“I’d like to speak to Chief Gifford, please. My name is Sarah Wainwright.”

      The officer behind the gray metal desk looked barely old enough to be out of high school. He nodded, and Sarah thought she saw a faint flush behind the freckles on his cheeks.

      “Yes, ma’am…I mean, Doctor.” He lurched from the chair, banging his foot on the metal wastebasket, and flushed a deeper red. “I’ll tell Chief Gifford you’re here.”

      Sarah looked after him. His name plate said R. Whiting, and the name seemed vaguely familiar in a way the face didn’t. She frowned. She was letting her mind ramble, when what she needed to do was concentrate on Chief Gifford.

      Him she remembered…a short, cocky, bantam of a man with a barrel chest, given to florid gestures. He could tell her details no one else could about the investigation. If he would.

      “Dr. Wainwright!” Gifford bounded across the office to shake her hand. “This is a surprise. What are you doing back here?”

      The surprise seemed a little overdone. Surely he’d heard by now she was back. “I have a few things to clear up here.” Leave it vague, and she might get more out of him, although Trent would have spoken to him by now. “If I might have a few minutes?”

      “Of course, of course.” He gestured expansively toward his office. “As much time as you like.” He glanced briefly at Whiting. “Bobby, you get that filing done yet?”

      “I’m on it, Chief.” His eyes were on Sarah, almost as if he wanted to say something to her. “Right away.”

      “See you do.” Gifford ushered her to the straight-backed visitor’s chair in his office. He closed the door and then bounced back into his own seat, which creaked in protest. “These young fellas think police work’s like what they see on the TV. Got no idea somebody actually has to do the filing.” Shrewd hazel eyes, belying his good-ole-boy manner, zeroed in on her face. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

      “You may remember I left St. James very soon after my husband’s death last year.” She’d prepared the opening. Where the conversation went after that was up to him. Or possibly to Trent. “I never found out what your investigation showed.”

      “Now, ma’am, you don’t want to go making yourself unhappy by raking all that up again, do you?” His pale eyes were so opaque she couldn’t tell whether that was concern or a warning. She might get farther by interpreting it in a positive light.

      “I appreciate your concern, Chief Gifford, but I want to know. I do have that right, don’t I?”

      Gifford leaned back and the chair protested. “I surely don’t object to talking to you about it, but I don’t want you to get all upset.”

      Sarah managed a tight smile. “I think enough time has passed that I can talk about it, and there’s so much I don’t know. I don’t even know who found them. I was off the island that day, and didn’t know anything was wrong until I got back.”

      The police car had been waiting when she drove across the bridge, coming home from a shift at the hospital, prepared to work another four hours at the clinic as a volunteer. The officers had flagged her down, told her there’d been an accident, taken her to her fledgling clinic, where one of the volunteer retired physicians she’d recruited had been on duty.

      The officer mentioned Cat Isle, but it wasn’t until she’d burst into the room and seen Trent’s ravaged face across the two white stretchers that she realized Miles hadn’t been alone.

      “Well, that’s not much of a mystery,” the chief said. “Mr. Donner called us when his wife wasn’t back to get ready for some dinner party. One of the boats was missing, so we divvied up the places she might have gone. Whiting and I drew Cat Isle. We found the two boats, then we checked the cottage and found them.”

      That was why Whiting’s name seemed familiar. She must have heard it at the time.

      “It was too late when you got there?” She tried to say the words without letting her mind touch on what they’d found. She’d treated carbon monoxide victims. She knew too much.

      Gifford nodded. “Whole place was filled with gas.”

      “From a space heater. I remember.”

      “Probably never would have been enough concentration of gas in a place like that, except that Mr. and Mrs. Donner had remodeled it. Made it tight enough to use all year long—and tight enough to hold the gas.” He shook his head sadly.

      It had been a cloudy, wet day, she remembered, with a sharp wind blowing and a tropical storm threatening. “It seems odd they’d go there on a day like that.”

      “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I reckon they had to take what opportunities they could get. With you away…”

      Of course that was what he’d think. She swallowed hard. “What were they doing when the gas overcame them?”

      Gifford looked a bit scandalized, but he answered. “Miz Donner, she lay toppled over on the sofa, like she was asleep. Wainwright lay on the floor. The medical examiner said it looked like he’d hit his head on the coffee table when he fell. Could be he knocked himself out before he knew what was happening.”

      She hadn’t known that, and she should have.

      “What about Mrs. Donner? Did she have any injuries?”

      He shook his head. “Nothing. Looked like she just drifted off.”

      There was another question she had to ask. “Everyone assumes my husband met Mrs. Wainwright there because they were lovers. Did you find any evidence of that?”

      Now he really did look shocked. “No, ma’am. This office never