Chapter Eleven

Callie woke the next morning with a dull headache behind her eyes. Slowly the memories came back of the past day’s events and especially Quinn’s agonized determination to help right away with IDing the remains that had been recovered from the sunken boat. He had gone to the police station with Peggy, who insisted on supporting him while a friend of hers watched the boys.

Callie sat on the edge of the bed, wiping her sandpaper eyes. She hoped with everything inside her that the remains didn’t belong to Monica Walker so Quinn wouldn’t have to work through the fact that his mother had died all those years ago and perhaps had even been murdered.

But on the other hand, she knew very well that the remains could hardly belong to somebody else. Not only had the boat vanished on the same night as Monica, but Falk had said the remains had been dressed in what was left of a sequined top and high heels: the exact outfit Monica Walker was wearing when Mr. Bates had last seen her at the Cliff Hotel.

Having showered and dressed, Callie dragged herself downstairs to breakfast. Daisy ran ahead of her, entering the kitchen first and bumping into Iphy’s legs as she was putting a stack of pancakes on the table.

“Good morning!” her great-aunt called. “Sit down. They’re still hot. I put some homemade butter there and several kinds of jelly. I think strawberry is best, but please feel free to differ.”

Callie’s stomach felt the size of a ping-pong ball. “I can’t eat pancakes now.”

“Nonsense, you need your strength for the investigation.” Iphy eyed her. “You can’t help Quinn by feeling sorry for him. I’m sad too that the remains on the boat might belong to his mother. But Monica Walker vanished thirty years ago, long before Quinn even knew he was adopted. That’s a given fact. We can only try to support him as he attempts to unearth the truth about that night.”

Callie knew her great-aunt was right and nodded. Iphy’s brisk practicality brought back some of her own spunk. “Pancakes it is, then.”

She looked at the counter, where there was an array of cut-out colorful shapes. Fondant, probably.

Iphy caught her look. “I wasn’t quite happy with the fondant fireworks I made to put on the three-tier cake. They’re supposed to go all around the top two tiers so that you can look at it from different angles. I’m using slightly thinner stripes so it looks more realistic. I also need to think about the color scheme. Red, white, and blue, or something more flashy?”

Iphy tilted her head in concentration. “I’m glad I’ve at least decided on the flavors for the different layers of cake. The base will be pecan banana, the middle tier chocolate fudge, and the top one raspberry white chocolate.”

“I can’t wait to taste them all. When will you be doing the full try-out bake?”

“Sometime next week. I need a couple of hours for it.” Iphy was still studying her fondant. “I wish I could think of an ingenious way to shape it better.”

Callie seated herself at the table and buttered her first pancake. “I heard the phone ring quite a few times late last night.”

“Yes, people heard about the search in the water and the canvas barriers and a boat being found, possibly, and you know how it goes. Everybody had heard a different story. They all called me to tell me their take on it.”

“Oh. Interesting. Anything worthwhile?”

“Well, most seem to be convinced that Monica left with a man, and they wonder, if there’s only one dead body aboard that boat, where the man vanished to. They seem to think he killed her.”

“Her new lover?” Callie’s eyes went wide. That idea hadn’t occurred to her, but with only one dead body aboard the sunken vessel, it did make a lot of sense. “But what on earth could have prompted him to kill her if he loved her and wanted to start a new life with her?”

“Well, consider this.” Iphy pointed at Callie with the whisk in her hand. She had washed the things used for baking the pancakes and was now clearing them away. “Monica left her ID behind. She knew she needed money for a new life. She might have been carrying a large sum of cash. Or she might have already put cash in a place only she and her lover knew about. Maybe he killed her for the money. He might never have loved her and only suggested they run away together to gain access to her funds. After all …”

Iphy held Callie’s gaze. “Monica earned a fortune with her role on the successful TV series. But after her disappearance, not much of it was left. I called Falk to tell him about the money theory, and he confirmed that, at the time, everybody was surprised that Monica’s bank accounts held so little money. She must have funneled it away to use in her new life. But now that she’s probably dead, I’m afraid her killer has been living off it.”

Callie cringed. “That’s terrible.”

She chewed in silence while Iphy poured coffee for her and encouragingly moved the bowl with blueberry jelly closer to her.

Inhaling its sweet scent, Callie spread the jelly thick across her second pancake. Nobody made blueberry jelly quite like Iphy, and the taste was even better on something warm. “So we’re not just talking about a woman who went missing, but about her fortune that went missing as well. I hadn’t realized, although it makes perfect sense to assume she had put money aside to use once she had run away. How else would she live?”

“And stay undercover,” Iphy added. She sipped her own coffee from her favorite daisy-spattered mug. “Very clever, but not so clever when you share your plan with a killer.”

“Right. Quinn gave me the list last night of men Monica had been involved with, as far as he could find any. He emphasized again that the men she might have dated before she got famous are, of course, not on it, as there was no interest from the media in her life then. I was wondering if maybe after her last relationship ended in heartbreak, she turned to one of her old lovers for support. Let’s have a look.”

She produced the list and smoothed it on the table, running a finger down the names and the brief notes Quinn had put after them. “Okay, this one was only a short relationship and a long time before Monica vanished. I doubt she’d turn to that man for support. Hmm … here’s someone she was with for four years. That could create a bond of confidence even after it ended, right? And here … Wait—what?” Callie stared at the last name on the list. “Her last relationship was with a man named Roger.”

“So?” Iphy asked, refilling her coffee mug.

“The flowers she got and didn’t want to accept came from an ‘R.’ ‘You are my life,’ signed ‘R.’ What if they came from this Roger? Not a fan stalking her, but her ex. Making her feel so insecure and threatened that she wanted to vanish.”

