“I’m happy for you. Personally, I find a funeral a special time to remember and honor a loved one, but to each his own, of course. I’ll get out of here, Mr. Beckett. I will see you tomorrow at the bank.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a shrug.

She was near the door. “I take it you’re not planning on staying in town long?”

“No.”

She hesitated again. “Then what do you care?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

“I would keep it alive with the dignity it deserves,” she told him.

“I apologize for being so rude. You seriously startled me, being here. I really do apologize for any offense given.”

She nodded and turned to leave.

He watched her go. Sean’s little sister. He and Sean had played high-school football together. She didn’t remember, but he had been in her home. She’d sported a head of almost orange-red hair back then, a lot of skinned and bruised knees and freckles that seemed to have faded now. She was definitely a striking young woman. She had unnerved him. He wasn’t customarily such an ass, and didn’t make light of the endeavors of others.

And yet, seriously…Katie-oke?

He started. It was suddenly cold-ice-cold-where he stood in the museum. He thought about the many sayings people had, such as, “It was as if a ghost walked right through me.” It was as if he had been…shoved by something very cold. Well, ghosts didn’t go around shoving people. Oh, and he didn’t believe in ghosts.

He went about turning off the lights and, when he left, he locked the place securely.

“I gave him a good comeuppance,” Bartholomew announced. “A strong right hook, right on the fellow’s jaw. And I could swear he felt it. All right, all right, so he didn’t crash down on the floor in a knockout, but I’d swear he knew he’d been given a licking of one kind or another.”

Katie waved a hand in the air, distracted. “I don’t believe it. No one thought that he’d even come home. He was supposed to stay off in Africa, Asia or Australia, or wherever it was that he was working. Why? Why? He’s got to be wrong on this. Liam was certain that he could go through with the sale, that David despised the place and never intended to come back.”

“You’re welcome. Yes, I would defend you to the death against such an oaf. Oh, wait. I am dead. And still, my dear, I did my best.”

Katie had offended Bartholomew, she realized. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Bartholomew. I’m sure you sprang instantly to my defense, and I deeply appreciate your efforts.”

“I will keep trying. As long as that man is in the city, I swear, I will keep trying,” Bartholomew promised.

“I don’t understand. He doesn’t want to be here. He plans on living elsewhere forever and ever,” Katie said.

She realized that he was silent then.

“What?” she demanded. “He hasn’t been here in ten years, Bartholomew. He doesn’t care about the place, and I don’t care what he said, he showed no respect, not making it home for his grandfather’s funeral.”

“I thought they couldn’t locate him-since he was off somewhere,” Bartholomew said.

“You’re standing up for him?” she asked skeptically.

“No, no…his behavior to a lady was reprehensible, abominable!” Bartholomew said. “Completely unacceptable. Except…”

“Except what?”

Bartholomew looked at her, appeared to take a deep breath and said, “I think, in a way, I understand his feelings.”

“I would never let anything horrible like that happen again,” Katie protested.

“I don’t think they expected it to happen the first time,” Bartholomew told her.

“But they weren’t aware of what might happen. I’d be way ahead. And please, we don’t have murderers crawling through the city, visiting the museums on a daily basis.”

“At the least, though, you should understand his feelings. If I know the story right, he was engaged to the girl. And she was found dead, right where you came upon him tonight.”

“I don’t think they were engaged anymore,” Katie said.

“And there the point. Motive for murder.”

“So you think that he did it.”

“No, actually, I don’t think so. But a ruined romance? That’s a motive for murder.”

“You’re watching too much TV,” Katie said.

“Hmm. TV. Such an amazing and wonderful invention. So vastly entertaining!” Bartholomew agreed. “But it’s true. He was a spurned lover. That’s a motive. She was leaving him. For a brute of a game-playing fellow. That is, by any reckoning, definitely a motive for murder.”

“He was cleared,” Katie said.

“He wasn’t arrested or prosecuted. He had an alibi. His alibi, however, was his family.”

She turned to him sharply. “I thought you just said that you didn’t think that he murdered her?”

