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Jane brightened. “I think so too!”

“You have to admit, it’s an amazing thing to have happened to anyone.”

Jane’s eyes glittered with warring emotions. “But itisthe kind of thing that happens tosomeone.”

So why not Jane Smith?

“True.”

“If it was going to happen to anyone, it would probably be someone who owned or worked in an antiques store.”

“That makes sense,” Ellery agreed. “I guess part of the…concern is that Buck Island was so far out of Stephen Foster’s world. Er, his milieu? That’s what I’ve heard. How could his desk end up on this island?”

“Oh, the desk wasn’this,” Jane said quickly. “Or at least, it needn’t have been his. We don’t really know the provenance of the desk, only that it belonged to one of the island’s wealthy families. It could have traveled from anywhere to the island. The desk itself is genuine, but who knows beyond that?”

“Right. Right.” He asked sympathetically, “Will you have to share the proceeds from the sale of the music with Oriel Dolin?”

A look of caution flickered across Jane’s face. “I’m going to give her something, of course, but the desk was actually mine. I’d purchased it a week earlier.”

“I see.”

This was a new piece of information, and it did nothing to allay his doubts. That nineteenth century escritoire would doubtlessly be an expensive piece of furniture. All the items in Oriel Dolin’s shop were frighteningly expensive. Some legitimately so. And Jane was frugal in the extreme. The likelihood of her purchasing a very expensive and certainly unnecessary piece of furniture was, well,unlikely. And that that particular piece of furniture should then be discovered to contain a hidden, valuable item? That was one heck of a lot of coincidences.

He was jolted out of his thoughts as Dylan flung himself into the velvet-covered chair on his right. The chair squeaked ominously, and Dylan, Ellery, and Jane all sneezed in the cloud of dust that pouffed out of the aged upholstery.

“What do you think?” Dylan demanded.

Ellery returned, “About…?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“No one has said a word to me about anything. Let alone everything.”

“Isaid something to you!” Jane objected.

Dylan said, “Oh, hello, Jane. I didn’t see you there.”

“Right.” Ellery said. “I mean, I haven’t been able to speak to Lara or Neilson yet. I’m hoping I can have a word after the sound check.”

Dylan read between the lines. “I’m not sure what’s going on,” he admitted. “Yesterday Neilson was pushing hard for the committee to take some kind of action to ensure Lara’s safety, but when I tried to speak to him earlier this evening, he seemed annoyed I brought it up.”

“Maybe they’ve changed their minds about how serious the threats are.”

“It’s notthey. Lara’s in a world of her own. I’m not sure she knows or cares threats have been made.”

They fell silent as Neilson began to argue with one of the festival’s volunteer lighting techs.

“Great. The crew is already ready to mutiny,” Dylan muttered. “It’s not bloomin’ Carnegie Hall.”

No, it sure wasn’t. Most of the people involved in putting together Sing the Plank were volunteers. Less than half of the sound technicians were part of Lara’s own road crew, and Lara’s people were about the only personnel being paid for their time.

After a minute or two, Lara interrupted Neilson’s discussion, and though their conversation was too far from the mics to be picked up, her impatience came through loud and clear.

As did Neilson’s defensiveness. They went back and forth, and then Neilson put his hands out as though to say,I’m just trying to help!

Lara turned her back, gave a hard, decisive strum of her guitar, and the first chord of her biggest hit, “Fool Me, Fool You,” shot through the dark theater like an arrow released from the bow of a master archer. She took a long stride toward to the mic stand, and the band came in as her head tilted to the mic.

“I could spot your con a million different ways…”