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“All except Adam.”

  Derek lifted the bottle and toasted me with it, grinning, before he took a swallow of beer. “Nina seems nice. And she must be competent, if she’s in charge.”

  “Funny coincidence, that she knows Tony Micelli.”

  “Small world.” Derek nodded, putting the bottle back down on the windowsill. “Or maybe not. Television is a community. Anyone who has lasted fifteen or twenty years probably knows, or knows of, anyone else who’s been around that long.”

  “She didn’t seem too happy to see him, did she?”

  Derek pondered for a moment. “Not very, no. More surprised or shocked than unhappy, though, I think. And she must have gotten over it if she agreed to have dinner with him.”

  “I guess so. Ted didn’t seem to like him much, either.”

  “No,” Derek said, “he didn’t. Then again, you and I don’t like Tony much ourselves, so I don’t know that I can blame him for that.”

  “That’s true.” I had taken against Tony last autumn, when we’d found that skeleton in the crawlspace of the house on Becklea Drive, and I had overheard him wishing for a case of serial murder, with bodies buried all over the yard. John Wayne Gacy in Waterfield, Maine. I got along with him well enough, in polite, social settings and when I had to, but I didn’t like him. As far as I was concerned, he and Melissa deserved each other.

  “You ready to call it a night?” Derek wanted to know. “Or do you want to go back to your sewing machine for a while?”

  “I probably should.” But I made no move to get up, just stayed where I was, with one hand buried in Mischa’s fur and the other holding the sweating can of Diet Coke, lazily pushing the swing back and forth with one foot.

  Just over a year ago, I’d come here to Waterfield for the first time, only to learn when I arrived that the ancient second cousin twice removed—the “aunt” was a courtesy title—who had summoned me had died in the time it had taken me to get here.

  My first impression of Waterfield was that it was hopelessly quaint, agonizingly slow-moving, and one of those places where nothing ever happened. No Balthazar coffee, no theaters or museums, no expensive boutiques, no allnight diners. The streets were winding and narrow, there was allergy-inducing vegetation everywhere, and the pace was snail-like. I couldn’t wait to leave and get back to the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, back to my great job, my perfect boyfriend, and my rent-controlled apartment.

  Then I ended up spending the summer in Maine, and I realized that slow-moving and quiet weren’t such bad things. The air was clean, the people were friendly and they had time to stop for a talk, and of course, there was the ocean, which I can’t praise highly enough. New Yorkers tend to love the ocean. And now I was living close enough to smell it whenever I took a deep breath. I never thought I’d say it, but I had no desire to go back to Manhattan. For a visit, sure, to breathe the exhaust-filled air and see the sights and visit friends, but I didn’t want to move back. It was lovely here in Waterfield, peaceful and relaxing and calm. I couldn’t imagine giving that up now that I had it.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Derek said, watching me.

  I smiled. “I was just thinking how nice it is to be here. In Maine. With you.”

  “That’s what you were thinking?”

  I nodded.

  “On second thought,” Derek said, putting his drill down, “I think we’ve both done enough for tonight. It’s time to go to bed. Lose the cat, please.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Put him somewhere.”

  “Ah,” I said, catching on. “I’ll leave him in the laundry room. Give him a catnip toy to keep him occupied.”

  “Sounds good.” He was already on his way toward the door. If he’d been wearing a tie—or a shirt—he’d be loosening it. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

  “Right.” I made tracks toward the utility room, carrying a complaining Mischa under one arm.

  Derek didn’t spend the night but headed home to his own bachelor pad an hour or so later. I tried to get him to stay, but Mischa made a ruckus in the utility room, demanding to be let out, and Derek said he needed some peace in order to sleep. I don’t think he got it, because when he came to pick me up the next morning, he was bleary-eyed and grumpy. He was, however, adamant about having to get to the house on Cabot Street by seven. I managed to jump in the shower for a quick rinse, but he wouldn’t even give me time to dry my hair before we left, and it was even more frizzy and unruly than usual. I planned to pile it on top of my head as soon as it was dry enough. As today was painting day, I would have had to do that in any case.