Iphy nodded. “Possible. You hear a lot of cases where exes can get quite obsessed.”

“And more often than not those cases end in violence.” Callie leaned back against the chair. “We need to know if this guy Roger had been sending her flowers before, which she refused to accept. Maybe somebody who worked with her on Magnates’ Wives would know about unwanted deliveries arriving for Monica?”

Iphy nodded again. “That would make sense. But how can you trace that person? The series ended years ago. How would you even know who handled such things as deliveries for the stars at that time?”

“Yes, that’s a problem.” Callie ate her third pancake, turning the question over in her head. How to contact someone relevant, how to find someone who would actually want to cooperate now that the story was getting hot again? Not all publicity was good publicity, she supposed, and former employees on Magnates’ Wives who still worked in the business might be reluctant to touch anything potentially damaging.

Iphy leaned against the sink. “Mr. Bates was going to ask around the Cliff Hotel, you said last night before turning in. Did he get back to you yet?”

“No, but I suppose it’s too soon. He needs some time to gather information, I’d say.” Callie used the last of her pancake to wipe the remaining jelly off her plate. “Delicious breakfast—thanks for cooking. You know what? I think I’ll look up Dave Riggs. He met Monica. He might know something about this Roger. I wanted to go see my cottage anyway. I need some measurements to order curtains for the various rooms. I’ll also get wallpaper and paint. I think Quinn needs to do something physical to take his mind off the case.”

“Great idea. But I don’t see what Dave Riggs could contribute. Even if he met Monica, she wouldn’t have shared her relationship troubles with him.”

Callie wanted to protest that sometimes it was easier to confide in a stranger, but Iphy said, “She was a public figure. She couldn’t trust someone she’d just met.”

That seemed right. Still, Monica had told Dave she was going to do a new series. Something she might not even have been supposed to mention. Weren’t such things usually kept a secret until the last instant?

Odd.

Callie called Daisy, who had just finished her own breakfast and was eager to come along. Waving goodbye to Iphy, Callie smiled down on the dog. “Let’s go see our new home, girl.”

*   *   *

“That should be it.” Callie stared at the scribbled notes of measurements for curtains, calculations for enough paint to cover all the wooden surfaces and for wallpaper for the bedroom and living room walls. Her shoulders ached from reaching up to run the tape measure along the top of the windows or get it into a far corner. But at least she had now tackled this necessary chore and could focus on actually choosing colors. Seeing Peggy’s home had inspired her. That blue was gorgeous. Maybe combined with some sunny yellow and touches of lime green?

Or pink?

She did also love gray and purple. Dark purple or lilac. Wouldn’t that look great in the bedroom, combined with wallpaper with some botanical pattern?

Her cell phone beeped, and Callie almost dropped her note paper. She reached into her pocket for the phone. It was an unknown number. “Hello?”

“Callie Aspen? It’s me, Kay Tucker. I’m in Vienna with the group.”

It took Callie a moment to work out that this was her replacement at Travel the Past who was presently in Austria’s capital showing a group of senior citizens the famous architecture, parks, and white horses. “Yes? What’s the matter?”

“I lost someone!” Kay’s voice was panicky. “Last time I looked, everyone was still here. But now we’re short a group member.”

“Have you asked the others whether they’ve seen him or her?”

“It’s a she. She was snapping some pics. Now she’s gone!”

“People don’t just vanish. She must have wandered off. Is there something interesting to see nearby? A landmark she might have wanted to photograph?”

“I don’t know. It’s full of old buildings here.”

“Have you agreed on a rendezvous place where you’d go in case group members got separated from the rest?” Callie had always worked with such a rendezvous place, whether in a large museum or a city center, choosing a well-known spot that a lost tourist could easily ask for.

“No. I forgot.” Kay breathed hard. “Everything has been going wrong. In restaurants, they don’t speak English, and we get the wrong orders. Someone broke her heel stepping into a hole in the pavement. We couldn’t find a shoe shop so she could buy other shoes. And now this.”

“Kay, stay calm.” Callie wished fervently that she was in Vienna right now to take charge and solve this. “The wrong orders and the broken heel don’t matter. You have to find this missing woman. Now think hard. Where could she have gone to?”

“Someone else in the group is waving at me. Wait a moment. What? Where? Oh, I see.” Kay sounded relieved. “They spotted her. She’s on the other side of the street, snapping pics of some old banner on a building.”

“When you have everyone together again, tell them to notify at least one other group member if they’re going to wander off. And decide on rendezvous places wherever you go.”

“Yes, I will. This is just so much harder than I thought. I wanted a nice trip, having a drink here and there, chatting with fun people. They’re all asking questions I don’t know the answers to.”

Callie couldn’t remember feeling quite so lost on her first trip, but then it was a long time ago, and the routine had settled in so much she had been able to do things on autopilot. “It will be fine,” she said to Kay. “It’s just your first trip.”

“And maybe my last if it keeps going like this. I don’t need all this stress.” Kay hung up without even saying goodbye.

Callie stared at the phone in her hand. If Kay quit, would her former boss ask her to come back? Was she going to decorate a home she wouldn’t be living in at all if she moved back to Trenton to start in her old job again?

Right now that prospect seemed inviting. Heart’s Harbor was once more the scene of a murder case, whereas Vienna offered beautiful sights, wonderful meals—if you did get the right order of course—and the freedom Callie had always craved. What had she done moving here?

Confused, Callie left the cottage behind and walked with Daisy to the lighthouse. She was determined to talk to Dave about Monica Walker, something quite natural, she supposed, with the boat having been found, but at the same time she was sort of worried she’d run into Elvira instead of Dave and would have to make up some reason for her presence.

But, to her relief, the tall man was busy on a ladder leaning against the base of the lighthouse. He clambered down to greet her.

