Norton said, “No, no, Mrs. Sinclair sold her a while back. There are no other boats on the island.”

“Someone could have picked him up,” said Tim. “Last night, when everyone was asleep. The dock’s a long way from the house, I doubt anyone would’ve heard it. There are boats out on the water at all hours around here, people coming back from a late dinner, night fishing. Even if someone did hear, you get used to the sound of a motor. Learn to ignore it.”

“I guess that’s true,” Norton said.

“So maybe the question we need to be asking,” I said, “is whether Jasper had a good reason to leave without telling his family and friends.”

“Like did he go to a hotel, or drive home,” Tim said. “He lives in New York, right?”

“Yeah, but leave without telling anyone?” Norton repeated, testing the idea. “He came with Miss Beaudry, and she’s still here. I don’t know why he’d leave. Everyone’s here for the weekend, the whole family. That doesn’t happen often. You know how families are.”

Another look passed between me and Tim. “It seems to me,” I said, “a person wouldn’t call a disappearance a murder unless they thought there was a chance the missing person was in danger of being hurt.”

“Oh,” Norton said, flustered. “I guess you’d have to ask the family about that.”

“We will. In the meantime, what can you tell us about Jasper?” I wasn’t interested in the man’s gender, age, or race. That was information we already had. What I wanted was to look under Jasper Sinclair’s bed and comb through the boxes at the back of his closet, where the secrets are kept. “You say you’ve known him his whole life. If you had to describe him—character, temperament, relationships—what would you say?”

“Well,” said Norton, “I’d say he’s a good man. Everyone likes Jasper.”

It always bothers me when a victim’s family and friends describe them as perfect in every way. What’s the implication there, that their beauty was too much for the killer to handle? They brought violent death on themselves? I hate that, hate everything about it. Perfection enrages some people, can raise their hackles something fierce, but isn’t motive for murder.

“Where are they now?” I asked. “His family?”

“Inside. Waiting for you.”

“If you remember any more details, you’ll let us know?”

Norton said he would. I expected him to make a move toward the house, but while his hooded head pivoted in that direction, he didn’t budge. To my horror, I realized he was tearing up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just . . . he’s a kid, really. Still so young.”

“Don’t apologize. Shock affects people in different ways,” I said, thinking, I should know. “You and the family must be close.”

“I’ve worked here a long time. The others don’t come out to Tern often, but Mrs. Sinclair stays all summer, every year. She’s a wonderful lady. She doesn’t deserve this. You’ll find him, won’t you?”