“I’ve got a flight in an hour,” she says. “I need to go check the airplane.”

“Now hold on. Am I just supposed to wait around until you get back?”

Lindquist finishes her coffee, sets the cat on the floor, and steps gracefully from the counter stool. “My husband will give you a lift back into town. In the meantime, you can clean up the kitchen.”

The damn cat just stares at me as I wash out the pan and the plates and wipe the toast crumbs from the counter. When I’m done, I pour myself another cup of coffee and light a cigarette. The windows have steamed up, so I don’t notice anybody coming until the bell tinkles on the door.

He’s a big fellow, muscular, pink faced, just starting to grow the paunch of middle age. He wears the usual island costume of pale shirt and pale cotton trousers, and his hair is even paler and thinning fast. He glowers at me and growls You’re the one? in some kind of faintly discernible Scandinavian accent, though I couldn’t tell you which part.

“Probably.” I stick out my hand. “You must be Olle, here to give me a lift back into town.”

“What the hell did you say to my wife?”

“Me? I just told her I know who she is, and I won’t call the press on her, so long as she’s a good girl and tells me all about herself.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I think it all might have been a little much for her, so early in the morning.”

Olle Lindquist gives me the goggle eyes and slumps into a chair. Honestly, I might have expected more from him. I think a husband should stand up for his wife, don’t you? Only maybe he’s the kind of fellow who will punch the lights out of the man who threatens him, but can’t figure out what to do with a feminine adversary. There are such fellows. This one pulls his hand through what hairs remain to him and stares at the foggy window in the direction of the hangar.

“If you want to go to her—” I begin.

“No. She’ll want to be alone.” He looks back at me. “As for you. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Janey Everett. I’m a photojournalist.”

“What’s that?”

“A journalist who tells stories with photographs. Except I’m through with that for a while. Hanging up my camera. Dusting off my typewriter to write a scintillating, no-holds-barred biography of Sam Mallory. I figured the only way to get the real story was to go to the horse’s mouth.” I flick out a little ash into a nearby tray. “The horse being your fascinating wife.”

“Yes, but how did you know? How did you find out?”