  We had already picked up the paint for the kitchen cabinets. Tony had kept the kitchen the original glossy white, which has the benefit of looking traditional and crisp (and being easy to wipe clean), but I wanted something more exciting, more contemporary. If there had been time, I might have stripped the cabinets of old paint and then stained them, but since we were in a hurry, I’d have to repaint instead. And since we were working on Tony’s house instead of our own, and since Melissa would be putting it on the market as soon as we were finished and it would have to appeal to a large variety of buyers, I couldn’t do anything too crazy. Derek had shut down most of my brilliant ideas.

  The cabinets were your basic picture-frame construction: inset panels surrounded by raised frames. Personally, I liked the idea of painting the frames white and highlighting them with metallic silver paint, and then painting pictures in the panels. A seascape, maybe. Or mountains or trees. All the way around the kitchen, one long landscape in frames. But Derek said no. And I could understand why: It would take a lot of time, which we didn’t have, and it probably wouldn’t appeal to everyone as much as it did to me. Tony surely wouldn’t go for it. So I modified my original vision: I’d paint the frames red and black in a checkerboard pattern, and the panels white, and then stencil or freehand a pair of cherries in each. Or a tomato. Something kitchen appropriate.

  Derek said no to that, too. And to everything else I suggested, until I got to the idea where I’d paint everything yellow: pale butter, two shades, frames one shade darker than the panels. That idea Derek had approved. His loft was above the hardware store in downtown, so he’d already picked up the paint, and I was ready to get started. The job wouldn’t be anywhere near as exciting as I wanted it to be, but I was good to go.

  In spite of running late, we beat the crew to the house. Derek cut the engine on the truck just as the white van crested the top of the street behind us, with Ted behind the wheel like yesterday. But early as it was, Derek and I weren’t the first ones here. A very expensive, flashy convertible BMW already took up prime real estate at the curb.

  It didn’t belong to Melissa. She drives a Mercedes in her trademark cream color. Very tasteful and elegant. This was fire-engine red, designed to be noticed, and the license plate said “GRRR.” No doubt who this ride belonged to.

  “Tony’s up early,” Derek remarked, scanning the exterior of the house and the yard. “What do you think he’s doing here at this hour of the morning?”

  There was no sign of Tony. “No idea. Looking for Nina?”

  We both turned to Nina, who had gotten out of the van and was staring at the car, brows knitted. She was more casually dressed today, in slacks and a blouse, but with the same no-nonsense stiletto heels. She had clipped her blond hair at the nape of her neck with a barrette, and she looked polished and in control, except for the expression on her face.

  “If he is, I don’t think she’s expecting him,” I said.

  “Maybe dinner last night didn’t go so well.”

  “Maybe that’s why the car is here. Maybe they had an argument on the way home, and she made him pull over so she could get out and walk the rest of the way. It’s only four or five blocks from here to the B and B. And then the car wouldn’t start again. Maybe Tony spent the night inside.”

  “On the floor?”

  Oh, yeah. Maybe not.

  “He’s probably just looking at the pr
ogress we’ve made while he’s waiting for us to get here,” Derek said. “C’mon, Tink. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  He leaned into the bed of the truck and handed me a gallon can of yellow paint. I started up the driveway toward the house, skirting the Dumpster. It was already half full of debris: the old sink cabinet and commode from the bathroom, the old broken tile, the old kitchen counter, a couple of rickety shelves Derek had pulled off the wall in the laundry room.

  The crew straggled behind me. Fae was yawning, trying to cover it up with the clipboard. Nina walked carefully in her high heels, and she made sure no part of her touched any part of the Dumpster on her way past. Adam came next, sauntering along in another—or the same—pair of snug jeans and a tight V-neck that showed a smooth-shaven chest and a hint of man-cleavage. He looked excited about being back at work, and when he caught my eye, he winked. Wilson ambled a few steps behind, camera on his shoulder, and Ted brought up the rear, his arms full of lights and wires.

