Can’t wait, thought Bruce. How could his presence possibly mean anything to her parents, people he had never met, and, after the service, would never see again?

“Sure, I’ll be there. San Francisco?”

“Dublin, east of the city.”

“Will there be a crowd?”

“Who knows? He had friends in the area, and the old gang from Stanford, but they’ve scattered. Could you possibly say a few words?”

The dreadful event just got a lot worse. Bruce, though, was suddenly quicker. “I can’t do it, Polly. I’ve tried before and just can’t maintain my composure. Sorry.”

“No problem. I understand.”

“The cops didn’t ask about Nelson’s manuscript,” he said.

“I know. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking the book needs to be read, but not by you, not by me. Not by anyone even remotely connected to Nelson.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want you to send it to a writer named Mercer Mann. She’s from the island but didn’t know your brother. These days she’s teaching at Ole Miss. She can be trusted. She’ll read it, share it with her boyfriend, a former journalist and writer himself, then I’ll talk to them.”

She shrugged as if she would do whatever he asked. “And you think the manuscript will lead the cops to the killer?”

“I wouldn’t put too much confidence in the police. It’s a tough case to solve and they already have a more convenient theory. Blame it on the victim for wandering around outside in the storm. They’ll shuffle papers and ignore our calls and wait for some time to pass, and then one day they’ll break the news to you that the investigation has gone nowhere, which is exactly where it’s headed right now. They’ll promise to keep the file open and hope for a miracle.”

She nodded and said, “I’m afraid I agree with you.”

“I seriously doubt the manuscript will lead to the killer, but it’s the only possible clue we have right now. That, and a pretty good description of dear Ingrid.”

“He was killed for a reason, Bruce. Nelson had no enemies. He was a lovely man who enjoyed life and wouldn’t harm a flea.” Her voice wavered for a second and her eyes watered.

Bruce handed her a folded piece of paper. “Here’s Mercer’s address in Oxford. She’s waiting and will read it immediately.”

Polly wiped her eyes and nodded. “Thank you, Bruce. For everything.”

They walked to the security checkpoint and hugged goodbye.

8.

On Tuesday, eight days after the storm, Bruce waited all morning at Bay Books for a contractor who didn’t show. The insurance adjuster promised to swing by for another look, but he too was busy elsewhere.

Most of the downtown shops were still closed. Some were digging out and tossing spoiled merchandise into dumpsters. Others were locked and dark. The streets were empty. Many of the island’s residents had returned, but they were in no mood to shop. All tourists were gone and wouldn’t be back for months, maybe years.

On Wednesday, another contractor failed to show. Bruce walked home, changed into jeans, and went to welcome Myra and Leigh. They were working at a reasonable pace, hauling debris and trash to the curb, until he arrived, at which time they found chairs in the shade and poured drinks and supervised his labors. Bruce was expected to move the heavier stuff—moldy rugs, piles of wet books, etc. He strained and sweated as they drank and talked about the horrors of surviving Leo. When he was soaked, he finally asked for a break and a drink.

Inside, in the cool air, they gathered in the den. The television was on mute. Myra walked in front of it, stopped as if frozen with fear, and said, “You gotta be kidding.” She moved away and on the screen a weatherman was pointing to a mass in the Atlantic. Hurricane Oscar was still days away, but one projected path, one of many, had it heading their way.

“I can’t take it,” Leigh said.

By Thursday morning, Oscar was a bit closer and even more menacing. Its cone of possible targets had narrowed slightly, but another direct hit on the island was a possibility.

That afternoon, Bruce drove to Jacksonville, boarded a flight to Atlanta, and from there flew to San Francisco.

9.

He was sitting in the elegant Regency bar of the Fairmont Hotel downtown when she walked in. Noelle had been gone for a month, off to Europe to see friends in Switzerland and family in France, and to get away from the Florida summer heat. She had watched with horror as the hurricane pummeled the island, and she had reluctantly followed his advice to stay away. There was little to do at the moment.

She looked like a model, and Bruce embraced and kissed her. That she had spent the last month with Jean-Luc was of no consequence. They had known each other for years, since long before Bruce came along, and their relationship was not going to change. She needed both men and they adored her.

They ordered a drink and talked about Nelson Kerr, a friend she had liked immensely. Bruce brought her up to date with his death, the possibility of murder, Polly’s visit, and so on. In Bruce’s opinion, as well as Bob’s and Nick’s, there was no doubt that it was murder. Noelle was shocked by this. Bruce told her about Nelson’s novel and the thumb drive.

There were no secrets between the two. A wide-open marriage makes secrets unnecessary. The couple trusted each other implicitly and shared everything.