“I’ve never thought to ask one,” Jayne said. “They might be up tonight, hoping someone will toss a freshly caught fish out the kitchen window.” Her breath formed a little cloud in front of her face. “It’s colder out here than I expected. What did you want to talk to me about, and why can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “You won’t be in tomorrow. You’ve taken the day off, or have you forgotten?”

  “I haven’t forgotten, although I might pop in around lunchtime. Just to check everything’s okay. If you need to talk to me, my mom told me about this thing called the telephone. You don’t have to be in the same room as someone to talk to them anymore. What will they think of next?”

  “I’ll make this short, and you can do with the info what you want—”

  “Although you’ll advise me. Constantly.”

  “Probably. It—is that gate supposed to be open?”

  Jayne turned to see what I was looking at. “What gate? The one to the stairs to the dock? No.”

  A small dock juts into the water below the pier. A steep narrow set of steps leads up to the restaurant deck so boaters can tie up their craft and pop in for a quick drink or a full meal. The gate to the steps is always kept locked, even when the deck is in use, as protection for temporarily unsupervised children running around the deck while their parents’ attention wanders.

  No children were at our party tonight, but that gate should be secured. Andy didn’t need drunken late-night boaters searching for the American equivalent of a chippie or a kabab stand.

  A puff of wind sent the metal gate swinging. I took a step toward it, but Jayne grabbed my arm. “Gemma. Something’s in the water. I don’t think it’s a seal.”

  Chapter Seven

  I looked over the railing in the direction Jayne was pointing. For a moment, I saw nothing, and then an incoming wave lifted a dark shape. I whipped out my phone and turned on the flashlight app. The light wasn’t strong, but it was bright enough to give me a glimpse of drifting white arms, tendrils of long hair, a flash of red fabric. An outgoing wave washed over it, and the figure slipped beneath the surface.

  I shoved my phone at Jayne as I kicked off my shoes. “Get Andy. Call 911.”

  “Gemma, no!” Jayne shouted. “That water has got to be freezing.”

  I’d like to be able to say I dove into the ocean with the grace and speed of an Olympic diving champion, but I had to clamber across the deck railing first. I swung one leg over and then the other. I hesitated, perched at the top. I let as much air out of my lungs as I could, and then I breathed deep. Before I could contemplate the foolishness of my actions, I jumped, throwing myself forward with enough power to sail across the small dock before coming into contact with the water.

  Jayne had not been exaggerating: the water was freezing. Icy, salty waves closed over my head as I sank to the depths. My heart stopped, and for the briefest of moments, I hoped it would remember to start again.

  Then, thankfully, it did. The cold was like a vice around my chest. The water isn’t particularly deep here, but it is well over my head. My lungs screaming, I dropped straight down. My feet hit the rocky bottom, and I kicked up with all the strength I could muster. My head broke the surface and I sucked in air. Above me, I could vaguely hear Jayne shouting and the clamor of voices joining hers.

  In the summer, I like to swim off the Cape Cod beaches as often as I can find the time. The summer, of course, is when we’re busiest at the Emporium and Mrs. Hudson’s, so I don’t get the chance to swim as often as I would like. I hadn’t been in the water since mid-September, and it was now January. I keep meaning to go to the gym or take up yoga, but somehow my good intentions always come to naught.

  Nevertheless, I’m an adequate swimmer, on the surface at any rate. Now, legs kicking, arms windmilling, I treaded water, frantically searching the dark around me, trying to peer over the waves and locate the person floating below the surface of the black water. Suddenly, light was all around me as the lamps on the deck were switched on. A wave dipped, I caught a flash of red, and I headed for it.

  Someone—a better diver than me—sliced through the water close to me and came up without touching bottom.

  Andy touched my shoulder. I pointed, he nodded in acknowledgement, and together we swam toward the shape bobbing on the waves, about to go down again. It was a person, all right, a woman with long black hair and a red dress. The thin strap of a small purse wrapped around one shoulder. She lay on her belly, face down, the only movement her body following the gentle up and down of the sea.

