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  "I'm not staying," he said. "But tell Hope I've got a delivery for her out in the truck."

  The waitress nodded and left.

  Merle leaned forward. "I was planning to leave a message for you at Ocean View, but this is better. I've been pressed into service as the market manager pro tempore, and I'm trying to pick up the pieces. The police have finished processing the crime scene and released it so we can finish the market's activities tomorrow. There was supposed to be a speech by the mayor in the afternoon, plus your awarding ribbons to the winners of the baked goods competition, and then fireworks in the evening. Those got moved to tomorrow instead. We're calling it a rain date."

  The skies might have darkened earlier, but there hadn't been any rain. "Sounds a lot better than a 'suspicious death date.'"

  "It's going to be hard enough to get people to come back tomorrow without any reminders of today's disaster." He looked down at the table for a moment and then said, "Look, I know it's an inconvenience, and I wouldn't blame you if you said no, but I have to ask. Would you be able to stay another night and carry out your original duties? The market committee thought your presence might help improve the turnout."

  "I'd be glad to be there." I didn't actually have much choice, at least not until Detective Ohlsen said I could leave. I didn't even mind picking up tonight's tab at the B&B, since the market had only been responsible for last night's stay there. I'd always told my clients that if they were going to spend money on luxuries instead of investing it, they should spend it on experiences, not on stuff, and I followed that advice myself. I had no regrets about whatever it might end up costing to spend the weekend in Danger Cove. The meeting with Alex Jordan had saved me from making a potentially expensive mistake, and the Ocean View's comfortable beds and breakfast cinnamon buns made another night there something to look forward to.

  With luck, I'd be able to go home tomorrow afternoon, my sweet tooth sated and one potential career disaster averted. Assuming, of course, that the police had a theory of the case by then that didn't involve me, so I could leave. "Have the police figured out what happened to the original market manager?"

  "Not yet," Merle said. "Bud Ohlsen's a good detective, very thorough and painstaking, but it takes time to get all the evidence together. They're still working on interviewing all of the vendors, and I heard they sent samples of the peppers from Randy's face to a lab to check for toxic substances. Not much they can do until the results come back."

  "What do you think happened?"

  He shrugged. "It's hard to say. People can be unpredictable. Sometimes they take foolish risks with their health. On the other hand, Randy was a hard fellow to get along with. Lots of people wanted to rub his face in something unpleasant from time to time."

  "Including you? I saw him yelling at you during the play."

  "That was nothing," he said. "I told him something he didn't want to hear, and he threatened to kick me out of the market for not playing well with others."

  "Pot calling the kettle black, from what I saw."

  He nodded. "He wouldn't have actually ejected me. And if he had, it would have been something of a relief. I only signed up to be a good citizen and support the other local farmers. Most of my sales are wholesale or direct at the orchard. I don't need another outlet, but some of the other vendors do. There's a synergistic effect at markets, with the whole being greater than the parts. The more stalls and products the market can offer, the more people will come, and they buy from everyone, not just the farmer they originally came to see."

  The waitress arrived with my platter and mug of cider and left the check on the table. Merle picked it up as he stood. "I've got this, with thanks from the market."

  He hesitated, and then let out a long sigh. He leaned down and spoke quickly, as if he needed to rush through the words before he changed his mind. "Look, as the market manager, I appreciate your willingness to stay and help out tomorrow, but speaking personally, just for myself, I think you should go back to Seattle as soon as you can, even if it means skipping the events tomorrow. No one would blame you if you did. I think there's more at stake here than a simple accident, and I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

  I wasn't sure how to take his warning. "Not good for the market's image to have a second fatal accident in its very first weekend?"

  "That too." He acknowledged my teasing with a perfunctory smile. For the first time since meeting him, I thought I saw something other than laid-back indifference in his eyes. While he hadn't been particularly invested in the success of the market, he did care about whatever was on his mind now. "But I was mostly thinking I might give you a call the next time I'm making a delivery in Seattle, and I can't do that if you don't make it home alive."

