Mia shifted as well, and Quinn caught the movement. The excitement on Quinn’s face died in that instant at the clear signal that Mia was about to end the conversation. “Oh. Oh . . .”

“All right, thank you.” Mia stood before Quinn could get anything else out. The woman sat back against her chair, eyes wide. Maybe she’d been caught as off guard by their abrupt departure as Izzy had. “We’ll be in touch. Eventually, we’ll need a flight back to the mainland.”

“Of course,” Quinn said quietly, remaining seated even as Mia and Izzy started toward the front of the shop. “Actually, wait up.”

They paused, turned. Izzy’s eyebrows raised a silent prompt.

“I don’t know if it means anything . . .”

Izzy’s attention sharpened. From experience, when witnesses prefaced information with that, it usually did, in fact, mean something.

“But . . . ,” Mia prodded.

“I’m friends with Bobby Jane, one of Max Verdon’s daughters?” Quinn waited for Mia’s quick nod before continuing. “Well, she said her dad said the guy had been asking about an artist who had been on the island a few months ago. Tried to keep it real casual like, didn’t even mention his name or anything. But Max noted it, so.”

An artist. Like one who could have cycled through the residencies up at the Bell mansion. The place Robert Twist had apparently visited several times. The place Lacey Bell now lived. The place Martha Lowe thought Bix Bell was buried.

“That’s very helpful, thank you,” Mia said, in a way that would probably leave Quinn thinking the opposite. It was a good tactic. The quickest way to kill this kind of speculation was to make it seem boring, useless.

They saw themselves out the door.

Once they stepped outside, Mia stopped, then leaned against the wall of the ferry building, her head tipped back against the brick, the muscles in her throat rippling as she swallowed heavily. When her lashes fluttered open, her lips quirked up, but without humor.

“She had greedy eyes.”

There was no need for further explanation. Izzy knew what she was talking about. Quinn had reeked of it, that desire for gossip. It didn’t even seem malicious, just borne of boredom with daily life.

Mia looked away, toward Main Street, staring at something. Izzy followed her gaze to a diner situated at the corner of the block.

“Hey,” Mia said, pushing away from the wall. “Let’s get lunch.”

Lunch wasn’t just lunch, Izzy realized two minutes later when they stepped into the diner. A perky young woman with Shirley Temple curls and dimples in peachy cheeks that were more freckles than skin greeted them in passing, her arms weighed down with a heavy tray.

Once Izzy caught a glimpse of her name tag, she understood why they were stopping by.

Ellen Baxter. The waitress who had gotten coffee with Twist.