  Andy and I looked at each other across the woman’s back. He nodded, and together we struggled to flip her over. She didn’t weigh much, and the movement of the water helped us. And then I was looking into the blank, empty, no longer beautiful eyes of Tina Armstrong.

  Chapter Eight

  “Over here, over here,” voices shouted. Andy put one arm around Tina’s chest and used the other to propel them both through the water toward the dock. I followed, kicking awkwardly, trying to take some of her weight and help push her forward.

  “I’ve got her, I’ve got her,” a man called.

  “Careful there,” a woman said.

  Light surrounded us, voices called out. In the distance, I could hear a siren, two sirens, approaching.

  And then the weight was gone, and Andy and I were treading water.

  “Can you get to the ladder?” I asked.

  He nodded, and together we swam the few yards to the ladder to the dock. He pushed at me, telling me to go first. I bumped against it as hands and arms reached down. I’d lost contact with my extremities. My hands fumbled for the metal railings, but they couldn’t find purchase. My feet felt for the ladder steps, but they found nothing but icy water.

  I lifted my arms, and my head slipped under the water. When I came up sputtering and spitting, someone had a powerful grip on my hand. And then more hands were holding my arms, tugging at my sodden dress, and I felt myself being lifted. My feet touched the steps, and I was able to force myself up. Higher and higher I climbed until someone was holding me and something soft and warm was draped over me.

  “Get them inside, quick,” Jayne said. “I don’t know if it’s true brandy can warm up a cold victim, but I don’t see as it would hurt.”

  “Don’t like brandy,” I said. Although I fear it came out more like “d … on’l … l … br … tha … stuff.”

  I could hardly hold myself up as I was helped to climb the steps to the deck and guided through the gate. I glanced behind me to see Andy following. Below us on the dock, Irene Talbot was on her knees, crouched over the red dress, giving CPR. Tina’s right arm lay flat on the boards of the dock, the green stone sparkling in the lights.

  As I reached the sliding doors to the restaurant, medics came out onto the deck.

  “She’s down on the dock,” Jayne said. “These two need help also.”

  “See to Tina first,” I said. “I’m fine.” The medics hesitated and gave me doubtful looks. Perhaps I’d said, “S … s … Tin … I … I … fine. Sorta.”

  “We’ve got this,” Jayne said.

  “Another truck is right behind us,” one of the medics said, as she and her partner crossed the deck, heading for the stairs to the dock.

  “Get them into the restrooms and out of those clothes,” Andy’s mother shouted. “This is no time for modesty.”

  I was bundled away. I was stripped of my clothes, my hands held under warm water, my arms rubbed, my head put under the hand dryer, and then my hair scrubbed furiously with a kitchen towel. Finally, I was wrapped in whatever coats and sweaters could be gathered. Slowly, ever so slowly, I warmed.

  “You’ll live,” Mrs. Ramsbatten said to me, as though she’d had her doubts.

  “I doubt that dress will,” Irene said.

  The dress had been on its second life anyway. First, a full-on, knock-out fight in a crowded A-list London nightclub, then full immersion in the Atlantic Ocean. It had done its duty.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’d rather I hadn’t. I now understood the phrase “death warmed over.”

  “Tina?” I said to Irene.

  “Doesn’t look good. They’ve rushed her to the hospital. I’ve heard paramedics say, ‘They’re never dead until they’re warm and dead,’ but …” Irene’s voice drifted off.

  “Are you able to take a seat in the restaurant, dear?” Mrs. Ramsbatten asked. “The police have arrived, and they will have questions. If you like, I can tell them you’re overcome by the shock and have to be rushed to bed immediately or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

  As though anyone in the WLPD would believe that. “It’s okay. I’m fine now.” I don’t cry often—meaning I never cry—but I felt tears well up in my eyes. My clothes lay in a puddle on the floor; Irene and Mrs. Ramsbatten were, although not quite drenched, mighty wet. Their faces as they studied me for signs of delayed trauma were soft and kind.

