THE LAST SONG, by Dianne Neral Ell

On that first Tuesday in August, Amanda Haines sped east along Route 27 toward Bridgehampton, Long Island. It was the beginning of a three week hiatus, or vacation as she preferred to think of it—a time between her old case load with the FBI in Washington D.C. and her new assignment with the Paris, France, office. For three weeks there would be nothing but solitude on her agenda. No new cases, cold cases, anything having to do with crime investigation. Three wonderful empty weeks where the most complicated decision she’d make was whether to have white wine or a vodka and tonic, take a walk before breakfast or swim in the pool.

As she came to the light at Ocean Drive, her cell phone rang. The screen showed it was her cousin Gil Haines, a lawyer and a member of Southampton’s oldest law firm.

“Hey there,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“Waiting for the light to change at Ocean. I’ll be at the house in five.”

“Amanda, I’m sorry. I know you’re starting your first real vacation in a long time, but I got a call from George Simmons this morning. Remember him? You know him best as Will Peterson’s attorney. He wants to talk to you. I put him off, but after the third call I told him you’d be at the house this afternoon and to try you there. I didn’t give him your cell number. But when you get to the house you may find him on the front porch.”

Amanda could feel all the good spirits taking flight from her body. “What does he want?”

“Don’t know. Asked. Wouldn’t say. Just wanted to warn you. Oh, and Mark Ashford is looking for you. Didn’t give him the number either. Big time on Saturday night. Can’t believe it’s been twenty-five years.”

“I know. There were signs all along twenty-seven for the concert. And of course the radio stations are anchored on their music. Wonder where they’d be now if you hadn’t come up with the name ‘Mark Ashford and the Surfriders’.”

“They’d still be sitting on the front porch.” He laughed. “Let me know what’s up with Simmons.”

Turning south at the light, Amanda rode past century-old estates. At Surfside Drive, the last street before the ocean, she turned left and four houses down made another left into the Haines family summer home driveway. She parked her dark gray rental around back of the rambling two-story brown shingle structure with its new turquoise trim and entered through the back door dragging her two stuffed suitcases behind her.

She pulled the suitcases down the main hall with its highly polished hardwood floors and up the stairs to the room she had always loved—front room with a view—of Aunt Ellen’s rose bushes, the dunes and the ocean.

Amanda put one suitcase in the closet and the other on the bed. Fifteen years of FBI training had her opening her laptop and sending an email to the office that she had arrived in Bridgehampton.

In the far corner of the room, leaning against the wall, was a framed, signed, twenty-fifth anniversary edition poster of Mark Ashford and the Surfriders tagged for Ellen’s art gallery. Ellen Haines, her mother’s youngest sister, lived in the house nearly year round. An excellent artist, she was also part owner of a Southampton art gallery, and one of the local museums.

As Gil mentioned, it was on their front porch, that night in August so long ago, that the Surfriders were born. Until then, they were a summer band, casually linked through music and membership in the Bridgehampton Tennis Club, who called themselves the Dropouts. She could still see that night—where everyone sat, what they were wearing, what they were drinking. And always, the history making moment when Sara Ragland ran up the porch steps, out of breath, talking about a band competition with the winner opening for Bon Jovi in two weeks at the Westbury. They decided to compete. The Dropouts became Mark Ashford and the Surfriders. And twenty-five years later they were still riding the top of the charts.

There were about a dozen people on the porch that night. One of whom was Will Peterson, who went on to become one of the most popular composers of music for movies and Broadway. He wrote many of the early Surfrider songs. Will died a decade ago in Southampton from a fall on his yacht. She hoped Simmons’ call wasn’t about Will.

As she closed the suitcase, Louis jumped up on the bed. He sat looking expectantly at her.

“I was wondering where you were,” she said to the large, orange tabby. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. Then gave him a hug. He nuzzled his nose against her cheek then jumped down.

“That was it?” she laughed as she called after him. “It’s been a year and that’s the best greeting you can give me?”

As she looked after Louis, the phone rang.

