I closed my eyes and tried to think about something pleasant. My lover was in Washington, altogether too pleased with the freedom of our new arrangement, my precious home was about to be battered by sixty-mile-an-hour winds, and the tangle of investigations on my professional plate seemed hopeless. I opened my eyes and stared off into the wild gray yonder.

I was as relieved as the woman clutching the paper bag against her chest when the pilot descended out of the clouds and I could see the lights on the landing strip glistening in the evening mist. We taxied to a stop and I trotted from the bottom of the steps into the shelter of the airport terminal. I walked to the parking lot, where my caretaker had left my car earlier in the week when he'd gone off-island. Soon I was heading up-island on the slick roadway that curved through the pastures and meadows of Chilmark.

It was close to nine o'clock. I was looking for something to eat, but there weren't many choices. I drove in the direction of Dutcher Dock, but both the Galley and the Homeport were dark.

I made a U-turn in front of the old red-roofed coast guard station, now the Chilmark Police Headquarters, going to the far end of the main road toward the gas station. Larsen's Fish Market had closed hours ago, so my last hope was the Bite, a two-hundred-square-foot gray-shingled kitchen from which the Quinn sisters put forth the best chowder and fried clams on the face of the earth.

There were two pickup trucks parked in front-drivers eating in their cabs-and I squeezed my little red convertible in between them. I ducked under the roof of the small porch to get out of the rain, and Karen spotted me when I picked my head up.

"Alex? That you? Haven't got a clam or oyster left. Wiped out."

"Just a cup of soup." My stomach was still settling down. "To go."

Her dialect was more Boston Southie than islander. "Better close your house up tight. Gonna be a wicked bad storm."

"That's what I came up to do."

She handed me a brown bag much larger than a pint container of soup. "Take some with you for tomorrow. Extra chowder, some chicken wings, and my mother's brownies. You'll be glad you've got this goody bag if nobody opens up during the hurricane."

I thanked her and got back into the car and headed for the hilltop high above the water that surrounded my lovely old farmhouse on all sides, grateful for the placement the Mayhew farmers had given their home almost two centuries earlier, as the waves picked up steam on the shores below. I had expanded and rebuilt the sturdy structure, but it still retained the charm and character that came from its original bones.

My heart beat more rapidly as I made the turn off State Road. I thought of my friend Isabella Lascar, who had died on the very same path just a few years ago.

I was distracted by the movement of a large dark body in the bushes ahead of my car, just out of range of the high beams. My foot slammed on the brakes and the buck leaped directly in front of me, then up and over the ancient stone wall that ringed my property.

Seconds later, the doe and two small deer followed him, trailing off through the woods on my neighbor's land.

I drove on to my house and parked the car. Usually, my caretaker came ahead and lighted the entrance and living area for me, cutting flowers in summer to place around the rooms and stocking the refrigerator with basics. This time, because he had already left the island, I was faced with a dark, cold shell that seemed strangely unwelcoming.

I unlocked the side door and walked quickly into the kitchen and small parlor beyond, flipping on every light switch. I rested the bag of food on the countertop, opened the cabinet to grab a glass, and filled it with ice. In the living room, I pressed the CD player button for random select. By the time I poured some Dewar's, Simon and Garfunkel reminded me that I was fakin' it, and as I was well aware, not really makin' it. I clicked the remote, content to wind up on the bridge over troubled water.

Mike Chapman's home number was on my speed dial. I settled onto the sofa with my drink and waited for him to answer.

"Hello."

"Val? It's Alex. Is this a bad time?"

"No, no. It's fine. How've you been?"

"Good, thanks. Just came up to the country to prepare for the storm." I didn't know whether to mention that Mike had told me she hadn't felt well lately. Before I could decide what to ask, he had taken the phone from her hand.

"Etymology, blondie. Whaddaya know about it?"

I was too disinterested to answer fast enough.

"Me? I thought it was bugs. I'm fat on bugs-figured I would have cleaned up on you tonight. Who knew it was about words? O.K., you know, the initials? Know what they stand for?"

"Count me out, Mike. Look-"

"From the Boston Morning Post, 1839. Some cellist from Ottawa won fourteen grand on this. An editor who couldn't spell right used it back then to mean 'oll korrect.' Get it? 'All correct' gets muffed into O.K. "

"Riveting. I called to tell you the latest snag in the case."

"Can't you give it a rest, kid? Don't go snapping at me. I got my jammies on, about to have my nightcap-"

"Fine. Call me in the morning. The next dead body can be on your conscience."

Mike's tone changed and he snapped into business mode. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's up?"

"Funny stuff with Tiffany Gatts and her lawyer," I said.

"How funny? Laugh out loud?"

"Not exactly. She's willing to squeal on Kevin, but says if she does, her life's in danger. Someone's going to kill her mama, too."

"Better be bringing a cannon for that job."

"Helena Lisi's just a front," I said.

"For what?"

"For the brains behind the operation, I have to think. Somebody else is paying the legal bills, but doesn't want to be connected to the courtroom. You've got to find out who that is. Yesterday."

"You don't think Lisi will tell you, if you ask nice?"

"I can hear her start to whine before I even pose the question. I could try to subpoena her to the grand jury, on the theory that there's a criminal conspiracy, but she'll move to quash and we'll be arguing that one till doomsday."

"Lawyer-client privilege?"

"Even the Supremes let us get into some disclosures about fees in certain circumstances, but I'm counting on you to beat the clock. Maybe you start with Mrs. Gatts. See what she knows."

"So there's a new lawyer?"

"Shadow counsel. A stupid artifice that could undermine the whole case, and certainly toss a conviction, if we get anywhere close to one. If we nail Kevin-or someone else for Queenie's murder-this schmuck just becomes part of a fraud that greased the wheels for Tiffany to slide right into our laps, without any real representation."

"Got it."

"Thanks, Mike. We'll talk in the morning."

"Deal," he said, as I started to sign off. "Coop? You okay up there? You're not alone, are you?"

"We're fine," I said, misleading him with the plural pronoun. "Promise. Speak to you tomorrow."

I hung up and hit the number of Jake's cell phone. "Hey," I said as he came on the line. "Can't believe I got you on one ring."

I stretched out on the sofa and cradled the phone against my shoulder.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Home. The Vineyard." Jake knew it was the one place in the world where I was most content. The tension sloughed off my shoulders within half an hour of my arrival here, even in the worst of circumstances. "And you?"

"Didn't Laura give you the message? I'm trying to get up there, too."

"I haven't even checked the machine. I-I just needed to hear your voice."

"I'm at Reagan National. Nothing's flying out at the moment. The wind has increased and the first bit of the storm is about to hit."

The Vineyard weather was anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours behind D.C.'s, depending on the speed the system picked up along the way. I could expect Hurricane Gretchen to reach our shores by tomorrow afternoon.