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“It’s just that this kind of situation can sink a festival, and it’s the first year we might even get out of the red.”

“Okay, well, obviously I want to help. But—”

“And of course, they had to take a look at you and…sign off, as it were. There was no point going into details if they weren’t onboard.”

“Wait a sec.”

“Lara and Neilson. Notliterallysign off.” Dylan cleared his throat. “That is, well, yes, literally, in as far as the rest of the organizers will want some kind of contract, I guess. Really, it’s for your protection, in case things do go south.”

Ellery’s unease began to expand exponentially, much like the black plague had once crept across Europe. “South? How far south?”

Dylan said promptly, seriously, “Deep south.”

“Like ‘My Old Kentucky Home’ south? Or—”

Dylan cleared his throat. “Further south than that.”

Ellery said slowly, carefully, “Dylan, whatexactlyare we talking about?”

“Just that… Obviously, we don’t want you to be held liable if something does happen to her. To Lara, I mean.”

Whatever the question would eventually be, there was only one answer, and that wasno. To be precise,oh hell no. And yet, that crucial combination of consonant and vowel, that single syllable safe word, wasnotwhat popped out of Ellery’s mouth.

Instead, fatally, he heard himself ask, “Why would something happen to her?”

“From the moment her name appeared as Sing the Plank’s headliner, Lara started receiving death threats.”

“Death threats.” Ellery’s tone was flat. Been there done that.

“Yes.”

Ellery glanced back at the greenhouse-style café and the more distant lighthouse where Lara Fairplay, long hair whipping in the wind like someone in a 1980s music video, stood on the edge of the green overlooking the rocks and water.

“Then Jack’s the one you should have invited to this case of indigestion.”

“No way. Lara won’t have anything to do with the police. Believe it or not, the minute this came up, I suggested talking to Jack. It didn’t go well. She’s very bitter about, well, a lot of things, but her incarceration in particular.”

“That can’t have been fun. She did plead guilty to killing someone, though. But that’s not even the point. You know I don’t have the resources to deal with a situation like this. Besides, what makes you guys think whoever is threatening her would follow her to the island? It’s probably some nut in Tennessee who doesn’t like the idea that she’s planning to resume her career. I’m surprised she doesn’t getmorecrazy letters.”

Dylan looked interested. “Why Tennessee?”

“WhynotTennessee? I’m just saying, you don’t have to be in proximity to someone in order to threaten them. I used to get some very weird fan mail.”

Come to think of it, hestillgot weird fan mail now and again. Special delivery. As in, dropped off at the Crow’s Nest by someone on the island.

Still.

Dylan said, “You’re right, which is why we’re all so worried. The threats originatedhere. In Pirate’s Cove.”

“Here?” Ellery gazed at him in exasperation. “Why didn’t you lead withthat?”

Dylan opened his mouth, but his excuse was forever lost to posterity as a third party joined their cliffside tête-à-tête.

“REALLY, DYLAN?” a woman demanded in a tone intended to strike fear into the hearts of men.

It worked. Dylan and Ellery both jumped guiltily and turned to face September St. Simmons.

September was about twenty years Dylan’s junior. She looked like a lot of actresses of a certain age: trim, toned, and toothy. She had long dark hair and false eyelashes. No doubt she had eyes as well as lashes, but those Bambi lashes were what you remembered.