“Nice to see you, too, Staff Sergeant Singh.”

  He picked up his change from Doreen and gestured for Jupiter and me to follow him outside. “I think we know each other well enough now that you can call me Ian.”

  As we stepped out the door, a whoosh of cold, damp air rushed off the ocean, slamming into our faces. We both stopped in our tracks, momentarily gasping to catch our breath.

  “Well, at least it isn’t raining,” I laughed. “That’s about the best we can hope for this summer. What brings you to Wynter Island, Ian?”

  “Do you have a few minutes? Maybe we could sit down and have a chat?”

  He pointed to one of the dark green benches on the Lind hotel’s back patio. In better weather, they would have been packed with tourists awaiting the arrival of the next ferry. Not this summer.

  I zipped my jacket closed and pulled the collar up around my neck. “Sure. I don’t have to be back at the station for another half an hour.”

  “Great. Follow me.”

  Jupiter and I dropped into step beside him. His 6’ 2” frame, spare but athletic in appearance, suited his RCMP uniform. His molasses-colored skin stretched from one cut cheekbone to the other, making his Sikh ancestry apparent even without the traditional dress turban. He hadn’t changed much since he had investigated my ex-boyfriend Daniel’s death a few months ago. What had brought him back to Wynter Island?

  Duh.

  “You’re here about Rosalie, aren’t you?” I asked as we settled ourselves down onto a bench.

  He nodded, his eyes examining the rows of empty sailboats bobbing forlornly in the marina. “Yes, I am.”

  “But why? Weren’t you a part of the RCMP Forensic Explosives Team?” I patted Jupiter absently. He disappeared underneath the bench to use my clamped-together legs as a windbreaker. Even furry creatures were finding it nippy these days. “There weren’t any explosives involved in Rosalie’s death.”

  “I transferred from the RCMP E division to take a position with VIIMCU.”

  “VIIMCU? What’s that? It sounds like a vacuum cleaner manufacturer.”

  His lips raised in a smile, exposing his bright white teeth. “No, we’re not a vacuum cleaner manufacturer. Although we are trying to clean up crime.” A small chuckle.

  “That is a terrible Dad joke, Ian.”

  His smile stretched even wider. “Yes, I know, but I couldn’t resist it. VIIMCU stands for Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crimes Unit. We focus on homicides, suspicious deaths, and missing person cases where foul play is suspected.”

  “Now I’m beginning to see the connection.”

  “Yes, the murder of Rosalie Morgann. I took the case mainly because of my previous experience here on Wynter Island.”

  “Mainly? Was there another reason?”

  His hazel eyes settled on my face. “Yes, a personal one. I’ve been thinking of buying a weekend place here since I relocated to Victoria.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t think investigating Daniel’s death would create a ‘that’s where I want to live’ vibe. It’s usually the exact opposite. Murder keeps home buyers away.”

  I felt a sudden jolt of pain in my gut as my memory traveled back to the image of Daniel’s body floating in the ocean.

  No! No! No! Don’t think about it!

  He smiled. “It felt like a community to me when I was here, a place where people cared about their neighbors. I thought, in my spare time, I’d look at some real estate.”

  He sighed, an ineffable exhalation of sadness. Was there another reason he wanted to move to Wynter Island?

  “Part-time detective, part-time real estate hunter, then.”

  He smiled again. “Yes, but mainly the detective. I’m staying at the Lind for the duration of the investigation.”

  “Does the coroner have a cause of death yet?”

  He dropped his chin decisively, once. “Poisoned. They’re not sure with what, but they’re sure that’s the cause.”

  Poisoned. I let the word settle into my consciousness. Poisoned meant intent and planning. Poisoned meant murder. Another murder here on Wynter Island!

  “Poisoning. Wow, that isn’t something done in a sudden moment of passion or anger, is it?”

