Lisa Andrews looked up, looked at the salmon-colored sky, the darkening bay water. “It’s a nice view, isn’t it?”

We hadn’t exactly been siting there admiring the view. But Lisa Andrews was right. Lights were being turned on along the beach and we could hear voices. I didn’t turn to see what was going on behind us, though I sensed busyness.

“Know anything about her family?”

“She was supposed to be visiting a sister in Savannah,” Mary Alice said. “She was a widow when she moved down here. I really don’t know.”

“Lisa!” A man called from inside.

“Coming!” She closed her notebook. “Listen, y’all go on home. I’ve got your address and phone numbers. You ladies might even do us a favor and stay home for a few days.” She turned and started into the condo. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Who’s going to tell Fairchild and the rest of her friends?” I asked.

“Y’all can do it if you want to.”

“Smartass,” Mary Alice muttered. I’m sure Lisa Andrews heard her.

We wasted no time getting out of there. Several people were crowded around the door, drawn by the commotion of the rescue vehicles and the sheriff’s department.

“Is something wrong with Emily?” an elderly woman asked.

“Dead,” Mary Alice announced. The spectators gasped, parting before her six feet, 250 pounds like the Red Sea before Charlton Heston.

“Lord, Sister,” I said, running to catch up. “You could have been a little more tactful. That lady could have had a heart attack.”

Mary Alice hit the elevator button and looked back at the crowd. “You mean break it to them gradually? Like that old cat on the roof joke? Emily’s up on the roof?”

“Something like that.”

“Emily’s dead, Mouse. Dead as she’ll ever be. And I think I’m going to be sick again.”

Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Nor were we the ones who had to break the news to Fairchild about Emily’s death.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Traffic was heavy between Emerald Waters and Gulf Towers; it seemed to take forever to get home.

“You okay?” I asked Mary Alice, who kept rubbing her hand across her throat.

“You mean am I going to pull a Pukey Lukey? No.” Pukey Lukey is a cousin of ours who was the bane of our vacations during our childhood. Show him a car and he got carsick.

“I’ll drive if you need me to.”

“My Jaguar? Good God, no!”

“It’s just a car,” I said huffily. “And I’m a damn good driver.”

“You’re a terrible driver.”

“I’m an excellent driver.”

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” I felt the sting of tears. I wiped them away angrily.

We rode in silence for a few minutes. I closed my eyes and saw Emily Peacock’s sightless eyes staring through me, staring straight into the setting sun.