Walter Newell called in his own hit-and-run? Emily couldn’t imagine why he’d have done that. Not unless he wanted to make sure that the police knew about it.

“We know he registered at the auction in Hyannis at about two in the afternoon,” Stanley went on. “We know he didn’t buy anything. We know the call reporting the accident came in from his phone eight hours later. I can play it for you. We keep all 911 calls. Maybe you’ll recognize the voice.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a few buttons. Waited and punched two more. Listened. Then he turned on the speakerphone and Emily heard a beep.

First, in a robotic voice: “Call received August four, twenty-one fifty-five.” Then a woman’s voice: “This is 911.” The dispatcher sounded like an older woman. Tired. Alto. “Please state your emergency.”

“Hello?” This voice was also a woman’s. Low and raspy.

“Please state your emergency,” the dispatcher repeated.

“I just witnessed a hit-and-run in East Hartwell Square.” The voice sounded muffled. “Car pulled out of a parking space. Hit the car in front of it. Didn’t bother to stop.”

“What is your name?”

“He’s gone now. The car was a light-colored Audi. He hit a Honda hatchback with printing on the door.”

“Your name?” When the caller didn’t answer, the dispatcher asked, “Is anyone injured?”

“No. The other car was parked.” The caller gave the precise location in front of the coffee shop and the license plate of the Audi.

As the recording continued, Emily closed her eyes, trying to place the caller’s voice. The person who’d most likely have had access to Walter Newell’s phone was Quinn. But how could Quinn have known about the accident when Emily had left her at her home minutes earlier?

After the recording ended, Stanley hung up. “The caller says she saw the accident. But here’s the thing about it. No one in the coffee shop remembers serving you.”

Didn’t remember? That seemed highly unlikely. Her nasty run-in had been witnessed by the barista. And what about that teenager who’d turned the sign in the door to CLOSED and started mopping up?

“Did you pay with a credit card?”

Emily said nothing.

“Cash, then? Did you get a receipt?”

She hadn’t, because Ana—Emily remembered the barista’s name—had given her Frank’s coffee on the house.

Emily broke her silence. “They should remember me. I left a ten-dollar tip.”

“Ten dollars? That was generous of you. I wonder, was that so they’d be sure to remember you?”

Don’t say anything. Frank had been so right.

“Shall I tell you how Walter Newell died?” Stanley didn’t wait for an answer. “Blunt-force trauma to the front of the legs. Trauma to the back of the head. Finally, his chest was crushed.”

Emily closed her eyes.