  * * *

  Gil Torres was waiting for me in the lobby of the Ocean View B&B, which, like the rest of the building, exuded calm and comfort. It had a sleek, contemporary design with a stunning wrought iron banister along the otherwise open stairs to the second floor suites.

  Gil was having a glass of iced tea with the manager of the B&B. Bree Milford looked to be in her twenties, young for that kind of responsibility, but it was obvious that she had the right personality for it. She had a genuine, wide smile and the most amazing long, curly red hair.

  As soon as I came through the front door, Gil looked up and began singing "Maria" from West Side Story. I'd gotten that reaction before, but her version was the first time I'd enjoyed it.

  When she was done, she asked, "Did Merle find you?"

  "He did, and I agreed to stay for tomorrow's events." I was still mulling over whether that was wise. I wasn't sure whether his flirting had been genuine, or if it had been like a backhanded compliment: trying to scare me off by pretending to be worried about me. I couldn't see why he'd want me gone, though. Even if he'd had something to do with Randy's death, I hadn't seen anything to implicate him. At least, nothing that hadn't happened in full view of at least a dozen other witnesses

  I turned to Bree. "Do you have a room available for me tonight, or should I be looking for an opening somewhere else?"

  "You can stay in the room you had last night," Bree said. "It's the least we can do on behalf of the town, after the trauma you experienced today."

  "I'm fine," I assured her. "But I won't turn down an extra cinnamon bun in the morning if you really want to leave me with a good impression of Danger Cove."

  "That can be arranged," Bree said with an easy smile. She left to make whatever arrangements were necessary to extend my reservation.

  "I talked to Detective Ohlsen," Gil said, "and he'd rather not have any unnecessary traffic past the crime scene today, just in case they decide to take another look at it, so we can't reschedule the lighthouse tour for this afternoon. I'm free tomorrow around 4:00 if you want to do it then, and Debra Kerrigan said she was available too. She knows even more about the lighthouse history than I do."

  "I'd like that." I wasn't in a huge rush to get home. Figuring an hour for the tour, I'd be able to leave Danger Cove around 5:00, which would get me home at a reasonable hour, assuming Detective Ohlsen didn't insist on keeping me here for another night. "I'll meet you at the lighthouse after I finish judging the baked goods competition."

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?" Gil said. "I'd hate for your memories of Danger Cove to be mostly about death."

  "I'm fine," I said. "I've already had some wonderful experiences here."

  "If you can fit in one more," Gil said, "call The Clip and Sip, and see if they've got any openings. They can work wonders with a broken nail, and you can sip a homemade aperitif while it's being done."

  I glanced down at my hands, only then realizing I'd broken one of the freshly polished nails. I must have been more upset than I'd realized if I hadn't noticed before. It wasn't the pinkie with the lighthouse decal, but the rough edge of the broken nail was going to drive me crazy now that I knew it was there. "I might just do that."

  "If you park at the lightho
use grounds, you can catch the trolley along Main Street and do some window shopping on your way. We have a great independent bookstore if you're looking for something to read. Or stop in at the Historical Museum. We've got a whole room dedicated to your family's tenure in the lighthouse."

  "A whole room?"

  "Oh, yes. We were given the entire contents of the lighthouse when it was purchased by the Save the Lighthouse Committee," Gil said. "Did you know that your great-grandmother lived there after it was decommissioned, until her death in 1982?"

  "That was about when my mother left Danger Cove. The only time she ever came back here was in 2000 for her mother's funeral, but she didn't want me to come with her, and she didn't say much about the experience when she got home."

