Chief Saulter stood just inside the bookshop door. He peered at Edgar.

“Pretty nice place here.”

Annie forbore to remind him that the last time he came in, he thought she was a murderess.

“Nice cat.” Saulter reached out to pet Agatha. Instead of streaking away as any perceptive feline would, Agatha rolled over on her back and kneaded her paws.

Annie leaned on the cash desk and pondered feline intelligence. Then she looked up and down the empty aisles of Death On Demand. Where were all those customers who’d thronged the place when they thought Annie was killer-of-the-week? Ingrid had opened the store that morning and left when Annie arrived because it was crystal clear the rush was over. There wasn’t a single person present to see Saulter eat crow.

Saulter opened his mouth, closed it. Apparently crow wasn’t delicious.

She was too kindhearted to let him suffer. “How’s Bud?”

Saulter’s saturnine face twisted in a genuine smile. “Can’t be too uncomfortable,” he said drily. “Carmen Morgan’s got him in bed.” He paused and added stolidly, “Resting up from his head wound.”

She and the chief looked at each other with mutual understanding.

Saulter shifted his weight from one big foot to the other. “Thought I’d let you know everything’s falling into place against Capt. Mac. It’s just like you and that young man thought.”

She started to bristle. How could Max try to take credit?

“You figured it right. Capt. Mac couldn’t afford to let Ambrose go to Silver City. I’ve been on the phone this morning. You know how he told you he didn’t have anything to do with the Winningham investigation?” Saulter snorted in disgust. “Not much. He just ran the whole thing. Seems the chief then, Al Canady, why, he was a drunk. The city manager told me Capt. Mac was a great guy the way he ran the department and never seemed to mind that he was just the assistant chief.” Irritation roughened his voice. “Who knows how many times he got paid off? Course, he really hit it big with the Winningham case. Then he anchored next to Emma when she pushed her husband over. We’ll never prove that, ’cause Mac’s not saying a word. But it’s pretty clear she was paying off somebody, and we can bet it was Mac. That’s why Mac murdered Elliot. And he had to kill Dr. Kearney when she caught him at the clinic, stealing the—” He paused; it was still too hard to say. “—stuff. And Harriet was watching Elliot’s place and saw you and Mac arrive.” The chief shook his head disapprovingly. “Breaking and Entry. You shouldn’t of done that, Ms. Laurance.”

“I know,” she said humbly. “But you seemed so suspicious of me, I felt I had to look out for myself.”

“Guess you were pretty upset about the investigation,” he said uncomfortably.

She toyed with the spike holding phone messages (four from Mrs. Brawley).

He peered intently at the floor. “I really liked old Ambrose. Kind of lost my cool when I figured somebody pushed him overboard. Should have known it wasn’t you. I always did wonder why nobody heard a splash in the harbor. Think I’ve figured that out, too. Ambrose must’ve gone over to McElroy’s house that night for a drink. Bet Mac hit him from behind, then dumped him into his saltwater pool to drown. When he was—when he was finished—he hauled the body out and took it to the harbor.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. “Anyway, should’ve known you didn’t do it.”

Annie surprised herself. She reached out and patted his arm. “I can understand. Uncle Ambrose was a wonderful person.”

The chief finally looked at her directly. “So anyway, no hard feelings?” He stuck out a callused hand.

She shook it. “Chief, what about the others?”

“We’re scratching around. I’ve got the Tahoe people looking for a grave by that cabin, but I don’t expect anything to come of it. Too much territory. Fritz Hemphill—he got away with murder, I don’t doubt it. It’ll never be proved. As for Mrs. Clyde—Capt. Mac won’t say a word, so she’s still out of our reach. I sent the district nurse to talk to the Farleys and Miss Rizzoli. The Farleys have agreed to some counseling. That Miss Rizzoli—she’s a nut case, isn’t she? Some little group of friends you had there.”

He squinted at her. “You intend to have any more of those Sunday night meetings?”

“God. I hadn’t thought about it.”

She ticked the survivors off in her mind: Emma, the Farleys, Fritz, Kelly, and Hal.

Saulter grinned. “There’ll be more writers coming to Broward’s Rock. I’ll bet you can start them up again in a few months.”

She knew that was the most generous gesture he could have made.

“And that boyfriend of yours can help keep everybody in line. Especially if he sets up down the boardwalk from you.”

“Sets up?”

“Yeah. He’s measuring the empty shop right now.”

“What for?”

“His detective agency.”

As Saulter left, Max came in, grinning smugly and carrying a tape measure and notepad. The two men exchanged chummy greetings in the doorway. Saulter promised to take Max fishing.

Annie opened her mouth to attack, but Max spoke first.

“I’m only doing what you asked me to.”

He was odiously pleased with himself. He draped the tape measure around Edgar and tied it in a bow, then grinned at her.

“I asked you—Max, I never asked you to be a private detective. That’s ridiculous. You can’t be serious. How could a private detective agency have any business on a little island like this?”

“Why not? When word gets around how ingeniously I solved these murders when the authorities were stymied, people will flock to my agency.”

He solved the murders! She’d get to that absurd proposition in a minute. “Dammit, Max. You are impossible. When we talked about you doing something, I meant something real. This is just the same old thing. Max, can’t you be serious?”

He reached out and took her hand and drew her near.

She came reluctantly.

Then a little closer.

“Max,” and her indignant voice was muffled against his shoulder. “Why can’t you—”

“Annie—”

The bell above the door jangled. They leapt apart guiltily as Mrs. Brawley poked her head inside. Her foxlike nose twitched and her bright eyes glinted, but there were more important matters than love. She darted to Annie, took her firmly by the sleeve, and started down the central aisle toward the coffee bar.

Annie was irresistibly swept along, and Max followed.

“… called and called. I know I’m the first one. Now, here’re the answers.”

Mrs. Brawley pointed to the first watercolor.

“That’s from Easy to Kill. And the next one’s Funerals Are Fatal. Then Murder at Hazelmoor, The Moving Finger, and Remembered Death. All Agatha Christies. My dear,” she chided, “is that quite fair?”