It was George Simmons. He apologized for the interruption then he asked if she could come to his office this afternoon. He knew it was late but the matter was urgent. Knowing there’d be no peace unless she did, Amanda agreed to be there within the half hour. She took a comb to her shoulder-length blond hair, added some liner to her blue eyes, refreshed her lipstick, and headed downstairs to get her car.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later she arrived at the Simmons and Hollis law firm in Southampton. One step into the conference room told her she was right. This was about Will Peterson. Surrounding George Simmons was Will’s sister Terra Peterson, an old summer buddy, now famous star of stage and screen, and Clint Barnsworth, the consulting medical examiner still looking as the last time she saw him except his dark, curling hair now had streaks of gray. There had been a time when she thought she and Barnsworth could have been more than a nine-to-five investigative team. After the case they worked together in Miami ended, there were tries at getting together. But the timing was never on their side. Was this the tomorrow they promised themselves five years ago?

“What brings us together?” Amanda asked, joining them at the table. She gave Terra a hug, and shook hands with Simmons, then with Clint until he took the move and kissed her on the cheek.

“I couldn’t believe it when George said you were the FBI agent joining our small task force,” Clint said.

“Task force. What task force? I’m here on vacation.”

No one paid attention to the word ‘vacation.’

“This is why we’re together. It was sent to Terra and me.” As they sat down Simmons handed Amanda a copy of a typed sheet of paper. It stated ‘It was time Will Peterson’s killer was brought to justice. Crime scene photos should tell the tale.’

“Will’s killer? Not an accident?” She looked at Barnsworth.

“The letter’s right,” he answered.

Amanda felt her limbs going weak. “After ten years someone decides to send this. Did it come to the office?” She looked at Simmons.

He nodded.

“Then everyone here knows about it?” Amanda asked.

“As does almost everyone on the police force,” Barnsworth added. “We had to go through them for Will’s case files. Ten-year-old solved cases are kept in the same warehouse as the Lost Ark. It took some doing but we got it.”

“What was in the files?” Amanda asked. “There was no investigation. He died from a fall.”

“Police report and photographs,” Barnsworth said. “Take a look at this. The second is a blow-up of the first.”

The photograph he handed her showed the back of Will Peterson’s head. Plainly, someone had taken a hard object and bashed it in just behind his right ear. Clint had enlarged the photo to where she could see a partial imprint of the murder weapon in the skull.

“How did this get overlooked?” she asked.

“The police were not the first on the scene,” Simmons said. “Paramedics arrived after a 911 call. And they moved the body to see if he was still alive. It was over an hour before the police got there. A couple of rookies showed up and took photos. And the assistant M.E. never made it. Will was placed in an ambulance and taken to the hospital.”

“He was on his back… still…” Amanda shook her head. The pain of lost opportunity shot through her. She should have been on this. Ten years is a long time in which to try and find Will’s killer.

Terra asked for the photos. She looked at the one of Will after he landed. “It doesn’t look like he tried to break the fall.”

“His arms are to his side,” Barnsworth said. “It means he was already dead or at least unconscious as he fell. The photos also show that the stairwell walls had no blood smears. No doubt it was murder.”

“We’d like to keep the investigation as close to the chest as possible.” Simmons looked at Terra then at Amanda. “Besides being an FBI agent, you knew Will. I know you’re on vacation, but can you help?”

For a chance to work with Barnsworth again. To do something she should have done ten years ago, she said ‘yes.’ But she wouldn’t call the office until she had a chance to see what kind of success she had reconstructing the past. “I should know within a day or two if I can piece together enough evidence to solve this.”

“I need to return to Queens tonight to finish up a case,” Barnsworth said. “I’ll be back by Friday. This should keep you going in the meantime.” He slid an envelope across the table to Amanda. “Photos, my report, and some extraneous information you might need along with how to reach me at all times.”

Amanda gave out a business card to all with her new cell number on it.

As the group broke up, Terra said to Amanda, “Let’s get together while you’re here. And if you need me for anything,” she took a card from her pocket, “call me on this number.” She didn’t offer it to Simmons or Barnsworth. Then she was gone.

