With each step out of the marsh, it felt as if the mud were trying to pull those old boots off her feet. Finally she was back on the grass. Speechless with fury, she marched around her house and stood on her front lawn, leaning on her cane and shaking her fist at the house across the street. He was probably inside, behind drawn shades, laughing at her.

Mina crossed the street and up her blasted neighbor’s front walk, trailing wet footprints up those fancy granite steps he’d installed, each one bigger than a tombstone. She marched across the narrow porch he’d slapped on the front and up to that fancy walnut door with its stained-glass insets on either side. The doorbell was the old twist kind but in shiny, brand-new brass. Ridiculous. She turned it. Heard chimes ringing—the opening notes of “Goodnight Irene.”

No answer. No footsteps. No sounds at all from inside the house. She raised her cane and rapped it against the door. He had to be in there. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes ago that he’d driven that ball.

Mina gave an anxious look behind her. No one was watching. She reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pushed. To her amazement, the door opened.

Chapter Twenty-two

Mina had just started to peer into Frank Cutler’s house when a light in the darkened front hall started flashing and a blaring Klaxon nearly blew her off the steps. She fought her first impulse, which was to scramble off the porch and race home. But scrambling and racing had long ago dropped out of her repertoire, and besides, it was too late for any of that. Two neighbors had come out and were looking on, and a dark car with a bubble light going in its windshield was already tearing up the street toward her.

She covered her ears to muffle the blaring alarm and waited. The sedan pulled over in front of the house. A man in a dark uniform got out. Well over six feet tall and whippet slender, his skin a rich reddish-brown, he reached back through his car window for a cap and set it on his head.

“Ma’am,” he said, touching the visor of his cap. Above it was stuck a silver badge.

That’s when Mina realized he was eyeing her less than respectfully. Not disrespectfully, really. More like he was looking at a suspicious package. His gaze lingered on her feet, those oversize rubber boots coated in mud.

Mina straightened and cleared her throat. Before she could explain what her neighbor had been up to, and how this time she had the evidence to prove it, he tilted his head and tsk-tsked. “We have to stop meeting like this, Miss Mina.”

Miss Mina? She wasn’t about to play Driving Miss damned Daisy to his Uncle Tom. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”

“Breaking in. Again?” He reached for her arm.

Mina didn’t like that. Not one little bit. She backed away. “Don’t you lay a hand on me. I was not trying to break in. That man . . . he was—” She held up the ball and realized she had an opera-length coating of mud up her arm. She switched hands and held out the ball. “I found this in the salt marsh. It’s a protected area, isn’t it?”

But the officer was looking past her. She turned to follow his gaze. Racing—much too fast, if you asked her—up the street toward them was a red sports car like the one that belonged to Frank Cutler. As it got closer, she could see the man himself, sitting right there at the wheel.

Another car pulled to a stop behind him. Brian’s. She might not have recognized the gray car as a Mercedes, but the ’60s peace sign in the front grill had always struck her as a hilarious irony.

“You’d better come with me.” The officer grabbed for her arm again.

“I’ll do no such thing.” She wrenched away.

Frank Cutler got out and charged over to the house and up onto the porch. “What in the hell is going on?” he demanded.

Brian got out, too, and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at her from beneath the red brim of a blue baseball cap. “What on earth is she up to now?” He put his hands on his hips, like he was the grown-up in the room.

“Everything’s under control,” the officer said. “Caught her trying to break in—”

“Again? You stay off my property,” Frank Cutler said, taking a menacing step toward Mina. They were like cartoon characters, all of them, and Mina almost expected a blast of steam to erupt from the top of Frank Cutler’s head.

“Well?” the officer said to Mina.

“I . . . He . . . It’s not . . .” Mina took a deep breath and tried to gather herself. “I was not trying to break in.”

“So you’re not responsible for setting off my alarm?” Frank Cutler said.

“I am. I guess. But it wasn’t my fault. I—”

“For the third time, it’s not your fault?”

Third time? What on God’s green earth was he talking about?

“You’ve been warned and warned again,” the officer said. He reached into his pocket and removed a pair of handcuffs.

That frightened her. “Put those fool things away. Brian? For heaven’s sake, say something.”

But Brian stood there staring at the ground like he was examining the roots his feet had grown. Frank Cutler’s jaw was clamped in a grim, satisfied smile. And the man in uniform advanced. When he grabbed her arm, Mina’s cane went flying.

Mina couldn’t think what else to do, so she screamed.

Chapter Twenty-three

Saving her a jelly doughnut had been a small thing, silly really, and yet so incredibly sweet, Evie thought as she walked back to her mother’s house licking the last of the raspberry jam from between her fingers. She only wished Finn had set aside two. She smiled, remembering that crullers were Ginger’s passion, and Finn hadn’t set aside a single one of those. That reminded her that she needed to call Ginger and tell her about the money she’d found.

She was almost back to the house when she heard a woman scream. She turned the corner to find cars blocking the street. A dark sedan with a blue light flashing in the windshield was parked in front of Mrs. Yetner’s house; behind it was Frank Cutler’s red sports car, and behind that was a dark Mercedes. Frank Cutler was up on his front porch. So was Mrs. Yetner. Another man, wearing a dark uniform, was up on the porch, too. A cop? Mrs. Yetner’s nephew Brian tipped back his red-brimmed baseball cap and looked on from the sidewalk.

As Evie watched, the uniform stepped between Frank and Mrs. Yetner. He put his arm around Mrs. Yetner and tried to herd her off the porch. Mrs. Yetner looked bewildered. Then angry. “Take your hands off me,” she said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

But the officer kept right on pushing, practically lifting the poor woman off her feet. Tendrils of white hair were flying loose from what was usually a neat bun at the nape of Mrs. Yetner’s neck, and her glasses were askew. Her nephew obviously wasn’t going to help her out. He stood there in stony silence.

“Stop!” Evie cried.

The officer must have let go, because Mrs. Yetner collapsed like a marionette on the steps of Mr. Cutler’s house. Evie dropped her coffee and charged up the steps. She sat down and put her arms around Mrs. Yetner, shielding her from the men. Cold seeped off the stone steps through the flannel of her pajama bottoms and she could feel Mrs. Yetner’s birdlike bones through her thick sweater.

“Ridiculous . . . pea-brained . . . ticket-writing nitwit.” Mrs. Yetner sputtered the words, hand to her chest as she panted for breath. “Trying to put me away.”

That’s when Evie noticed that one of the old woman’s hands was coated in mud and she had on knee-high black rubber boots pulled on over her pant legs. The boots were coated with fresh mud, too, well up over the ankles.

“Honestly, Miss Mina,” the uniformed man said, the brim of his hat pulled low over his forehead. “No one’s trying to put you away.” He rolled his eyes at Evie and tapped a finger to the side of his head.