The Arrangement. Suzanne Forster

      She’d read the papers carefully before returning them to their hiding place, and then she’d added the question to her growing list of questions about Andrew, and filed it away. She’d never said a word.

      “I did hear,” she said, “and I’m very sorry about your brother.” The right tone of sympathy evaded her. “Did you come to see Bret? Or Julia?”

      “I’m here to see you, Alison.”

      “Me? Why?”

      “You don’t know? The local paper’s abuzz with the news that you and your hubby are here in Mirage Bay for a visit. I thought someone should come by and welcome you back.”

      Alison couldn’t imagine how the local paper would know about their visit unless Julia had told them. Apparently the woman thrived on fanfare, and one way or another, she was going to make a social spectacle out of this visit. Alison hoped it didn’t backfire in all of their faces.

      She glanced at the photograph in Tony’s hand, but couldn’t see what it was. Surely not a picture of her and Andrew.

      He flipped the photograph over, handing it to her. Alison’s stomach rolled as she took it. She pushed his hand away as he reached out, possibly to steady her. “What is this?” she asked, but she knew. It was Butch Bogart’s mutilated body, a crime scene shot.

      “There’s a new lead in Butch’s case,” Tony said. “I thought that might interest you.”

      She swallowed back nausea and held out the picture until he took it. “Why would Butch’s case interest me?” She really didn’t understand what he was doing. “According to the newspapers, they named a prime suspect. Marnie Hazelton was supposed to have killed your brother, and then vanished. Have you found her?”

      “No, Marnie hasn’t been found—and I never said she wasn’t a suspect. But since you brought her up, let’s say our murderer is someone other than Marnie—just for the sake of argument. Where were you on February second while Butch was being disemboweled with a pitchfork?”

      “I was falling off a boat in a storm, Tony.”

      He smiled, finally, matching her sarcasm. “Right, you went into the drink around six in the evening, according to your husband. The county coroner findings say Butch was killed that afternoon.”

      Alison took a step back—and spotted Andrew hovering in a doorway that Tony couldn’t see from where he stood. What was Andrew doing? Her heart began to pound. She felt spied upon, cornered—by both of them.

      “Alison?” Tony pressed a hand to the door and stopped her from shutting it. She hadn’t even realized she was about to.

      “You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with what happened to Butch,” she said. “Why would I want to kill your brother?”

      When he said nothing, she rattled on, unable to stop herself. “The only viable suspect is Marnie Hazelton. Everyone knows that. The night Butch died, she was spotted on the cliffs by LaDonna Jeffries.” Alison touched the penny ring on her bracelet. “Marnie jumped, didn’t she?”

      The Mirage Bay newspaper had done an extensive profile on Marnie, attempting to unmask the strange child-woman. Rumors were rampant that she’d committed suicide. She’d often been seen swaying on the edge of Satan’s Teeth, the jagged rocks at the end of the jetty, as if she were listening to someone no one else could hear.

      The article had said every village had its tormented outcast, and Marnie was Mirage Bay’s. Even at twenty-two, she was a wary, half-wild little thing that no one could get close to except her friend, LaDonna, and her Gramma Jo, who wasn’t her real grandmother at all.

      Josephine Hazelton sold fresh fruit and vegetables from a cart alongside the road and was known in town as the produce lady. If you gave her some extra change, she’d read your palm, and if asked about Marnie, she would swear that she’d found her as a baby, in a creek near her house that emptied into the ocean. The infant had been swaddled in blankets and floating downstream in a willow basket, like Moses in the Bible.

      Even Butch’s friends had been interviewed for the article, and every one of them believed Marnie had killed him because he’d made fun of her disfigurements. Her face was off-kilter. Her eyes didn’t line up right, and her smile twisted into a grimace, on those occasions when she did smile. She also had a ruby birthmark that emerged from the nape of her neck and crept around her throat like fingers, as though trying to strangle her.

      Marnie’s macabre looks had made her a target since earliest childhood, and when the town’s fear and loathing became unbearable, she’d taken to hiding. But Butch and his ilk had hunted her down for sport. He’d teased her so mercilessly many people believed she had reason to kill him, except that Butch was the most feared linebacker on the high school team. It took a pile-on to hold him down, and Marnie was no bigger than a mosquito.

      She’d had a body, though. The article had quoted locals who’d sworn she’d had the breasts of a Botticelli Venus, lithe limbs and a firm bottom. Alison remembered the references word for word. The boys from town all knew about Marnie’s figure because she’d loved to soak in the tidal ponds on her gramma’s property—and she hadn’t worn much beyond what God gave her.

      That’s what had started the other rumor—that Butch had seen her bathing and tried to force himself on her, and Marnie had stopped him with the pitchfork. Brutally, viciously stopped him.

      And now, for some unknown reason, Tony Bogart thought Alison had something to do with that monstrous crime?

      She angled a glare at him. “What is this lead you have? If you’re going to accuse me of something, you’d better be able to back it up.”

      “I haven’t accused you of anything. I asked you a question that you haven’t answered. Where were you when my brother died?”

      A door hinge creaked and Tony stopped talking. He looked beyond Alison, searching the foyer, where the sound had come from.

      “Villard, is that you?” he said. “Come and join us. I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on your marriage to our fair Alison.”

      Andrew stepped out of the shadows. As he came over to the door, Alison watched the malevolence seep into Tony’s expression. He truly hated Andrew—and probably her, as well.

      Andrew’s voice was cold. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

      “You should know,” Tony said. “You were listening to every word.”

      Andrew strode over to the other man as if he were going to get physical. Alison almost wished he would. Someone needed to back Tony off. Andrew wasn’t trained in deadly force, as Tony must have been, but he was several inches taller.

      “My wife is off-limits,” Andrew told him. “I don’t care what agency you’re with, if you have something to say to Alison, you go through me first.”

      Nothing moved except Tony’s trigger finger. It twitched, as if he was firing a gun. His smile was as cold as his eyes.

      “How did you get through the gate?” Andrew asked.

      “Someone was kind enough to leave it open.”

      “Then you won’t have any trouble getting out.”

      “None whatsoever.” Still smiling, Tony excused himself with a tip of his head. As he strolled down the marble expanse of the grand portico, he called over his shoulder, “I hope this wasn’t inconvenient for either of you. Have a nice day.”

      Andrew shut the door, and Alison sank onto the nearest settee. Her legs felt weak, but she shook her head, refusing his hand when he offered it.

      “We should go down to breakfast before the rest of them come looking for us,” he said.

      Alison couldn’t even think about food. The image of Butch’s mangled body kept coming back to her.

      “There