The three walked downstairs to the sidewalk. Barnsworth asked Amanda to call him in the morning and let him know how she would proceed. Then he left leaving Amanda and George Simmons alone.

“Drink?” Simmons asked.

“Why not.”

* * * *

“What happened to the rest of Will’s items? From the boat? From the house?” she asked after they found seats at the bar of a busy after-work establishment.

“There’s an inventory from the boat inside that envelope Clint gave you,” he said. “As for the house, there wasn’t much. I shipped his music to Los Angeles. Clothes went to charity. Sculptures, paintings were handled by Christies in New York. There’s an inventory and photos of their items inside Barnsworth’s envelope. The man is thorough. And a local company came in to handle the sale of the furniture. Terra was there as was Mallory, Will’s friend. Talk to her.”

“I will.”

“I always meant to tell you how sorry I was about your car accident.”

Amanda looked down at her left hand. “The French doctors repaired it beautifully. But it couldn’t take the strain of being a touring concert pianist so I had to find another occupation. I was lucky. I was famous enough to get booked into embassy events. ‘An evening with Amanda Haines at the American Embassy in Paris.’ That kind of thing. When I was slated for the Russian Embassy, a friend from the FBI Paris office asked me to do a favor. Kind of undercover. I loved it. Was invited to join and never looked back.”

“So what division of the FBI are you in?”

“White collar crime. Art theft division.”

For just a moment Simmons’ smile faltered. Then he regained it. “Interesting.”

* * * *

It was after seven by the time she made it back to the house. Just enough light remained for her walk. She gave Louis his dinner as well as a few ounces of meatloaf which he devoured immediately and left some dry food for Sami. She changed into beach clothes, removed her sandals and armed with a Pinot Grigio in one hand, camera in the other, and a flashlight in her pants pocket, she headed across the dunes to the beach and west along the shoreline into the setting sun.

The beach was a straight line for a while, then it widened as it began to curve toward the Bridgehampton Surf and Tennis Club. She had already walked about fifteen minutes and the Club was as far as she intended to go. It would be dusk by the time she reached it.

She flipped on her camera and stopped to snap a few photos. As she paused, the edge of the incoming tide swirled about her bare feet. The coldness of the water made her jump, and she moved a few feet inward from the water’s edge to where the sand still held the warmth of the sun. At that moment, she heard what sounded like a bee cutting the air just to the left of where she had stood. A bullet. Someone was shooting at her. She dropped to the sand wishing she had brought her gun.

She remained inert for a few more moments. When no more bees buzzed by, she scooted across the sand to the nearest dune. Judging from where she had stood, a straight line would put the shooter on a dune to the east of her.

In the distance, she heard the sound of a motorcycle gunning its engine. In a moment it was gone leaving only the residue of waves washing upon the beach.

Crawling to the top of the dune, she looked around. Houses were far apart. Dune grass and various types of sand shrubs separated her from the road. Whoever it was had left. She pulled out her flashlight and stepped carefully, looking for the place the shooter might have stood. In the glow she found shoe prints. Not the entire shoe but enough to take a photo. Holding the flashlight in her teeth, she shot off a few. The prints had to belong to the shooter. If they had been there earlier, the evening breeze would have dusted them with a layer of sand.

Someone followed her and waited. From the terrain, probably used a rifle with a suppressor. Who would have one of those things except for the police? And possibly cousin Gil. No coincidences. Therefore, it had to do with the Will Peterson case.

She looked down the long stretch of beach where night was rapidly settling in. Time to return to the house. Welcome back Amanda Lee Haines.

* * * *

The late morning air had the oppressive heat of August as Amanda got out of her car in front of Canfield Shoes. She went in hoping to find Emory, the owner who was a friend of her father’s. He was there and was happy to help. She showed him the photos taken at the dunes.

“It’s a designer shoe. But that’s all I know right now. Give me your number. I’ll call you when I have something. Might not be until late tomorrow. How’s your parents?”

“Hong Kong.”

“Still doing those government gigs?”

“They’ll be here in October.”

“I’ll see them then.”

Amanda handed him a card with her cell phone number on it.

