"Not someone you know?"

"No."

"Someone she knew?"

"Well, I'm not sure. Charlotte has many friends. She's always been so popular…"

Oh, sure, Hysell thought sourly. Port Ariel's Miss Congeniality. "What did this guy look like?"

"Youngish. About your age. Dark blond hair a bit long for my taste. Dungarees. I don't understand why people wear those things. Paul Fiori wore them. It always seemed to me that if he wanted to get movie parts he should look like a movie star. Rock Hudson didn't wear dungarees. Of course, he was funny, if you know what I mean… Died a terrible death. Max said he got what he deserved, but I felt sorry for him, so handsome and all-"

"Mrs. Bishop," Hysell said firmly to one of the few people in town who could out-talk him, "this guy had dark blond hair and wore jeans. Can you remember anything else about him?"

"No. Except that he was tall and slender like my Billy used to be. You remember Billy. Such a wonderful boy…"

"Did the guy last night act like he was threatening Charlotte?"

"Well, not exactly. But I could tell she didn't want to talk to him. She kept shaking her head… She looked cross. Charlotte can be quite irritable sometimes. She gets that from her daddy. After she left, the man in dungarees went out to the street and got into a white car. I don't know car models. It was ordinary, not sporty or luxurious… just, well, you know… ordinary." Her voice rose. "Ted, I'm afraid he followed Charlotte and maybe hurt her!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Bishop. We'll locate her. I promise."

Muriel Bishop sounded teary. "Thank you, Ted. You've always been a sweet boy. Please call when you know something. I haven't told Max yet," she repeated. "He gets so upset because he's helpless. But if he finds out and I didn't tell him, he'll be furious with me. I don't know what I should do. Life is so confusing…"

She hung up.

Charlotte hadn't been gone for even twenty-four hours. Officially there was nothing Hysell could do. Unofficially there was nothing he wanted to do. Charlotte was probably shacked up with someone. With Warren Hunt? Now that would be pushing it, even for Charlotte. The guy's wife had just been murdered. He was under suspicion, although Hysell wasn't sure Hunt quite realized the seriousness of his situation. He seemed to think he was far too classy to ever be considered capable of murder.

Meredith strode from his office. "Hysell, the Jenkins kid lives across the street from Warren Hunt. He says Hunt left around midnight last night and never came back."

Hysell tensed. "I just got a call from Muriel Bishop, Charlotte 's mother. She says Charlotte left about ten-thirty and she hasn't come home, either."

"Well-, well, what a coincidence."

"Do you think they ran off together?"

Meredith shook his head. "They can't be that stupid. No, something's wrong. Did Mrs. Bishop have any idea where Charlotte went last night?"

"I don't think so. She left in some sort of outfit Mrs. Bishop didn't like. Something about a filmy blouse unbuttoned too low. And there was a guy outside the house. Tall, slim, dark blond hair, maybe early thirties. Mrs. Bishop said they seemed to be arguing. Then Charlotte drove off and the guy left in his own car."

"What kind of car?"

"Don't know. White. Ordinary, Mrs. Bishop said."

"Call her back. Ask where Charlotte went at night for fun. Also ask if Charlotte has ever stayed out all night before. Don't sound like you're implying any misconduct on Charlotte 's part. That might make Mrs. Bishop clam up."

"It sure would. I know how to handle it."

"Make it quick. I have a feeling time is important."

Half an hour later they were headed toward the marina. Muriel Bishop said sometimes her daughter spent the night aboard the yacht, but she was always home by noon. She couldn't still be there, Muriel insisted. Besides, she'd called the yacht and there was no answer. Hysell had assured her they weren't alarmed-only curious. "If you want to know the truth, I think Sheriff Meredith just wants an excuse to look at the Charlotte,'" he'd laughed. "She's really something."

"I suppose," Muriel had answered unenthusiastically. "Max and Charlotte certainly think so. I haven't been aboard many times…"

Meredith let out a low whistle as they neared the Charlotte. "Now that's what I call a nice toy."

Hysell cleared his throat and offered uncertainly, "Uh… people around here take boating pretty seriously, Sheriff."

"So I shouldn't refer to a boat as a toy?"

"Well, maybe not," Hysell said, certain he'd offended Meredith.

Miraculously, the sheriff grinned. "Thanks for the tip. I don't want to make enemies without even knowing what I've done. Or said."

Was Mr. Hot Shot New York City listening to him? Hysell wondered. Hard to believe. But Meredith had seemed to treat him differently after they were at Hunt's yesterday. Maybe there was hope yet.

"No sign of activity." Meredith looked up at the yacht. "Let's see what's inside."

As soon as they stepped on deck, a cloud of flies rose from a circle of dried blood at least two feet in diameter. A trail of black blood led down the steps to the saloon. Warren Hunt sat propped on a beige couch, his eyes wide and glazed above a gaping slash in his throat. His head lolled to one side and flies crawled all over his face, gorging. For an awful instant, Ted thought he might vomit. In the master stateroom, Charlotte Bishop lay in a tangle of blood-soaked satin sheets, her lovely head nearly severed from her naked body. Flies hovered everywhere, even around the words written on the wall in blood, open tomb.

Ted ran from the bedroom, through the saloon and up to fresh air before heaving his stomach contents over the side of the magnificent Charlotte.

Nick Meredith felt a hundred years old-shocked, disgusted, hopeless, emotionally and physically drained. He'd come to Port Ariel because he wanted to rear his daughter in a safe, wholesome environment. Safe? Someone had committed three homicides in forty-eight hours. Wholesome? Someone had nearly decapitated three people. What would Meagan think of this new life he'd created for Paige? Meagan would say nothing in life is certain except that nothing in life is certain. She would be understanding and philosophical. He was angry and resentful. Hadn't Paige been through enough? Hadn't he?

He had more work to do, but at six he felt an overpowering need to see his daughter, to hear her laugh, to feel her slender amis around his neck. At times like this only she could restore him. He also wanted to make absolutely certain she was safe. He had niggling doubts about Mrs. Collins's diligence in the child-care department.

When he arrived home he was surprised to see a gold Cougar sitting in the driveway. He knew no one with a Cougar. Had something happened?

Nick nearly bolted in the front door and was greeted by the sound of laughter. In the living room Paige sat on the floor with a dark-haired woman. Natalie St. John. They were bent over Ripley, who lay on his back bouncing a toy mouse between his paws. Nick realized he'd been holding his breath when it came out as a loud whish.

"That certainly looks like a sick cat to me," he said, grinning.

Paige jumped up and ran to him. "Hi, Daddy. Natalie says-"

"Dr. St. John," Nick corrected.

"I asked her to call me Natalie." He hadn't noticed before that her voice was slightly husky. "It gives me the illusion of youth."

"Anyway, Natalie says that Ripley does have mites. I told you he'd been scratching his ears."

"What about that terrible limp I've never noticed?"

"Maybe just a muscle spasm," Natalie said. "Nothing life threatening."