“True. No. No, I don’t think he killed her. He was rude, but I know many a fine fellow who can actually be rude. But murder, especially such a crime of passion-he doesn’t look the type. He seems to be the type who easily attracts women, and therefore, he might have been heartbroken, but he would have moved on. I mean, that’s the way I see it. The man is-appears to be, at least-a man’s man. He could completely lose his temper and engage in a rowdy bar fight, maybe, but murder… Ah! But then again, what does the type look like? Now, in my day, many a man looked the part of a cutthroat and a thief-because he was one. But these days…ah, well. We did come upon him at the scene of the crime.”

“It wasn’t actually the scene of the crime. She was strangled, but the police believe she was killed elsewhere and brought to the museum. I was a child when it all happened. Well, a teenager, at any rate, and it was a scandal, and I know it disturbed Sean… I vaguely remember that he and David Beckett were…friends. They both loved sports, football, swim team, diving, fishing…all that. But then David left. And never came back. And the talk died down. Mainly, I believe, because everyone loved Craig Beckett. But if David Beckett is innocent, I really don’t understand his position-or yours. And he’s deserted Key West. So?”

“I have to admit, I rather admire the fact that he’s so determined, especially because he doesn’t want to stay here. He doesn’t want to see anything like it happen again, whether it affects him or not. I’ll still do my best to take him down for you, though!” he vowed.

The streets here were quiet, with only the sound of distant, muted laughter coming to them now and again. Even that was infrequent now. The hour was growing late-or early.

They came to Katie’s house. She’d left lights on in the kitchen, parlor area and porch. The two-seater swing on the porch rocked gently in the breeze. She had a small-very small-patch of ground before the steps to the porch, but her hibiscus bushes were in bloom and they made the entry pretty.

Set in stained glass from the Tiffany era on the double doors, a Victorian lady and her gentleman friend sat properly, immortalized in timeless ovals.

Katie unlocked the door and stepped in. Her world was familiar. Her parents were now boating around the world, her brother would always be off filming another documentary and the house was hers. Certainly, her folks had given her a bargain price. But she had purchased it through a bank, she had come up with the down payment and she had never missed a mortgage payment.

She loved the house. She was delighted that she owned it, that she had kept it in the family.

And yet, as she stood there, she wondered about the years David Beckett had spent away. He had gone to exotic places. He had discovered the entire globe.

She’d gone away, too, she reminded herself.

Right…all the way up the eastern seaboard!

“Katie?” Bartholomew said.

She looked at him.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just realized that I’ve made an island my world.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“But is it a good thing? Anyway, don’t answer. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

“We have to be at the bank bright and early.”

She blew him a kiss. “Don’t go watching more television, Bartholomew.”

“It will stunt my growth? Make me die young?” he asked.

She groaned and walked up the stairs.

He had been restless that night, all through the night.

That was the only reason he had been out walking.

And when he had been walking, he had seen the lights on at the museum.

And so, he had looked up at the old mansion, and he had stared.

There could only be one person who would be there tonight, only one person who would have gone in, turned on the lights. Someone with a right to be there.

Someone who knew it well. Beckett.

Silently, he cursed Beckett. The man shouldn’t have come back. The past was the past; settled, over, accepted. Some believed it had been David Beckett, but that he was long gone and despicably above the law. Others believed that a psycho had come and was also long gone. It was over. It was part of the myth and legend of Key West.

He shouldn’t have come back.

But he had.

He had seen Katie O’Hara, seen her go in. He’d heard the squeak of her scream, but he hadn’t been alarmed. He’d held his ground. Watched. Waited.

Then, he’d seen her come out, and he’d stepped quickly back into the shadows. He hadn’t intended to be seen that night.

Katie had left in what appeared to be a fury.

She’d thought she owned the place. But Beckett was back.

A few minutes later, Beckett had come out, and he’d headed in the same direction but then turned down the street to the Beckett estate.

When Beckett was gone, he’d followed Katie. He knew where she lived. He’d walked, and stood in the shadows, and he’d looked at her house.