Lindsey was so relieved to see Robbie that she opened her arms wide and dashed across the room to hug him tight.

“Oh, Robbie, it’s so good to see you,” she said. “Have you met Detective Trimble from the state police? He’s investigating our John Doe.”

Robbie gave her a curious glance, and Lindsey knew he was sensing her panic. Being the consummate actor that he was and a genius at improvisation, he picked up on her cue without a misstep.

“Nasty business that,” he said. He extended his hand to Trimble for a handshake and Lindsey glanced at the detective, who looked like he’d just been slapped upside the head.

“You . . . you’re . . . I’m a huge fan, Mr. Vine,” he said. He took Robbie’s hand and pumped it furiously, looking more like a kid than Lindsey could ever have imagined.

“Oh, well, thank you,” Robbie said. He was charmingly humble, and Lindsey could tell he was pleased by the worship.

“That Detective Inspector series you did on Masterpiece Theater, it was genius, pure genius,” Trimble gushed.

Lindsey looked at Robbie, who was frowning in thought. He was rocking back and forth on his feet, a habit Lindsey had noticed that he employed whenever he was mulling over a character or how he wanted to deliver his lines.

“Do you really think so?” Robbie asked. “I had a devil of a time trying to get inside that character’s head. D.I. Gordon was quite challenging.”

“Oh, you nailed it,” Trimble said. “I especially loved the part where you, er, Gordon took down that murderer when he was escaping through the London underground.”

“Mind the gap,” Robbie quipped with a wink.

“You really brought the complexity of the policeman’s life into the part you played,” Trimble said. “It’s rare that an actor can capture the true essence of what it is to work in law enforcement.”

“You don’t say,” Robbie said. He threw an arm around Trimble’s shoulders and the two of them began to walk out of the room together. “I was afraid I was underplaying it, but it seemed to me that a detective is a thinker and needs to keep his emotions tightly in check.”

“Exactly!” Trimble said.

They disappeared out the door and Lindsey followed in bemusement. She would have to thank Robbie later for his spectacular timing. She ducked under the crime scene tape and locked the door behind them.

She thought about asking Trimble if there was anything else he required, but he was so animated in his conversation with Robbie that she hated to interrupt. Really, she did, so she watched as they walked right out of the library, chatting as if they were long-lost friends.

“Robbie to the rescue?” Beth asked as she joined Lindsey by the window that overlooked Main Street, the small town park and the bay beyond.

“And how,” Lindsey said. “Apparently, Trimble is a huge fan and the two of them caught on like a house on fire.”

“I’m glad,” Beth said. “Robbie was none too pleased when he arrived, muttering something about you and that waterlogged wanker dancing the night away at the Anchor.”

Lindsey burst out laughing. She could just see Sully’s face if he heard what Robbie had called him.

“Well, I don’t suppose I can deny it, given that the rumor is a good cover for what Sully and I were really doing,” Lindsey said.

“And what, pray tell, would that be?”

“Yip!” Lindsey yelped and jumped, spinning around to find Robbie standing behind her with his arms crossed over his chest and a glower on his face.

“Outta here,” Beth said. She scurried off but not before Lindsey caught her smiling. Some friend.

“It’s not what you think,” Lindsey said.

“Really?” Robbie asked. “Now whatever would I be thinking? Last I heard, you had issues with me being married and issues with sailor boy being too quick to cut you loose, so you were refusing to date either of us. And yet I hear you were dancing with the dodgy blighter. Explain yourself.”

“Did you know your accent gets thicker when you’re irritated?” Lindsey asked.

Robbie took a step forward, and she took a step back. He took another step forward, and she turned sideways and slipped her hand through his arm.

“Did I thank you yet for saving me from the inquisition?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “And just what was that all about? What does the detective with the most excellent taste in television dramas want with you?”

“You’re not going to be derailed, are you?” Lindsey asked.

“Not even a little,” he said.

“He was reviewing the events of the morning prior to finding the body,” she said. “No big deal.”

“Then why were you lying to him?” Robbie said.

“I wasn’t lying,” Lindsey protested.

