The chuff, chuff, chuff of the helicopter taking off made speaking difficult for a few moments. When the sound retreated, Roy continued, “We’ll be serving lunch soon, and the art class will resume after that.”

The staff got up and moved to the kitchen.

Someone touched my shoulder.

I spun, almost falling. My leg let out a protesting squeak.

Bram caught my arm and steadied me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you have a minute?”

My face grew warm. “I . . . um, yes.” I was acutely aware of his hand on my arm.

He glanced around the room, seemingly aware of the sideways glances and grins coming from the people around us. “How about the picnic table outside?” He guided me to the grassy area under the pines. Once I sat down, he let go of my arm and moved to the other side of the table. I could still feel the impression of his warm hand.

“Are you here investigating Riccardo’s fall?” I asked.

“Is there something to investigate?” Bram leaned forward. “I spoke to both Roy and Wyatt. It seems it was just a terrible accident.”

My neck tingled.

He straightened. “Is there something I need to know?”

I told him about the raccoon, the trashed art room, the bear, the baling twine caught on new-looking nails.

“Are you here on assignment from Clan Firinn?” he asked.

I was silent for a moment. “Why do you ask that?” Answering a question with a question after a significant pause is a sign of possible deception. I hoped Bram wasn’t an expert in the field. Just because I could recognize deception didn’t mean I was any good at lying.

“From your answer, I would guess you are here to investigate the incidents.”

Flapperdoodle. “Please don’t mention this to anyone. I’m supposed to be checking things out. I do need to interview you on what you’ve uncovered.”

He smiled, showing those perfect teeth, and placed his hand over mine. “Then we need to work together.”

Double flapperdoodle. My brain went blank. The air grew thinner, the day suddenly hotter, my vision much narrower. “Um . . .” I cleared my throat. “What did you need to speak to me about?”

“Your work as a forensic linguist.”

I scratched my neck. “You’ve been investigating me.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Darby. I’m not stalking you. I just need your help.”

I gently extracted my hand. It was too hard to think when he was touching me. “We have a deal. Me first. I was about to get my camera and photograph that baling twine caught on the nails, then bag it for evidence. I was also going to bag any twine found on the floor under Riccardo. Now that you’re here, could you do that?”

“Sure.”

“And tell me if, in the past, you’ve been out here investigating . . . anything.”