I parked in front of the cornflower blue house and studied its exterior. New windows and gutters, plus an added sunroom on the right. They would help, but likely not enough.

  Lester had given me the key to the front door. I traipsed onto a new front porch and let myself in. “Ooh. Pretty wood floors. They must have had these refinished.”

  I shut the door and got to work. The current owner had left a few pieces of furniture so the house would show better. Since the rooms were not crowded, I had the three bedrooms and living room measured in fifteen minutes.

  As I walked back through the living room toward the kitchen, movement on the front porch caught my eye. A face peered at me through glass panes on the door.

  The thin-faced man had not changed his appearance.

  I dropped my notebook and reached into my pocket for my phone as I turned to dash into a bedroom. I hoped those doors had locks.

  In a loud voice, the man said, “It’s not what you think!”

  I stopped before entering the hallway to the bedroom and turned. The front door was locked. He couldn’t get to me quickly. “What do you mean?”

  He closed his eyes for a second and drew a breath. I sensed relief on his part.

  “I was in her driveway the night the Cartwright woman was killed. But I didn’t do it.”

  I stared at him. Would a guilty man track me down? Sure, if he wanted to kill you. “Why did you try to scare me when I had the twins on the boardwalk last Saturday? It sounded like a threat.”

  “It was a warning. But I’m not the threat. Look, can we talk? Indoors?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not crazy. We can talk through the door. But I’m not coming any closer.” I held up my phone. “It would only take a second to lock myself in a bedroom and call 9-1-1.”

  “I guess I see your point.” He drew a breath. “You saw me before last Saturday, but only from the back.”

  I frowned. “I have a decent memory for faces.”

  He smiled fully. “My face is on my front. And my name is Peter Clayton, by the way.”

  The smile made him seem less threatening, friendly even. I studied his lightly lined face. Probably in his early forties. Black hair with little gray. Brown eyes. Maybe five-ten. “Where did I see you?”

  “The day you went to Quentin Wharton’s office to talk about something. When you left, a man was in his outer office, looking at a picture on the wall. That was me. Remember? I didn’t turn fully around.”

  I considered what he said. My mind had been on Sandra, but also on the fundraiser. I had made the proverbial beeline for the door. A memory stirred.

  “I don’t remember what you looked like. But I remember why you were there.”

  He did a shoulder-height fist pump. “Yes! Insurance.”

  I smiled, still wary. “Okay. You know Wharton. Why does that make a difference?”

  “It may help people understand that Quentin sent me to Sandra Cartwright's house to see if she was dead.”

  PETER CLAYTON SAT ON THE top porch step, facing the street, watching for a police car. I studied him from behind, but from a couple feet back from the door. He certainly looked like Mr. Average. Blue collared shirt, top button undone, and a loose-knotted tie.

  I assumed the car in front of the house was his. He didn't look like a Volkswagen kind of guy, but I supposed it got good gas mileage. Bright red, though. I thought that was a color involved in a lot accidents. You'd think an insurance agent would know that.

  Dana Johnson parked her squad car in front of the cornflower blue house and she and Corporal Blaine got out. I unlocked the door and joined Clayton, who stood from his position on the top porch step.

  Dana took him in, stopped, and glanced at me.

  I nodded. “Yes, he matches the description. But I think he has something important to tell you, and I believe him when he says he didn’t kill Sandra.”

  Clayton stood and held out a hand as he walked down the steps. “Peter Clayton. I live between here and Lakewood, and sell the hospital its liability insurance.”

  “Dana Johnson.” She stepped forward and shook his hand.

  Corporal Blaine did the same. “Might be easier if we talked at the station.”

  Clayton nodded. “I’m fine with that. I just wanted to remind Jolie here that she’d seen me at the hospital one day.”

  Dana’s eyebrows shot up in my direction.

  I shrugged. “Only from the back.”

  MOREHOUSE SAT IN THE CONFERENCE room to participate in the conversation with Peter Clayton. He shot eye daggers at me. I shrugged at him. Sergeant Morehouse had been mad at me plenty of times. He gets over it.