  “Where’s Andy? Is he okay?”

  “He will be. Jayne and his mother are with him.”

  I walked into the dining room, Mrs. Ramsbatten preceding me with the assistance of her cane, Irene not quite supporting me but ready to do so if needed. A chair was provided for me, and I dropped gratefully into it.

  “Brandy, Gemma?” Ashleigh asked, “Or we have hot chocolate if you’d prefer?”

  “A hot cocoa would be beyond perfect.” Moments later, a warm mug was pressed into my hands. I closed my eyes and took a long deep breath, letting the scented steam fill my nose and lungs, and then I took a small sip. Hot and sweet and chocolatey, the delicious warmth spread though my body and I began to think I might actually live.

  That matter settled to my satisfaction, I looked to see what was happening around me. On the other side of the sliding doors and floor-to-ceiling windows, blue and red flashing lights broke the night, reflecting off people moving around. The medics had gone and police officers were stringing crime scene tape around the railings and the steps to the dock. A police officer stood at the door to the deck, arms crossed, feet apart, saying nothing, simply watching us all.

  The party had been breaking up when Jayne and I went outside, but not one person had left in the interval. Andy’s dad paced up and down in front of the bar. Bunny, George, and Madison, along with a few stragglers, perched on stools, facing into the room. Facing me, in fact. Robbie and Ashleigh, along with Martin and the kitchen staff, had taken seats at a table, shot glasses or bottles of beer in front of them. Only the bartender continued working.

  Donald was at the next table with his new friend Keith and a woman who was likely Keith’s wife. Something, I thought, looked off about Donald. And then I realized what it was: he wore only his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. I touched the heavy fabric draped across my shoulders. His frock coat. I gave him a smile of thanks, and his worried face relaxed a fraction.

  Audrey sat at a table with two of Andy’s sisters, her head up, her sharp eyes alert, watching everything. She’d pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse and had it open on the table in front of her. Mrs. Ramsbatten and Irene joined her.

  A burst of applause rang out, and I turned my head to see Andy coming into the room. He and Jayne were holding hands, and his mother was with them. Like me, he was dressed in someone else’s coat. He gave the room a weak smile. Trish Whitehall’s eyes were red, her nose swollen. She and Jayne led Andy to a chair next to mine, as his father brought him a brandy snifter.

  Andy’s dad then addressed the room. “A toast. To our heroes!”

  “Andy and Gemma!” Everyone lifted their glasses. I sort of half-raised my mug. I didn’t feel like much of a hero. I’d accomplished nothing by foolishly diving into the winter ocean, other than to endanger Andy and anyone who had to lean over the water to pull us out.

  “Any word on Tina?” Andy asked after the cheers died down.

  “Not yet,” his dad said.

  Andy half-turned so he was speaking to the table at the back. “You can all go home. We’ll be closed tomorrow, and the day staff can finish cleaning up then. We’ll open again day after tomorrow, regular hours.”

  I knew that wasn’t going to happen, but I said nothing. Officer Richter, still not retired although long past his best-before date, cleared his throat, puffed up his chest and said, “Not so fast there, young fellow. The detective has been called. She’ll want to talk to you all. Tonight. As for reopening your restaurant, the timing of that will be up to her.”

  Andy started to get to his feet, but his mum pushed him back down. “I have a business to run here.” The force of his statement might have had more effect had not his mother been tucking the coat around him as though she were putting a recalcitrant child to bed.

  Richter shrugged. “Not my call. Talk to the detective.”

  George stepped forward. “Obviously, this has nothing to do with me. Your detective can call me in the morning, if she wants. Bunny, may I offer you a ride?”

  Bunny threw a panicked look at Officer Richter.

  “I think it best,” I said, “if we stay until we’re dismissed. After all, at the moment no one knows what has what do to with whom.”

  “In that case,” Bunny said, “as long as we’re stuck here waiting our turn to be dragged under the bright lights, I’ll have another drink. A martini would be nice, thank you, young lady.”

