“I liked him,” Stone replied. “He’s smart, unpretentious, and he didn’t talk about business or, very much, about politics. He’d rather talk about his boat, and I liked that about him. How about you?”

“He was all right, I suppose. I’m uncomfortable in the presence of that kind of money.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I suppose it’s because a lot of the wealthiest people seem to use it badly, or to promote self-serving political causes, or they’re greedy for even more.”

“Christian seemed very relaxed and comfortable in his skin, and I like it that the man, at the most productive time of his life, would spend two years building his dream yacht, overseeing it himself. He could have just written a huge check to a big yard, but he didn’t.”

“Maybe he’s just obsessive-compulsive,” Holly said.

“But, unlike you, not about his work.”

As they arrived at the back porch of the house, Stone suddenly realized that someone was sitting in a rocker on the porch.

“Evening,” Ed Rawls said, rising.

“Why, Ed,” Stone said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were coming. We were out to dinner.”

“So I saw.”

“Come in and have a drink.”

Rawls followed them into the house and accepted a brandy. “Have you heard about Joe Adams?”

“Yes, we watched some of the coverage on TV after dinner.”

“This means we have a whole new timetable.”

“Funny, I didn’t know we had an old timetable.”

“Joe doesn’t have to be protected anymore, though Sue might need to be. After all, she knows about the strong case.”

“As a former first lady, Sue will continue to be protected by the Secret Service,” Holly said.

“As Joe was? Remember, somebody walked up to him in his own garden in Santa Fe. If the Secret Service had protected him, we might not be where we are today.”

“And where the hell are we, Ed?” Stone asked, trying not to sound exasperated.

“In trouble,” Rawls replied. “While you were supping with Christian St. Clair, two men examined your house rather slowly. I kept in the shadows, so they didn’t see me, which was good because I wouldn’t have wanted to leave a couple of corpses on your back porch.”

“What did they look like?” Stone asked.

“Respectable, but out of place. They were wearing suits and ties.”

“You make that sound sinister, Ed.”

“Don’t you find it so? On Islesboro? They would have been the only people dressed that way on the entire island—except for you, of course, in your monkey suit.”

“My dinner host specified the dress for the evening,” Stone pointed out.

“Ah, your dinner host, Mr. St. Clair.”

“How did you know about him?”

“Well, he’s been building that yacht around here for the last couple of years. Folks couldn’t wait to see it.”

“What do you have against Christian St. Clair?” Stone asked.