  He nodded his head in agreement. “No, it isn’t. We assume it was in her energy drink, but we won’t know for sure until we get the full toxicology report back. Unfortunately, the bottle shattered when she dropped it, so the remaining liquid intermingled with her vomit and bodily fluids.”

  Vomit and bodily fluids. My body shivered reflexively.

  “We, Stewart, Lesley, and I, are trying to follow the path that bottle took in the days leading up to her murder.”

  “Where did she buy it?”

  “She didn’t. Jason, her manager, did. From the General Store, just before they were due to leave for CWYN. Rosalie stayed back at the house to finish getting ready while Jason dashed out to buy one for her. She usually has a bottle midday as a pick-me-up, but there were none left in their fridge.”

  “That’s suspiciously convenient, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the difficult thing about coincidences, Kate. It’s hard to tell whether the sound of hoofbeats means horses or zebras.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughed. “Haven’t you heard that old saying before? When you hear the sound of hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. In other words, the most commonplace answer is usually correct.”

  “So, the most commonplace answer would be that they just ran out of the energy drink. Not that it was planned.”

  “Yes. Apparently, that happened quite a lot. Scott said it was on his shopping list for his trip to Victoria. He was over there for a couple of days off.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Gwen and I stopped by the house the day after Rosalie’s death to check in on Jason.”

  “And how did you find him?”

  “Scott or Jason?”

  “Both.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “Jason was distraught, Scott less so. I mean, there’s no point in beating around the bush. Jason believes that an islander killed Rosalie.”

  “Yes, he was quite vocal about that with me, too.”

  “Scott struck me as not so hysterical. And—”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just something I felt.”

  “What was it?”

  How could I explain the strange, tenuous vibe I had gotten off the two of them? Like there was something that Jason did not want Scott to speak about. How else to explain his sudden panicked look at Scott when I asked about their history together? And from Scott, there had been that subtle thread of irritation toward Jason. Not obvious, more of a distant melody running beneath the main score.

  “He seemed as if he was irritated with Jason for some reason.”

  “Because he didn’t agree with Jason’s theory that an islander had killed Rosalie?”

  “I guess. I’m not sure. Did you get the note that was left at the house?”

  “Yes, along with anything that could have been poisoned: food, drinks, meds, makeup, lotions.”

  “Lotions? You mean, like hand cream?”

  He nodded. “Yes, poison can also be absorbed through the skin. No sign so far that anything at the house was tampered with.”

  “Which leads us right back to the energy drink.”

  “Yes, which brings its own complications.”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know, Ian, that I am not going to butt into this investigation. My days of sleuthing are over. You may not realize this, but I’m not actually an RCMP constable.”

  He laughed outright. “Really, Kate? You gave a pretty good imitation of one the last time I was here.”

  “That was different. I had to investigate that murder. I needed to find Daniel’s killer to save myself and put Shelley behind bars. But there’s no reason for me to get involved with this case.” I shivered at the memory of Rosalie’s golden hair trailing behind her dead body on the studio floor. “I’d be happy to have nothing more to do with it.”

  “I doubt that. She died in your studio, under your supervision,” he replied, his expression tipping towards somber reflection. “Once again, you and murder on Wynter Island are inextricably entangled.”

  Chapter Ten

  The new open-plan work area of the station bubbled with the voices of volunteers. Most had found a place on the folding chairs I had hurriedly placed out, but a few stood near the front door chatting.

  “Alright, can everyone grab a seat? We need to get this meeting started.”

  “This emergency meeting, you mean,” Vera clarified as she settled herself in a metal chair. “This secret emergency meeting.”

  “It’s not a secret, Vera.”

  “Well, do you know what it’s about?”

  I glanced over at Gwen, standing beside me. Her eyes met mine, her brows furrowed with concern. Something was definitely up, but I had no idea what it was.

  “No, I don’t. Gwen is the one who called this meeting.”

  Shea raised her hand to get my attention. “Well, before we get to all that, can I introduce Betty Wu?” She gestured to a silver-haired Asian woman sitting next to her. “She came into the library the other day to introduce herself. She and her husband Gordon bought that new home near Coho Bay.”

