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“She told Mr. Carter it was all over.”

Kingston murmured, “I should hope.”

“And Mr. Carter said,It certainly is. If you come near me again, I’m filing a restraining order.”

“Dylansaid he’d file a restraining order?”

“Yes. And I think he was serious,” Mrs. Ferris said. “And she thought so too because she stormed out of the pub without another word.”

“Well, that’s that,” Nora said briskly. “There’s nothing to keep her in Pirate’s Cove now.”

“I hope so, dear,” Mrs. Ferris said. “But I can’t help feeling we haven’t heard the last of her.”

Chapter Seven

It was a slow morning at the Crow’s Nest, and when Ellery asked whether Nora and Kingston minded if he took off for an hour or so to see if he could catch David Fish at the festival grounds, they assured him everything was under control.

Then again, they’d have said the same thing if the building was on fire. In Nora’s opinion, sleuthing always came first. Sometimes Ellery suspected she viewed the bookshop as nothing more than a loss leader for their (only in her imagination) PI business.

Anyway, he buckled Watson into his little red harness, snapped on his leash, and set off for the festival site.

Friday was turning out to be another temperate and beautiful day. The morning sunshine bathed the entire island in luminous light. The sand glittered, every wave seemed to sparkle, and the sky was so intensely blue, it seemed to have invented a new color.

Watson made a point of barking hello to everyone he knew—as well as barking hello to everyone he didn’t. Ellery paused for a word with Imelda, the receptionist at Vincent Veterinary Hospital, waved from a distance to Jocasta Fairplay, who seemed in a desperate hurry to get into the Brewhouse for coffee, and willingly went along with September St. Simmons’s pretense that she didn’t see him, when they passed on opposite sides of Main Street.

When he reached Loon Landing, the cove was buzzing with activity. Volunteers struggled with the wind as they put up tents for food vendors and entertainers like Madam Buckley, the medium (who would probably take issue with the idea that she was an “entertainer”). Smaller stages were being assembled for the acts not taking part in the Boathouse concerts.

He found David Fish at the Amateur Stage in conference over the audio system with a couple of the sound men.

Fish was a nice-looking guy, probably in his forties. Tall, lanky, with merry brown eyes, long dark hair and a Van Dyke beard that suited him very well, especially when Buccaneer’s Days rolled around.

When the sound system issues had been worked out, Ellery approached Fish, reintroduced himself, and asked if he could have a word.

“Sure, I know you. You’re the mystery guy.” Fish squatted down to give Watson a pat, and Watson gave Fish his seal of approval, delivered by tongue.

“I run the Crow’s Nest mystery bookshop,” Ellery agreed.

Fish rose, his grin quizzical. “It’s more than that, or Dylan wouldn’t have volunteered you to find out who’s harassing our opening act.”

“I have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You do show up in theScuttlebutt Weeklya lot.”

Ellery winced. “Don’t remind me.”

They were briefly interrupted by a festival volunteer with a concern over the number of mic stands allocated for Stage 3. Fish promised to come up with two more mic stands and redirected his attention to Ellery.

“So what can I do for you, Ellery?”

“Well, to be honest, I wondered if I could get your thoughts on the whole situation with Lara Fairplay.”

“Mythoughts?”

“I’m betting you know the island’s music scene better than anyone else.”

Fish said, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Okay. Can you point me in the direction of whom you think Ishouldto talk to?”