* * * *

Her next stop was the storage facility where she was meeting George Simmons. Will’s death occurred on the Friday of the second week of September. Re-creating the week he died was the place to start. Earlier this morning she went online and found articles in local newspapers and magazines that provided a backdrop for that time in September. But she needed Will’s perspective for the foreground. That would only come from his personal items.

The two-story storage facility on Hill Street resembled a hotel on the outside. The interior was divided into spaces that looked like large offices complete with floor to ceiling storage cabinets, a desk and table. Will’s items were piled in three boxes. Not much of it mattered except for his appointment book, a music journal, and another notebook for personal ramblings.

Amanda put them in a beach bag. “This will give me a start,” she said.

“If you want to get back in here let me know,” Simmons said.

She waited until he walked away then she headed for her car. Most of her work would center around Southampton. It made sense to find a space to work here rather than sitting in her car or traveling back to the house. Picking up lunch, she made sure she wasn’t followed, then checked into a motel two blocks away. The room had adequate space along with two sofas, a desk and a large dining table. And no one looking over her shoulder or asking questions.

The information in the appointment book was fairly readable. That week Will met with Mark Ashford, a woman named Lina Walsh, and Mallory Griffin. She grazed through the music diary and the third notebook in which he had written his thoughts on meetings and projects. That would need more time to review.

Mark Ashford was her favorite suspect. He carried an anger that could have erupted in murder over Will reneging on a music deal. Songs promised but never delivered. While that happened long before Will’s death it could be a matter, as the French say, of revenge being a dish best served cold. Only one way to know. She punched in the last number she had for him. He answered.

After all the ‘how are yous’ and was she coming to the concert, she invited him to dinner tonight. He agreed and said he’d bring the band and some steaks. He already knew about Will’s investigation.

“Is interrogation part of the entertainment?” he asked jokingly.

“I’ll be talking to anyone who can tell me something.”

“At least I have an alibi. See you at six thirty.”

She called her aunt and cousin and left messages about the extras for dinner, then she called Barnsworth to tell him about someone using her for target practice. “I got a photo of a shoe print from the sand dune. May or may not lead to something. I’ll know tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately, there was no discreet way to get Will’s case files,” he said. “Add to that the poor handling of the letter at the law firm. Maybe the whole town knows.”

“Mark Ashford, my number one suspect, who’s coming to dinner tonight, knew about the investigation. The power of word of mouth.”

“But how many knew you’d be working on it?” he pointed out. “I’ll look at gun registrations. Not sure we’ll find the sniper that way but it’s a start. And refrain from beach walks until I get there.”

Amanda agreed. She checked her watch. There was enough time to visit the scene of the crime. The house Will owned back then was on water near the end of a small peninsula. The southern tip of the sliver of land was a sanctuary and across the inlet was an Indian Reservation. The house was pretty isolated.

She parked in the sanctuary’s small visitor parking area. Various paths had been cut through the salt scrub to the water. Amanda took one that paralleled the house and within five minutes reached the shoreline where she had a good view of the house and the dock where a large, maybe sixty-foot power boat was anchored.

The route from the house across the lawn to the dock, then down the long dock to the boat was the same now as it was ten years ago. One could not reach the boat without being seen. Therefore, Will knew the person who killed him.

* * * *

Ellen was in the kitchen when Amanda returned at four thirty. Louis and the second cat Sami were curled up on chairs on the back porch. Her aunt looked good. She was the prettiest and youngest of her mother’s sisters. Medium height, graceful, with blond hair cut short that always looked great regardless of the weather. In all her years, it probably never saw an ounce of hair spray. She was ten years beyond Amanda’s forty-two.

Cousin Gil arrived a little after five. With well-cut blondish brown hair and a trim, muscular build, he usually maintained a Gentleman’s Quarterly appearance. Always a kind of adventurer, he served in the Gulf Wars, then in Intelligence in Afghanistan. When he wasn’t at the law firm, he could be found on the links or at the helm of his fifty-five foot Hatteras moored in Sag Harbor.