  The bartender threw a question to Andy.

  “Might as well,” Andy said.

  “Might as well not,” a firm voice said. “The bar is closed. It, and the rest of this establishment, will remain closed until I say it can reopen.”

  Detective Louise Estrada had arrived.

  Chapter Nine

  After issuing that order, the first thing the good detective did was look at me and let out a martyred sigh. She didn’t actually say, “You again,” but such was implied.

  I shrugged in response. Yes, me again. I’ve been involved in more police cases than both I and the police would like. I always insist I don’t seek out trouble, but trouble seems to enjoy searching for me. Not everyone believes that.

  Estrada was an attractive woman: tall, thin, well-muscled, with thick black hair, tonight woven in a sleek French braid, dark watchful eyes, and a flawless olive complexion. She always put me in mind of a racehorse on the verge of leaving the gate.

  She and I didn’t exactly get on when we first met, and it took some time for her to accept that I did not interfere in police matters without reason and I might even be of help sometimes. That I’m dating her partner, Detective Ryan Ashburton, who seems to be rather fond of me and who does trust me, might have something to do with her (highly reluctant) acceptance of me and my methods.

  I stood up, still clutching Donald’s frock coat around me, necessary because I had nothing on underneath but my hastily dried knickers and a still damp bra. My dignity and any attempt to appear authoritative were at risk. “You know my methods, Detective,” I said. “The first question we must ask is—”

  “The first thing I’m going to do, before asking any questions at all, is have a look at the scene. If that’s okay with you, Ms. Doyle?”

  “Be particularly careful checking the area around the gate to the steps leading to the dock. I have reason to suspect the killer—”

  “If there is a killer. From what I’ve been told, such is still to be determined.” Estrada turned to Richter. “Keep an eye on these people. Don’t let them talk amongst themselves. Particularly her.” Estrada felt no need to mention which her she was referring to.

  “Not talk!” Madison exclaimed. “Audrey can’t live if she can’t talk.” The joke fell flat. No one so much as tittered, and a few people had the grace to look embarrassed. Audrey glared at Madison, then turned her attention to her notebook and began to write with strong, rapid strokes. I was interested as to what she considered of such importance she had to get it down, right now, despite everything happening around her, but unless I got up, walked over to her table, and leaned over her shoulder to read her scribblings, it was unlikely I’d ever know.

  Estrada left to go outside, Richter sliding the door shut behind her. The detective went up to a uniformed officer, and they exchanged a few words. And then, first things first, she studied the gate to the steps leading to the dock.

  “Bad time to have the place closed down for a few days,” George said to Andy.

  “No talking,” Richter said.

  “We’re not talking about anything of concern to you,” George replied. “Business is business and—”

  “And,” Andy said, “this is not the time to bring that up again, George. If you have helpful advice, I’d be happy to hear it tomorrow. If you’re going to do nothing but repeat what you said earlier, forget it.”

  George turned to Bunny. “How was your martini?”

  Bunny lifted her almost empty glass. “Excellent. I was somewhat of a connoisseur of cocktails in my wild youth. I always say a good martini is the mark of an excellent restaurant. If a place can’t serve a top-notch—”

  I didn’t hear what a restaurant that failed to meet Bunny’s standards was, as Andy leaned over and spoke to me in a voice so low, only he and I could hear. “You know how these things work, Gemma. How long are we likely to be closed?”

  “I can’t say. Tomorrow for sure, as they’ll need to examine the scene in daylight. Maybe longer depending on what the police find out there. Estrada is right; we don’t know if Tina was murdered. It might have been an accident.”

  “Seems highly unlikely, don’t you think? The deck railing isn’t broken as though she’d fallen through it. I didn’t notice anything like that anyway.”

  “Maybe she went for a swim. Maybe she thought she could balance along the top of the railing and found out she couldn’t. I don’t know, Andy. You might be able to open the restaurant inside, if the deck is all they need to keep roped off.”