  As Dana introduced Clayton to Captain Tortino, I leaned toward Morehouse and spoke quietly. “You can be on the investigation again?”

  “Wasn’t Kevin’s skin under Sandra’s fingernails.”

  “DNA?” I whispered.

  He gave me a withering look. “No scratch marks on my nephew.”

  Clayton nodded at Sergeants Morehouse as he and Dana Johnson sat at the table. Tortino stood in the doorway, and Clayton glanced at him, too. "I appreciate you talking to me without trying to lock me up first."

  Dana nodded. "So, you were in Sandra Cartwright's driveway the night she was killed, and you believe you are the person Kevin Falcon saw as he stood on the porch?"

  He took a breath. "I know I was. I had just gone out her back door and come around the house, heading for the street. I parked a few houses down from hers."

  "And why did you enter her house?" Dana asked.

  "I had a call from Quentin Wharton. He said she had fallen and he wanted me to check on her."

  "Did he say why he thought she mighta had something needed checked?" Morehouse asked.

  Clayton cleared his throat. "He said he had been told she tripped and maybe hit her head on the edge of the fireplace."

  "You mean the lip?" I asked.

  Tortino shook his head slightly in my direction. I sat back in my chair.

  "Yeah," Clayton said, "the raised edge around the fireplace. I told him he worked at the hospital, why didn't he check? Then I figured he was either there when she fell, or somebody else called him. Either way, he didn’t want to check on her."

  "So you went there," Dana stated.

  "I did. I don't know a lot about bodies, but I was with my mother when she died. The nurse, Sandra, was…she had no pulse."

  “And you’re sure Wharton never told you how he knew Ms. Cartwright had been seriously injured?” Dana asked.

  Clayton nodded.

  Morehouse had his look of skepticism. I’ve seen it often. "Why didn't you call the police?"

  "I didn't want to call from inside her house. I figured, I guess it was cowardly, I'd call from my car. Block the caller ID. But then the kid saw me."

  "And you took off. Just left it at that," Dana said.

  "I did, but I looked back, saw the kid had gone into the house. Figured he would call 9-1-1 or something."

  Tortino finally asked the question I wanted to. "Why would Quentin Wharton call you?"

  Clayton sighed. "I'd met with him after work, and was supposed to meet with him again in the morning. He knew I was staying overnight at Beachcomber's Alley to work up some revised estimates."

  "Meet about what?" Dana asked.

  "The hospital buying more liability insurance. Wharton wanted estimates if they had to expand hours in the ER, do other things if the developer started building that big resort."

  "That don't explain why he called you," Morehouse said.

  Clayton frowned in his direction. "He knew I wanted the money from that commission, so I'd pretty much do what he asked."

  Tortino moved away from the doorway, back to captain duties, I assumed.

  "So," Morehouse said, "now you decided that instead of callin' us, you'd call a real estate appraiser?"

  "He knew I saw…" I began.

  More dagger eyes from Morehouse. "I'm askin' him, Jolie."

  I nodded, feeling impatient. If they would just stop asking questions and let Clayton talk, it would go faster.

  "She's right," Clayton said.

  I kept myself from giving Morehouse a sarcastic wave.

  "I was in Wharton's outer office one day when she came out of some meeting with him. Jolie only saw my back, but I thought she might remember I'd been there if I reminded her."

  Morehouse turned his gaze to me. "And did you?"

  "Not his face, but the topic I heard him start to talk to Wharton about."

  "Insurance," Clayton and I both said.

  Dana pointed a pencil at Clayton. "Let's say we believe you, and go talk to Quentin Wharton. If he were careful, there could be no clear evidence that he called you. Can you offer any support for the call to you?"

  "I…don't know. He called me at the hotel."

  "Great," Morehouse said. "If he called from a phone other than his, we might get a record of a call to the main number at about the time you’ll tell us, but not who called or that the call was transferred to you."

