I gave the bow a shove away from the dock and watched as Parker carefully pulled away. After clearing the no-wake zone, he shoved the throttle forward, brought the boat quickly up on plane, and then throttled back to a neat cruising speed that was easy on the engine but would still gobble the miles.

Very well done, I thought as I watched him handle the boat. Then, just before rounding the bend that would put him out of sight, he looked over his shoulder and gave me a wave. I touched my fingers to my forehead in salute. And as Parker disappeared into the arms of the salt marsh, I turned and mounted the steps to the parking lot.

I intended to make a trek to police headquarters to pick up a copy of the report of Tonya’s death, but the traffic heading into town was still heavy, so instead, I turned east for Tybee Island. After crossing the Bull River Bridge, Highway 80 traverses a low causeway that rises just barely above the level of the marsh. Paralleling the north side of the road is the bed of the old rail line that once was the only land connection to the island. But a hurricane, years ago, had put an end to the train, and the rail bed now is a bike and pedestrian pathway. I come out here often to run.

On days like today, with the tide running high and an onshore wind piling in the water, the road itself comes near to going under. I haven’t seen it yet, but locals tell me that it isn’t all that unusual for Highway 80 to meet the Atlantic Ocean in the marsh near Bull River, about ten miles west of its usual terminus at the south end of Tybee Island.

But it was still above water today and in less than a quarter of an hour I was on the island. I slowed at the landmark I was looking for, a huge live oak on the corner, where I turned south on to a residential street. Bungalows and Tybee cottages flanked either side of the narrow street. This was a neighborhood that naturally made you want to slow down. It was tree-shaded, quiet, and friendly. Anyone outside automatically waved when a car passed by. Finding the place I was looking for, I pulled into the drive.

Bob and Fran’s house is a yellow, wood-framed, two-story cottage. A massive oak layered in Spanish moss shelters the front walk, with a luxuriant growth of flowers bordering the property on all sides. I stepped to the kitchen door at the carport, and before I could knock, it was thrown wide open.

Fran stood there in her house robe. A hand on one hip and a cup of coffee in the other, she thrust out her notable bosom, lifted her chin, and struck a pose.