  Derek reached the porch first and the petunia planter with the key. Or as it turned out, the petunia planter without the key. He stuck his hand in, fumbled around, and pulled it out, empty.

  “No key?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Check the door, please.”

  I did, with my free hand. The knob turned, and I pushed the door open. “Tony?”

  There was no answer.

  “This is weird,” I said, my voice low.

  Derek nodded, his lips tight. “Stay here. Keep the others out. I’ll check the house.”

  Fine with me. I don’t like trouble, and if Tony was inside, and something bad had happened to him, I’d so much rather have Derek deal with it.

  He brushed past me and into the house. I turned to the others. “Derek’s going to walk through the house and make sure everything’s all right. Chances are Tony just decided to crash here for the night instead of driving back to Portland, and he’s asleep on the floor in the back bedroom, but just in case something’s wrong, let’s all just stay out here and wait for Derek to come back.”

  Glances were exchanged, but no one argued. I’m not sure any of them believed me. I didn’t believe it myself. There was no way Tony would have spent the night on the hard floor. Portland’s only forty-five minutes away, and even if he’d been stuck in Waterfield overnight, with a car that didn’t start, he could have called Melissa for a place to stay, or called another friend for a ride home, or in a pinch, found a room in a B&B or motel for the night. He would have spent the night in the front seat of the BMW before I could see him bunking on the hardwood floor of the cottage. When Derek came back out onto the porch, his face grim, my heart sank, but I wasn’t surprised to hear the words.

  “He’s dead.”

  5

  Nina turned deathly pale, and for a second, I thought she was going to faint. Ted must have thought so too, because he reached for her. But the cables got in the way, and Adam got there first, putting a muscular arm around Nina’s waist. She leaned into him. Ted scowled.

  I looked at Derek, helplessly. “Are you sure?”

  It was a stupid question. Of course he was sure. He was a doctor; if anyone should be able to determine whether someone was dead or not, it was Derek.

  He nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “What happened? Heart attack?” Tony was around forty. It was early for heart trouble, but not unheard of.

  Derek shook his head. “He’s been stabbed. Multiple times. Call Wayne. I’m gonna go back inside. Check and see what’s missing.”

  “Why would something be missing?” I reached for my cell phone.

  “It looks bare. I think the tools are gone.” He didn’t wait for my answer, just disappeared back into the house. I dialed the Waterfield PD and relayed the news in a shaky voice.

  Wayne must have been at home, because it was only a few minutes before he pulled up to the curb in front of the house next door. Between Tony’s BMW, Derek’s Ford F-150, and the news van, we took up all the available space in front of this house.

  Waterfield’s chief of police and Kate’s husband is in his late forties, seven or eight years older than his new wife. He’s tall, six-four or so, and lanky, with curly salt-and-pepper hair and soft, brown eyes that can take on the rock-hard look of pebbles when he’s doing his job. He likes me, except when I meddle in his business, although he does tend to blame me for the crime wave that has swamped Waterfield since my arrival a year ago. Never mind the fact that none of the deaths, except for the first—Aunt Inga’s—had anything whatsoever to do with me. I certainly wasn’t responsible for any of them, and several of the victims died before I even set foot in Maine.

  Wayne knows he can’t possibly hold me responsible, but that doesn’t stop him from giving me a hard time. That’s only when it’s just the two of us, among friends, of course. With the television crew in attendance, he was perfectly businesslike. “Avery. Derek inside?” I nodded. “Stay out here, please.”

  He ducked under the lintel and into the house.

  The crew watched him go past in silence. Adam still looked like he was enjoying the excitement, while Nina was pale as a ghost and kept her arms tightly crossed over her chest. I thought her hands might be shaking. She had moved away from Adam, and now Ted was standing next to her. Not speaking nor touching her, but there, in silent support. Fae had chewed all the bloodred lipstick off her bottom lip and she looked terrified, while Wilson hovered, murmuring in her ear.

  “That was Police Chief Rasmussen,” I said.