  "Maybe the hotel operator will remember Wharton called," I volunteered.

  Morehouse stood. "Let me walk you out, Jolie."

  I stood, nodded to Dana, and hesitated before I spoke to Clayton. “Good luck.”

  Morehouse led me out of the room, through the bullpen, and into the public area. I expected him to close the door behind me and return, but he came into the outer area with me.

  He ran a hand over his cropped hair. “You tellin’ him good luck, that might not be best right now.”

  “You think he’s lying?”

  “Don’t matter what I think. What anyone thinks. Maybe he killed her, maybe he didn’t. But we gotta have evidence before we get all kissy face with a guy coulda murdered Sandra.”

  “Good advice.” I grinned. “Can I come back for the kissy face?”

  He jerked his thumb toward the entrance. “You think of somethin’ we need to know, call me.”

  I FELT AMAZINGLY LIGHT, in mood and spirit. Sandra was still dead, of course, but Terry's best friend was home and no one thought he had killed her. Now that I'd met the so-called thin-faced man, I also thought it unlikely he was a threat. Now, if we could just figure out who started the fire by Aunt Madge's garage.

  I sat on a bench outside the police station and sent Scoobie a long text about my morning.

  His replied with five exclamation points. His day never left much time for conversations, but at least he was saying he knew I’d had an eventful time thus far.

  As I walked to my car, I thought about what Peter Clayton had said. Wharton told him “he had heard” Sandra might be hurt. Or something like that. He had to have heard that from someone, unless he did it.

  Could Wharton have killed her? A member of the Endowment Committee who wanted her to change her thinking? Why would anyone care enough about helping the resort? Probably not someone who went there to kill her, someone who surprised her.

  I discounted the burglar theory. Someone took her purse and jewelry to make it look like a robbery or burglary.

  I wanted to talk about the situation with someone.

  My first inclination was to call Scoobie, but he’s always with other people, often patients. And he wouldn’t ruminate with me. That left George, Lester or, in a pinch, Ramona. She would listen, but she wouldn’t offer too many ideas, and she’d tell me to mind my own business.

  I opted for George. He answered with an abrupt, “What’s up, Jolie?”

  “If you don’t have time, you can call me later, okay?”

  “I’ll do that. Early afternoon okay?”

  “Sounds good.” I hung up.

  Lester’s office would be a better place to talk than Java Jolt, or even on the phone. Who knew where he’d be when he picked up? He’d holler my name and talk about Sandra or whatever in a bellow.

  For the second time in a few days, I trudged up the exterior steps to Lester’s second-floor office. I noted that the plastic fish that were spaced on the wall along the stairs had turned to a sort of lemon-green shade. Probably one of the buildings Wharton was referring to when he said Ocean Alley had a faded glory look.

  I let myself into the hallway and walked down the narrow hallway toward Lester’s office. He isn’t supposed to smoke in the building, and if accused he always says he had his cigar lit right before he came into his office. Not likely. I knocked on the door frame.

  Lester had the Ocean Alley Press spread across his desk, and quickly closed it. “Just catchin’ up on house prices…Oh, hey Jolie. News?”

  I grinned. “Lots of good articles on real estate in the sports section.”

  “Smart ass.” He gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Toss those files on the floor and have a seat.”

  “I’ll finish the measurements on that overpriced house in the Popsicle District this afternoon.”

  Lester pointed an index finger at me across the desk. “Hey. Plenty of houses cost that much in Ocean Grove or Bradley Beach.” He stopped. “You know something.”

  “Kevin’s off the hook for Sandra’s murder, but I don’t think the police know for sure who the killer was.”

  He sat back in his chair. “That’ll be a load off for ol’ Morehouse.”

  “Have you heard anything about people who didn’t like Sandra?”

  He shrugged. “Does it matter? You got kids and a job. Why care about that stuff now Terry’s friend’s in the clear?”

  “I also have a husband.”

  “Goes with the kids. So?”

  “At this point, I'm mostly concerned, I suppose.”

