“We started a woman’s group while you were on vacation,” Doreen continued. “It’s called Crafting with Cocktails.”

  “Which comes first,” I asked with a grin, “the crafting or the cocktails?”

  “Definitely the cocktails,” Vera replied without hesitating.

  Today, Vera had chosen to adorn herself in an unseasonably light sundress. It was her stiff middle finger to the rain blanketing the island. So there! It’s July. I’m wearing a sundress.

  Gwen continued. “Each week, we rotate houses and try a new cocktail.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “And work on crafting projects. We’re doing decoupage right now.”

  “Please tell me you’re not driving yourselves home after this?”

  Doreen shook her head. “No, Dougie drops us off and picks us up afterward. We’re calling him ‘Wynter Island’s Uber driver.’”

  “Where is Dougie, by the way? I thought for sure he’d be here today.”

  “He’s over at the Zoloffs, I think,” Shea answered. “They had a big pine tumble over last night, so he’s got to clear that away. We’ve had so much rain the soil’s saturated. Everything even close to the shoreline is unstable.”

  “Yeah, I saw that the Sydney Cliffs are closed again.”

  The Sydney Cliffs. One of the highest and most breathtaking viewpoints on the island. It was a place of both beauty and sadness for me: the place where my ex-boyfriend, Daniel, had fallen to his death.

  Shea nodded her head. “That’s part of the reason why Selesia isn’t here today. They had a section of fence give way. She and Brad are trying to fix it to keep the horses in.”

  I glanced out the window at the drizzling rain outside. “In this? How terrible. Well, at least it’s not pouring, I guess.”

  “That’s the best we’ve been able to hope for all summer,” Shea said. “Light rain rather than a torrential downpour. It’s been God-awful for the businesses. Barely any tourists.”

  I sighed. The B&Bs and outdoor recreation companies on Wynter Island were barely holding on. A disastrous summer might just be enough to finish off a few more of them.

  “How about Kurt and Harald?”

  An uncomfortable silence met my question. Gwen finally broke it.

  “Business-wise, I think they’re okay. They’ve got the income from the Legion to keep them going, even if they aren’t getting many bookings at the B&B. On a personal level …” Her voice ebbed away into silence.

  “Immigration Canada is investigating Harald,” Vera continued for her. “Their marriage is valid, so that’s one good thing, but he’s been charged with falsifying immigration papers.”

  I remembered Kurt’s face, overwhelmed with grief, an overgrown stubbly beard skirting the bottom half of his haggard face. It had been horrible for him to learn that Harald had been married previously and, even worse, was going to be arrested for the murder of Daniel.

  Thankfully, the real killer was found, and Harald was released from jail. But that did not change the fact that his attempt to keep his first marriage secret by lying on his immigration paperwork had been uncovered. The police had no choice but to notify Immigration Canada.

  “We’re all trying to stay hopeful,” Shea offered somewhat weakly.

  Which hopeful? I wondered. Hopeful Harald manages to stay in Canada? Or, hopeful his marriage to Kurt survives?

  “Fish Bingo is going great,” Nate added. “We had two shows while you were away. We got a ton of live streams.”

  “A ton of what?” Vera asked.

  Nate’s thin, lantern-jawed face broke into a smile. He was almost eighteen, the dusky shadow of a bad shave cloaking the lower half of his face. “Live streams, Vera. You know, YouTube. The internet. The fancy, new-fangled computer stuff. Like radio, except better.”

  Vera turned to fix him with a steely glare. “Don’t you get cheeky with me, Nate Rossino.”

  “Did Phil cause any problems?” I redirected the conversation back to safer ground.

  Fisherman Phil was a lifer, born and raised on this island set in the Salish Sea between Vancouver and Vancouver Island. He was a small commercial fisherman known for his cantankerous nature and miserly need to hold on to every nickel he had ever earned.

  “He tried to get me to overpay for the salmon by saying it was better than A1 quality. I don’t think there is such a thing. I handled it. I’m hoping the viewing numbers will switch from our YouTube channel to the TV station when we move from online to over the airwaves.”

