Gwen gasped.

  “But you said it was Harald that was shot?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, Harald threw himself at the gunman, and the kid shot him.”

  “He was willing to die to save Kurt’s life,” Gwen murmured. “He loves Kurt that much.”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “I don’t think anyone can ever call Harald a coward again.”

  “No,” Sam said, “they can’t.”

  “But there’s more than that,” I said. “I talked to Scott yesterday. Rosalie’s assistant.”

  “I heard something about him heading back to the States,” Gwen offered.

  “Yes, this coming weekend. To Vegas. Both he and Scott worked there as magicians. That’s where Jason met Rosalie at one of his magic shows. When they started to date, he neglected to tell her something important.”

  “That he was already married?” Sam offered.

  “No, but close. He has a daughter with an ex-girlfriend.”

  “Big deal,” Gwen replied. These days a lot of people come into relationships with children.”

  “I know, but he thought it would scare her off. Perhaps she told him she didn’t want children or something. Anyway, when he got up the courage to tell her, it was too late. She wanted him to become her manager and move to LA. He couldn’t take the risk of losing her, losing this new life, if she dumped him.”

  “Secrets,” Sam muttered. “They always get you in the end.”

  “So what did he do?” Gwen asked.

  “He cut the girl’s mother a deal. He could easily afford to keep them comfortable. But the mom had to promise she wouldn’t talk.”

  “I mean, it won’t win him Father of the Year, but I don’t see what it has to do with Rosalie’s murder?”

  “Rosalie hid from Jason and Scott until the last minute that she planned on retiring and moving to Wynter Island. Her retirement meant that, financially, things were going to change for all of them. There would be much less money coming in every month. What if Jason no longer had the funds to pay off the mother? Would she tell Rosalie? And what would Rosalie do then? Dump him? They weren’t married. He would literally be out on the street without a pot to piss in.”

  “I see,” said Sam. “So he had to find a way to either shut the mother up, or make sure that Rosalie couldn’t kick him out.”

  “By killing her?” Gwen said. “That seems pretty extreme.”

  “There’s more. Scott never saw either the burglar or the zodiac on the night the Glass House was broken into. He came downstairs to find Jason screaming and bloody, with the sliding door wide open. It was Jason who told the police about the thief.”

  “Thereby creating an alibi for himself by placing suspicion on this imaginary thief/murderer,” Sam stated.

  “Yes. One that convinced us to look elsewhere for a suspect. Like at Selesia.”

  “But what about the burned apothecary bottle?” Gwen asked.

  “It could have easily been placed in the fire pit by Jason before he called in the tip to the police.”

  “This is so bloody complicated. I’m getting a headache,” Gwen stated. She fumbled around in her pocket before realizing she had placed her reading glasses on the top of her head. She pulled them down onto her face and glanced at her watch. “I’m going to have to get doubles of everything so I can leave one set here, Sam.”

  “Fine with me.”

  She plopped her glasses back on the top of her head. “If not, I’m never going to be able to find my glasses when I need them.”

  Sam took a long sip of his tea. “It sounds like you’re moving in, Gwennie. Are you trying to take advantage of my manly charms?”

  Gwen stopped and gave him a sarcastic sideways glance. “That’s it, Sam. You got it in one.”

  I took another sip of my tea, pondering a question. “Sam, Gwen’s been back on the island for fifteen years. Why did you take so long to tell her how you felt?”

  His eyes studied Gwen’s face. “Afraid, I guess. Afraid that if I said anything, I might lose her again. I couldn’t bear to lose her friendship after not seeing her for twenty-five years. If you’re starving, even crumbs are better than nothing.”

  Even crumbs are better than nothing. That’s what I was getting from Michael, the odd crumb of attention, kindness, and friendship. Was I willing to waste the next twenty-five years surviving on just that?

  No, I need more sustenance. I want the whole bloody cake.

  The image of Ben’s handsome face materialized in my mind.

  “So what made you take the leap now? Was it because you thought you’d end up in prison for Rosalie’s murder?”

  “Yes, some, but mainly it was the loons,” he replied.

  “Loons?”

  He nodded. “Yes, the loons. You must hear them over at Steeltun Bay?”

  I thought back to those still evenings where, if I was lucky, the loon’s haunting call would drift in an open window at the cottage. The Hoooooo-eyyyyy call transmitted a sense of loss and loneliness that was almost visceral.

  “Sometimes, if I’m lucky.”

  “Well, Jo-jo and I were sitting out on the front porch last week, watching as the fog swept in toward the island. And I heard them, a whole family. So close, so clear. Probably a male or female calling out to find their chicks or their mate. It was beautiful.”

  “So what does that have to do with Gwen?”

  He smiled. “Loons are a totem, a spirit being or guardian, that symbolize the reawakening of old hopes and dreams. When you hear a loon, we say the spirit is calling you to pay attention to your dreams, especially ones that have been allowed to sink below the ocean’s surface for too long.”

  “A second chance,” Gwen murmured.

  He smiled and squeezed her hand. “That’s right. A second chance. As they put those handcuffs on me, I realized I might never have another opportunity to tell you the truth.”