Around six thirty, Amanda heard the cars of Mark and the band pull into the driveway. Mark was tall, maybe six-two, and except for a few lines they were all getting around the eyes and mouth, he was still a good looking man with his down-to-the-collar head of hair and a powerful stage presence.

As the evening progressed, Amanda tried to imagine Gil, Mark, and even Ellen traipsing along the dunes at twilight looking for the best place to take a shot at her. It seemed inconceivable it was one of them. Then again, they were all athletic enough to have done it.

When the dinner plates started to be cleared away, Mark and Amanda left the group and headed for the beach. As they sat down he said, “So the letter went to Terra and Simmons? Wonder why it didn’t go to the police? Different chief now.”

“Whoever sent it wanted action. The police don’t answer to Terra but George does.” Amanda sipped her glass of wine.

“So how was Terra?” he asked.

“Very business-like. Not emotional. Antagonistic toward George. Was wondering if she sent it. Had to be someone close to the case.”

“Well, if you had me pegged as the bad guy you’ll have to find someone else. That week was important for us. Our Far East tour was coming together and another album was in the works. I went to the city that day to do contracts. I called Will before I left to tell him I couldn’t make our afternoon meeting but I could do dinner. He didn’t answer so I left a message. Didn’t hear back so I called again around two. Still didn’t answer. Then, on the way back I stopped at his house. I think it was around seven, to see if he was free. Police cars surrounded the place. I went in. And Sheriff Davis, I think that was his name, told me about Will’s accident.

“I mentioned Will had some papers for me. He was okay with me going into Will’s office to find them. The office was a mess. Not like someone was riffling through it. Just disorganized. Besides his music, he was working on some book, and then there were maps all over the place. But sitting on top, as though he had been waiting for me to pick them up, were the songs he’d written for our band. The ones he reneged on five years before. They were stacked together. So I picked them up and left.”

“What incredible luck.” Amanda couldn’t believe that he had an alibi for the time of the murder. How could that be possible? Her number one suspect had slipped out of her grasp. For murder. But not for theft.

* * * *

The smell of warm rolls and bread greeted Amanda as she entered the crowded pastry shop that Thursday morning. Mallory Griffin, the library manager, chose it as a place to meet since the library was closed on Thursdays. Since the last time she saw her a few years back, Mallory’s hair was lighter and longer, which made her look younger.

“Can’t believe it’s almost ten years since he’s been gone,” Mallory said. “We were never serious but we were close. For Will, work in L.A. had been demanding that summer. September was the only time he could make it, with a promise to return at Thanksgiving. Then came the call from the woman who lived in the house on the adjacent property. She told him about people being at his house at odd hours and about this boat going in and out. It sounded strange. He asked George Simmons to look into it. I guess that wasn’t enough because Will flew in in late August to investigate on his own. He stayed with me but was mainly at the woman’s house… the one who called him.”

“Did Will contact the police?”

Mallory paused. “I don’t think so. He got copies of local maps that showed the coastline. I asked if he thought those people could be involved with one of the groups looking for buried treasure. He said he thought it could possibly be some type of criminal activity and I’d be safer if I wasn’t involved.”

“Does the neighbor still live in that house?”

“No. She moved some months later. Do you know Lina Walsh? The real estate agent. Maybe she knows something. She was the one who eventually sold Will’s property to that British company.”

“I don’t remember her,” but Amanda remembered the name from Will’s appointment book. She paid the bill then said she’d see Mallory Friday night at Ellen’s reception for the Surfriders.

On her way to the car, Amanda called Lina Walsh and arranged to see her at one thirty. Stopping at a deli, she picked up lunch then went back to the motel where she ate and reviewed Clint Barnsworth’s notes. Especially the boat’s inventory. Having been on it many times, she knew there was one item Will kept in his top deck cabin that he valued. A large, octagonal crystal with nautical carvings. It wasn’t listed. She called Barnsworth and asked for a blowup of that section of Will’s skull. She thought she could identify the murder weapon.

* * * *

Lina Walsh was a striking, dark-haired, well-built woman in her late forties. Her real estate office was in a gracious old building just off Job’s Lane. “Will emailed me on Tuesday of the week he died,” the agent said. “He wanted to sell his house as soon as possible.”

