a ski boat, it takes how long—ten, fifteen minutes?—to get down the lake to the island,” he asked.
She stared at him. “Trevor was killed on the island?” What was he saying? That she would have had plenty of time to get to the island, kill Trevor and return to the party—and the cottage. “I told you—”
“Yes, you told us,” Samuelson interrupted. “You were in the cottage. Then how do you explain the fact that Heddy Forester saw you get out of a boat at the dock just a little before nine-thirty?”
“It wasn’t me. It must have been the woman I told you about, the one who was also dressed as Scarlett O’Hara.”
It was clear Samuelson didn’t believe her.
“Was there anything about her you can remember other than the costume?” Duncan asked.
“All I saw was her silhouette in the doorway. But I think I’d recognize her voice if I heard it again.” A strident, high-pitched voice.
Duncan shifted in his chair. “When was the last time you were on Inspiration Island?”
“I’ve never been on the island. Trevor didn’t want me seeing it until everything was finished. He said he didn’t allow anyone but crews on the island during construction, not even investors, if he could help it.” She realized how stupid she’d been. Trevor had probably used the island as a place to spend time with the other Scarlett. Not that Jill cared to go out there, given the island’s history. Maybe that was why she’d never pushed the subject.
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm Trevor Forester?” Duncan asked.
She shook her head. “I would have said Trevor had no enemies. But I realized tonight that I didn’t know Trevor at all.”
“I think that will be enough for now.” Duncan turned off the tape recorder. Both deputies pushed to their feet. “We’ll check out your story, Ms. Lawson. You might want to have someone take a look at that cut on your forehead.”
“It’s fine.” She told herself there was no reason to worry about anything. The man she was with in the cottage would come forward once he heard about the murder. Also the other Scarlett. Once the deputies found her car…
“When you search the cottage, you’ll find my engagement ring I threw at the man as I was leaving.” She cringed as she remembered what else she’d left behind. “You’ll also find some black silk…underthings of mine that I didn’t take the time to collect.” She was mortified that her risqué panties and bra would now be…evidence in a murder investigation. Her face burned. “All of which prove I’m telling the truth.”
Duncan looked sympathetic, but doubtful. “They prove you were in the cottage. Not that you were with anyone. We’ll get back to you. Please don’t leave town.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere,” she snapped. “I have a bakery to run. I also have no reason to leave. I want to know who killed Trevor as much as you do. More so, since you seem to think I’m a suspect.”
“If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” Deputy Duncan handed her his card.
She watched them both leave, feeling heartsick. The events of the night seemed surreal, a bad dream. Trevor murdered? Herself a suspect? A chill skittered over her skin. Was it possible that she’d found the passion she’d always longed for—in the arms of a total stranger?
MACKENZIE COOPER left the Foresters’ and walked down the road in the pouring rain to his pickup. He’d had to park a half mile back up the lane because of all the cars. Those cars were gone now, and when he turned to look back, he saw something that sent his heart pounding. The sheriff’s car was parked near the rear entrance of the house.
Getting into his Chevy truck, the camper on the back, he drove north down the narrow, winding lake road toward Bandit’s Bay Marina, where he kept his houseboat. What had happened to cause the sheriff to go up to the house? He had a feeling he didn’t want to know.
At the Beach Bar at the end of the pier at the marina, he ordered a beer. “What’s all the excitement?” he asked the bartender.
“Trevor Forester was murdered tonight,” the bartender said.
Mac felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Trevor was dead and Mac had just slept with his fiancée. Talk about bad karma.
He drank his beer, hardly tasting it, and listened to some of the locals talking about how Forester’s boat was found floating about a half mile off Inspiration Island. A fisherman found Trevor lying in a pool of blood in the bottom of the boat. He’d been shot twice in the heart.
Murder was rare enough in this part of Montana. The last one was back in 1997 when some guy was killed on Hawk Island. What made this murder more tantalizing was that the victim was a local and that he was developing Inspiration Island, an island the men at the bar said should have been left alone. They hinted that the island was haunted, which was a good reason not to develop it.
Mac didn’t buy into any of that mumbo jumbo. What interested him was that the locals hadn’t liked Trevor. Partially because of the resentment they harbored for him and the Forester family money. Partially because Trevor was a jackass who also hadn’t been paying his bills of late.
Mac sipped his beer, unable to shake the anxiety he’d felt the moment he’d seen the sheriff’s car at the Foresters’ lake house. It was just a matter of time before the sheriff found out about Trevor’s call to Mac.
“I think someone’s trying to kill me,” Trevor had said on the phone yesterday, sounding scared. “I heard you’re a private investigator. I need you to find out who it is before it’s too late.”
It had been Trevor’s plan for them to meet at the party to discuss the job. Trevor had sent Mac a costume: Rhett Butler. They were to meet at the lake cottage at eight-fifteen tonight. Trevor would be arriving by boat.
Except Trevor never made it. Another boat pulled up. And Mac had recognized the man’s voice as he came onto shore with a woman on his arm. Nathaniel Pierce. He and Mac had gone to university together. Mac had forgotten that Pierce had bought a place up this way.
He’d been watching Pierce from the window when the cottage door opened and the woman came in. The last thing Mac wanted to do was see Pierce, so Mac had kissed the woman to keep her quiet.
According to the discussion at the bar, Trevor’s fiancée was a woman named Jill Lawson. While locals had little regard for Trevor, they had nothing but praise for Jill, although, like Mac, they couldn’t understand what she saw in Trevor Forester. Jill owned a bakery in town called The Best Buns in Town.
A name that had more than a little truth to it, he thought. According to the locals at the bar, Jill was a hard worker, a fine-looking, intelligent young woman who baked the best cinnamon rolls in four states, not just in town.
If the locals knew about Trevor’s other woman, they weren’t talking. Mac listened to everyone speculate on who might have killed Trevor. It was clear no one had a clue. Mac finished his beer and walked down the dock to his boat, thinking of Jill Lawson. Worrying about her and wondering how she was going to take the murder of her fiancé, given what had happened tonight.
His houseboat was basically a box on pontoons,
