceries and camping gear."

Andrew frowned. "What were you doing, spying on her?"

Harl pinched dead leaves off Andrew's one indoor plant. It was in the kitchen window, and it wasn't in good shape. Harl didn't allow plants in his shop. "I was looking for that goddamn cat."

"You introduced yourself?"

"No. She didn't see me."

Andrew smiled and sat at the table. Harl wouldn't go out of his way to introduce himself to anyone. He'd eaten dinner with them that night and insisted on cleaning up the dishes. Dolly was in the den watching cartoons, mourning over her cat, who, Andrew was becoming convinced, didn't plan on returning.

"Lucky she didn't see you peering through the bushes and call the police."

Harl grunted. "It'd be the first smart thing she did.

What kind of woman spends a weekend alone in a haunted carriage house out here on an isolated point?"

"We're not even a mile from the village."

"You don't think she's odd?"

"Harl, we live here."

"Well, our great-great-granddaddy didn't off anyone in your living room." He shook his head, his white ponytail trailing several inches down his broad back. He'd let his hair grow since giving up police work. It had turned white a few years after he'd come home from Vietnam, and he'd gotten into bar fights over people saying the wrong thing about his white hair. Andrew had participated in a few of them himself. No point sitting out a bar fight, not in those days.

Harl dumped the dead plant leaves in the trash. "I have to tell you, Thorne, my instincts are all on high alert. You find out how she ended up with that place?"

"Not yet, I haven't asked."

"Ask."

Harl left for his shop, and Andrew went in to shoo Dolly up to bed.

He read her two Madeleine books and a few pages of The Hobbit, but she was preoccupied with her missing cat. She'd pulled out all her stuffed cats and put them in bed with her, leaving very little room for Andrew to sit next to her for their nightly reading.

"Maybe Tippy Tail's gone on an adventure like Bilbo," Andrew said, referring to The Hobbit.

Dolly shook her head, her big eyes brimming with tears. She smelled of a fruity bubble bath that he found particularly nauseating, and she hugged three stuffed cats close to her. "She's dead, Daddy. I know she's dead."

He breathed deeply. A six-year-old shouldn't know so much about death. "Tippy Tail can take care of herself. She's tough. Trust her, okay? Cats like to have their kittens where little girls can't find them."

"Not Tippy Tail."

"Yes, Tippy Tail."

"Harl says we can put up posters. I can draw a picture of her, and-and if somebody sees her, they can call us, and we can go get her!" She sniffled, perking up. "Do you think that would be good, Daddy?"

For someone who hated cats, Harl was going out of his way to find this one. "Sure, Dolly. We can do posters in the morning."

She nodded eagerly, her mood transformed now that she had a plan. This quickly led to indignation. "I don't think Tippy Tail should have runned away. I'm a princess. She's supposed to obey me."

"Cats don't obey anyone, Dolly. That's why they're cats."

She snuggled down into her pillow, a black-and-white stuffed kitten pressed against her rosy cheek, fat tears on her dark eyelashes. She shut her eyes. "Can you read to me some more?"

Andrew read The Hobbit until she drifted off. He was aware of his own voice in the silent, still room. It was a kid's room, simply furnished and not overly childish. He wasn't about to redo it every year. There was an oak dresser Harl had refinished, a round mirror, a bulletin board covered with pictures of cats and fairies, crates of toys and stuffed animals, handheld computer games and a long pegboard overloaded with baseball caps, sequined shawls and at least six different crowns.

Above her bed was a framed cross-stitch Beatrix Potter D that Joanna had done when she was pregnant, teasing herself even then about "turning domestic." But she'd been happy, excited about their child. Ike Grantham had been off on one of his escapades, not a factor in their lives, although they knew him because they lived in Beacon, where everyone knew the Granthams. Only later, after his sister started dating Joanna's boss, Richard Montague, did Ike mention how he could help her train to climb Mount McKinley. "If you can chase a toddler around the house, you can climb a mountain."

Andrew shut The Hobbit, a weighty, oversize edition. He didn't know how much Dolly understood, but he enjoyed reading to her. Harl never did. He could sit still for hours working on a piece of furniture, but not for more than five minutes with a chil-dren's book. He was back in his shop now, working. Some nights he'd work until dawn.

What was Tess Haviland, Andrew wondered, doing in her carriage house? It had no furniture, lousy wiring. Was she one of Ike's women? Andrew had been too busy today to ask around town. If anyone would know, it would be Lauren, and Lauren Montague was about the last person he'd want to ask anything. She felt guilty about her brother's role in Joanna's death even though Andrew assured her there was no need. Joanna had wanted to climb Mount McKinley. It wasn't just Ike's doing.

He headed downstairs, picking up Dolly's sneakers and the odd toy on the way. He wasn't much of a taskmaster. He settled into a battered, comfortable leather chair in the den and flipped on the ball game. A stiff wind off the water beat against the tall, old windows. A little atmosphere, he thought with amusement, for Tess Haviland's first night on the point.