  “So you did.” She leaned forward, kissing him softly on the lips.

  I pushed my chair back from the table. “Alright, you lovebirds, I’m going to leave you alone. I’ve seen enough x-rated stuff for one morning.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Only one RCMP cruiser was still in front of the Legion as I drove past on my way back to the station. It must be Lesley’s. Stewart would be on the road with his own vehicle, searching the island to try and find the shooter. The Legion looked exactly the same as it did any other morning, except for the single shattered pane of glass where a bullet had pierced it. Part of me couldn’t believe that any of this had actually occurred.

  What happens if there’s another emergency? It will take time for support to arrive from another RCMP detachment. For right now, the rest of us are on our own.

  And not just on our own. Trapped on this small island with whoever shot Harald and Lesley. The ferry service would have been stopped for security reasons, so unless the shooter had a boat of his own, we were all stuck here together.

  I pulled into the station, quickly dashing through the rain with Jupiter to get inside.

  Who do I call to find out how everyone is doing?

  Stewart was, of course, the obvious first choice. But he was occupied with more important things than answering my questions. Shea would be in Victoria with Lesley, as would Kurt with Harald. I couldn’t possibly call and bother either of them at a time like this. Ian was in Vancouver, unaware that anything had taken place.

  I dropped my bag and pulled a rolling office chair from one of the editing bays. There was nothing for it but to try and distract myself with some work. I tapped the trackpad and filled in my password. Working amidst all this turmoil seemed silly, but it was better than just pacing the floor.

  I scrolled down to see how much editing was waiting to be done when the Google Chrome icon caught my eye. I clicked on it, opening up a new window. I typed YouTube into the address bar and then David Copperfield’s Statue of Liberty.

  Sure enough, the video was there. The scratchy VHS footage started with clanging, moody classical music as the camera spun around a brightly floodlit Statue of Liberty. Fifteen minutes of stagecraft followed, attempting to impress upon us that something vitally important was about to take place. A curtain was raised to block the statue.

  In a 1980s silver bomber jacket, David Copperfield held a finger to his temple and contemplated his magical powers. A dramatic gesture from him, and the curtain fell, revealing the empty floodlit space. A helicopter hovered above as if it had watched the entire thing transpire.

  I replayed it, pausing at points to go over the details. Beautiful models with blue eyeshadow and glossy lips did a lot of locking of boxes and dramatic pointing. Copperfield did a great job of appearing deeply serious, concerned at the enormity of what he was about to do. The audience—stooges or not—looked appropriately shocked.

  I hadn’t noticed the stage moving, but that could be selective editing. Could every single person in the audience be fake? It was possible, but it felt like cheating to me.

  So was it as Scott had explained it? The dramatic movement, all the different locks, and boxes to be examined, the stirring music: was that the big, bright ball Copperfield used to distract the audience from the slight but steady movement of the stage?

  Yes, it was.

  I was suddenly struck by a thought. Had those same techniques been used to distract the police? By Jason?

  Look here at the dramatic cut on my head, at the profuse amount of blood on the floor, at the curtains flapping frantically beside the open, sliding door. I have been attacked in my own home!

  Was it all a carefully plotted illusion? From the magician living right here on Wynter Island?

  My cell phone rang. I looked down at the number. It wasn’t a local area code, but I answered anyway.

  “Hello.”

  “Kate, it’s Scott. I need your help. Something is up with Jason. I think he’s figured out that I talked to you, about him, about his daughter, the other day. I don’t know what to do! I don’t feel safe.”

  “Then call 911, Scott. Call the police.” The words were out of my mouth before I could even think.

  “I’ve called 911, but they say no one can come to help. That something terrible has happened, and the police can’t come and help. What am I supposed to do?”

  My stomach plummeted to the floor. “There’s been a shooting, Scott. An RCMP constable has been badly wounded and flown to Victoria. We only have one other officer on the island, and he is busy trying to track down the shooter. As crazy as it seems, they’re telling you the truth. There are no police officers available on Wynter Island right now.”

  His voice rose an octave as the fear settled in. “I don’t know what to do, Kate. He’s in the other room!”

  I hesitated. Was this all some kind of trick? Was Jason trying to coax me out alone to the Glass House? But no, Scott would have to be involved then. And the only way Scott would know there were no officers available on the island was if he had called 911. You can’t lie about something like that. There would be a record of the call. He must be telling the truth.

  “Can you escape? Just try and get out on foot?”

  “No, he’s sitting in the kitchen. He’d see me heading towards either of the doors.”

  “Then just make up an excuse. Say that you heard something out front and want to go and check.”

  “No, he won’t fall for that. I know him, Kate. He’s clever. He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? Just like he killed Rosalie!”

  “No, Scott. Just calm down and let me think for a second.”

  But his words were already tripping frantically out of his mouth. “Can you come, Kate? If you ring the doorbell, I’ll have an excuse to run to open the door, and then I can escape in your truck. Please! You’ve got to help me!”