“Hi, Callie. I saw you at Haywood Hall yesterday, but I didn’t have time to come up and chat. Did you like what you saw? The dancing and all. Swing It! is really good.” He held his hand over his eyes to shade them against the sun. “Is there something you need for your cottage? I could lend a hand. This”—he gestured at his ladder—“isn’t urgent and can wait.”

“Monica Walker,” Callie merely said.

Dave flinched. “I didn’t tell you about my encounter with her to get more questions about it. I just want it to stop.” He rubbed his left hand over the paint stains on the right.

“That won’t be possible now that the boat has been found on which Monica allegedly left Heart’s Harbor. There might be remains on it.” She didn’t want to say for sure that there were. and assumed it was natural to speculate about it. “Monica Walker might be dead. Killed. Like Jamison.”

If Dave was shocked by these suggestions, he might be open to a conversation.

There was a moment’s hesitance in his features as if he was weighing the circumstances and coming to some kind of a decision. Then he nodded, more to himself than to her it seemed. “Let’s walk on the beach.”

He went on ahead of Callie and Daisy, his hands folded on his back. As she came to walk beside him, he was staring ahead in deep thought, a frown settling over his features. “What do you want to know exactly?”

“Was she afraid of someone? Did she feel … persecuted?”

“By the press, of course. What celebrity doesn’t?”

“And her previous boyfriend? Roger Aames?”

Dave scoffed. “Him? Yes, he kept sending her things. Also here at the hotel.”

“She told you that?” It seemed Monica had been very forthcoming to the keeper of a lighthouse she was just visiting for a taste of coastal life.

Dave shook his head. “No, I had heard about it from someone who worked there. It seems Monica was quite upset about all the gifts that kept arriving and had asked for them to be thrown away. That does tend to draw attention among the hotel staff.”

“Of course. You felt like she was eager to start fresh?”

“She was looking forward to this new series she was going to do. A clean break with the old, she called it.” He glanced at her. “I really can’t tell you much. I only met her once. And it was so long ago. With all the things I heard when she disappeared and the stories going around now, I’m not even sure that I remember what she actually said to me or if I’m changing what I remember because of what I’ve learned after the fact. If that makes sense.”

“Perfect sense.” Callie sighed. “Look, I don’t want to make this hard for you. You said you didn’t want Elvira to know a thing about it, and I want to respect that. But there’s been a murder, and now a boat has been found that might tie in to Monica’s disappearance. We can’t deny that something is going on here.”

Dave nodded. “I know.”

He fell silent when a figure came up to them from the dune path, waving cheerfully. It was Elvira, her hair drifting on the wind, her face relaxed, her eyes smiling. She put her arms around Dave and hugged him, then said to Callie, “So how is your cottage coming along?”

“Coming along might be an overstatement.” Callie forced a laugh. “I still have to buy so many things for it, you know. I was just over there making a list. I can’t really decide what color scheme I want. I had hoped to be organized sooner, but …”

“You don’t need many things to be happy.” Elvira leaned down to pat Daisy. “You’ve got this cutie.”

“Well, I do want some wallpaper on the walls. I’d better go and shop for some. Thanks for telling me all about lighthouse history,” she added to Dave, to give some reason for her presence. “I can use it for the Fourth of July party. Dorothea will be very pleased with all the local tidbits we’ve managed to include.”

“Sure, no problem. Give my regards to Mrs. Finster when you see her.”

“Will do.”

Callie turned and walked away from the couple. As she looked back to call Daisy to follow her, she saw the two of them standing a foot apart, Dave looking down, Elvira studying him as if she didn’t believe for one moment that her husband’s conversation with Callie had been about the lighthouse and the upcoming Fourth of July party.

Callie bit her lip. If Dave Riggs wasn’t very careful, his wife would start to suspect him of something. And when she found out about his meeting with Monica Walker, even if it was just a one-time occurrence like he claimed, there would be even more trouble.

Why had he not simply told her that he had once met the TV star?

Was Elvira so jealous that she would get upset about a simple meeting so long ago?

Or was there more to it? Something that Callie couldn’t quite fathom?

*   *   *

Quinn straightened up and pushed the upper half of the wallpaper piece against the wall while Callie used both of her hands to flatten it top to bottom so it would stick without bubbles. After having bought wallpaper, paint, and other supplies, she had called Quinn to come and help her at the cottage. He had been eager to accept, arriving looking rather worn and explaining he had taken a long run on the beach to clear his mind. The exercise had left Biscuit calm and sleepy, so he was snoring away on the porch, with Daisy by his side, while Quinn and Callie dove into the chore of getting the wallpaper on straight.

It was harder than Callie had thought, mainly because the wallpaper’s pattern had to be matched up, and the long sections were difficult to handle.

And as she watched row by row of purple irises take their place along the walls, she wasn’t even sure if a room full of those flowers wouldn’t be a bit much in the end. Maybe she should have picked something more neutral?

“Now I remember,” she huffed to Quinn, “why I rented an apartment that was all ready to move in to.”

Quinn grinned. “But this will all be your own effort.”

“Yes, my own less-than-straight-and-smooth effort.” Callie squatted quickly, to run her hands with enough pressure across the lower section. “Don’t let go yet.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She pushed her flat palm hard on a particularly uncooperative spot. “There. Stay put, you silly paper. I hope when the glue dries it won’t all come down again. I’m not even sure these walls are straight. They seem to be crooked in places.” Hoping it might be easier to talk about while they were not face to face, she asked softly, “Did Falk tell you when he would have results from the DNA test?”

“Well, normally it takes some time, but since this is part of a criminal case involving two deaths, they promised him to do it as fast as possible.”

She tried to read the tone of his voice. “Are you nervous about it?”

