Bocephus Haynes sipped on a bottle of 30A Beach Blonde Ale, a local brew, and gazed out at Destin Harbor, where a yacht was making its ascent toward the narrow channel that would take it out into the gulf. From his perch on a picnic table at Darla’s Oyster Bar, he could see past the harbor to the condominiums on the other side and beyond that to the Gulf of Mexico.

“Nice spot you have here,” he said, taking a long pull on the bottle and leaning forward to make sure he could still see his kids. T. J. and Lila were about fifty yards down the Harbor Walk and were sizing up the many boats that were tied to the dock. T. J. had Lee Roy on a leash, and the dog, who had never been to the beach or, for that matter, around much water at all, was wagging his stub of a tail and keeping his head low to the ground and sniffing everything in sight.

“Thank you. I’m pretty proud of it,” the woman sitting with him said.

Bo had met Darla Ford during his own trial for the murder of Andy Walton four years earlier. Darla had been a key witness for the defense, as she’d been a dancer at the Sundowners Club at the time of Walton’s killing and the last person to see the old man alive. Darla had been the most popular dancer at the Sundowners for years and had saved and invested her money well, always planning to eventually chase her dream of opening an oyster bar on the Gulf Coast. And now here she was, running one of the busiest restaurants in Destin.

“You should be,” Bo said, looking around and noticing that, even at 4:30 in the afternoon on a Sunday, the place was full of couples and families both inside the bar and out on the patio where Bo and Darla were now. “I trust business is good.”

She snorted. “We aren’t at the level of Boshamps or Harbor Docks yet, but we’re getting there. The locals seem to enjoy the relaxed vibe, and the new breweries popping up everywhere appreciate that we’re trying out their beers. You like that one?”

Bo nodded. “Very much.”

“We’re still making inroads with the tourists. It’s hard to compete with places like the Crab Trap and the Back Porch, which have been around forever, but we’re surviving.”

Bo pointed at the tables that were occupied behind and in front of them. “Looks as if you’re doing better than that.”

She didn’t answer, and the smile faded from her face. “Mr. Haynes, I’m sorry to cut to the chase, but Sundays get busy around here. How can I help you?”

Bo took another sip of beer and set the bottle down on the table. “Did you hear about the murder in Pulaski in April?”