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wanted to talk to you?”
    “He was filling me in, as a courtesy,” I whispered. “Actually, I was thinking it would be a good idea if I took a look around the condo.”
    “You think it’s more than an accidental poisoning?”
    “Who said it was an accidental poisoning?”
    “Sugar, the whole island knows that poor girl got sick eating her own cupcakes,” she said and leaned in close. “Rumor is it was an accident. Unless you’re saying otherwise.”
    “I’m not saying otherwise.” Not out loud, anyway. “I only want to take a quick look. Dot an i, maybe cross a t.”
    She looked at me over the top of her bright readers. “Uh-huh. Someone from the ballet company is there now, cleaning things up while the kids are at rehearsal. You’re welcome to stop over. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the company.”
    “Let me think about that, Deidre. I appreciate the offer.”
    Keeping someone company wasn’t what I had in mind. I needed to see what the police saw and see what was missing. Ransom clearly wasn’t considering this a joint investigation. He wouldn’t be sharing information and he had a head start. It was just too hard to swallow that Lexie baked poison berries into her own cupcakes. Accidentally or otherwise.

THREE
      
    (Day #2: Friday Afternoon)

      
    Sea Pine Island was shaped like a shoe or a foot or a boot or some kind of podiatrist drawing. The heel part of the island faced north toward Beaufort, South Carolina, while the toes pointed south, straight at Tybee Island, Georgia. Cabana Boulevard ran the length from the toes, across the arch, up the ankle, and over the bridge to Summerton.
    With the top down on the Mini and a hat on my head, I zipped out of the Oyster Cove Plantation gates and onto Cabana. I was headed to a quaint shopping area nestled somewhere at the topside of the foot. Zibby mentioned taking a gift to Mamacita and I had no idea what to take an herbalist who made alligator butter.
    From Cabana, I made a right onto Marsh Grass Road and followed the two-lane road as it wound around the marshlands, the briny salt air mixing with the scent of fresh cut grass. About two miles later, I turned into an old weathered center of four shops. A dog grooming parlor, a bicycle repair shop, a boot camp gym, and my destination: an artisan boutique. A little bell jingled when I entered and a wall of heavy patchouli air greeted me.
    The shop contained handmade everything from hemp clothes to wire lawn chairs. A round wood table was placed in the front window with a feather tree on top. Delicate glass ornaments hung by the dozens on every branch. 
    “May I help you?” a woman said with a bright smile. She wore a palm tree print caftan with a matching scarf on her head.
    “I hope so. I’m in need of a gift and it’s last minute,” I said. “She likes gardening. And alligators, if that helps.”
    “I’m sure we have the perfect objet d’art,” she said and roamed around the room. “I have something in mind…”
    She picked up a metal lawn sign. It was hammered into the shape of an alligator in flip-flops with a sharp stake running through its center.
    “Well, that’s adorable,” I said. “Though perhaps a bit literal.” That was for a certain type of customer and I had no idea what type of customer Mamacita was.
    We went through three rounds of assorted craftsman gifts: a delicate wind chime made with seaglass, a set of clay mugs from a local potter, and an oversized sweetgrass basket. In the end, I decided to stick with my rule for gift-giving: when in doubt, pick out something I’d like. She wrapped up the wind chime for Mamacita and a similar one for me. If you can’t give gifts to yourself, where’s the Merry Christmas in that?
    I zipped onto Marsh Grass Road and drove another mile inland, looking for the Gullah Catfish Café. As one who never eats seafood of any kind, fresh or not, I hadn’t ever been there. I slowed to a crawl, putt-putting on the rock shoulder until I