“Please come see me. I’ll need cheering up.”

“Right.”

Two hours later, as Bruce and Noelle were sipping wine on the veranda, Nick called back. “What is it now?” Bruce asked.

“Been thinking about this latest conspiracy. Is it safe to assume that Nelson’s murder will not be solved by the state police?”

“Probably.”

“Then go to the FBI. Murder for hire is a federal offense. A somewhat famous writer gets taken out with a contract. The FBI will be all over it.”

“So you’re a lawyer now?”

“No, but one of my roommates is in law school.”

“Can he find the nearest courthouse?”

“Probably not. But he’s a great guy.”

“No doubt. Look, Nick, I had lunch with my lawyer last week, and he can usually find the courthouse. On a good day. He says you have to be careful because fights between the locals and the Feds are easy to start and hard to stop. He thinks it’s best to wait a few weeks and see where the investigation goes. Fortunately, you’ll be out of the country and preoccupied elsewhere.”

“No doubt. Here’s the real reason I called. You know I really dig this stuff, and so I spend far too much time surfing the Internet. I ran across an interview with a retired super-sleuth who spent forty years investigating famous crimes. Specialized in murder. Ex-FBI and all that. He sort of let it slip that he also worked for a mysterious firm that did nothing but solve big crimes after the cops gave up. I kept digging and I found the firm, just in case you need it.”

“Why would I need it? He ain’t my brother.”

“Because I know you, and you’re about to spend whatever it takes to find Nelson’s killer. Because you care, Bruce.”

“Right, right. Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Ha. Not this semester. I will not open a book. Or at least not a textbook. Please let me read Nelson’s manuscript.”

“I’m thinking. How’s your Italian?”

“I can say pizza and birra.”

“You’ll be fine.”

6.

After a week on the island, Mercer was ready to leave. The cottage was intact and Larry had its repairs under control. With no tourists, the beach was deserted, and while this was usually desirable she now found it sad and depressing. The beachcombers were gone because the island was a wreck and it would be months or years before the allure of coastal living returned. She missed the laughter of children playing in the sand and wading in the surf. She missed the friendly “Good morning” from every single person she encountered. She missed the dogs straining at their leashes to say hello. The storm had disrupted the natural cycle of egg-laying by the greenbacks, and in her long solitary walks she found no trails left by the turtles. She found plenty of debris, though, and cleaning up the beach would take a long time. If she walked to the north she saw the damaged cottages and condos and family-owned motels. The gossip was filled with stories of owners who had no or inadequate flood insurance, and thus could not begin to clean up or rebuild.

Mercer decided to leave and come back in six months. Maybe then things would be better. Or maybe a year.

She and Thomas hosted a small dinner party on her deck, with Bruce and Noelle, and Myra and Leigh. Bob Cobb was still away pursuing cooler weather. Jay Arklerood, the poet, didn’t answer his phone. Amy was too busy with her kids. Summer was over and the gang was scattering. The gang was also burdened by the aftermath and fearful that life might never be the same. Bay Books was practically deserted these days, and that was enough to worry all its writers.

As Mercer packed her car early the next morning, she was delighted to be leaving the island. Her teaching duties at Ole Miss were calling, she had a novel to start, Thomas was bored with the beach, and they sped away wonderfully unburdened because it wasn’t really their home. When they came back in six months, perhaps there would be no trace of the storm and the island would be perfect again.

7.

A month after burying her brother, Polly McCann returned to the island to assume her official capacity as executrix of his estate. Because he had little else to do and was bored hanging around an empty bookstore, Bruce met her at the airport and they drove to the state crime lab in Jacksonville.

Wesley Butler had agreed to pry himself away from his other urgent duties and give them half an hour of his time. That proved far too generous. Even with coffee served in paper cups, the meeting could have ended ten minutes after it began.

Butler said the investigation was proceeding nicely, though he provided few details and nothing new. Fingerprint analysis showed matches for Bruce, Nick, Bob Cobb, and Nelson himself, but that was expected. There were two prints that could not be matched. One probably belonged to Maria Pe?a, a housekeeper who cleaned each Wednesday afternoon. They were trying to coax her into providing prints, but she was undocumented and not cooperating. No sign of Ingrid Murphy or any blonde resembling her. The surveillance footage from the Hilton was gone. They were plowing through the digital records of dozens of rental units in the area, but it was the old needle-in-a-haystack routine. Nelson’s hard drive was impenetrable. Its encryption scheme had tied their experts in knots.

Not once did Butler think to ask Polly if she knew anything about Nelson’s last work in progress. The meeting was all about himself and his efforts, lame as they were. Driving away, Bruce and Polly were convinced that the state had all but closed the file. Butler and his “team” probably considered Nelson’s death an accident because they had no chance of solving a crime.