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someone else’s. Plus, Jillian needed me. If I helped Elle inventory Seacliff, I could keep my eye on Jillian and, at the same time, make some extra cash while I tried to build my reputation as an interior designer. Sounded like a win-win situation, notwithstanding the fact Caroline Spenser’s killer was still at large.
    Elle knocked on the table to get my attention. I turned toward her.
    “Stop. Decelerate.”
    “Ugh. You’re right.” I let out a sneeze of cyclonic proportions.
    “Bless you.”
    “I just can’t concentrate. I keep thinking about the bloodbath at Seacliff.”
    “I’ll understand if you don’t want to work at the Spensers’.”
    “I am curious about the murder.”
    “Having a father who’s a retired homicide detective means curiosity runs in the genes, but maybe it’s a mistake. You’re still dealing with a lot of bad stuff.”
    “‘Bad stuff’ sums it up, but I’m over Michael the cheat.” I felt the heat rush up from my neck to my cheeks. It wasn’t embarrassing enough that Michael cheated on me with his ex-wife Paige, he cheated on me with the daughter of the Whitney publishing empire, the owner of
American Home and Garden
magazine, where I was managing editor.
    “Sure you’re over Michael? Have you seen him or
her
around?”
    “Why would I?”
    “Because Paige’s family owns Windy Willows in Southampton and it’s almost ‘The Season.’”
    “Ugh. Thanks for reminding me.” I changed the subject. “Jillian seems even more insecure than she was in college. Then there’s this cast of characters like something from
Murder, She Wrote
.” I got up and grabbed the vintage hankie peeking out from Elle’s back pocket.
    Before the second sneeze hit, Elle said, “Bless you!”
    *   *   *
    A few hours later, we loaded my projects into the back of the Jeep. Elle said, “Don’t go crazy thinking about it, but let me know if you want to help. If you’re not going to do it, then I’m not.”
    “Right. No pressure. I have to admit, helping Jillian determine the motive for her mother’s murder would begreat, but what if nothing’s missing? That means it’s personal.”
    “First Fidelity promised a big retainer. I’ll split it down the middle, if that sways you.”
    *   *   *
    The floodlight clicked on as I pulled into my driveway. I got out and stood at the railing and looked at the beach. The night was still.
    I climbed down the steps and went to the front of Patrick Seaton’s cottage.
    The tide was about to claim the only three words I could make out with my flashlight:
Undying . . . regret . . . fools.
    The written word was paramount to me. Maybe it had something to do with my hearing loss. I believed I heard things in words others took for granted.
    When I came back up to my deck, someone had left a pile of kindling by my door.
    Patrick Seaton?

CHAPTER

    FIVE
    The next morning, after ordering some fabric for a client’s wing chair, I grabbed a latte from Millie’s Bakery. Large boutique coffee chains weren’t allowed in Montauk. I crossed the street and walked over to the gravel parking lot of Sand and Sun Realty. The building was a small bungalow converted into a real estate office from March to September and an income tax office from January to April. Seeing as March was the cusp, it seemed both Jack Moss, the tax man, and Barb Moss, the Realtor, were in residence. Barb had rented me my cottage, telling me it was the deal of the century, and she’d been right. It was next to impossible to find an oceanfront rental on a yearlong basis. Luckily, I’d put aside the money from the sale of my Soho loft before moving in with Michael. I guess there’d been one advantage to living in his ex-wife’s Tribeca penthouse.
    Barb and Jack jumped like guilty teenagers when I walked into the office. Barb outweighed her husband by agood forty pounds. Most of her weight was located in her hair. She wore a towering updo laden with a bottle’s worth of