I tell myself to quell my uneasiness over Steven Collier. It makes sense that he has those documents. He’d have a tough time doing his job otherwise. And plenty of people carry firearms for legitimate reasons. I’m one of them. Besides, there’s no reason to think Herb Rawlings was shot. Guns have nothing to do with this case. Plenty of people lie, too, especially if they think it will help someone they want to protect. Clearly Collier has thought about the damage Louisa’s divorce plans might cause under the circumstances.

“And Anastasia’s trust documents,” Louisa adds. “Herb made a point of giving Steven a copy of those. I remember the two of them coming back here after an afternoon on the Carolina Girl to discuss it.”

“Anastasia has a trust?”

Louisa unfolds her arms and holds both hands up, palms out. “Don’t get me started,” she says, but apparently I already did. She barely pauses for breath. “Doting Daddy has the dreadful daughter financed for life. Heaven forbid she lift a finger during her stay on earth.”

It occurs to me that Anastasia’s earthly existence sounds somewhat comparable to Louisa’s, but I don’t mention it. “Why would Herb give a copy of Anastasia’s trust documents to Steven Collier?” I ask instead.

Louisa leaves her post at the stove and examines the floor as she saunters to a stool across the counter from mine. She smiles when she looks up, her rich brown eyes genuinely amused. “That’s a fair question,” she says as she sits, “from someone who doesn’t know Anastasia.”

Something tells me I just might get to know Anastasia before all this is over. There’s more bad blood here than I’d realized.

“To those of us who know her,” Louisa continues, “the answer is obvious. I knew immediately. Steven did too.”

She leaves her perch at the counter, takes a few steps and leans against the refrigerator. I wait.

“Anastasia is specifically excluded from her father’s will,” Louisa says. “And our Anastasia will be apoplectic when she finds out.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why is she excluded?”

“Because she’s already taken care of,” Louisa answers. “Her trust is well funded. It will support her quite comfortably—her and her beatnik boyfriend, I might add—for life. Herb thought it best to keep Anastasia’s financial interests separate from mine.”

Herb thought right on that score. Too bad he couldn’t find separate planets for them too. “I’m not following you, Louisa. I still don’t see why Steven Collier has copies of Anastasia’s trust documents.”

“We’ll need them,” she says, “when the poor little rich girl contests her daddy’s will.”

I should have seen that coming. If Steven Collier were here, he’d undoubtedly ask me if I’m a lawyer.

“And she will contest it,” Louisa adds. “Make no mistake about that. She’ll be in probate court before Herb’s attorney finishes breaking the news.”

Now it’s my turn to leave my perch. It’s time to get out of here. I have other questions, including more than a few about Anastasia Rawlings, but I want to sleep on them before I ask. We’ve covered enough ground for one day. No need to open Pandora’s box before we leave.

“I’d like to meet earlier tomorrow,” I tell Louisa as I take my jacket from the back of the chair. “How’s nine o’clock?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine with me,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

The Kydd takes my cue and starts for the kitchen door, but then stops. He turns and heads for the living room instead, apparently remembering Louisa’s preference. I grab my briefcase and follow, our hostess right behind me.

I’m eager to get going. I’m meeting Harry at his place so we can go out for a quick bite. And Luke should be home by now too. If he doesn’t have a date, and hasn’t already made plans with friends, we might be able to talk him into joining us. Harry and I are good company, Luke always says, if no one else is around.

The Kydd bids Louisa good-bye with a nod, looks down at his shoes as if he’s embarrassed, and then hurries out the front door and down the steps to the brick walkway. She watches as he crosses the oyster-shell driveway, opens the Thunderbird’s back door, and slides his briefcase onto the seat. She leans in the doorway and sips from yet another glass of her terrible tea. I hadn’t realized she’d brought it along.

“Is he yours?” she asks.

“Pardon me?”

She points her tall, perspiring glass toward the Kydd. “That delightful young man. Is he yours?”

For reasons I don’t understand in the least, I feel a twinge of panic. “Mine? I don’t know what you mean.”

A satisfied smile crosses Louisa’s face. “Well, then, he’s not. You’ve answered my question, darlin’.”

I wish to God she’d stop calling me that.

CHAPTER 10

Harry and I pull up to my cottage to find a brand-spanking-new Porsche in the driveway. It’s cleaner than my kitchen table and waxed to perfection, shimmering even in the diffused light of dusk. I’ve never seen this car before, but I’ve heard about it—and its price tag—from Luke. The sight of it makes my stomach hurt.

Luke’s truck is in the shop. He stayed in Boston after classes ended yesterday, went to a Celtics game with a group of buddies last night, and then slept over at his father’s harbor-front condo. Ralph drove him home this afternoon.

It wasn’t necessary for Ralph to make the ninety-mile trip down here, of course. Luke could have taken the bus from Boston to Hyannis, as he’s done a hundred times before, and either Harry or I would have gladly picked him up at the station. Ralph wouldn’t hear of it, though. He insisted on driving. And now he’ll tell me a thousand times how terribly inconvenient it was.

Harry lets out a long, low whistle. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, parking his old Jeep next to the sleek machine. “A Carrera 911. You must be moonlighting.”

I laugh and climb out of the Jeep. My day job barely covers the never-ending repairs to the old Thunderbird. I’d have to be moonlighting as a plastic surgeon to imagine a Porsche on my horizon.

“Where the hell did this come from?” Harry gets out of the Jeep too and stands still in the driveway, staring at the Porsche the way he might gaze at an icy case of Heineken if he’d been stranded in the desert for a week.

“It’s Ralph’s,” I tell him. “He brought Luke home from Boston today.”

“Ralph,” Harry repeats. “He’s still here?”

I feel a little bit like a game show hostess, holding my hands out toward the gleaming status symbol. “Apparently he is.”

“You want me to disappear?”

Harry’s question almost makes me laugh. Ralph walked out on Luke and me a dozen years ago, and he largely ignored us for the first ten of them. He came out of the woodwork two years back, after remarrying and redivorcing. Luke was a junior in high school then. And his father had decided it was time to get to know him.

“No,” I tell Harry, shaking my head. “I don’t want you to disappear.”

He drapes his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close as we head for the back steps. “Okay,” he says, kissing my forehead. “I guess I’ve got an appointment with the shrink who needs his head examined.”

Ralph is on his feet when Harry and I come through the kitchen door, his car keys in hand. My heart sinks for a moment when I realize we could have avoided him if we’d arrived just a few minutes later. The old adage is true: Timing is everything.

Danny Boy gallops into the kitchen the instant we’re inside. He almost never runs anywhere anymore, but Luke is home, and now we are too, and Danny Boy can barely contain his joy. He yelps and jumps up on me, his big paws landing on my stomach, and I fall backward against Harry. If he hadn’t pulled the kitchen door shut behind him, we’d both go over like dominoes onto the back deck.