Land's End. Marta Perry

rented a fifteen-footer from Clawson down at the marina. There was no evidence of any foul play. Mr. Donner said he’d mentioned to them that he’d like their opinion on expanding the cottage. He figured that was why they’d gone there.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying we didn’t do our duty?”

      “I’m concerned that the investigation was closed so quickly. I know Mr. Donner’s an important person—”

      Gifford’s hand came down on his desk with a thump. “That’s got nothing to do with what happens here in this office, and I don’t take kindly to you suggesting otherwise.”

      “I wouldn’t dream of saying that.” But it was what she thought.

      He wasn’t mollified. “I’ve tried to answer your questions as best I can. Nobody tried to hide anything about the way your husband and Miz Donner died. We just tried to protect the living as best we could.”

      And you should be grateful, his tone implied.

      “I wasn’t suggesting any laxity on your part, Chief Gifford.” Not at the moment, anyway.

      “I’ve told you everything I can.” Gifford stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

      Sarah rose, too. “I’d like to talk to Officer Whiting.”

      Gifford swelled alarmingly, his neck turning a rich maroon. “Whiting doesn’t speak for this department. I do. He has nothing to say to you.”

      He stalked to the door and threw it open. “If I were you, ma’am, I’d go back up north before St. James brings you more trouble.” His lips moved in what might have been meant for a smile. “The Sea Islands can be dangerous places for people who don’t belong here.”

      The small boat nosed away from the dock cautiously. Hitting the channel, deep now because of the high tide, Jonathan accelerated. The roar of the motor and the wind rushing through her hair made conversation impossible, and Sarah was grateful.

      Jonathan, face drawn tight with distaste, clearly thought this a bad idea. Maybe it was, but that didn’t change her mind. It was ridiculous to assume she’d ever stop imagining what the place looked like. She might as well know.

      A dolphin lifted from the water in a perfect silver arc, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d nearly forgotten the unexpected moments of sheer beauty the island provided. Sunlight was warm on her shoulders, accentuating the golden haze that gleamed from sand and sea oats. No wonder these were called the Golden Isles.

      Jonathan throttled back and pointed. For hundreds of years oyster shells had washed up into a barrier ridge, separating the sound and the salt marshes. Along the ridge, fifty or more brown pelicans sunned themselves. Startled by the boat, they took off, skimming the breakers and squawking their dislike.

      It took only minutes to reach their destination. Cat Isle was hardly big enough to be called an island—a few acres of tangled vines, hoary old live oaks draped funereally in Spanish moss, scraggly pines. As far as Sarah knew, Trent’s cottage was the only building of any sort.

      Jonathan idled up to the crumbling dock. The weathered gray boards were adorned with moss.

      “Does Trent own the whole island?”

      He nodded, tossing a line over an upright. “Bought it from me, as a matter of fact. We never came here much, but it’s easier access from Land’s End—you can take a kayak down the creek when the tide is right.”

      She nodded, trying to fix the geography in her mind. Land’s End was nearly surrounded by water, with the ocean in front, the sound to the south and the marshes and creek running behind it.

      “Trent completely remodeled the cottage, but Lynette didn’t like it. She said the place made her nervous. She—” He stopped abruptly, shutting down as sharply as the boat’s engine had. “Go ahead.” He jerked his head toward the path. “I’ll wait here.”

      She’d expected him to go with her, but maybe it was just as well. She didn’t need anyone to see her reaction to the place. She scrambled up on the dock, getting a green smear on her khakis in the process, and started toward the cottage.

      The path, surrounded by lush, overpowering green undergrowth, nearly lost itself several times. This was her dark image of the islands, the gloomy, mysterious depths of maritime forest, only a step or two from the sunlit water.

      The scent of honeysuckle enveloped her, deepening like incense as she moved farther from the dock. With a wary eye out for snakes, Sarah pushed along the path until it widened into a clearing.

      Weathered a gray-green like the dock, the cottage seemed to grow out of the forest. It had a rustic charm, if she could divorce herself what had happened here. But if Lynette disliked the place so much, why would she choose to meet anyone here, especially a lover?

      She pushed hair back from her damp forehead. That wasn’t right, anyway. Whatever Miles had been doing here, it wasn’t making love to Lynette Donner. If she couldn’t believe that, nothing in her life made any sense.

      She grasped the door handle and pushed it open. She stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Abruptly a wave of distaste washed over her. What was she doing here?

      Like an echo of her thought, the voice came from within the room. “What are you doing here?”

      With a queer, cold twist in her stomach, she turned. The shaft of light from the open door cast harsh shadows on Trent’s rigid face.

      “A stupid question, isn’t it, Sarah? I already know what you’re doing here. You’re looking for more grief, and you’ve found it.”