  "Apparently the title to the lighthouse itself was tangled up in bureaucracy, and your grandmother hadn't wanted any of her mother's furniture or other possessions. As a result, the place remained pretty much the way your great-grandmother had left it the day she died." Gil, who was stunning to begin with, positively glowed when she talked about her work. "When the place was opened up again a few years ago, it looked like your great-grandmother hadn't changed much in the interior in the thirty-some years she lived there after the lighthouse was decommissioned. Everything was photographed in place to document it before the contents of the lighthouse were moved to the museum. The pictures and artifacts offer so much insight into what the life of a lighthouse keeper must have been like. We've had researchers from all over the world come to look at our collection."

  "Have you ever considered working for a more major museum? Someplace with a more major collection and better funding?"

  "I used to think that was what I wanted," Gil said, "but I almost lost my job a few months after I came here, and it made me realize just how desperately I'd fallen in love with Danger Cove and its people. They're my family now. You'd have to pry my cold, dead fingers off the key to our archives before you could make me give this place up."

  "From what I've seen, no one has any intention of kicking you out. It must be reassuring to have that kind of job security, but don't you ever get bored?"

  "I haven't yet," Gil said. "Not for a single moment. There's a lot that goes on in Danger Cove beneath the surface. Most of it is wonderful, but anywhere you've got people, you've got a few bad apples. Every once in a while, some grifter, thief, or drug dealer decides to go after what looks like easy pickings among the tourists here. They find out pretty quickly that our waters are more dangerous than they look. Unfortunately, as soon as one troublemaker decides he's chosen the wrong town to target, another criminal pops up."

  Some things were the same, no matter the size of the community. The only real difference between here and a big city was that at least here everyone knew each other's secrets, so it shouldn't be all that difficult for even a marginally competent homicide detective to figure out who might have wanted Randy Stiles dead.

  * * *

  The next morning I had some time on my hands before I was due at the farmer's market to mingle with the crowds and eventually judge the baked goods competition. It was tempting to curl up in my comfortable suite with a book, but after indulging in two enormous cinnamon buns at breakfast, I needed to get some exercise. The B&B overlooked a cliff that was too steep for climbing, and I'd already explored the center of the town yesterday, acting on Gil's recommendation and ending at The Clip and Sip. My manicure had been repaired seamlessly while I sipped homemade Limoncello.

  Bree suggested a walk on Two Mile Beach, which abutted the lighthouse grounds. The beach was sandy with a gentle slope to the water, unlike the steep, rocky drop from where the lighthouse loomed. Even though it was too early for the peak summer crowds, a few families with young children had laid out blankets weighted down with coolers and towels and toys, and were wading in the surf or building sand castles. It was all so wholesome, but according to a pamphlet that Bree had given me, the far end of the beach led to caves that had reportedly once been used by smugglers, like the ones who would have drowned if not for my ancestors' bravery. The caves might even have been used by the sixteenth-century pirates who had inspired the naming of the Pirate's Hook rock formation.

  Once I'd walked off at least a few of my breakfast calories, I headed back to the lighthouse grounds. I still had an hour before I was officially on duty as the guest of honor, but I'd never gotten a chance to take a close look at any of the vendors' stalls yesterday.

  I was particularly curious about the one operated by Tyler Kline, the pepper farmer who had inspired such a devoted fan yesterday. I wasn't entirely sure he'd be back today, given the apparent cause of Randy Stiles's death, but it was immediately obvious that not only had he returned, but he was doing a brisk business. The line outside his stall was easily twice the length of any other farmer's.

  I watched for a few minutes but didn't see anything that would explain Kline's popularity other than that it was the first stall that a visitor came to. He was young, possibly still in high school, or just graduated. He was short and thin, wearing a T-shirt that didn't quite meet the baggy jeans that were low enough to reveal several inches of extremely pale skin on his backside. Apparently he wore more sensible pants while working in the fields or he'd have had a nasty sunburn there. His personality didn't strike me as particularly interesting. He barely said a word as he zipped around his stall, taking money and handing over little brown paper bags filled with peppers.

