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…”
    “I saw her on Monday at the supermarket! We chatted at the deli counter for Chrissake. She was fine. Listen, Lorraine Delvecchio was not a depressed person.”
    “So you’re saying she was pushed?”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Someone took that walk with her and gave her a shove at the end. That water was so cold she didn’t have a chance. She drowned, got snagged on the line, and that was it.”
    Darby imagined the shock of the icy cold water and shivered. “Do you have any idea why anyone would try to kill Lorraine?”
    The Chief looked away for a moment, and then back at Darby. “I might. I want to flesh it out first.”
    “Where do I come in?”
    “I need you to do some sniffing around for me. I can’t exactly do any investigating myself, because it would look like I’m questioning the Manatuck department’s findings. But if you helped me …”
    “I could talk to potential witnesses; maybe find out who was with her.”
    “Exactly.” He looked down at his hands. “You don’t need to believe what I’ve said, but if you can ask some questions …”
    Darby put her hand on Chief Dupont’s beefy one. “I’ll be honest with you, Chief. I didn’t know Lorraine, and what little I saw of her I didn’t like.”
    He raised a haggard face. The lines worn by time were more visible now that he was thinner. “Yeah, I know. She wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy.”
    “Still, I’m having a hard time thinking someone hated her enough to want her dead.”
    He nodded. “I agree. But nothing else makes sense.”
    Questions raced through Darby’s mind. Had someone pushed Lorraine Delvecchio off the Manatuck Breakwater? Was any of the Chief’s reasoning correct? She didn’t have the answers, and yet it didn’t matter at this point. A friend was asking for a favor. That was the real issue.
    Not to mention, said a little voice in Darby’s head, you’re intrigued by the possibility of a murder.
    She ran a finger along the table, considering Charles Dupont’s request. He’d been kind to her parents, especially her mother, and had helped during Darby’s last visit to the island. She wondered whether he was nearing retirement as Hurricane Harbor’s Chief of Police. As if reading her mind, her companion raised the subject himself.
    “I’m sixty-four, Darby, and this is my last year in law enforcement. I’m hoping I can sell my house, retire someplace warm, and get out of this cold once and for all.” He paused and she heard emotion thickening his words. “But first I need to know who in God’s good name killed Lorraine.”

THREE
    T HE ELDERLY MAN GULPED the shot of whiskey, feeling the burn as it rushed down his throat. The familiar warming sensation spread from his gut and he sighed. He put the glass on the kitchen counter, shivering, wishing the chill of being outdoors would leave his body.
    He shuffled through the living room, cluttered with newspapers, magazines, and a large upright piano, toward the bathroom and the antique clawfoot tub. A bath, that’s what he needed. A hot soak to melt the coldness that had permeated every pore. Alcott Bridges leaned over the tub’s chipped porcelain and turned on the water.
    A noise from the kitchen startled him. A high-pitched screech, almost like the sound he’d heard as a boy emanating from the factories in his Ohio hometown. He paused, remembering the smokestacks and the waves of men who would exit the long buildings, hurrying home to their wives and children.
    It was the teakettle whistling, letting him know that his water had boiled. He made his way back to the kitchen and fixed a cup of strong black Oolong. He uncapped the whiskey, smelled its bitter scent, and added a splash to the steaming liquid.
    Clutching the mug and moving slowly, Alcott Bridges stumbled toward a closed door. He opened it, and peered inside his studio.
    The space was chilly. The old man entered anyway, lurching past completed paintings until he reached a wide easel