  I looked into the rain, suddenly wishing I was anywhere but Wynter Island. “Yes, Scott, I’ll come. I’ll leave Jupiter here at the studio. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

  * * *

  The island was strangely quiet. Everyone had sensibly hunkered down as Stewart hunted through the rain and mist for the young man who had shot Lesley and Harald. I was not sensibly hunkered down. I was driving along, talking angrily to myself.

  “Why am I doing this? This is crazy! Who does this? Goes out in the middle of an emergency situation to try and help a stranger? I don’t owe Scott anything. What if I stumble across the shooter while I’m out here in the mist trying to find my way to the Glass House?”

  I turned right at the crossroad and headed northeast toward the isolated part of the island that held Millionaire’s Row.

  “Just calm down. Scott is probably just panicking. And you don’t know for sure that Jason is the murderer.”

  My mind traveled back to the YouTube video of David Copperfield’s illusion. It was interesting to finally see it and understand what Scott had tried to explain to me: that magicians trade on the audience’s unconscious assumptions. It reminded me of what Ian had said about the police: the most obvious explanation was usually correct. The difference was that in magic, the hoofbeats were always the unexpected: zebras, not horses.

  What’s the zebra, and what’s the horse then in David Copperfield’s Statue of Liberty trick?

  That was easy. The horse was the audience’s assumption that they had been sitting in their seats, immobile, the entire time. The zebra was the imperceptible movement of the stage, unfelt and totally unexpected.

  Could Jason have applied the same techniques to Rosalie’s murder? Manipulated the assumptions of the police to try and cover his tracks? Was there a horse and a zebra in her murder? But if there was, what were they?

  I turned the truck onto Millionaire’s Row, slowing down as my mind worked through the puzzle. I pulled off to the side, put the truck into park, and turned the engine off. I needed a few moments to think.

  Well, the horse would be that she had been poisoned by her drink. It’s the obvious choice. Then what’s the zebra? That she had been poisoned in some other way? If that were true, why were there traces of poison found on the bottle?

  I thought about it. Technically, no bottle was left, only the shards covered in ‘bodily fluids.’ Could they have been contaminated after she was poisoned by the vomit and blood rather than before? But then, how was she poisoned in the first place?

  An image of her reapplying her lipstick after arriving at the station floated into my memory. Why had she done that? It hadn’t been long since she’d applied her makeup at the Glass House. Was it because she had rubbed some off on the lip of the bottle? And then consumed it?

  A chill washed over me.

  Big, bright ball. That’s what Scott had said. Look at this big, bright ball so that you can’t see my other hand manipulating your world over here in the corner.

  My breath caught in my throat as the domino pieces began to fall forward, each triggering the next.

  Was that what this was? Were all of the clues nothing but distractions?

  Look here! Look at this bottle! The drink must have been poisoned! Why else would someone go to the bother of cutting the power to the General Store CCTV, except to conceal the killer tampering with the bottle? It must be the drink. Follow its path to the killer!

  But that path wouldn’t lead to the killer, because the poison had never been in the bottle in the first place.

  It had been in her lipstick. In the tube she had used while doing her makeup at home, not the one that Stewart had immediately taken as evidence at the station. She didn’t need to bring the other lipstick, because Jason said she had a copy of her favorite color in every bag. The lipstick at home could then have been easily removed and replaced, leaving no trace of poison anywhere in the home.

  But that still left me with one major question: who had exchanged the poisoned lipstick for her regular one and then removed it after her death? It must be Jason. He was the only one with something to gain by Rosalie’s death. Scott’s assumption was correct. Jason was the killer.

  What am I doing here? Am I crazy? I can’t do this on my own. I need to find someone, anyone, and get some help for Scott, and try and get Jason into custody.

  I reached down to turn the key in the ignition when a sharp tap sounded on the driver’s side window.

  I raised my eyes to see Scott standing there, smiling. His gaze followed my hand to the keys, and he raised a gun on the other side of the glass level with my head.

  “I don’t think so, Kate. After all, you’ve driven all the way over here. Don’t you think we should have a little visit first?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  My hand hovered halfway toward the ignition. If I moved quickly enough, could I get the truck started and moving before he could do anything?

  Another tap on the window, this time with the gun barrel.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Kate. You’ll be dead before you can put it into Drive.”

  I retracted my hand slowly to my lap and turned to face him.

  “Smart move.” He opened the driver’s side door and motioned me to the passenger seat. “It’s better if I drive.”

  He started the truck and then headed back toward the Glass House.

  “I couldn’t understand what was taking you so long, so I decided to head out and have a look. I was worried that the shooter might have found you.” His smile was an odd mixture of concern and malice. “And then I spotted the truck parked down here.”

  “You never called 911, did you?” I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible. No use in letting him see how scared I was. This was a high-stakes poker game for the biggest pot imaginable: my life.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Then how did you know about the shooting? That we were down to only one RCMP officer?”

  “Through social media, of course! How else does one find out anything these days?”

  To my surprise, he drove past the Glass House and Betty and Gordon Wu’s oceanfront home.

  “Rose’s drink was never poisoned, was it, Scott? You put the poison in something else, something you could conceal from the police.”