  I felt a sudden chill, the sort of shiver that warns of unseen danger, and looked around to see that Merle Curtis was watching me from the stall next to the pepper farmer. He picked up a pear from his display and held it out invitingly. Normally, I'd consider it a natural sales pitch, but in the aftermath of Randy's death by produce, I couldn't help thinking of stories about serpents and witches offering innocent women a taste of poisoned fruit.

  It could just as easily be a friendly gesture, though, the sort of thing that was supposed to happen in small towns. It would be rude of me to ignore him.

  As I approached, he nodded in the direction of Kline. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

  I might not be as pessimistic as he was, but we apparently shared the urge to analyze human behavior. "I've been trying to figure out why he's so popular. And whether his customers know someone died yesterday after eating one of his peppers."

  "They know," he said, handing me the pear he'd tempted me with. "I've been listening to the chatter. About half the customers are here to buy some heirloom variety of hot pepper that I'd never heard of before, and the other half are here to see what a killer pepper looks like."

  That would explain the customers who looked more like high school dropouts than gourmet cooks. Of course, foodies could be found anywhere in society. Everyone in Seattle considered herself a foodie, after all, from the homeless woman under the bridge to the richest man in the state, who was known for keeping the world's most expensive ham—almost three thousand dollars—in his fridge at all times, just in case he felt like a nibble.

  "Are the police sure it was the pepper that killed Randy?"

  Merle nodded. "Fortunately, they ruled out poison, so it had to have been an allergic reaction. Otherwise, we'd probably have state and federal inspectors crawling all over the place. It's been said that it's easier to sell a handgun than it is to sell vegetables, because of all the health and safety regulations that apply to farmers."

  "So it was just a tragic accident."

  "Perhaps." Merle paused to acknowledge someone passing behind me before adding, "Detective Ohlsen isn't ready to make a definitive statement about what happened yet. At least not to me. Probably considers me a potential suspect, along with you, as the person who found him, and Manny Alvarez, the other person Randy hassled shortly before he died."

  Alvarez. Was that what Randy had been trying to say? Not a complete first name, but the beginning of Alvarez? "Is Mr. Alvarez the person who interrupted the play yesterday?"

  "No. I didn't recognize that guy, and I kn
ow for sure that he's not a suspect, because he was in police custody at the time of the murder." Merle turned to point at a stall across from us and about halfway up the path. "That's Alvarez."

  He was a short, wiry man with a cheerful greeting for each of the customers who were flocking to his flats of strawberries. It looked like he'd be sold out before lunchtime.

  "He seems to have lots of happy customers. What could Randy have been yelling at him about?"

  "Randy didn't need a reason," Merle said. "He tended to experience the opposite of love at first sight: utter loathing at first sight. Neither one is rational, but the feelings are very real and can make people do some crazy things."

  "It sounds like you speak from experience."

  "I do," he said. "My wife and I both knew we belonged together the minute we set eyes on each other."

  His wife? I must have misunderstood his earlier comment about calling me the next time he was in Seattle. Or else he was much more of a jerk than I wanted to believe, and I'd never found bad boys to be all that appealing. At least now I knew better than to fall for his good looks and gratifying interest in me.

  "What about loathing at first sight? Have you experienced that too?"

  "Not really. For me, at least, it's even rarer than true love," he said. "I can't recall the last time I couldn't find something to like about a person."

  "What was there to like about Randy?"

  "He was incredibly passionate about the farmer's market," Merle said. "It was his idea to establish it, and he didn't get a lot of support at first."

  That sounded like the irrational Danger Cove mind-set my mother had told me about, but I was more than halfway convinced that her memories were warped by factors that really had nothing to do with the town and everything to do with her own melodramatic personality. "I would have thought a farmer's market would be a no-brainer for a town that caters to the tourist trade."

  "Oh, sure, everyone thought it was a good idea," Merle said. "But they also knew how much work was involved. They basically said Randy could use the lighthouse grounds for the market, as long as he did all of the work."