“Oh, love, I’m a student of human behavior and mannerisms,” he said. “I know your tell.”

“What?” Lindsey gasped. “I don’t have a tell.”

“Your nose crinkles right here when you’re less than truthful,” he said. Lindsey gave him a dubious look and he said, “It’s true, when you fib, you look like you smell something bad but you’re trying not to let anyone know.”

“It’s true, you do,” Ms. Cole said from behind the circulation desk.

Lindsey looked at her and then fingered the bridge of her nose. Was she really that bad of a liar? Would Detective Trimble have noticed?

“No, only people who know you very well would be able to recognize it,” Robbie said as if reading her mind.

“I didn’t lie,” she protested. Then when she noticed Ms. Cole was leaning closer in an attempt to hear better, she hissed, “Not on purpose anyway.”

Robbie just looked at her as if he had all the time in the world. “You may as well tell me what is going on, because I’m just going to keep asking until you give in. In case you haven’t noticed, I am nothing if not tenacious.”

Lindsey rolled her eyes. He would badger her and bug her and pester her until she gave in or pleaded for mercy. She had no doubt of it.

“Come on, I’ll make you some tea and explain.” She turned and raised her voice so that the lemon, a not nice but very appropriate nickname for Ms. Cole, could hear her as well when she said, “And we can discuss that new play you’re auditioning actors for next week.”

Robbie tsked as he followed her into the back room. “You’re trying to throw off Ms. Cole by distracting her with more theater opportunities.”

“Maybe.” Lindsey shrugged.

“Ha, there it is again!” he cried. He tapped his nose and then pointed to her.

Lindsey pursed her lips. She was obviously going to have to practice fibbing in the mirror. She led the way to her office. She had taken to keeping a kettle and a tin of loose leaf tea around for when Robbie popped in, which seemed to be quite regularly. She told herself it was just because his son, Dylan, worked in the library, shelving books, but she suspected there was more to it than that.

She and Robbie had become friends, good friends, during the production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Robbie had made it pretty clear that he liked her, but as he had mentioned, one of her many issues with him was the fact that he was married.

She thought about Kitty, his wife, while she filled the electric kettle from the water cooler outside her office. Yes, his marriage was in name only, but still, Lindsey was not about to get involved with someone whose personal life was a train wreck. Friendship was the best she had to offer, so he could take it or leave it. And since that was the case, he really had no say about her dance partners.

She reentered her office and plugged in the kettle to find Robbie lounging in one of her visitor’s chairs with his feet up on the other vacant chair while thumbing through the latest celebrity rag to which the library subscribed.

He looked awfully at home in here, and she cringed at the thought of what Mayor Henson would think if he found him here. Of course, Mayor Henson loved having Robbie as a resident of their little coastal community. He’d probably encourage him to put in his own desk if he so chose. Lindsey frowned. Maybe it was time to establish some new boundaries in their friendship. She was winding up to tell him just that when her phone rang.

“Lindsey Norris, Briar Creek Library, may I help you?” she answered.

Robbie wagged his eyebrows at her over the top of his magazine as if to tell her that he found her phone manners attractive. Lindsey turned her back to him.

“I certainly hope so, Ms. Norris.” It was a man’s voice, one that she didn’t recognize. He had a lilting accent that made his low voice sound exotic.

She could tell by the sharp tone that he was not a happy customer. She flitted through the reasons that she usually fielded calls from the cranky. He had an overdue fine that he felt was unfair. He lost a book, movie, what have you, and wanted to argue why it wasn’t his fault.

He wanted them to buy an obscure and undoubtedly expensive book, movie, magazine subscription that only he was interested in. He didn’t like that they had time limits on the Internet computers. He didn’t like their hours. He felt someone had been rude to him by not letting him in the building after they were closed.

Really, when a patron was cranky, it could be a myriad of issues. Of course, it could also be a justified complaint such as Ms. Cole being overzealous in her shushing or he was fined for a book that he had actually returned, both of which had been known to happen.

“I’ll certainly do my best,” Lindsey said. “What is it that you need?”

“Your brother,” he said.