She wondered what Jeremy Carruthers would do if he knew about the note—and the key. Did he want the jewels, too?

“I wish I didn’t have to ask this,” Barky had written. How much trouble was he in? Had he written the note of his own free will? Had someone already gotten to him? Who? Why?

“Trust me.”

Of course. She had to. If she couldn’t trust the man who had raised her from infancy, she couldn’t trust herself.

She had to trust him. And she had to help him.

Which meant getting rid of Jeremy Carruthers.

“All right,” she said. “Go ahead and tell me why you’re here.”

“Over a cup of coffee?”

She relented and took him upstairs. Again she noticed the faint smell of stale pipe smoke, but she made no comment and didn’t bother searching. Her uncle had been here, looking for the jewels.

“Quaint,” Jeremy said as he walked through her living room. She saw him eyeing the Homer.

“I guess it’s not bad for a city place.” She went into the kitchen and got a bag of Kenyan AA beans from her freezer.

“Do you have a country house, too?”

“I have land on the Cape, but I haven’t built on it yet. I go camping down there sometimes. Sleep in a pup tent, cook on a Sterno. Helps reduce life to the essentials.”

He leaned against the doorway. “Takes you back to your youth?”

“I suppose.”

“What does your uncle think of this place?”

She dumped three scoops into her electric coffee grinder. “He says I have too many appliances. Maybe he’s right. I hardly ever use them. It’s quicker to chop an onion with a paring knife than to dig out the Cuisinart.” She smiled. “The legacy of Bartholomew Wakefield.”

“He likes being self-sufficient?”

“Either that or he’s just cheap. He’s condescended to own a washing machine and an electric mixer—the most inexpensive models, of course—but that’s it.”

“No clothes dryer?”

“God forbid. I grew up hanging out laundry in thirty-degree weather. The towels would come in feeling like plywood, but you never could change Barky.”

She turned abruptly and pressed the black button on the coffee grinder. The blade whirred noisily, the beans jumping and clattering as they were quickly reduced to a strong-smelling fine grind. She put a fresh filter in the coffee maker.

“So.” She filled the clear glass pot with water and poured the water into the coffee maker; positioned the filter under the drip spout; pressed the button so the little red light came on. “What brings you back to Boston?”

“Mac called.”

“Ahh. And what extraordinary tale did you two fabricate this time?”

“You know,” he said mildly, “you can be annoying as hell.”

She grinned at him. “Didn’t say that in the You article, did it? ‘Ashley Wakefield, dolphin rescuer, mystery heiress and pain in the ass.”

He sighed. “Mac thinks your uncle’s going to contact you.”

“Does he now?” She was proud of herself for not falling on her face. “Isn’t that funny. The man who raised me might want to talk to me. That’s enough for you to fly back out here, huh?”