  “Millionaire’s Row,” Vera said, not quietly enough.

  “Well, we call it Salish Rd,” Betty corrected her, “but I guess it’s known as Millionaire’s Row to all of you. It makes it sound very fancy.” Her laugh tinkled in the air.

  “It’s right next to the Glass House, isn’t it?” Dougie asked.

  “The Glass House?” Betty paused. “Oh, you mean the place where that poor girl used to live? The one who died on TV? Yes, we’re right next door.”

  “They sold their home in Vancouver and decided to retire here,” Shea continued.

  “My husband was a dentist in Kerrisdale for thirty years. When I finally convinced him to retire, I had to ensure he was far enough from his old practice that he couldn’t bother the new dentist!”

  Her smile expanded the round doughiness of her face. It lit up her kind eyes, which were settled among the lines on her face. I liked her. Fun, but still full of common sense. The kind of practical mom who just throws another plate on the table when her children bring home an unexpected guest.

  “I mentioned that we were looking for new volunteers at the station,” Shea continued, “and asked if she might like to come to our next meeting. I didn’t,” she hesitated, “think it was going to be quite so soon.”

  “None of us did,” Vera muttered.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Betty,” I said. “And it’s great to have a new volunteer for CWYN. Any idea of what you might be interested in working on?”

  Betty smiled at the other volunteers, the arched parentheses around her mouth deepening into shadow. “I have been brainstorming with my husband, and, well, the thing I enjoy the most is cooking. Chinese cooking.”

  “A cooking show! That would be fantastic,” Dougie said. “Kate, the crew gets to eat the food afterward, right?”

  “With everything going on right now, Dougie, that’s what you’re focusing on? Free food?”

  He sat a little straighter in his chair. “A man has to have his priorities.”

  I sighed. “Yes, the crew eats the food after a shoot.”

  “I was thinking we could call it Wokking with Betty,” she offered.

  “I like it. You’ll need a producer and a crew. There’ll be a lot of preparation work to get done. I hope you’re up for that.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of time on my hands now.”

  “Great.” Gwen tugged sharply on my elbow. “But I need to hand this over to Gwen. Gwen, you’re up.”

  Gwen paused for a moment and looked out over the faces of the volunteers. Her normally healthy complexion was pallid. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, everyone. I received an upsetting telephone call last night from the gentleman who supports CWYN. Financially supports it.”

  “Who’s that?” Dougie asked.

  “He wants to remain anonymous.”

  “He’s gotta be rich. Lumber business? Gotta be lumber,” Dougie said, glancing around the volunteers to see if anyone might have anything to offer. “Maybe mining?”

  “Don’t bother trying to figure out who he is, Dougie,” Gwen commanded. “What’s important is that he’s worried. Worried about CWYN.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Because of Rosalie’s death? I mean, it’s unfortunate that it happened here at the station, but we had no involvement with it.”

  “He doesn’t care about the facts. He cares about the optics.”

  “Optics?” Vera asked. “Like glasses?”

  “No, not that kind of optics, Vera. The optics of how this situation looks, for both him and us.”

  “In other words, he doesn’t want any negative publicity,” I said.

  “He doesn’t want any publicity, period. That’s why he won’t let me release his name.”

  “But if we don’t know who he is, how would the press find him?” Shea asked.

  Gwen sighed. “A journalist with some time on their hands could probably figure it out. And then he would have to deal with the media asking a lot of uncomfortable questions.”

  “So our benefactor is feeling a bit antsy because Rosalie was murdered at CWYN,” I said. “I get it. What do we have to do to reassure him that everything will be okay?”

  Gwen’s eyes met mine, the seriousness in their depths making my palms tingle.

  How bad is this going to be?

  “He’s not looking for reassurances, Kate. He wants the whole thing to go away.”

