PROLOGUE

Monday afternoon

The midafternoon storm arrived without notice. Lightning slashed through black thunderheads, and wind screamed in from Hawk Channel, threatening Key West on this wintry day. Palms bent in the onslaught. Surprised gulls fluttered a moment then dropped like stones onto the beach where they huddled together for protection. The weather matched my mood. I turned my back to the wind and strode away from the sea, heading toward Eden Palms.

I had no trouble entering the Shipton mansion in Old Town. Locals throughout the island knew Francine Shipton as an outgoing hostess who welcomed friends and family whether or not they called ahead to announce their impending arrival. But gaining access to the upstairs, the home’s second-floor suite that Francine claimed as her private quarters, was sometimes difficult for some, but not for me.

“Hello, hello,” Francine called through her front doorway when she saw me on her veranda. “Do come inside. I’m getting ready for this evening’s meeting—plumping the pillows and all that. This cold snap’s supposed to blow itself out quickly.” She gave me a puzzled look. “Is there some problem?”

“Not at all.” The wind blew the screen door with a bang when I stepped into the spacious foyer and bent to kiss her cheek. “You’ve a big evening ahead of you and I wondered if you might need some help before your guests arrive.” I glanced around, seeing nothing amiss. “Need chairs carried into the solarium? Extra ice toted to the freezer? How many people are you expecting?”

“Just a handful—my near neighbors. Of course they’re among the strongest protestors. Want to convince them to see the situation from my viewpoint.”

I looked up the curving stairway. On the balcony, I saw the thing I’d expected to see—the teakwood table Francine always used to serve coffee to a small group. The situation couldn’t have been more perfect.

“I know you’re counting on using that card table, Francine. You shouldn’t try to carry something that heavy and awkward down the stairs. Let me give you a hand.” Francine smiled and I started toward the second floor before she could argue. Counting each polished step from one to twenty-three helped divert my thoughts from the horror I knew was to come.

“That would be a help. You’re such a dear friend.”

Francine followed me up the steps. At the top of the staircase she picked up a blue cloth lying on the table.

“I started to dust, but I got sidetracked.” She began swishing the cloth across the inlaid teak.

I took the cloth from her. “Let me do that for you, please.” I took my time brushing nonexistent dust from the table legs, all the time nudging her ever so slightly to ease her in the best position possible.

“Oh, look, downstairs.” I nodded toward the veranda doorway. “You have more guests.”

She looked, and in that nanosecond I acted. Placing both my hands on her hipbones, I gave her a hard shove. Her scream gurgled into silence when her head cracked against the banister and her body thudded down, down, down the glossy steps. Now I clutched the pistol I’d hidden in my jacket pocket. I waited. Her head lay skewed at an impossible angle and she didn’t move. Blood poured from her nose and trickled from her left ear. I wouldn’t need the gun.

I dashed down the stairs, felt for her pulse, found none. Then reaching into my other pocket, I pulled out the dead blacksnake and smiled. The medical examiner would know she hadn’t died from snakebite or suffocation, but the shock value of seeing the snake would give both the police and the town gossips much to speculate about in the days to come. Who hated socialite Francine Shipton enough to murder her? Who?

I wrapped the blacksnake around her neck twice before I pried her mouth open and stuffed the snake’s head between her teeth and down her throat. The wind had died by the time I stepped back onto the veranda.

In an unusual stillness, I headed for home.