Page 75 of When We Believed in Mermaids

Her house is a beautifully restored Victorian with antiques and period-specific artwork on the walls. Today the overhead fan is going full speed, but it’s hot. “Still against air-conditioning? I think I might put it in at Sapphire House.”

“No, no!” She waves her hands like windshield wipers. “You’ll ruin the lines.”

“I’m sure there’s a way to do it without ruining the aesthetics.”

She humphs. “Air-conditioning is a scourge.”

“Or one of the greatest blessings of mankind.”

“Come into the kitchen; I’ll make us some lemonade.”

It’s bright and lovely, and I seat myself at the table overlooking the harbor while Gwen drops ice into glasses. I know the lemonade will be fresh squeezed, and almost too tart, and utterly perfect. It’s one of her specialties. She brings over two frosty tall glasses and sets one in front of me. “So how’s the house? I’m sorry I couldn’t come this weekend, but I figured you’d want some family time anyway.”

“It’s going well. I just brought you a few bits of china to look over. I thought you might like it.”

“I saw you on TV. Great job.”

My stomach flips. “It’s already on? They just filmed it!”

“Well, it’s not like they have to do anything but upload it. It’s a good story. You told it well.”

I nod, taking a big gulp of the, yes, almost painfully tart lemonade. “Maybe someone will come forward with some kind of clue about the murder.”

“Doubtful, really.”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been afraid of hurting someone or getting hurt themselves. Something like that.”

She shrugs. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“Right. I found some of the sister’s journals, actually.”

“Ooh, can I read them?”

“Not yet.”

“I dug out my old notes and remembered that there had been talk about the carpenter who did all the inlays. Gossip that he and Veronica had a thing.”

“It’s outrageously great work,” I say, reaching into my bag to pull out the notebook I always carry, now with my fountain pen.

“Ooh, is that new?”

I grin, holding it up. “You like?” I almost say,My sister and I had this thing for fountain pens, but clamp my mouth closed just in time.

“What’s wrong?” Gweneth asks. “You look like you swallowed a fly.”

“Just thought of something I forgot at the market.” Unscrewing the top of the pen, I flip to a clean page. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll check it out.”

“You all right?”

“Just tired.” I rub my aching temples. “Maybe I ought to just go home and catch a nap before the family returns.”

The house is blissfully cool and empty when I get back. The dogs and I trot upstairs, where I draw the curtains and stretch out on the bed, my mind full of Gweneth’s speculations. Paris posts herself right beside me, and I reach out to soothe her, running my fingers through the ruff under her chin, which makes her groan ever so softly.

On my laptop, I open the file I’ve been assembling about the murder and the history of the house. In one file is a group of photos I’ve captured from the internet, Veronica in the sizzling gown that launched her career, George with his medals, looking solid and powerful and very hot, like a young Jason Momoa.

I don’t have a photo of Helen, and I search for one but come up with only three. With her sister and George just after the house was finished; as a girl somewhere in the bush, her hair natural and flying in the wind; and a few years before her death, at some kind of fund-raiser. By then, she was polished and stately, her hair smoothed back into a snowy French twist, her warm skin beautifully offset by an aqua dress.

Not a beauty like her sister but good-looking enough. In the one with George, he had one arm around her and one around Veronica, and he was grinning as they both leaned into him. It makes me think, unexpectedly, of Dylan and Kit and me, and I have to shove the vision away.