“Do you want to press charges? Where is Mr. Pford? I’ll arrest him right now.”

Lane shook his head. “She just wants to be done with it. The marriage was a mistake. Anyway, I’ll be honest with you. When I got out here, I was not gentle with the guy, if you know what I mean—and he’s agreed to an annulment. Look, my sister is okay. Or, she will be. But if she goes to the hospital or we get him arrested, the press is going to have a field day, and frankly, my family’s had more than its fair share of coverage lately. She’s already ashamed and embarrassed, and he’s out of her life now. We’d rather just let this lay.”

The officer nodded and reached into his chest pocket. “It’s a private affair.”

Lane exhaled. “It is private. Yes.”

“Here’s my card. Call me if she or you have a change of mind.”

“Thank you”—he glanced at the card—“Charles.”

“Charlie. Charlie Heinz.”

“I’m happy to pay to replace the tree?”

“This isn’t private land. It’s part of the city park system. It’ll take care of itself.”

“I really appreciate your understanding where I’m coming from.”

“Mr. Baldwine, ’round here, we take care of our own. Don’t you worry, no will know about this—not unless you want them to.”

They shook hands, and then the officer got back in his car and drove away. Left on his own, Lane looked back at the swamp.

And was very glad for the interconnected nature of Charlemont.

TWENTY-NINE

As Lizzie pulled her truck in to its spot by Easterly’s business center, she stared over at the blue tent that had been erected over Miss Aurora’s car. That detective and the CSI folks seemed to have moved onto the property for the duration, and she wondered what they were finding—and whether some police radio of theirs would broadcast what that cop had come upon down at the marsh just now.

Gunshots. Busted car. Towing. Not that the officer had seemed to recognize any of it.

Dear Lord, how was this her life?

When she got out, that detective, Merrimack, smiled across at her. “Quite a storm, huh.”

“Yes, it was.”

“And it looks like you went through some mud.” He pointed to her tires. “Have some trouble on the road?”

“I was coming back from the hospital during the worst of it. There was flash flooding.”

“That can happen.” More with the smile. “I’ll bet you’re glad to be home safe.”

She glanced at the crime-scene vans. “How much longer will you be here?”

“Trying to get rid of us?”

Yes. “Not at all. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

“Well, aren’t you kind.” Merrimack looked over his shoulder at the two men who were crawling all around Miss Aurora’s car. “I think my guys are fine and we’re just finishing up. Oh, by the way, there are two more of us working in Miss Toms’s private quarters. I wouldn’t want you to be surprised.”

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll just head in. It’s been a long day.”

“You do look tired, if you don’t mind me saying. And I want to thank you for your statement earlier. Very helpful.”

As she gave him a wave and headed for the back door into the kitchen, he said, “Miss King?”

“Yes?”

“Lot of mud on your shoes there.” Smile. “You might want to wipe them extra good on the mat before you go inside. Or maybe take them off altogether.”

“Oh, yes. You’re right. Thank you.”

With her heart pounding, she went to the screen door and let herself into the mansion, without taking his advice. And as soon as she was out of his view, she sagged—

“ ’Scuse me, ma’am.”

Jumping back to attention, she put her hand over her heart. “Oh!”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” The man was dressed in a casual uniform and had paper bags full of things in both his hands. “We’re finished in there. We’re going to ask that no one enter that space, though.”

With a lean to the side, Lizzie looked around him and saw a woman dressed in the same way putting a seal on Miss Aurora’s door. “Of course. No one will go in there.”

After they left, she went over and sat down on a stool at the island in front of the stove. About ten minutes later, headlights flared in the windows as the vehicles began to leave, and then there was another panning of illumination as if someone was pulling in.

Lane entered the kitchen. And closed the door slowly behind himself. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Would you like some dinner—”

“I’m going to go over to Indiana for tonight,” she said quickly.

“Oh, okay, sure. I’ll just grab some of my things and—”

“Alone.” As he frowned, she said, “Someone has to stay with Gin. She can’t be alone right now.”

“Lizzie.” He shook his head. “Please don’t go.”

“It’s just for the night.”

“Is it?”

She nodded. “I need some rest. And I have to check my property, especially after the storm. You have to stay here.”

“But my mother’s nurse—”

“Needs to be with your mom.”

“Lizzie.”

She closed her eyes and shuddered. “You have to let me go right now. This has been a lot, tonight. I’m not . . . I just need to sleep in my own bed and wake up in my little house on my farm. Have a cup of coffee by myself. Take the four-wheeler around the fields and look for downed limbs. I need . . . to be normal, for a minute.”

Or, in other words: not involved in any murder investigations or shoot-outs down by the river or lying to cops. Oh, and also, if she could have no one bleeding or hurt or dead, that’d be great, thanks.

Lane opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t get a chance to.

Jeff came striding in from the front of the house, his suit still on, a metal briefcase in his hand. “Well, good news.”

“What’s that,” Lane inquired in a dead voice.

“We’re getting sued by two banks.”

As Lane let himself fall back against the wall, Lizzie had to ask, “How is that good news?”

“If it were three,” the man said, “they could force us into bankruptcy. So, yay for us. What’s for dinner, kids? I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

THIRTY

Hours later, Lane woke up in a dark room in a strange—no, wait. He wasn’t on a bed. He was lying on the sofa—in Easterly’s front parlor.

Turning his head, he found that he was eye to eye with a bottle of Family Reserve that—oh, yup, right, he’d taken down to the a-quarter-left level. Next to it was his rocks glass, which was empty. His shoes were off, his head was against a decorative throw with tassels that had dropped into one of his ears, and his body was at weird angles.

As he tried to figure out what had disturbed his blackout, he had some vague thought that he’d had a bad dream.

Pity that the return to consciousness was a case of out of the fire and into the frying pan.

Wait, wasn’t that . . . frying pan first, then fire?

“Who the hell cares.”

Sitting up, his head spun and he looked around—

Across the way, at the base of the elegant room, one of the French doors was wide open, and the night breeze, lovely and mild, had come in—so maybe it had been the scent that had roused him?

Getting to his feet, he walked over and leaned out. There was not enough wind to have blown it open, and he looked down at the high-gloss floorboards. Things were still damp out there and debris from the trees littered the terrace—so if someone had come in, surely they would have left prints?

He turned on a lamp. Nothing marred the floor.

Stepping onto the flagstones, he glanced around—

Someone was walking right next to the house.

Over there. A figure in white . . . a woman . . . was drifting down the stone steps into the garden proper.