Page 76 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“Then we should probably talk about something else for a while.” He closed his notebook and gave me a mischievous look. “For instance, I could tell you about the latest chapter of my book, but I warn you that it involves a suspiciously clever cat.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

We spent the next few minutes talking about his writing, the absurd things Sylvester had stolen recently, and whether the weather would hold long enough for Max to get some work done on the porch. As he talked, he grew more animated, gesturing with his free hand and occasionally catching himself when he realized he was leaning toward me. Each time, he settled back a little, though the smile never quite left his face. His guard wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t as firmly in place as it had been a few days earlier. He was letting himself enjoy this, too, and I was grateful he hadn’t yet decided that doing so was too dangerous.

It wasn’t a grand reconciliation, and it didn’t undo anything that had happened between us, but it was time spent together without either of us pretending the other didn’t matter. When I finally stood to leave, Max reached across the table and touched my hand briefly. His fingers rested against mine for a heartbeat before he withdrew them, his expression suddenly a little shy, as if he hadn’t quite meant to reveal how much the moment mattered.

“Don’t forget to eat something that isn’t coffee today,” he said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“And Josiah?”

I turned back, still feeling the warmth of his touch.

“You don’t have to solve everything before you come to see me.”

The words followed me all the way back to the office. He wasn’t asking me to neglect my responsibilities. He was reminding me that a relationship couldn’t survive indefinitely on whatever time remained after everything else had been dealt with. I had to make room for him while the rest of life was still happening, not wait until it became convenient. And the fact that he was offering me that reminder, rather than shutting me out, gave me more hope than I dared tell him.

Thursday brought a welcome development from the credit union. The transaction records had arrived through the proper legal process, and I reviewed them against the details Daniel had provided. They established that Joann Minotte had presented Harvey’s $15,000 check through Harborstone Community Credit Union. The check had not cleared, and the records showed no stop-payment instruction.

Joann owned Harbor Lights, the salon where Ricky worked, and I’d never connected her to Harvey’s finances. The check didn’t explain why she’d received it, but it gave me a concrete lead. Harvey had written it on the day he died, marked the stub personal, and left no corresponding transaction in the account statement I’d reviewed. Five days later, Joann had presented it. It might have been repayment for a debt, a gift, or something else entirely.

I also needed to establish whether Joann had a connection to the twenty-year-old secret mentioned in the threatening text and the argument at the bank. Shelby’s name had been in my notes since Max told me about the remark Ricky overheard, but all I knew was that she’d been connected to Joann and had died several years earlier.

A search of publicly available information gave me a starting point. Shelby Minotte’s obituary confirmed that she’d died five years ago and listed Joann as her sister. The connection was real, but it didn’t yet tell me what either woman had to do with Harvey. I added the details to my notes and decided to find out more about the Minotte family before approaching Joann. I wasn’t prepared to alert her to the investigation based on a name and a check alone.

On Friday morning I received an update from the state’s attorney’s office. The investment firm had been served with the required legal process and had provided records identifying the employee assigned the phone number at the time of the threatening message. His name was Simon Sinclair.

I stared at the name on the page. Harvey’s son.

Simon had been raised away from Hartwell Cove, attending boarding schools and later university out of state, and he now worked for an investment firm in Washington, D.C. Until that morning, I hadn’t had a clear reason to connect him to the threatening message. Now I needed to establish whether he was also the man who’d argued with Harvey at the bank.

I opened the firm’s website and found Simon’s professional profile. The photograph showed a man in his thirties, neatly dressed, with a serious expression and features I recognized from the bank footage. I brought up the still image I’d saved from the recording and compared the two. The angle and lighting weren’t identical, but the resemblance was strong enough that, after checking the footage again, I was satisfied Simon was the man in the argument.

The records linked him to the number, but they didn’t prove he’d personally sent the message. Taken together with the argument, however, they gave me good reason to ask him what had happened. I arranged contact through the appropriate channels, mindful that he lived and worked outside Maryland. I wanted to hear his account, not treat his family relationship or his apparent connection to the message as proof of murder.

Owen Price remained a separate lead. Harvey had refused to extend repayment on a business loan secured against Owen’s marina, and their argument at the festival had been public enough for several people to hear it. That dispute gave Owen a reason to resent Harvey, but it had no established connection to the threatening message, Simon, or the check. I kept it in the investigation without allowing one suspect’s circumstances to explain another’s.

I arranged to speak with Owen that afternoon. He agreed to meet me at the marina, where he led me into a small office that smelled of damp wood, salt, and the coffee that had been sitting in a pot on a side table long enough to turn bitter. He looked tired and irritable, and the moment I mentioned Harvey’s name, his jaw tightened.

“I suppose you’re here about that argument at the festival,” he said.

“I am. Several people heard you and Harvey disagreeing. I’d like to understand what the dispute was about.”

“The loan. I was behind on a payment, and Harvey wouldn’t give me more time.” Owen folded his arms across his chest. “He knew what that money meant to this place, and he acted as though I was asking for a personal favor instead of trying to keep a business running.”

“What would have happened if you’d missed the deadline?”

“That depended on the terms and what he decided to do next.” Owen’s expression hardened. “There could have been fees, and I didn’t want the loan going into default. I’ve put too much into this marina to risk it over one payment.”

“So the consequences could have been more serious than a late fee.”

“They could have been. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t worried.” He looked away toward the window, where the masts of the boats rocked gently in the breeze. “But I was trying to work out how to pay him, not how to get rid of him.”

“Did Harvey threaten to call in the loan or take action against the marina?”

“He made it clear he wasn’t extending the deadline. He didn’t tell me he was taking the marina, and I’m not saying he did. I knew what could happen if I didn’t meet my obligations.” He gave me a hard look. “That’s why I was angry. I’d asked for a little time, and he refused.”