“I’m not sure. On the one hand, I would love to know for certain who my mother is. On the other hand, if those remains were once my mother, it doesn’t help me much. I can’t ask her anything anymore. About my father or why she gave me up.”

“Hmm.” Callie took her time using a sharp tool to cut off the surplus at the bottom and throw it into a bin. “When you came here to look into Monica’s disappearance, did you really hope you could find her alive?”

“Of course. Otherwise, I would have thought twice about what I was starting.”

“But if you believed she was alive, weren’t you starting something as well? She ran to escape, to build another life. Could you just have walked into it, saying, ‘Hi, I’m your son’?”

“Of course not.” Quinn stepped away from the wall and swung his arms. “I only wanted to know why she had run away and how her life was now. If I had discovered she was happy, I wouldn’t have barged in to tell her who I was. What for?”

Callie stood up and looked at the table, stacked with more wallpaper that seemed to smirk at her. She sighed. “Can we call it quits for the day?”

“I’ll keep going by myself. I feel like working all night. I don’t want to think about what might happen when the results of that test come in.”

“Maybe the remains they found didn’t belong to Monica Walker.”

Quinn scoffed. “I don’t believe that. And you don’t believe it either. Too coincidental.”

He started to put glue on another section of wallpaper. His movements were so wild that glue splattered on the floor. Fortunately, they’d be putting in new flooring later. Callie hadn’t decided what it would be yet.

Choices, choices. So much left to do.

Callie’s phone beeped. She dug it out of her pocket and answered it. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon. Mr. Bates here, bringing your fresh results.”

The pet painter’s brisk tone made Callie snap to attention. “Yes, Mr. Bates? I’m listening.”

“An old crew member of Magnates’ Wives has a cottage here in Heart’s Harbor. He stays there every summer. He has to be there now too. He dined at the Cliff Hotel a few nights ago. His name is Otto Ralston. I think he can tell you much more about Monica Walker than I ever could.”

“Thanks so much. Can you also give me the address of his cottage?”

She scribbled it down on a paper napkin left over from their break earlier and thanked Mr. Bates again.

Quinn eyed her. “News?”

“Just that an old crew member of Magnates’ Wives has a cottage here in town. Seems to be his favorite holiday hideout.”

“How odd.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he mentioned it to Monica, and she came here because of his recommendation. I want to talk to him. It’s not far from here. I’ll go and see if he’s home now.” She checked her watch. “About dinner time—should be perfect.”

Quinn rubbed his dirty hands. “Should I go with you?”

“No, I can do it by myself.” Callie called Daisy and put her on the leash. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

*   *   *

Callie heard the sound of the pruning shears before she could even see the cottage. It was hidden behind a bend in the path. The sounds grew louder, and Daisy stayed behind Callie, her ears flat. She didn’t like metallic sounds.

Callie pulled her along and came to a man standing just behind his garden gate, pruning some yellow roses. He was deep into his chore, not hearing her approach until she was beside him. Then he looked up. “Oh, good evening. You must be lost. Not many people come this way unless they take a wrong turn. There’s nothing out there.”

He gestured with the tool down the path. “Just a dead end.”

“I’m actually here to see you.” Callie smiled, reaching out her hand. “Callie Aspen.”

“Otto Ralston. Let me guess. You want advice on how to grow these amazing roses.”

Callie laughed. “That would be useful, as I don’t have a green thumb and I did just rent a cottage with a garden. But no, it’s not about the roses either. I’m part of a local team preparing a tea party for the Fourth of July, at Haywood Hall. We’re focusing on key events from town history, and I’d like to talk to you about Monica Walker.”

Ralston looked her over. The relaxed expression on his slightly sunburned face didn’t alter at all upon hearing the name, as if it had been but a few days ago since he had last seen her, worked with her. Not as if she was a missing celebrity with a ton of secrets. “What about her?”

“You did work with her, didn’t you? On Magnates’ Wives?”

“That was a long time ago. After the show got canceled, I did a lot of other things. But people always remember Magnates’ Wives.”

Ralston laughed softly, somewhat disparagingly it seemed. “It didn’t go deep maybe, but it was a hit series. Mainly because of Monica. She was a natural. When she acted a highly emotional scene, even the crew was crying.”

He took a rose in the palm of his hand and studied it. “She had this way with people. She got what she wanted, in a very charming way.”

Callie tilted her head. “You mean she was manipulative?”

“Very. You never knew with her where the acting started. Sometimes I think everything she did was acting. For the sake of results, applause, her own satisfaction. She thought she was very clever.”

Callie studied this man, the first person she had heard say less than complimentary things about Monica. All the others had seemed to like, even adore, her to some level, but Ralston didn’t mince his words. He had to be about sixty, sixty-five. Physically fit, tanned, an outdoor person with a love of his garden, his hands full of scratches from thorns and his fingernails full of dirt. She couldn’t quite imagine him on the set of a TV series. But then, as he had put it, it was a long time ago.

Ralston said, “Don’t get me wrong. I liked her. We all did. She was charming, funny. She lit up a set with her presence. When she was off for a day or two because the scenes we were shooting didn’t include her, it was dull, and even the prop boys asked when Monica was coming back. The moment she walked in, the set came to life again, and all was right with the world. But we knew, without ever saying it to one another, that Monica got what Monica wanted. When she started dating Roger, he was still engaged to another girl on the show. That didn’t matter to her. She wanted Roger, so Roger had to be hers. How the other girl suffered didn’t mean a thing. And we didn’t tell her to look at what she was doing. We wanted to keep her on the show. So we all just smiled at her.”

He shook his head. “You know, Miss Aspen, I see it now like it really was, but back then I was so caught up in what we had created, in our success and in maintaining it, that I was blind to what Monica did. I liked her and I protected her. I catered to her every whim. I sent her here, you know.”