“Will planned to sell the house? That’s news. Why?” Amanda asked.

“Work in L.A. was demanding. And I had a client looking for such a property. There aren’t many places on that south shore to anchor a large boat. The inlet that Will’s house bordered on was such. I drew up the preliminary papers and dropped them at Will’s house around noon on Friday. He planned to bring them over on Monday to close. The buyer was wiring in the funds and we could conclude the deal. The buyer couldn’t believe his luck.”

Either something happened to make Will suddenly decide to sell or Lina Walsh was lying. But why would she do that?

“Will was planning to return to the house in November for Thanksgiving. I heard this from his sister and from a friend of his. Doesn’t sound like he was planning to sell.”

The woman drew a deep, irritated breath. “He’d been talking about it for months. So, when he suddenly decided, I didn’t think much of it.”

“Since you were handling the sale, do you have any idea what became of the items in Will’s house? Particularly his office,” Amanda asked as she stood.

The woman’s expression hardened. “I got to the house fairly early Saturday morning to make certain nothing got moved but George Simmons was already there, packing. And your aunt. I’m not sure. It’s been many years.”

Lina Walsh’s story was total fabrication. Amanda thanked her then walked outside. At this point, a chocolate chip cone was in order. As she headed to the ice cream shop she called Terra. Getting her voice mail, she left a message about Lina and the sale of Will’s house.

Stymied, she decided to the return to the motel and read through Will’s journals where he must have mentioned his concerns. She spread out the maps, then opened the journal. Will arrived around the twenty-third of August. He watched the property for three nights, then he began an online search for thefts at Hampton museums and art galleries. He circled one in East Hampton.

Art thefts. Interesting. She opened the FBI’s database and did the same search. There were three robberies that stood out from August to early September. A gallery in Southampton, the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, and the Cultural Center Museum in East Hampton. All three were major thefts. All three were still open cases.

She looked at the map and could see what Will thought he discovered. It was possible that the thieves were using his property as a base to move priceless merchandise. The items were taken from a vehicle and transferred to his house to wait for transport out of the country. Down the inlet, through the canal, and into the open ocean. So easy. Who would expect it? Or note it? Except the woman on the adjacent property.

She called Clint Barnsworth, left a message, then headed for her car.

* * * *

Enough people knew she had been looking into Will’s death. The sniper missed once. She might not be so lucky the second time. Had to be prepared. With a half hour before she met Ellen for dinner at a Bridgehampton restaurant, Amanda pushed the speedometer as she headed along Route 27. Two days ago she saw only leisure-enriched days ahead. She must have been reading someone else’s horoscope.

The phone rang as she turned onto Ocean Drive. It was Emory Canfield. His news nearly made her plow into a potato stand near the edge of the road. He said he was not mistaken. She called Clint Barnsworth to see where he was.

“Should be there around nine or a little after,” he said.

She told him about the shoes from the dunes. “They were Ferragamos, size nine. The sniper was a woman!”

Amanda never slowed until she reached the driveway. A woman. How could that be?

There was still an hour before it began to get dark. She pulled in, dashed into the house, and ran upstairs to change her clothes. She slipped into black slacks and a black long-sleeved jersey. After pinning her hair back, she added a gold necklace that softened the look of her outfit. She took her second gun out of the case then returned downstairs to check all the doors.

Louis was in the kitchen in front of empty bowls. “Thank you for keeping life in balance.” She kissed him on the head. She filled both his bowls as well as Sami’s, then turned on music for him. “Watch the house,” she said as she ran out.

One gun was in her purse, the second in her glove compartment. She headed for dinner.

* * * *

“Getting anywhere on Will’s case?” Ellen asked as Amanda sat down.

The murder weapon was at the top of her mind. Ellen had given it to Will years back. She couldn’t bring herself to ask about it. Instead Amanda asked about the theft at the East Hampton Cultural Center, where Ellen was on the board. “What can you tell me about it?”

