Neither of us spoke for a long time. Eventually Tim let go of my hand.

“I’ll call McIntyre,” I said quickly. “I know you’re right about the storm, but things are different now. This is an active murder investigation. There has to be a way.” I checked my watch. “At six on a Saturday night she’s usually walking her dog or eating fried perch at the Thousand Islands Inn.” I’d joined her for both of those activities on multiple occasions, and on one especially nice night in early fall we’d combined them, taking her Maltipoo to the Clayton restaurant with us for takeout and eating while watching tankers glide through the channel. “With this rain, though,” I added, “who knows.”

“Perch.” Tim stuck out his tongue. “Don’t know if I could do it after being in that boathouse.”

I inclined my head, thinking about what he’d said. As Tim walked away I mumbled, “We’ll never think of fish the same way again.”

I didn’t want to call McIntyre from the hall. The last time I stormed out of the house, a woman wound up dead, and even with Tim watching over the others now, that course of action didn’t feel safe. Camilla was asleep in the library. As far as main-floor rooms out of earshot of the parlor went, there was the sun-room, Norton’s bedroom, and the kitchen. The kitchen was closest, and it smelled of roasting chicken. I pulled out my phone and dialed McIntyre’s office as I followed the mouthwatering scent. With the weather such as it was, I guessed she was still managing storm-incited mayhem.

“Sorry I haven’t been in touch,” I said when she answered. “We’ve got a situation out here.”

Explaining Abella was dead, Flynn was injured, and we were trapped on the island took surprisingly little time. I suppose that’s because I heeded Tim’s advice and gave the details of the shooting a wide berth.

“Christ on a bike, in all my years,” said Mac. “Think you can keep them under control?”

“We don’t have a choice,” I said. Then I asked her to check into one more lead. I could tell she found my request puzzling, but she agreed all the same.

“I’m not going to give up on that boat,” she told me. “In the meantime, I’ve got something new that might prove useful.”

Like Tim, McIntyre was a local with deep Thousand Islands roots. She’d asked around and discovered someone else had been doing the same. Two months ago, the real estate office in Alexandria Bay received several calls from a man inquiring about selling an island. He wanted to know what a three-acre private estate and immaculate vintage six-bedroom house would fetch. The property the man described matched Tern to a T.

If the caller was one of our men—Flynn, Miles, Norton, Ned, or Jasper—it would go a long way toward validating my theory about the killer being after Camilla’s money. “Anything else to go on?” I asked.

“No notable accent,” she said.