He looked at Callie as if waking from his memories. “But how impolite of me—you must want a cool drink. Come on in. The dog is welcome too.”

“Her name is Daisy.”

“Well, welcome, Daisy. Just don’t dig in my flower beds.”

Ralston opened the gate and let them into the garden. The warm air was full of scents, and when Callie looked around, she discovered hydrangeas, more roses, fruit-bearing bushes, and a shaded seating arrangement where some children’s toys lay in the grass.

Ralston followed her gaze and said, “My grandkids’ toys. They’re also staying here for the summer. At the campgrounds. They like it a little more rustic than I do.”

He waved at the seats. “Have a seat, and I’ll be back in a moment or two with the drinks. White wine?”

“Why not?” Callie didn’t like alcohol much, but she wanted to maintain the light, chatty atmosphere that would induce this man to tell her more about Monica Walker.

Apparently, he had observed her well, and the relationships she had with other crew members. This girl he had just mentioned, who had been with Roger Aames before Monica had taken Roger away from her—could she have wanted revenge? Could she have followed Monica here to kill her and dispose of the body in such a way that it would seem she had run off with a new lover? That would be extremely hurtful to Roger, perhaps even driving him back into his old love’s arms.

Daisy wanted to pick up one of the toys, and Callie lifted her and put her in her lap, brushing back her ears and whispering to her about the nice roses until Ralston came back, holding two wine glasses in his hands. He gave one to her and then toasted her with the other. “To Monica. May she be happy wherever she is.”

Callie lifted her glass and repeated the toast, even though her mouth was sour at the idea that Monica was very dead and her remains currently under forensic investigation.

Ralston sat down and stretched his legs leisurely, crossing his ankles.

“You said Monica came here on your advice,” Callie picked up where they had left off.

“Advice, advice … She asked me for a quiet place to unwind for a few days. She had ended the thing with Roger because she was tired of him, a typical Monica thing to do, and he kept pursuing her, so she wanted to get away. I told her about Heart’s Harbor, walks on the beach, going out on a boat bird-watching. That sort of thing. Monica was more into parties and skiing in the French Alps, but if she wanted quiet for a change, I wasn’t going to stop her.”

“Did she seem anxious about Roger? Was he pursuing her in a nasty way?”

“Well, Roger was engaged to be married when Monica stole him. So he was upset when she dumped him like a brick. He wanted her back, whatever it took. Also to prevent others from laughing about him behind his back.”

“Meaning he stalked her?”

“He sent gifts to the set, yes, left flowers at her apartment door. ‘You are my life,’ or something like that, he kept writing to her. A bit over dramatic, if you ask me.”

“And you never felt like something violent was brewing?”

Ralston stared at her, his green eyes lighting. “What are you saying? That Roger hurt Monica? He didn’t even know she was here.”

“Yes, he did. He also sent her flowers here. The hotel owner at the time noticed and told me about it.”

Ralston whistled. “I had no idea. I thought Monica hadn’t told anyone where she was going.”

“Roger knew. So he could have come here and—”

“You think he was involved in her disappearance?” Ralston shook his head. “Look, I knew him well. He was angry, yes—humiliated too—but foremost he still loved her. He might have done something silly like come out here to try and persuade her to come back to him, but he would never have hurt her.”

“Not even if she had refused to come? What if she told him to his face that she was running away? Maybe even with another man?”

Ralston sipped his wine with a pensive expression. “I’ve never quite considered it that way. That he knew that she was here. That he might have kept an eye on her. Have seen her prepare her departure.”

“Maybe even seen her with another man?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, he might have not liked that.” Ralston emptied his glass and rose. “I need more of this. You?”

“No, thanks.”

Callie watched Ralston walk off. He seemed shocked at the idea that Monica’s ex might have come after her here. Callie wasn’t quite sure herself whether it fit. If Roger Aames had followed Monica to watch her, why let her know he knew of her hideout by sending the flowers to the hotel? Giving himself away like that?

Ralston returned with his glass and a bottle of wine. He sat down and poured liberally. Taking a few sips, he sighed. “That’s better.” He glanced at her. “Roger was here, you know.”

“When?” Callie asked, confused.

“Just the other day. I saw him on Main Street. I wondered what he was doing here, but I didn’t feel like going up to him to ask. We lost touch and … well, I like my life quiet now.”

“He was here in town?” Callie echoed, a chill running down her spine. So he could have killed Jamison. “At the time of Monica’s disappearance, a local journalist called Joe Jamison looked into the case for the local newspaper. Did he ever contact you?”

“Oh, he contacted each and every one of us on the show. We were all tired of him. Couldn’t stop digging.”

“Still he came up empty.”

Ralston turned the glass over in his hands. “Those things happen. I’m sure it wasn’t for a lack of trying. He was a super snoop. He even came to the studio to ask questions. I think someone complained that a reporter had been inside his dressing room. But hey, the press was hot on the story at the time. It could have been someone other than this Jamison.”

“Have you ever talked to him again? He lived here too.”

Ralston shrugged. “It’s not such a small town that you can’t avoid each other. I’m here most of the time, tending to the garden, or I take our little boat out and do some fishing. I don’t need to breakfast in town.”

“So you have no idea how Jamison felt after all these years?”

“I supposed he had moved on. The story wasn’t news anymore.” Ralston lifted the wine bottle. “Some more?”

Callie had barely touched her glass yet and waved off his offer. “No, thanks. It’s a very nice wine, but I had a busy day, and too much alcohol gives me bad dreams.”

Ralston refilled his own glass.

Callie had noticed his wedding ring and asked casually, “Is Mrs. Ralston also a fan of gardening?”

