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“You couldn’t be more right.” She thought of the compact in her purse, then pulled out her phone. “I’m going to call Poole Shipbuilders, see if Clarice is in and will talk to me.”

“Now?”

“While it’s all right here in my head. You can drop me off if she’ll make time for me. I’ll get someone to give me a ride home.”

“I’ll drop you off, run some errands. You can text me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”

“Great. First, I’d better see if I can have some time with Cousin Clarice.”

Sonya got her first up-close look at Poole Shipbuilders. The original brick building Arthur Poole had built as a young, enterprising man had expanded over the centuries, the generations.

It spread and dominated its portion of Poole’s Bay, and its shipyard that had spawned a village. Had, she thought, built the manor where she now lived.

“It’s bigger than you think,” Cleo commented as she wound through the lot, section by section, toward the area designated for visitors. “It’s impressive.”

“Intimidating and strange. Strange that I own a piece of them. A tiny one, but still a piece. That building there, that’s the offices. Clarice is on the fifth floor.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

“You know I do, but why would you need it? Text when you’re done.”

Sonya got out, crossed to the entrance with its careful landscaping and dignified sign.

POOLE SHIPBUILDERS, ESTABLISHED 1781.

She went through a wide glass door and into a lobby that immediately put her more at ease.

They’d stuck with tradition with models of ships, portraits of generations of Pooles from the founder, Arthur Poole, she noted, right down to Owen.

Floors—wood planked rather than tile or carpet—gleamed. A waiting area with comfortable chairs boasted a brick fireplace with a thickwooden mantel. It held a model of a sailing vessel and a pair of antique lanterns.

When she crossed to the reception counter—wood again, not sleek but smooth—the woman behind it smiled.

“You must be Ms. MacTavish. Ms. Poole said to expect you. If you wouldn’t mind signing in. I’m Noelle, by the way, Corrine Doyle’s niece.”

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too. If you take the elevator to five, Ms. Poole’s admin will be waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

She crossed to the elevator. Before she could push the up button, it opened. Owen got off, carrying a design tube and looking rushed.

He pulled up short when he saw Sonya. “Hey. Are you looking for me?”

“No. I’m here to see Clarice.”

“Okay. Gotta go.” Then he stopped again. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Fifth floor.”

“Yeah, then take a right, all the way down. Corner office. Later.”

As he strode away, Noelle called out, “Owen, you’ve got that four o’clock with Mike. He’s coming to you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

When he kept going, Sonya stepped on the elevator, took a last look at Arthur Poole’s portrait, then pushed five.