“She’s still doing that?” Teresa asks, changing the subject to one that touches on her responsibilities.

“Yeah,” he answers, now with an older-than-his-years exasperation. “Every night. Can I have another popsicle?”

Teresa doesn’t put up a fight. “Take one to your sister and Aubrey too.”

“Have you met the folks next door?” I ask, indicating the southernmost of the trio of cabins.

“No,” she says, “but they were here late. The lights were on, shades drawn. Their car was here. Must be late risers.”

Before we leave, Teresa gives us the name and contact number of the property owner for all three cabins. Montrose heads back to the car to call the man for whatever information he can provide about this weekend’s renters. When he’s done, he’ll check in with the uniformed deputy who’s been gathering information from the neighbors who’ve arrived to watch and the remaining renter we haven’t spoken with yet.

I make my way down the beach to the home of Axel Bakker, the elderly dog walker. When I told him we’d want to talk with him, he’d pointed his house out to me and invited me to drop by as soon as I had the time. He and his dog weren’t going anywhere.

Axel Bakker’s house on Canal View Road is a Hood Canal classic, built in the 1920s when the area along Washington State’s saltwater fjord was talked up in LA as the Next Big Thing. It’s a silvery weathered-shingle bungalow with cream-colored shutters and a red door. When I walk up from the beach, Mr. Bakker gives me a wave from a raised vegetable garden.

“How did the peas do?” I ask, joining him.

He shrugs. “About as lousy as ever.”

Mr. Bakker is pushing eighty, but he’s in remarkable shape. His face is as tan and wrinkled as an old paper bag, but his light blue eyes spark with intelligence. Winston, his dog, is at his feet.

“What’s your name again?” he asks, squinting at me.

I tell him.

“I told your partner what I saw already.” He gives me a once-over and then returns his gaze to what he was doing. “Not that Mason County worries about wasting money, God knows.”

“You might feel differently if Sophie were your daughter,” I say.

“Probably so.” He finishes staking a tomato plant with some jute twine and invites me inside.

No, I think as I go in. Not a house. A museum.

The furniture is burled wood mostly. Some upholstered pieces are covered with coastal weavings from the Salish tribes. The folks at Antiques Roadshow would be aghast at such mutilation for sofa pillows. The walls feature Hood Canal memorabilia: “Oysters for Sale” placards, a carved sign from the long-gone Tahuya dance hall, and an array of black-and-white photographs that tell the area’s history of shellfish and timber.

“Dad built this place during Prohibition,” he says, catching my interest in his collection. “Made some money here too. Bunch of locals did. Good place to make and run booze into Seattle.”