“Mrs. Ralston isn’t with us anymore.” Ralston glanced down at his hands. “I suppose that’s why my daughter insists on coming to stay in summer, so she can keep an eye on me. She thinks I don’t eat enough.”

“It’s not very nice eating alone,” Callie said, smiling at him. The man was probably lonely. “But it’s good to be near family during the summer. I’m sure your grandkids love this garden to play in. About Roger Aames, when you saw him in town—do you have any idea where he’s staying now? How I might reach him? I’d like to get the best possible picture of Monica for our Fourth of July party.” She was quite sure already that with the recent developments, the Monica Walker story didn’t lend itself for a presentation at a fun, family-oriented event, but she didn’t want to explain to Ralston that she was looking into things for Quinn’s sake.

“You aren’t going to say I told you she was manipulative?” Ralston looked worried. “The public loved her. It won’t do any good to show them what she was really like. Let them believe what they want. I’m fine with that. I just needed to talk about the old days.”

He smiled sadly. “There aren’t many people who want to hear about it. Certainly not my daughter. She’s glad I got out of that world.”

He sat up and added, more lively now, “Roger, well, I don’t know where he might be staying, but you could contact his agent. Roger’s still acting, so he needs someone to get him parts.” Ralston stood and pointed at the house. “Can write it down for you. Give me a minute.”

Callie sat and watched the tranquil garden while the bumblebees buzzed about her and Daisy chased a butterfly. This was a perfectly peaceful little place. She hoped it could bring some contentment and consolation to the lonely widower’s heart.

Ralston came back with a note for her, holding the agent’s name and phone number. He accompanied her to the garden gate and shook her hand. “Very nice talking to you. Do stop by some other time.”

As Callie walked back with Daisy, she called the agent. In California it was still within working hours. A secretary answered who was reluctant to connect her until Callie said it was very important.

“Yes?” A male voice came on the line.

“I want to get in touch with Roger Aames. It’s very urgent. It concerns the disappearance of his former girlfriend Monica Walker.”

It was so silent on the line for a few moments that Callie feared the connection had been broken. Then the agent said, “That was a long time ago, Miss Aspen. What can you possibly want to know about it?”

“I want to get in touch with Mr. Aames. I know he’s around these parts. Heart’s Harbor, Maine?”

“Most certainly not. He’s filming on location in Canada.”

“He was seen here the other day.”

“That can’t be. Thank you. Bye.” And the agent hung up.

Callie exhaled and put her phone back in her pocket. Roger might, of course, really be filming in Canada. Maybe Ralston had been mistaken about seeing him here. People changed over time. Or people looked like someone else. How likely was it anyway that Roger Aames had been here?

Unless he was involved, of course, and had been asked by Jamison to …

She called the police station. Falk was still there. “I was wondering,” Callie said, “if you checked on phone calls going out from Jamison’s office at the newspaper before he died. If you found out if he might have called someone asking them to come see him or—”

“Of course. We looked into that right away. Both his cell phone and his office phone.”

Callie waited, but Falk didn’t seem to want to give her any more. “I wondered,” she pressed, “if he maybe called a Roger Aames? That was Monica’s ex at the time, and I heard he was seen around town the other day. He could have been in touch with Jamison before he died.”

“Interesting.”

Callie couldn’t stand the tension anymore and asked outright, “Did he call this Aames or not?”

“I don’t need to tell you that.” Falk added in a friendlier tone, “Look, Callie, the media are all over this, and I’ve told all of my people that we’re not saying anything to anyone until we have some firm results. Until we know for certain if the remains belong to Monica Walker and how the boat sank, for instance. I can’t tell them to keep their mouths shut and then go and share information myself. You understand?”

“Of course. But the phone calls could be important. I keep thinking Jamison must have invited the killer into his office.”

“That suggests Jamison knew who was involved in Monica’s disappearance. That he invited him over to confront him with information he had or wanted to tell him he was going to go to the police.”

“Not necessarily. Jamison might have thought about the case anew and remembered something he found odd. He called an involved party to talk about it. The party in question came along and then killed Jamison, either in cold blood because he was dangerous, or in anger or emotion over the turn their conversation took. Jamison might have seen the light during the conversation, and the other person knew nothing better to do than to grab something and lash out. Do you already know what the murder weapon was?”

Falk exhaled. “Doesn’t that also go under the heading ‘we are not giving out any information’?”

“Yes, I see. I do understand. I just want to help.”

“And I appreciate that. Look, why don’t you stop by my cabin later tonight? We can sort of … catch up.”

Callie’s stomach was suddenly full of butterflies. “Tonight?”

“If you have something else to do, we can do it some other time.”

“No, no, tonight is fine. Around nine?”

“Good for me.”

“See you then.”

Callie disconnected and stared at the phone as if she could read something special from it. Falk’s invitation had come out of the blue. She had no idea why he’d want this. It threw her off-balance, and she didn’t like that.

Even worse: if the case was off limits, what could they talk about? Her mind seemed to be blank just imagining them sitting together with the log fire burning. The only questions going through her head would be:

Are we friends or not? Is there more or not?

Did you miss me or not?

Do you even still want me to come and live here?

Of course, she hadn’t decided to come to Heart’s Harbor for Falk. But for Book Tea, Haywood Hall, a new life in a place she had loved ever since she was a kid. But in December, in that warm atmosphere of togetherness, when she had made her decision to quit her job as a travel guide and settle here, Falk had been a part of that equation. And she wasn’t sure anymore how he fit in.

Especially if he didn’t want to fit in any longer.

*   *   *

Around nine, Callie, dressed in a pale pink blouse straight from the laundry and her favorite jeans, with gray sneakers, walked up to Falk’s cabin, feeling as nervous as a sixteen-year-old on a date. The door was open, and she hopped up the porch steps and peered in. No one in sight. “Falk?”

