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fallen down the steps, she’d have had other injuries. The autopsy confirmed it.”
    “So why haven’t you alerted the media?”
    Blake tossed the seashell over the deck rail. “Culprit thinks he got away with it, maybe he’s less careful. Also, I’ve avoided the mass hysteria that will turn this island into Bedlam by the Sea.”
    “Who knows besides Mamma, Daddy, Merry, and me?”
    “No one outside the department—except Mackie Sullivan. He’s the town’s attorney. I’m required to notify him.”
    Blake gestured with his head up the beach towards the bed and breakfast. “Oh—and Grace. I didn’t tell her, she told me.”
    “Figures.”
    Grace Sullivan, my godmother, was our local psychic. She’d nearly drowned in the ocean when she was seventeen—white light and all that. Ever since, she’d possessed insights that fascinated some and scared others.
    “Any idea what the murder weapon was?”
    “There were small pieces of bark in her hair consistent with the firewood underneath the deck. The forensic team went over the house with a fine-tooth comb. No evidence anyone else was inside that night. Nothing obvious is missing. My guess, it happened out here.”
    “What makes you think she was moved?”
    “The position of the body. She was face down in the sand at the bottom of the steps. She didn’t fall. The blow came from behind. The killer would’ve had to’ve been on the deck when she came outside. She would’ve seen him—there’s no place to hide. Motion detectors light this place like a football field on a Friday night.”
    Blake hesitated. “Also, I found a flashlight underneath the deck. It’s possible she dropped it when she was hit from behind.”
    “Why would she have a flashlight if the outdoor lights were on?”
    “No lights under the deck.”
    “Do you think she went down for firewood?”
    “Nah,” he said. “She had a fire going in the fireplace. But the log rack in the sunroom was full. TV was still on. Glass of wine on the table by her chair. Something else, the wind was up that night—near gale force. Hard to figure why she’d go outside.”
    “And Alma Glendawn found her around nine-thirty that night?” Alma and John Glendawn lived just down the beach, next to their restaurant, The Pirates’ Den.
    Blake nodded. “It was a fluke. Alma stopped by to bring her a slice of key lime pie when she left the restaurant. Gram loved the stuff. When she didn’t answer the front door, Alma came around back.
    “So what’s your read?” he asked, like curiosity and stubborn had fought, and curiosity won in a points decision.
    “It wasn’t random,” I said. “Probably has something to do with the land.” The Stella Maris beaches weren’t pristine by accident. Much of the land on our twenty-four-square-mile paradise had been in the same families for generations—folks who cherished our small town and were terrified of timeshares.
    Others looked at our wide beaches and saw the potential for enormous wealth. Zoning regulations protected the island from exploitation. Still, the town stood one town council election and one real estate deal away from becoming its own worst nightmare.
    “Did you notice how pissed Marci was about the will?” I asked.
    “She didn’t exactly try to hide it.”
    “But do you think she really expected she’d inherit?”
    “She’s the oldest grandchild. Always thought she was entitled to…well, whatever she wants.”
    I knew that better than most. “Do you think she’s capable…?”
    “Oh hell, yeah,” Blake said. “But she’s got an alibi. She was home with Michael. He wouldn’t lie for her.”
    I mulled that. Thinking about Marci being home with Michael stirred up all manner of emotions, none of them happy. “How did you find out she had an alibi for a reported accident?”
    “I’m highly skilled.”
    I nodded, but I was thinking about the turtles.

    The summer I was six and Marci was eight, Gram bought Blake, Merry, Marci, and me pet