  “Guy on the boardwalk spook you?”

  He did, but not anymore. “I figure he can’t be that dangerous, or he wouldn’t walk around at a public fundraiser on the boardwalk.” I decided Lester hadn’t heard anything about resort plans or anything that would tie to Sandra's death. I was starting to wonder why I cared.

  “Guess your Aunt Madge is still pretty torn up about losing her friend.”

  That’s why I care!! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t considered whether someone angry at Sandra would be equally furious with Aunt Madge.

  “She is. The funeral was hard for her.”

  Lester stared at me. “You’re thinkin’ about something.”

  “Just that…I wish we knew who killed Sandra and why.”

  Lester glanced towards his newspaper. “We all wanna know. Good lady.”

  “Yes. I hope it’s not about her opposition to the resort. She and Aunt Madge were both pretty vocal about it.”

  Lester sat back in his chair, which emitted a protesting squeak. “You don’t got enough to do? Or maybe lack of sleep makes your mind wander.”

  I laughed. “I guess it does sound odd. I sleep okay.” I rose.

  Lester stood, hands in his trouser pockets, jingling change. “I’m no official detective, but I think Madge would be a lousy target, especially for someone tied to the resort. Whole town would rise up against the place.”

  I hoped he was right.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GEORGE SHOWED MORE INTEREST in Peter Clayton’s story. Admittedly, Lester would have had more to say if I’d actually mentioned Clayton, especially since the guy showed up at Lester’s listing. But he would have blabbed to the town and Morehouse would have encouraged officers to give me tickets or something.

  George and I sat in Java Jolt, and he ordered iced tea. “My inclination is to believe the guy, but either he’s hiding who he thinks killed Sandra or he can only guess.”

  I mopped some of my iced tea off the table. “He may not know, but Wharton does.”

  “According to this Peter guy.”

  I nodded. “Just seems so risky for him to come forward to tell lies. Aside from his own reputation to protect, I can’t imagine the hospital would buy any insurance from him again.”

  George shrugged. “Bottom line, Kevin is safe and the cops have more to look into.”

  “What about…what about Aunt Madge? If someone went after Sandra because she opposed them…”

  George tapped a pen on the table. “Whoa. Are you bored or something? Someone could be really mad at her, but to go after her because she’s mouthing off…”

  He caught my raised eyebrows.

  “Because she’s raising important policy issues, would be nuts. Look, Madge has some strong arguments, but who does she really hurt by advocating against the resort? Or for small businesses for that matter. People are passionate on both sides."

  "But she knows everyone," I insisted.

  George smiled. "In your world. Ocean Alley has changed just in the last ten years. Lots of newer residents, there's even talk about needing another elementary school."

  I gave him a grudging smile. "So, people won't vote for her just because she's volunteered for half the organizations in town at one time or another?"

  "She’s articulate, but Madge is no threat to resort developers or supporters. I doubt they’re trying to figure out which candidates to bump off."

  I laughed. "Okay. That takes me back to Peter Clayton. Wharton called him, but he may not be who killed Sandra. Or he could be."

  "Leave it to the police."

  I thought I might. Kevin was not in danger from the man who saw him at Sandra's house, since that man was Clayton and he admitted it. If Kevin was safe, so was Terry. Harry was with Aunt Madge and they were pretty much always in public places."

  "Okay. I'm not going to think about all this anymore."

  FED TWINS WERE HAPPY TWINS, so I pulled already sliced carrots from the fridge as soon as we got home Monday afternoon. “Who wants a story before I go to Aunt Madge’s to make tea?”

  “Did they have Elmo when you were little?” Leah asked.

  Lance slurped his apple juice. “When does Daddy get home?”

  My kids love me to pieces, especially in the winter when they can’t go outside to play and Jazz hides well. But I am no competition for Daddy.

  Scoobie called at three. “Can you take the twins to Madge’s? I’ll get them before the guests come in for tea.”

  “Sure, I…”

  “Great.” Scoobie hung up.