  “Great! So, of course, the big news is that we’re going on-air for the first time with our live call-in talk show, Vox Pop.”

  “Yes, Michael is going to be the first guest,” Shea said.

  I glanced out the glass door at the blue Subaru Forester parked in front of the Island’s Trust office across from us. I tried to push down the complicated emotions rising in my throat. Michael. Michael Rossino. He was like a potato chip; impossible not to want more. This was complicated by the fact that there was someone else there, too: his wife, Anna. Although, to be fair, the only one who knew anything about our relationship was me—probably because it existed only in my imagination. Michael was utterly oblivious to my feelings for him, which I suppose was for the best. But things were changing in the Rossino household. I had heard stormy waters were brewing on the marriage front. Details about Anna’s extramarital assignations had come to light during the investigation into Daniel’s death.

  I hadn’t seen Michael since returning to Wynter Island. I hadn’t seen Ben either, the handsome veterinarian who had been sniffing at my heels since I arrived on Wynter. It was almost like I was trying to avoid all possible romantic entanglements. Or feelings. Feelings brought me back to Daniel, and that wasn’t a space I was comfortable in yet.

  “Sounds good. And Shea, Selesia is going to be the host?”

  Shea nodded, her thin blonde hair straggling forward to brush against her face.

  “Does she know about Rose yet?” Vera asked, drawing out the end of her question.

  “Yeah, she knows.”

  Before I could ask anything, Nate spoke up. “She’s moved into the old Wintford place.”

  “The Wintford place? Where’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s one of the big waterfront mansions just down from Coho Bay,” Doreen replied. “The islanders call it the Glass House because it has so many windows.”

  “Has anyone seen her yet?” Gwen asked. “They arrived a few weeks ago. Big black Cadillac Escalade with California plates.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t fly in on a private helicopter,” Vera said. “Isn’t that what celebrities do?”

  The acidity of her tone left no doubt of Vera’s opinion of such Hollywood accouterments.

  “Apparently,” Nate added, ignoring Vera’s comment, “there’s three of them. Rosalie, her manager, and a personal assistant.”

  “Why on God’s green earth would she need a personal assistant on Wynter Island?” Vera sniffed. “To tear off individual pieces of toilet paper for her when she’s sitting on the john?”

  “I wish I had an assistant to help me get the new fruit shed up,” Gwen sighed.

  “How’s that going, Gwen?” I asked.

  My mind wandered back to the day I spotted what looked like a carton of eggs on Gwen’s front porch. It was still hard to believe that I had stumbled over an IED on tiny Wynter Island, British Columbia. Gwen and I were lucky to have survived the explosion. Unfortunately, Gwen’s old fruit shed had not.

  Gwen exhaled with a hiss of impatience. “With all this rain, I’m going to have to get the lane from the road properly graded so it’s safe for cars and equipment to get up there. Right now, it feels like I’m taking my life in my hands every time I drive up or down.”

  “I know,” Vera added. “When I dropped your eggs off yesterday, I thought I was going to start a landslide. Chunks of the gravel driveway kept slipping away. Scared me to death.”

  “Okay, so no filming at Gwen’s house for the foreseeable future,” I said, laughing. “The last thing I need is to end up sliding down her mountainside in the station truck!”

  As I waited for a polite titter of laughter, there was nothing but silence. Vera, instead, leaned out of her seat, her neck stretching like an elongated stork, to get a better view out the front window. If she stretched any further, she would end up sitting in Gwen’s lap.

  “What are you looking at, Vera?” I asked as the entry bell on the front door jingled happily. “You’re acting like it’s the Second Coming or something.”

  I turned to see a stunning, golden-haired woman flanked by two men standing by the door.

  “Returning home is kind of a Second Coming,” she replied, a smile spread across her oval, cream-skinned face, “but I think it’s a bit much to put Biblical implications behind it. I’m Rosalie. Rosalie Morgann. Although most islanders remember me as just plain old Rose Morgan.”