“It was horrible. The three priceless Egyptian eighteenth dynasty necklaces and two Vermeer paintings turned out to be forgeries. We don’t know where or when the switch was made. Before we got them, or during the exhibition. To this day, they haven’t turned up. Does this have anything to do with Will’s murder?”

“I think so. It looks like Will caught onto a smuggling operation being conducted from his house when he wasn’t there. His house has a unique location. It allows a large boat to come close to land where items can be loaded and unloaded and then head back out to sea without being noticed. Will’s next door neighbor became suspicious of odd hour comings and goings and called him. He came back unannounced and discovered what was going on. It was just after the East Hampton theft which was in August of that year. Not sure he knew who was behind it.”

“That’s unbelievable.” Ellen stared at her. “If the pieces did leave the country via the canal, that could be why they were never found.”

Ellen looked at her watch. “We’re going with some friends to hear jazz in East Hampton. It starts about nine. Why don’t you come along and give yourself a break?”

* * * *

His gestures seemed anxious. Louis padded his front paws back and forth. Amanda wasn’t familiar with the movements.

It was just before eight thirty and nearly dark. Returning from the restaurant, rather than driving around to the rear of the house, she parked out front and came through the front door. Her assailant had at least an hour to get here and find the best spot from which to take a shot. The garage offered one of the better vantage points on the property, which was why she didn’t park there.

Hopefully entering from the front had thrown the sniper off balance. It would take the woman a few minutes to find another place outside to set up. Amanda turned back to Louis, who desperately wanted her attention. With one gun in her belt and the other in her hand, she followed him. He did not go to the kitchen but instead headed for the library. He walked to the French doors at the end of the room then stopped in front of the right door and pushed on it with his paw. It moved. Her assailant was in the house.

Amanda felt chills up her back as she bent down and petted him. “Good watch cat.”

The room was in darkness. A slash of light from the pole light outside by the swimming pool slanted through the panes, across a section of the oriental rug, ending in the glass-enclosed display case. Her eye caught a glittering object inside the case—a large, crystal, octagonal paperweight with nautical carvings. The object Ellen had given Will so many years ago. The murder weapon.

She looked for Louis. He was gone. Her assailant was inside. She listened for a movement. A break in the air. A sound that didn’t belong there. The woman was quicker than she thought. Then again, she had help.

A confrontation in the house was not the way this should end. Not inside. Too many memories that could be obliterated by a bullet. Needing to lure her assailant outside, she went out the French doors. They opened onto the patio surrounding the pool. The motion detector lights were still on. The sniper had come this way not long ago.

Keeping to the side of the house, Amanda had just reached the cover of the privacy hedge surrounding the pool when a shot buzzed by her ear.

“Damn. Where is that woman?”

Backing up against the house, she made it through an opening in the hedge and ran as fast as she could across the darkened lawn and across the road to the dunes. Another shot buzzed by her. Let’s hope third time not a charm for her, she thought.

Reaching the first dune, she dropped to her knees and leaned against the base. Looking back to the house, she could see the porch in the glow of the living room lights, but the lawn, as it rolled to the road, faded into darkness. It was going to be hard to see anyone coming toward her.

Sitting in the sand at the base of the dune she waited. Poised. Gun forward. Suddenly there was a faint crackle to her left. Startled, she shifted her stance and began to crawl across the sand toward the sound. A shot coming from between the olive bushes nearly grazed her shoulder.

She stopped for a moment, then grabbing onto a large stone, flung it in the direction of the shot. She scrunched back into the protection of the olive plants and took aim.

Suddenly, headlights from a car cut the darkness. Her assailant lifted herself to take a shot at the approaching car.

“Hey. Yo.” Amanda called out at the same time flinging another rock. The figure stopped, then to Amanda’s surprise started toward her, shooting.

Amanda dropped onto the sand and raised her gun. I’m good at moving targets, she thought as she fired.

* * * *

It was the Saturday night following the Surfriders concert. Amanda and Clint sat on the front porch, he with a beer, she with a wine, being soothed by the backdrop of the rolling ocean.