  Wilson nodded. “We met him last night. At least some of us did.” He glanced at Nina, who wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she was watching the door where Wayne had disappeared, a worried look in her eyes.

  “Will we be able to shoot today?” Fae asked, her voice soft. She glanced at her coworkers and ended up looking at me. I shook my head.

  “I doubt it. Every other time this has happened, the police always take most of the day to process the crime scene. I don’t think we’ll get back into the house until tomorrow. Maybe not until the day after.” If at all, now that the owner was dead.

  There was silence for a moment. Then—

  “ ‘Every other time this has happened’?” Adam quoted. “Do you have that many premeditated murders around here?”

  Calling what had happened a premeditated murder seemed to be jumping to conclusions with a vengeance—I was hopeful it might turn out to be a bit of random violence, almost an accident—but I didn’t contradict him. “You’d be surprised. This has happened to us twice before. Last fall we found a skeleton buried in the crawlspace of a house we were renovating outside town, and just before Christmas, when we were working on the carriage house behind the bed and breakfast, we walked in one morning and found a dead guy on the floor. Both times, it took more than a day before we were allowed to go back inside.”

  “I should call the office,” Nina said. Her hand was shaking when she reached for her cell phone. “Let them know we’ll have a delay.” She kept talking while she pushed buttons, just as much to herself as to us, I thought. “If this doesn’t get resolved quickly, we may have to abandon the project and go on to the next town. We’re supposed to start shooting in New Hampshire on Monday. Hey, Murray.”

  She put the phone to her ear and turned away.

  “Abandon the project?” Adam repeated, his expressive face a mask of horror. “We can’t do that!”

  Wilson responded, “It’s not unprecedented. We’ve had to do it before, when the delays have been too extensive. I’m sorry for you two”—here he turned to me and included the absent Derek in the apology—“but I’m sure you understand.”

  Did I? I mean, Tony was hardly even cold yet, and the crew was already talking about moving on to the next job? Of course, they hadn’t known him like we had—not that I’d known him all that well myself, or liked him a whole lot, if it came to that—but I’ll admit to being a little shocked that they were already making new plans.

  But it would be rude
to say so, so I didn’t.

  “Of course,” I said. “You have to keep to a schedule. We’ll just finish the house on our own time if you have to leave. We’ll get paid whether we’re on TV or not.”

  Or—would we? Tony had hired us, and the money for the project was supposed to come from Tony’s pocket. If Tony was dead, would we be able to go on?

  But perhaps this wasn’t the right moment to dwell on that possibility. There were bigger issues going on, obviously.

  “What did your boyfriend say happened?” Adam asked.

  “You heard him, didn’t you?” My eyes flicked, involuntarily, to the open door to the house. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear the murmur of voices, too far away to be able to make out what Derek and Wayne were saying. “He said it looked like Tony had been stabbed with something. And that some of the tools might be missing.”

  “A botched robbery?” Adam suggested, stopping just short of rubbing his hands together.

  Wilson turned toward him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Don’t you remember what what’s-his-name said yesterday? That houses under renovation are like magnets for thieves? Lots of tools and materials, no security.”

  Wilson glanced at me. “Is that true?”

  “As far as I know, it is. We’ve never had it happen to us, but it makes sense. And Derek’s been doing this job a lot longer than me; he’d know.”

  “So do you think this was a robbery gone wrong?” Adam asked. “That Tommy saw someone break in, and maybe he stopped to talk to them, and they killed him?”

  “Tony. His name was Tony.” I shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s possible. That’s for the police to figure out, I guess.”

  “What are they doing in there?” Adam glanced at the open door.

  “I’m sure they’re just looking at things. Derek should be able to give Wayne the preliminary time and cause of death. The ME in Portland will have to confirm it, but it’s something for Wayne to go on with. And they may be compiling a list of the tools that are missing. If any of them turn up in pawnshops or flea markets, the police may be able to track whoever pawned them. The tools won’t be hard to identify; Derek puts his initials on all his tools.”