“It’s called Haunted Moon Lake,” she said. “Just beyond that curved point over there, off to the left, is where we’re going. Spirit Cove. The western side of the lake, over there’s been developed and has gotten quite ritzy. Several very trendy, upscale little tourist trap villages. But Spirit Cove is the only thing on this side of the lake that passes for civilization. We’ll pick up some supplies and then the cabin’s about another ten miles up the road.”

She seemed giddy, almost childlike. Far removed from the cool, sophisticated bit-…woman, he knew.

And the scene was lovely. It reminded him of the place where he and Jeanne had spent that last…

Stop it, he barked internally, unnerved by the unexpected and unwelcome bit of flotsam dredged up from his memory, momentarily catching his mind and his heart on its sharp point.

That time, that place, everything about that lay gone and far away. Buried. Only the trees and the water and the sky had momentarily brought them back. With an effort, he forced the thought back down and slammed the mental compartment shut again.

The place she’d pointed to from the lookout had seemed very close but the two-lane blacktop road snaked and meandered casually down the mountain, the lake playing peek-a-boo with them through the pines. It took more than a half-hour for the SUV to crawl out of the woods and suddenly into a large open space between the water and the lake. A small sign, painted yellow letters carved into brown wood announced, “Welcome to Spirit Cove.”

Bigger than French Creek, it sported rows of little shops on the left hand side of the road while the lake and snug-looking vacation cottages, small, old fashioned motels and open public beaches clung to their right. Several cars were parked along the street in front of the shops and the traffic had swelled to perhaps ten cars creeping through as the tourists rubbernecked, cameras and children’s heads stuck out the windows.

“Spirit Cove Mercantile is up on the left,” Elgin directed, “right after the Skywood Lodge. It used to be a local bar. You know, beer on tap, whiskey out of a jug under the bar, and a pool table. Not a bad place ‘til the tourists started coming. Next thing you know, the owner’s stocking white wine and imported beer. Stuck a sofa in front of the fireplace and got cable for the television. Now, instead of baseball scores and football, you get stock prices and golf. Yuck!” She shuttered in disgust.

Harm grinned. “I dunno. I would have said you were definitely more white wine spritzer than beer. And I can’t imagine you risking breaking a nail playing pool.”

“Funny,” she shot back, her smile and teasing tone matching his, “I would have said you were Chardonnay and golf myself. Even in blue jeans, you still have that faint but distinctly unpleasant stench of Yuppie superiority about you. Of course, I could be wrong. You might just be a plain, garden variety, obnoxious alpha male.”

Precisely the sort of barb she’d been needling him with since they’d met, now, devoid of venom, it seemed actually sort of funny.

They passed the bar and turned immediately into a small parking lot. A single story, house-sized building with pine log exterior and picture windows crammed with merchandise sat wedged snuggly against a steep cliff. Along the entire front of the building ran a wide, deep, covered porch, complete with soda vending machines and an assortment of ladder-back rockers. Above the porch, a small sign announced, “Spirit Cove Mercantile” in red lettering across a bright white background.

Inside, Harm gazed in surprise at the amount of merchandise the deceptively small building held. To the right, aisles of groceries from snack foods to staples ran the entire length of the store, big refrigerator cases taking up the back wall. Beer, soda, wine and dairy products of all kinds sat side by side. To his left, the aisles combined drug, hardware, camping and marine supply store.

“Elgin, my love!” shrieked a blur racing from the back of the store. In an instant, she became wrapped in pale blue arms and darker blue designer slacks, her face disappearing in a huge, wet kiss.

“Oh my God, El,” the voice continued, letting her up for air, “why didn’t you tell me you were coming? You look gorgeous. How long are you going to stay? Are you working on a book? I hope you’re staying for the Fourth. Fireworks are going to be absolutely fabulous this year. Helped plan the program myself. Well, you’ve absolutely got to stay. That’s all there is to it. I’m having a little get together at my place and when I tell people Gillian Shelby’s going to be there…well, it will be the event of the season although up here that’s not really saying much. Oh, and I just got a whole rack of your books in and I’ll absolutely die of gratitude if you sign a few. Give you an extra ten- percent off anything in the house. So how have you been?”

Elgin laughed. “I’m fine, Marty, just fine. But give me a chance to catch my breath. I just got here.”

“Oh, of course, I know. You must be exhausted after that drive. Supplies, right?”

“Uh-huh. I’m just going to pick up a few things now but we’ll be staying the whole summer. Right through Labor Day.”

Pale white hands with a trace of pink polish clapped together. “Labor Day? My God, that’s absolutely wonderful! We’ll go picnicking and take ‘The Belle’ over to that alpine road company Vegas and see a show and…did you say ‘we?’”

“Yes, Marty.” She pointed to Harm, standing about a foot behind him. “This is Campbell Harm. He’s my secretary. I’m working on a book and he’s helping me.”

Marty turned a round, pale face to Harm. Only then did he realize Marty was a man. Well, perhaps man might be too strong a term. Male. Probably. Pale blonde, almost white hair hanging in a sort of shag around his moon face, pale gray eyes, thin nose, unnaturally pink cheeks and full lips in that ghostly body.

He put out a long hand and gave Harm a limp shake, running those eyes up and down him like an expert appraiser of horseflesh.

“I thought your secretary was a lady named Martha,” he said suspiciously.

“That’s right,” Elgin agreed pleasantly. “Martha Jackson. I’m surprised you remember her. Well, Martha is a city girl. Hates all this fresh air, and pine trees give her hives. She’s taking the summer off and Campbell kindly offered to fill in.”

Marty sighed. “I suppose he’s unbearably straight?” Disappointment coated his words like a child who’s just discovered there’s no more chocolate ice cream.

“Sorry, darling,” she sympathized, putting her fingertips on his arm, “Gillian Shelby likes her men a little kinky, but definitely straight.”

“Oh well,” he sighed. “You get on with your shopping. I’ve got to go over and stand behind my new cashier to make sure he doesn’t sell the cash register. Morgan Brantly’s son, Byron. Home from college. Begged me to give him a summer job. Great ass, but if he were any dumber, he’d be getting plant food through a tube twice a week.” Marty rolled his eyes, made a martyr’s face and walked away.

Elgin grabbed a small cart and began slowly going through the aisles. When they were sufficiently out of earshot, Harm leaned down.

“What was that?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Martin Van Scoyk. Marty to practically everyone. He owns the place. Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”

“He sounded like my great aunt Clara at Christmas. I was waiting for him to pinch your cheek.”

“That’s just his way. Marty and I go way back and he’s just glad to see me, that’s all. Besides, Marty lives over the top. You’ll get used to him.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

At the checkout counter, Marty scooted Byron out of the way as Harm reached for his wallet. Elgin beat him to it.

“Be a love and put this on my account, Marty, would you? And while your ringing up, I’ll sign those books.”