  She was as stunning as they had said. Her oval face perfect, her big blue eyes and bee-stung Bardot lips like something from a French impressionist film, Brigitte Bardot, with a touch of 21st Century Hollywood. Her hair hung in long, loose waves of gold on either side of her face. I’m sure it would have shimmered in the sunlight if there had been any sunlight to shimmer in. She was a present-day Pre-Raphaelite goddess. The Lady of Shallot, in real life.

  She walked over to me, her hand extended. I grasped it, noticing that one finger was weighed down with a diamond-studded platinum ring.

  “I’m Kate Thomas. CWYN station manager,” I said.

  Rosalie gestured to the two men beside her, both in their mid-thirties. “This is my manager, Jason Bálachet, and my personal assistant, Scott Quillimento.”

  The first man, Jason, could have been a model if not for the slight crookedness of his nose. His black hair was clipped short, his mono-lid eyes hinting at some Asian ancestry. At 6’1”, his taut body gave him the appearance of someone who drank kefir for breakfast and worked out daily on his Peloton.

  The other man was a bit shorter in stature and carried a few more pounds on his frame. He wore a starched oxford shirt tucked into a pair of neatly pressed khakis, his belt matching his tan loafers. His dark brown hair was parted on the side, bangs brushing loosely over the left-hand side of his olive-skinned, round face. His eyes, which appeared to be quietly assessing me, were partially hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses. The lower part of his face was encased in an artfully trimmed five o’clock shadow.

  He certainly cares about his appearance. Must do since maintaining a facial grooming style that holds you perennially at 4:30 pm must be difficult.

  I nodded my hellos. “What can I help you with?”

  “I was wondering if we could speak privately?” Rosalie asked.

  I glanced around the open-plan office. It was many things, but private was not one of them.

  “Of course. Everybody,” I gestured to the volunteers to stand, “why don’t we call it a day. I’ll see you on Friday for the show. Crew call is 9 am.”

  “What? You want us to go? Now?” Nate asked, his lanky face shifting from amazement to dismay.

  “Yes, of course, she wants us to go,” Vera snapped. “They need to speak in private. And you need to stop drooling.”

  “Dougie will be so pissed that he wasn’t here.”

  “C’mon everyone, let’s do what Kate asked. Everybody out.” Gwen walked over to open the front door, gesturing everyone outside. “And no, you can’t all stand here on the sidewalk and stare in the window at them like they’re animals in a zoo!”

  Doreen, the last to leave, dramatically slowed her steps as she came level with us. She clearly wanted Rosalie to notice that she was there. Their eyes connected, the anger in Doreen’s so sharp and brittle that I wondered how Rosalie could hold her gaze. But she did. The breadth of her shoulders stayed rigid and firm until Doreen had passed.

  Well, she knew she would get hate for returning to the island. Doreen is just the start of it.

  I led my guests to the now empty folding chairs, Jupiter trailing suspiciously behind me. “Please, have a seat.”

  We sat down in a small semi-circle, Rosalie casually draping one honey-colored leg over the other beneath her short cotton dress. Her calves were shapely perfection, like something from a magazine advertisement for ladies’ razors.

  I can never show my legs again.

  Scott reached over to pet Jupiter, but he gave him a look that very clearly said, I don’t think so, buddy. Scott quickly withdrew his hand. That was odd. Jupiter had gotten so much better at tolerating strangers. Why had he taken against Scott?

  “I’m sorry you had to shoo away all your volunteers,” Rosalie said.

  I waved away her concerns. “It’s perfectly fine. We were pretty much done for today anyway. But I’m curious about what you need to discuss with me.”

  Jason spoke up. “It’s nice to meet you, Kate. I’m Jason, Rosalie’s manager and boyfriend.” His mouth split open in a cheesy, theatrical way.

  Hmmm, a huckster.

  “She gets two for the price of one with me.”

  I chuckled politely. “Bálachet. Êtes-vous Français?”

  “Sort of. Half Korean, half Quebeçois. I grew up in Manchester, New Hampshire.”

  “And I’m Scott Quillimento,” the other young man offered. “From San Diego originally.”

