She watched old Helen Birch head back up the hill in that lumbering way of hers before returning to the desk. She set the squares down beside the radio, took two rigid steps back from the plate and gave it a forlorn look.

Much as she didn't want to break her diet, the salty-sweet smell was too much to resist.

I'll just have a nibble, she thought. She used a plastic knife from one of the desk drawers—the one the summer students had filled with take-out menus, packets of salt and pepper and ketchup, napkins and moist towelettes that smelled like synthetic lemon—to cut a small corner off one of the squares.

She nibbled at it while she finished a chapter, already pretty sure she knew whodunnit and there was still half the book left. Only vaguely listening to crosstalk on the radio.

Don Avalon, the ferry captain, was chattering to his crew. The National Weather Service reported storm clouds moving down the southern coast of Maine with winds at close to thirty knots. Captain Avalon wanted to be sure his people were ready should the storm follow west along the coast rather than blow off into the Atlantic.

Could be whipping up for a Nor'easter, Loretta thought, squinting out at the bright blue sky. Hope to crap it doesn't snow.

She set the book down again and cut another slice off the first piece of fudge. Nibbled it while watching Don Avalon turn the Hi-Speed ferry's rear end around and ease in to the dock, where it thudded against the large truck-tire marine bumpers.

Lois Permulter and Joey Dean hopped off and tied the moorings. There was some kind of skirmish as the walking passengers let off, a small dog she couldn't see yapping unpleasantly. After that, the unloading and boarding seemed to go by the numbers.

Loretta looked down at the plate. All that was left of the first piece was a wafer-thin sliver. She finished it eagerly, then grabbed two more and tucked them into a napkin in the cutlery drawer for later. Still plenty enough for Don and his crew.

By the time the ferry left for Block Island, Loretta had gobbled down all three squares of Helen Birch's special fudge.

Their intended effect didn't hit her until the ferry started veering off course, headed for the rocky bluffs on the southern shore.

By then she was in too deep a slumber to respond to their requests for assistance.

"Savage," Martin said to the caller, tapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel. The ferry was already five minutes late when his cell rang. It wasn't possible to see its arrival through the trees from where he and Sheila were parked up the hill. The two of them were getting anxious.

"Martin, it's Detective Lumsden."

Lumsden's voice came over the speakers. The general bustling of a police station buzzed in the background, chatter and telephones ringing and shouts and raucous laughter. "I hope you're sitting down. I'm afraid I've got some bad news."