Maybe it was about time she started calling him Ace, but since he had never invited her to …

She knocked on the open door and walked in.

In December the cabin had looked much the same as it did now, since Falk wasn’t into Christmas decorations. The thing she hadn’t noticed before was a Tiffany lamp on a side table. It was something out of tune with the rest of the decor. She felt her stomach clench involuntarily, imagining he had a girlfriend now who came here every now and then and had started to change little things.

But if Falk was seeing someone, Iphy would have told her, right?

Callie held her hands behind her back and called again, “Falk? Are you here?”

Falk appeared from the kitchen, holding up two metal sticks with marshmallows on them. Pink and white ones. “To roast on the fire,” he announced. “Here, hold these.” He handed them to her, their fingers touching for a moment. “Do you like iced coffee?”

“Love it.”

“Great. Let me get it.”

She seated herself on the sheepskin and stared into the fire, holding both sticks with marshmallows.

Falk came back, closed the door and handed her a tall glass filled with iced coffee. Clinking his against hers, he said, “Much the same as last time, huh? Murder case.”

Callie nodded, handing him his marshmallow stick. “Better weather, though.”

Falk nodded at the rocking chair. “I’d sit there, but to roast these marshmallows I need to get close to the fire. So …” He sat down right next to her.

Close to the fire, hmm. Callie didn’t dare look at him as she focused on holding her marshmallows where they would get roasted, but not burned. Falk sat so close his shoulder was touching hers, and she could smell the scent of his spicy aftershave. “I have the results from the DNA test. I wanted to tell you first so you can tell Quinn. I don’t want to tell him myself as our relationship hasn’t exactly been … friendly.”

Callie nodded. “Okay.”

Tension swirled in her stomach. What could she hope for? That the dead body wasn’t Monica? That would be a relief to Quinn, but it would explain nothing about her disappearance that night.

Falk took a swallow of his coffee. “Quinn is related to the remains we found on the boat. In fact, closely related. In the first degree. So I guess he is indeed the son of this dead woman who sank with the boat.”

Callie bit her lip, clutching the cold glass. “That will confirm what he thought but also confirm what he doesn’t want to hear. That his mother is dead.”

“Yes,” Falk said. “But I have a corker coming that will turn this entire case around.”

Callie looked at him. The fire threw light on his intense expression, reflected in his deep brown eyes. “What?”

“The remains on the boat can’t be Monica Walker’s.”

“What?” Callie stared at him. “They must be wrong about that.”

“No, they’re not.” Falk turned his stick to prevent his marshmallows from turning black. “I don’t know all the ins and outs about it, but they can detect a lot of things from remains these days. Mostly if people have been in contact with toxic substances.”

“The victim on the boat was poisoned?” Callie asked, completely confused now.

Falk shook his head. “Chemicals that enter the body can get into the tissue and remain there. They can determine for instance, from a person’s hair, if he has used drugs in the past. In this way they have also been able to determine from the remains the divers secured from the boat that the victim was a drug addict. And we know for sure that Monica Walker never used drugs. That wasn’t just what she said or the media believed, but also what we can prove from her medical records. To be part of the series, the actors had to be tested regularly for substance abuse. It was in their contracts. Monica was tested and tested again, for years. The tests all came back negative. It’s impossible that she was using drugs and was never caught. But the team looking at the remains is certain that this person—this woman, because it was definitely a woman—had been using drugs for years. The abuse, combined with eating lots of sugar, as addicts often do, caused damage to her bones. They say this woman must have been in pretty poor health.”

“I see.” Callie stared at him. Her mind worked at top speed to process this new and perplexing information. “But she was wearing a gold sequined top. High heels. That’s what you told me after the body was found. So she looked exactly like Monica Walker.”

“That’s just it. My question is now, how did a drug-addicted woman come to be wearing Monica Walker’s clothes? And how did she end up on the boat that disappeared the same night as Monica? The boat we have been assuming was supposed to take Monica away from here?”

Callie refocused on her marshmallows. She withdrew the stick and blew on a pink one to cool it down. “Maybe Monica wanted to fake her escape? Maybe she paid this woman to pretend to be her and leave on the boat. And the killer who was after Monica killed the wrong woman.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. The skull was damaged, suggesting she received a blow to her head. Knocking her unconscious, or perhaps killing her before the murderer sank the boat. Remaining question: Where’s the real Monica Walker?”

“Since the boat vanished without a trace, Monica must have believed her plan had succeeded. And she must have left town in another way, believing that the press would follow the false lead. Which they did.”

Falk nodded. “There’s another possibility though. Monica Walker might have killed the woman.”

“What on earth for?”

“To make sure she could never come back to ask for more money or tell her story and give Monica away?”

Callie shook her head. “If Monica had to be on the boat to kill the woman and sink it, how did she get away from it?”

“She might not have had to be on the boat to sink it. Incendiary devices can be controlled remotely.”

“Would Monica have had the technical knowledge to set it up like that?”

Falk shrugged. “Her lover might have set it up for her. Perhaps Monica had only intended to use the woman as stand-in, but her lover killed the other woman as a more permanent solution. But no matter how we construe what might have happened that night, we have to tell Quinn that he’s the son of the woman on the boat but that she wasn’t Monica Walker and wasn’t a successful TV star, but a heavily addicted woman. Whom, I might add, nobody missed. I’ve looked into missing persons cases around here from that time, but nobody reported a woman of that description missing. So either she came from somewhere else, in which case we’d have to check all missing persons nationwide, or she came from around here but had no one to care for her.”

“Homeless maybe?” Callie suggested.

