Sister was amazed. “Millicent had a million dollar life insurance policy?”

“A perk of the Blue Bay Ranch Corporation, so Fairchild says. But he’s the beneficiary.”

“You know, Mouse, I remember when Tod Abernathy bought that land over on the bay. You probably do, too. We thought he’d lost his mind spending a thousand dollars or some such amount on that worthless property. I thought Millicent was going to divorce him. And now it’s Blue Bay Ranch.”

“Beats all. Fairchild said Millicent wouldn’t sell the property outright because she wanted to have a say-so in its development. She didn’t want the environment disturbed.”

“You know, that could be why someone killed her.” Sister saw the look on my face. “I’m serious. She could have found out they were breaking some environmental law, maybe the wetland thing, and was going to squeal on them.”

“Tell that to the lieutenant colonel tomorrow.”

“Lieutenant Major. In the meantime, let’s ride over there and see what those ranches look like. It’s just what I’ve always wanted, a ranch on the beach.”

“You want to wait on Haley and Frances?”

Mary Alice shook her head. “They wouldn’t be interested.”

“Haley said she wanted to see it.”

“We can go back any time. We’re just scouting.”

I had grown accustomed to the seatbelt on Mary Alice’s Jaguar, so when it grasped me I wasn’t surprised. In fact, it gave me a sense of being pampered. “You’re safe now, ma’am,” the clasp proclaimed. And then Mary Alice peeled out of the parking lot.

“Slow down,” I screeched.

“My Lord, Patricia Anne, I’m barely moving.” Which was true when she said it, because by this time we were headed down Highway 98. Mary Alice has maxed out on the number of speeding tickets she can receive on 98 in a three-year period without having to go to driving school. It is, she claims, the fault of the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department, who actually enforce the ridiculous thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit with unsportsmanlike shenanigans such as popping out from behind billboards and the Greek Orthodox church to nab innocent speeders.

So we drove sedately down 98, past the Mid-Bay Bridge to a huge billboard that proclaimed the entrance to Blue Bay Ranch was one-quarter mile on the left. The billboard, which did not have a policeman behind it today, featured a bikiniclad girl (much girl, small bikini) in cowboy boots, lassoing a sea horse.

“That’s just downright tacky,” I said, studying the sign.

“I know,” Sister agreed. “I saw it on the way to the conference. They’ve got a pretty entrance, though.”

Soon I noticed a split-rail fence wending through the stunted palmettos and saw-briars. “To keep the sea horses in, I suppose.” I pointed toward the fence.