Sheila agreed with a nod. "We need to talk to this Michael Creemore. If he really is related to you, at the very least there's likely to be some family resemblance. He might even have some photos of his daughter. Maybe he can tell us why he left town so soon after her death."

"If he's lucid." Martin had interviewed several people in retirement homes and mental hospitals over the years. They rarely went as expected. He imagined having to question his mother when she was in the White Place—it would have been useless. She'd seemed to be living in some imagined distant past, like someone inventing past lives.

"Right. So we'll have to risk a trip off the island. We'll just have to hope Barclay's not staking out the other side, waiting to get the jump on us."

"You think he will be?"

"I doubt it."

"Me too. I don't think he'd risk getting IDed at the ferry docks even if he did somehow figure out where we are. But it is possible. He's been clever enough to evade the police this long."

"Cunning. And lucky."

"Luck o' the Irish," Martin said. "But if he is waiting on us, his luck's about to run out."

"What makes you say that?"

He gave her a sly smile. "Because of my little friend Tansy."

17

Something About the Island

HELEN BIRCH STOOD at the door of the ferry dock terminal, a plate of freshly made chocolate fudge squares in hand.

"Oh, hey there, Helen," Loretta Jameson said as she held open the door, her eyes going from the sweet treats to the stout woman who brought them. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," Helen grunted. "The gals and I just figured you and the crew could use a sweet treat, being on your feet all the livelong day."

Loretta peered back at the chair she'd just been sitting in, her mystery book on the desk with a pen holding it open. "Yup, I s'pose we could." She took the plate off of Helen's hands. "Thank you muchly."

"You're very welcome."

Helen offered a queerly wide smile that made Loretta slightly unsettled, then turned and headed back the way she'd come.

Loretta didn't much care for Helen, who lived on the other side of Kildare Avenue from her, nor for the other ladies with whom she kept company. A Galilee gal born and raised, just about everyone on Barrows Bay seemed peculiar to her in their own way. Even the idea of living on an island, having to rely on the ferry to get you from point A to point B, struck her as odd.

But she supposed if they didn't live here, she'd be out of a job. Probably end up working at some temp agency or waitressing for lousy tips, having to grin and bear it every time a customer got frisky and decided to play a game of grab-tushy.

Already a few cars had gathered at the gate, mostly people she recognized by face if not by name. Island folk knew to arrive early if you wanted to get anywhere on time.