Falk nodded. “My guess is that when Quinn was born, she was already in trouble. The adoptive parents must have believed they did the best thing possible taking the baby away from this woman, who was perhaps already into drugs or on the verge of being so.”

“But Quinn told me his mother was called M. Walker. Isn’t that really coincidental?”

Falk shrugged. “Maybe this woman was also called M. Walker, and after having seen Monica in a newspaper, she thought she could approach her and ask for money. Then Monica saw a likeness between them and thought up this escape idea.”

Callie pursed her lips. “A woman who used drugs for years can’t have looked like Monica Walker.”

“You can do a lot with makeup.”

Falk thought in silence for a few moments and shook his head. “I feel so sorry for this poor woman who was used in a clever scheme and ended up dead because of it. I don’t very much like Monica Walker anymore.”

“It’s in line with what Otto Ralston told me about Monica’s manipulative character.”

Callie told Falk all she had learned from the former Magnates’ Wives crew member upon her visit to his cottage garden.

Falk ate his marshmallows and listened, washing down the stickiness with the occasional sip of iced coffee. After Callie had finished telling him the story, he said, “So a manipulative woman, who created a problem for herself by stealing someone else’s fiancé and then dumping him for another man, decides it’s time to leave the stage in a dramatic scene that could have come right out of Magnates’ Wives. Woman on the run, stolen boat, explosion. Bam—everything over. Did Monica count on the victim dying in the blast and the debris being spread so that we could never reconstruct what happened? Was the woman never meant to get away, but to die in Monica’s stead? The newspapers would write about a tragic accident and Monica Walker would be officially dead and done with.”

“I don’t believe that. Monica worked in TV. She would know from scenarios she had read or seen in other series that forensics are so good that they would sooner or later discover that the victim on board the boat wasn’t Monica Walker. It didn’t happen in the twenties, when you could just put a body in a car, run it off a cliff, and have the police believe that the owner of the car had died in the accident. Besides, I think the boat was never meant to sink. I think Monica was supposed to disappear. Sail away across the horizon. A mystery forever.”

“Well, whatever she planned, it went wrong. Her stunt double, so to speak, died.”

“But Monica might not have known that.”

Falk sighed. “Nobody has been able to find her, so what are we thinking? That we can find her and ask her what happened that night?”

He shook his head. “No, I just see that Quinn is going to have a tough time facing who his mother was and how sadly her life ended with seemingly no one caring whether she was around or not. And I’m left with an investigation that offers too many question marks and nothing solid to go on.”

Callie finished her marshmallows and rubbed her sticky fingers.

“Are you already sorry?” Falk asked softly, keeping his eyes on the fire.

“Sorry for what?”

“Having come back here. Another murder case, all this trouble …”

“I made a choice to come and live here.”

“Yes, of course.” Falk rose to his feet. “Want another coffee?”

“No. Maybe a glass of sparkling water or something?”

“Sure. I’ll have a water too. Need to keep a clear head in case I have to drive later tonight. They’ll notify me if something comes up.”

Callie called after him as he walked away, “Do you never get tired of having to be available, and never for something fun, but always for things like bar fights or accidents or robberies and cattle theft?”

Falk came back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He handed her one and said, “Not really. I just love what I do.”

Callie wanted to pull the glass from his hand, but Falk held it as he probed, “You loved what you did as a tour guide. Won’t you miss it?”

Callie’s throat was tight. She thought of Kay’s panicky phone call and how she had wished she was in Vienna in her stead. To make sure everything went well but also because she missed the whole adventure of traveling. “I’m not sure yet.”

“I see.” Falk released the glass. Instead of coming to sit by her side again, he sat in the rocking chair. He seemed to look at the Tiffany lamp, then he drank deeply and stared up at the ceiling.

Callie said, “So now that we know that the woman on the boat wasn’t Monica, what does that mean for our understanding of Jamison’s death? He had the map marking the place where the boat sank. Did he get that far with his investigation back in 1989, when he was somehow forced to drop it? Did the killer offer him money to keep his mouth shut? Has he been paid off for years? Did he want to come clean?” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe Jamison had an idea that someone died on that boat. He told me he was certain Monica was still alive. He mentioned having proof. What proof? Have you found anything in his filing cabinet to that effect?”

Falk shook his head. “Beats me what the proof could be that Jamison mentioned to you. I did look into phone calls going out, and I was quite surprised by the name that popped up. The last call made from Jamison’s cell phone before he died.”

“Yes?”

Falk looked at her. “Dave Riggs, lighthouse keeper.”

“What?” Callie shot upright. The mineral water almost sloshed over the rim of her glass. “You mean …”

Her mind raced. Dave had admitted to her that he had met Monica. He had been secretive about it. He had been insistent that no one could know.

Had Jamison called him because he knew about Dave’s contact with Monica? But why had it been so essential?

Falk said, “Jamison might have called him about an unrelated matter. But still, I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, I think you should. He turned up at Book Tea the night Jamison was killed, with an odd story.” She told him about their conversation.

Falk leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I think”—he checked his watch—“I’m going to talk to him now. This is just too important to postpone. Maybe he knows something that can help us.”

Callie rose. “Can I come with you? Dave seemed worried about Elvira, like he had to protect her from something. Maybe it’s better if I’m there when you question him. If she gets emotional, I can calm her down.”

Falk thought a moment, looking as if he would rather decline her offer, but then he sighed. “All right, then. I’m not eager for a scene.”

They left the cabin together. Callie noticed the wind had turned chilly, even though it had been such a great day. She felt cold inside too, thinking of Dave Riggs leaving Book Tea mere hours before Jamison died. In what kind of mood had he been?

What had he felt when Jamison called him? Had he gone to the offices of the Heart’s Harbor Herald?

Was he the person who knew what the murder weapon had been because he was the one who had used it on the unsuspecting editor?