“They’ll still go on, right?” Lincoln said.
“Yes,” Sam said. “You and Maeve have your room for another night too. Don’t you want to stay?”
“You want me to?” he asked, grinning.
It felt weirdly as if he was flirting with her, but he seemed to realize that he’d made her uncomfortable and backed off. “I really have to get home,” he said. “Too much stuff to do.” He paused, then added, “Work. I have a lot of work piling up.”
“Playing music?” she asked.
“Yes. Well, writing it,” he said. “I have a side job composing strange little jingles for this guy who will never tell me what they’re for.”
“That sounds ... interesting,” Sam said.
“It’s bizarre, but it pays the bills,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “You should come to my studio sometime. I’ll play for you. You won’t believe this stuff he wants me to write.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He gave her a hug that lasted a few seconds too long and walked away. She watched him go. Maybe it was an innocent enough invitation, to hear him play the strange music he’d been commissioned to write, but there’d been a tone to his voice that made Sam wonder.
Lincoln was Maeve’s boyfriend. He had introduced Suzanne to Maeve, brought her into their lives. Sam wondered what he and Miranda been talking about so intently. Sam had the idea that they had known each other before this time in Watch Hill.
She decided that her next search would be for Lincoln Adams. But first she had to tell Kate and Conor about Belinda’s murdered husband.
17
Sunday, July 4; 1:00 p.m.
Conor and Joe had spent the morning interviewing the residents of Bellevigne Island while Tom investigated the boats and dock buildings along the waterfront. Their efforts centered around East Cove Marina—the marina itself and the small village that surrounded the harbor. Conor tried to focus on learning whatever he could about the receipt in Suzanne’s name—and now, how it connected to those handcuffs they had seen onPsyche.
But concentration was almost impossible. He hadn’t slept last night. He kept seeing the look in Kate’s eyes when he’d answered her question about Belinda. Standing beside her plane, he had watched her nearly melt onto the tarmac. Or maybe that was him—he couldn’t stand seeing her so hurt and knowing that he was the cause.
He forced himself to get his head in the game. Joe had taken photos at the rehearsal dinner. He had gotten a good shot of Belinda with Garrett, sitting together and smiling at the camera. He had also, inadvertently, captured Suzanne, when she was standing beside Kate at the Harbour Room door. The Ocean House concierge had printed out copies of the photos, and Joe showed them around now.
Crime scene investigators from the Rhode Island State Police had arrived by helicopter. They were processingPsyche—taking photos, fingerprinting surfaces, collecting DNA from the mattress and bulkheads.Conor knew that they would drive or tow the boat back to the mainland, but it was protocol to secure basic evidence before the move.
Some of Tom’s crew had come out from Station Point Judith in a CG45—a forty-five-foot response boat—to meet him at East Cove Marina. Conor could see his brother down by the dock, talking to crew members.
The fact that it was the Fourth of July meant that many of the islanders had the long weekend off; some had headed off island for various mainland celebrations. Conor and Joe found several residents at home and showed them the photos of Belinda and Suzanne. No one said they recognized them. Everyone was curious about what the police and Coast Guard were doing there. One woman said she had been walking her dog late one foggy night last week and had heard an engine. As the sound grew louder, she sawPsychemotoring alongside the dock. She hadn’t noticed who was at the wheel, and she hadn’t seen anyone boarding the boat or leaving it since.
Conor and Joe approached the last house on the street. Like several others, it looked run down. The yard held blue plastic fish barrels and a stack of barnacle-encrusted lobster pots.
But Conor noticed that it also had a tidy herb garden and a bed full of colorful cosmos and zinnias—some of the same flowers Kate grew at Cloudlands. A rustic arbor in the side yard was covered with grapevines; a woman wearing a black dress sat beneath it in the shade. She had been needlepointing, but at the sight of Conor and Joe, she lowered the canvas and stared at them intently.
“Hello,” Joe said, showing her his badge and ID.
“Rhode Island State Police,” she said, examining his ID.
“Yes, I’m Detective Joseph Harrigan.”
“Who are you?” she asked Conor.
“Conor Reid,” he said. “I’m a detective from Connecticut.”
“A Nutmegger,” she said, using a nickname for Connecticut people.
“Yes,” Conor said.
“What brings you here?” she asked, directing the question to Joe. “Someone on the island in trouble?”
