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talking about her disturbed him. I understood only too well—if for a different reason.
    “I’m sorry it turned out badly,” I said, not sure I meant it.
    He nodded and sipped his wine. I did the same, studying him as he glanced around at the Irish furniture that had been Jack’s mother’s.
    He caught me staring but didn’t seem to mind. “I like your furniture.”
    “Thanks, I do, too. Jack had it shipped from Dublin to Boston, and I loved it the minute I saw it. Almost all these pieces belonged to his family. The mahogany hunt board, the chest of drawers, the dining table, the tall case clock, the brass candlesticks. Even these scraps of Oriental rugs. Nearly everything.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Having them keeps Jack closer to me.”
    For a moment, Simon looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t. “It’s homier here than my place. Brighter. Not all brown.”
    Ah, an opening I couldn’t resist. “Brown’s good. Color theorists say it’s a sign of stability. And from the amount you have, you’re very, very stable. There’s your brown couch. Your brown rug. Your brown coffee table. Your CD towers—all three of them.” I eyed him over the rim of my glass. “Actually, your condo talks to me.”

    He laughed. “I bet what it says ain’t good.”
    “’Fraid not. It speaks Early Divorce.”
    “Yeah. It’s a dump up there. Want to redo it for me?”
    “Of course.” The words flew out of my mouth.
    “I don’t know about peach walls, though.”
    I stifled a smile. “We can do earth tones.”
    His brow furrowed. “More brown? I think I have enough of that.”
    Blame it on the day’s trauma, but a fit of giggles attacked me and refused to stop.
    “The wine’s working,” he said.
    “Yup. I feel great,” I said, voicing the unbelievable and rising out of the club chair with difficulty. “Time to eat. I have some shrimp and tomatoes. And a loaf of olive bread. I make dynamite coffee.”
    “Sounds perfect.”
    Feels perfect, I thought, cooking for a man again. If cooking was what you’d call it. We no sooner sat down at the kitchen table when the front doorbell pealed.
    Da da da DA.
    I padded out to the living and peeked through the shutter slats. Neal Tomson from 204 stood outside, his face ashen, his eyes darting about nervously. With Simon as backup, I risked opening the door.
    “Deva,” Neal said, his voice breaking. “I just heard about Treasure. Dick told me you found her. He was too upset to say much more.” As if the killer might be listening, his voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened to her?”
    A fastidious bachelor, Neal took great pride in his appearance. I’d never seen him in a polo shirt without an embroidered logo. Or in slacks without a crease sharp enough to slice your throat.
    But today, his pants bagged at the knee and blood drops were splattered across his blue polo shirt. He held up a bandaged left hand. “I had to go to the emergency room. Puncture wound. A dumb accident, but I’ve never been any good with power tools.”

Chapter Five
    The next day, the promise of a blood-orange sun lit the early morning sky. Cupping a freshly brewed mug of high-octane coffee, I took a seat on my lanai and watched the show begin. Gradually, the day brightened from amethyst to turquoise to azure, and I could make out the silhouettes of palm trees swaying like dancers in the breeze.
    It was a spectacular performance, one Treasure would have loved. Just last week, we’d talked about Florida’s beautiful dawns. She told me that for years she hadn’t gotten up early enough to see the sun rise.
    “Now that I’m retired, I get up early all the time. Once a month or so.”
    I remember laughing.
    “Want to know my stage name?” she’d asked.
    “Absolutely.”
    “Treasure Chest.”
    My jaw dropped to my sandals. “No!”
    “Yes!” She sat up straighter to show off her D-cup assets and grinned like a naughty little girl. “My real name’s