  I glanced over at him, the smile across his full moon face feeling more honest than Jason’s if no less theatrical.

  “Nice to meet you both. But I still have no idea why you’re here.”

  “I would like to be a guest,” Rosalie answered, “on your upcoming television show, Vox Pop.”

  “You? You want to be on one of our shows?”

  Rosalie nodded.

  “You do realize that this is public access television, right? Made by volunteers with a lot of heart but not necessarily much talent. Our audience is comprised of a few hundred retirees and one particularly grumpy fisherman.”

  “Is that Phil? Of course, it is. Who else would be the grumpy fisherman on Wynter Island?” Rosalie laughed.

  “You know Phil?” I mentally checked myself. “Of course you do. You grew up here.”

  “Yes,” Rosalie glanced out the front window at the volunteers, now gossiping in front of the Tru Value. “I have a lot of memories from Wynter Island.”

  Good memories? I wondered. Or bad?

  A silver dollar-sized mother-of-pearl disc moved on her bracelet as she shifted in her seat, its spoke-like engraved ship’s wheel design catching the light. “Is that the Wheel of Dharma?”

  “Yes, it is. You know something about Buddhism?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “A bit.”

  “I started practicing a few years ago. I needed something to help me deal with the stress of working in Hollywood. The meditation helped a lot. And then I began to learn more about the religion.”

  “More?”

  “Yes. Do you know what the wheel represents?”

  “Not really.”

  “It represents Samsara, the process of life, death, and rebirth we must all go through to achieve Nirvana.”

  I examined the beautiful young woman sitting in front of me. In the eyes of many, Rosalie had already achieved Nirvana. She had everything she could possibly want: great beauty, wealth beyond her wildest dreams, and worldwide fame. What else could she need?

  “So you’ve returned here because you’re looking for Nirvana? I don’t know if Wynter Island qualifies as that.”

  The three of them laughed, Jason leaning forward, his well-manicured hands opening towards me in a car salesman-like way. “We realize that CWYN is a small community television station.”

  “Well then, why,” I started, but he cut me off.

  “It’s imperative that Rosalie appear on your channel.”

  “But it has to be Vox Pop,” Rosalie insisted. “Selesia Sixto is the host, right? It airs live for the first time this Friday?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I answered slowly, drawing my words out as I tried to figure out where this was going. “But we already have a guest for our first show.”

  “A guest better than Rosalie?” Scott asked, drawing his head back in surprise, a smirk of doubt lifting his rosy lips.

  “Well, I don’t know if I would say better, but …”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if Rosalie took their place,” Jason stated, putting a decisive end to the conversation. “After all, who better than Rosalie Morgann to be your first on-air guest? The local girl who became a Hollywood star?”

  Chapter Three

  The drizzling rain, which seemed to be our permanent state of weather these days, leached all color out of our normally lush, green island, turning it into a black-and-white, soulless world.

  For Christ’s sake, I know we live in a temperate rainforest, but this is just ridiculous!

  I turned out of the station parking lot and headed the truck north toward the Reserve.

  Jupiter sat shotgun—like usual—his nose pressed against the passenger window while his rosy tongue tried to catch the trickles of water sliding by.

  “Jupe, you’re never going to get one. They’re on the other side of the window.”

  Jupiter turned at the sound of his name, tilted his head questioningly, and then returned to his task.

  The Reserve sign appeared on the road up ahead of us. Selesia’s house was the third on the right as you drive in, a blue split level straight from the Sixties. I pulled into the gravel driveway, the absence of any cars hinting that there was no one home.

  “Okay, Jupe. Where next?” I said after an unsuccessful attempt to rouse anybody at the house.

  Jupiter looked at me, his body stiffening with excitement, his ears lifting hopefully.

  “No, I didn’t say W.A.L.K. It’s too wet. I’m sorry, no walks today.”

  With a slump, Jupiter returned to the passenger window.

  “Let’s see if Sam is around. Maybe he knows where I can find Selesia.”

  Sam’s ranch-style house sat at the end of the main road in the Reserve, a stunning piece of waterfront property overlooking the Salish Sea.