“What happens to the book?”

“Hypothetically, it stays in a vault in another old bank down there. I’ll sit on it for a year or so and put out feelers to potential buyers. Time is always on our side. Memories fade. The authorities lose interest.”

“Sounds dishonest.” She finally took a small bite of raw tuna.

“Maybe, maybe not. The client might have included the book with the estate’s inventory. How am I supposed to know?”

She took another bite, had some tea, and seemed suddenly bored with the conversation. “And you would not include this stock in Nelson’s estate?”

“Oh, I’m not sure what I’d do, really. Who knows about it?”

“Just me and Pops.”

“And he’s in bad health, right?”

“Quite bad. He won’t last a year.”

Bruce took a drink of wine and watched as four businessmen were seated at the table next to them. He lowered his voice an octave or two and said, “Me, I’d leave it alone, but then I’m willing to take more risks than most people.”

She ate another small bite, took another sip. “This is overwhelming, Bruce. I didn’t ask for this job.”

“Most executors don’t. And the pay is lousy.”

“Why don’t you do it? You’re here, much closer to the courthouse and the lawyers and his condo, and you know more about this stuff.”

“What stuff? Offshore accounts and contract killings? No, thanks, Polly. I’ll help when I can but Nelson chose you for a reason. And the lawyers do most of the work anyway. Aside from the hidden stock, it’s a pretty simple estate.”

“Nothing seems simple, especially his death.”

“You can do it.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply go along with the police and close the file? Who needs to waste the emotional energy worrying about an unsolved murder? Nelson’s dead. I can accept that. He’s gone. Does it really matter how he died?”

“Of course it does.”

“Why?”

“Because he was murdered, Polly. We can’t simply walk away from that.”

“We?”

“Yes, those of us who knew Nelson, his family and friends. Somebody out there paid a pro to kill your brother. I can’t believe you want to go back to the West Coast and forget about it.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. For now, we wait for the police to either finish whatever they’re doing or close the file. After that, we’ll have lunch again and decide what to do.”

9.

By the end of September, Bruce had figures to support what he already suspected—Bay Books was down 50 percent from a year ago. During an average year, almost 40 percent of its sales were to tourists, and there were none to be found on Camino Island these days. The locals were loyal but many were still cleaning up and watching their money. He canceled all author events for the rest of the year, laid off two part-time employees, convinced Noelle to lock up her antiques store, and together they fled the country.

They flew to Milan and took the train to Verona where they roamed the old city and took in its gardens, museums, piazzas, and restaurants. They drove deep into the Dolomites and spent four nights in a rustic, family-run outpost twenty miles from the Slovenian border. During the day they hiked the spectacular mountains until they were exhausted, and at night they consumed large meals of Ladin cuisine—dumplings and schnitzel—with local wines, grappa, and even homemade schnapps.

Late on their last afternoon at the lodge, they cuddled under thick quilts on the patio, sipped hot cocoa, and watched the sun disappear behind the mountains.

“I don’t want to go back,” Bruce said. “It’s still hot in Florida and there’s still trash in the trees.”

“Where do you want to go?” Noelle asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve had the store for twenty-three years and retail takes a toll. We have enough stashed offshore to quit working forever.”

“You’re forty-seven years old, Bruce, and you’re not wired to stop working. You’d go nuts in retirement.”

“Oh, I’ll always trade rare books, and you’ll always trade French antiques. But we can do that anywhere. It’ll take years for the island to recover from the storm, and I’m not sure I want to grind it out waiting for the good old days. Let’s at least talk about a change.”

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“I want to keep the house, not sure about the store. What if we lived there when the weather is nice, then go north? Six months at the beach, six months in the mountains? A small town in New England, or maybe out west. I don’t know, but it might be fun looking around.”

“Europe? What’s wrong with this view?”

Bruce thought for a long time before saying, “You belong to someone else in Europe, and I’d rather stay away.”

“Things are changing, Bruce. There is bad news. Jean-Luc has cancer and the prognosis is not good.”

She watched him closely for a reaction but he revealed nothing. Not sympathy, because he cared nothing for her French boyfriend. Not relief, because Bruce knew the rules when he fell in love with her. She and Jean-Luc had been together long before Bruce entered the picture, and, being French, she was perfectly willing to balance the two men, but only with complete disclosure up front and brutal transparency. She couldn’t marry Jean-Luc because he was married to an older woman with money. His wife knew the score, as did Bruce, and for almost twenty years the two open marriages had survived without major conflict. The open door gave Bruce the green light to spend time with any of his favorite authors who stopped by on tour.