  “So do I, but I can’t just snap my fingers and make a murder investigation vanish.”

  “Well, that’s what he wants. Murder solved, criminal captured, and the story off the front pages and out of his hair.”

  “Or what?” I asked.

  She hesitated momentarily. “Or he pulls his funding from the station. That’s why I called this meeting. If this murder investigation drags on for too long, we may lose our funding.”

  A sudden hubbub of angry voices filled the room.

  “How in hell’s bells can he get away with that!” Vera shouted, her German accent shrilly canceling out the other voices.

  “Because,” Gwen stated, “there is a clause in our paperwork.”

  Shit! A morals clause!

  “It’s a morals clause that allows him to terminate our agreement if the station or its representatives engage in misconduct that may negatively affect his company’s reputation.”

  “Say that again in English,” Dougie asked.

  “It means,” I said, “that a murder, perhaps involving one of us, will make him—and therefore his company—look bad.”

  “Well, boo hoo,” Doreen answered sharply. “He’s just going to have to get over it. There’s no proof that any of us were involved in the murder or even considered suspects by the police …”

  Her voice trailed away as all eyes turned to Selesia.

  Selesia’s chiseled features stiffened. “Yeah, I know. It’s not rocket science, people. I know I’m a suspect,” she said, her voice flat and featureless.

  “Well, you’re not the only one, Selesia,” I said.

  Every head swiveled back to me, including Gwen’s.

  “Kate, what are you talking about? What do you know?” Gwen asked.

  “Not much, really.” I hesitated. “I crossed paths with Staff Sergeant Singh this morning.”

  “Wasn’t he the police officer who came over to investigate Daniel’s murder?”

  “He’s staying with us at the Lind,” Doreen added. “Lovely man.”

  “He’s leading the investigation into Rosalie’s death,” I continued, “along with Stewart and Lesley. He told me they now have a definite cause of death. Poisoning.”

  A gasp from everyone.

  “Is that why Stewart wanted to know who brought her energy drink in from the lobby?! Oh my God, am I a suspect?!” Dougie’s voice rose so high that his testicles must have reinserted themselves into his body.

  “I think everyone is a suspect right now, Dougie. At least everyone at the station who came in contact with her drink.”

  Vera counted them off on her fingers. “Well, as far as the drink is concerned, that would be Dougie; whoever bought her the drink, probably her boyfriend; and then, of course, whoever sold it to him…”

  Silence seeped across the room as a new realization spread through the volunteers. It was apparent from the stunned look on Doreen and Bob’s faces that the RCMP had not informed them yet that Rosalie had been poisoned.

  Why can’t I remember to keep my stupid mouth shut?!

  Doreen’s face blanched as she held one hand gripped to her chest. Whether it was shock or an imminent heart attack, I couldn’t tell.

  Bob’s gravelly bass voice boomed out from the back of the room. “Doreen didn’t have anything to do with that woman’s death. Neither did I. And anyone who says anything different will have to deal with me!” His meaty hands balled up into fists as if preparing for battle.

  Oh God, this is going from bad to worse.

  “Nobody is accusing her or you, Bob,” I said. “I was just repeating what Ian,”

  “Ian?” Gwen repeated.

  “Yes, Ian. He asked me to call him that.”

  “Hmm, first names now,” Vera said with a suggestive lilt to her voice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Vera. He said that anyone with access to that bottle would be considered a suspect.”

  “Her boyfriend bought it first thing on Friday morning,” Doreen murmured. “I remember because, you know, I wasn’t thrilled to see him.”

  “You hated his guts,” Dougie clarified.

  “No, well, ah—”

  “You didn’t hate his guts? Okay then, you hated her guts,” Dougie continued on.

  The color began to seep back into Doreen’s cheeks as her emotions shifted from shock to anger. “Yes, I did,” Doreen said, her eyes emitting sparks of fury. “I hated her. I didn’t wish her dead, but I’m not sorry she’s gone. She got what she deserved.”