“This is a nice place to come to if you don’t have people shooting at you,” he said. “And now that it’s over, how did Lina Walsh, George Simmons, and your Aunt Ellen ever get involved in art theft?”

“It started off as a game. A Kandinsky exhibit was coming to a gallery in Southampton. Ellen had a client who wanted one of the pieces. She could oblige, and a new business was born. All three had European connections to make sales easy. But to get the art in and out of the country, they needed Will’s house. All went well until Will’s neighbor became curious. Reluctant to call the police, she called Will. Concerned, he came and watched his house for three nights from her property. He figured out what they were doing. And from the cars, he also knew who was involved. This included Sheriff Davis.”

“Which is why Will’s death never got investigated.”

Amanda sighed. “Knowing the sheriff was connected to it, he decided just to show up unexpectedly. Which upset all their plans. The East Hampton exhibit had priceless articles and this time, they found a new way to protect themselves. They had them copied. Ellen did it. She found a new career. But Will told Ellen he knew what was going on and it had to stop. Further, he said if it didn’t, he’d involved the FBI. And that was the end of Will.”

“He had you in mind?” Clint said.

“I guess so but he never said anything. They formed a company and bought Will’s house and their business continued all these years until just recently, by the slimmest of chances, Terra happened to run into someone who was with the police at the time of Will’s death. It was on the set of a movie she was doing and he was there as a consultant. He said, quote: “They never caught Will’s killer did they?” By the time they finished talking, Terra knew Will’s death was not an accident and she hired a private investigator who could get into the storage facility where the case files were kept. One look and the investigator knew the guy was telling the truth. So she wrote the letter, sending it to herself and George, whom she suspected of being in on it.”

“The case had surprises,” he said. “A sniper in designer shoes. Where did Lina learn to shoot?”

“Army. Some kind of special guard unit.”

“And your aunt. I’m sorry.”

“I knew she was involved. She gave Will the crystal. After he was killed, she brought it home. Cleaned it off and put it in the display case along with other keepsakes.”

“Cold.”

“She and Will had a falling out years before then. Things didn’t work out for her with Will as she hoped. The memory lingered. Unfinished business.”

“Is the lesson here, beware of the friendships you make and how they end? Could come back to haunt you?”

“Especially when there’s millions of dollars involved,” she said.

“But you did get Mark Ashford in the end. Not for murder but for theft?”

“He got himself.” Amanda smiled, and breathed deeply in satisfaction. “Will had his reasons for never turning over those songs to Mark. And Mark vowed he would get that music, over Will’s dead body if necessary. And that’s exactly what happened. Tuesday night at dinner he told me Will had drawn up a contract for those songs. So when Will died, he saw no reason not to take the music. Will never drew up a contract. He lied.”

“And you were able to prove it?”

“Among the songs Mark took that night was the one I had worked on with Will that last morning. It was called Perfect Strangers. I had the score. Will faxed it to me. And the CD he emailed. Mark should never have claimed it as his own. It was the song that went on to win a Grammy, the Oscar, British, and World Music Awards. A song that catapulted Mark into the Songwriters Hall of Frame. It was the last song Will Peterson ever wrote. He needs to be remembered for it.”

“Terra and the attorneys have all the evidence?”

“Yes. I’m not sure how they’ll settle it but they will.”

“What happens to the house and the cats?” He petted Louis who had walked out onto the porch.

“Gil’s moving in. He’s selling his house and getting married again. She’s from a Southampton family. It’s good. Louis loves him.”

“We both have time before you leave for Paris.” He reached for her hand.

“We can spend it here. We have the place to ourselves for two weeks. Louis and Sami need caring for. It’ll be good. And after that you can come to Paris with me.”

He put his drink down and stood, pulling her to stand beside him. He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. “This is what we’ve been trying for for five years. It’s a start.”

about the author

Dianne Neral Ell has written professionally for trade and consumer publications, online magazines, and websites. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies and Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. The Exhibit, a novel of crime and suspense, is currently available at most retailers including Amazon and Barnes and Noble. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, the Author’s Guild, and the Florida Writers Association. Her website is: www.dianneneralell.com.