Chapter 1

AMELIA
The day my life changed began the same as many others before. A trudge to work on a day in early April through the teeming streets of Boston, gripping the bag with Mr. Pitts’s scone between the tips of my nearly frozen fingers. An icy rain stung my cheeks. Gusts of cold air crept up my skirt. Most of the snow had melted, leaving the sidewalks muddy. Chunks of dirty snow were the last reminders of the blizzards that had whipped through Boston for most of February.

By the time I arrived at the office building, a ramshackle dwelling in a tawdry part of town, I felt chilled to the very depths of my bones. Averting my eyes from the women who worked the corner and the beggar asleep under the awning of the neighboring business, I unlocked the entrance with my key and then shoved the creaky door open with my shoulder.

A dank, mildewy smell greeted me in the chilly room. My instinct was to keep my overcoat on, but I dutifully hung it on the hook, smoothed my skirt, and straightened my once white but now more of a dingy gray blouse. With quick movements motivated by cold and the knowledge that Mr. Pitts would have his eye on the clock and dock my pay if I was late with his coffee, I lit a fire in the woodstove, set water on to boil, and scooped grounds into the percolator.

The scone he wanted every morning was from a bakery shop about four blocks from our building. Betsy, the baker’s daughter, always had it ready for me, even though Mr. Pitts wasn’t always expeditious in paying his monthly tab. She did it for me, knowing what a curmudgeon I worked for ever since the day I’d cried in front of her and told her about the harsh reprimand I’d received the day before. The shop had run out of scones by the time I’d arrived, so I’d brought a hot bun instead. From that day forward, Becky always had Mr. Pitts’s scone set aside and packaged for my seven-thirty pickup. Some days, she slipped a little scrap in for me, but only if her father wasn’t watching.

After the water boiled, I poured it over the grounds in the top part of the coffee maker. A large portion of my training during my first day had been about how to brew the perfect cup. It wasn’t as easy as I would have imagined. He had a lot of steps that must be followed exactly. By now, I could do the whole process without thinking. I arranged his cup and scone on a tray the way he liked. He’d also spent longer than I’d ever thought possible going over exactly how he liked his morning meal set on the tray—the cup to the far right and the plate in the middle, with a folded cloth napkin between them.

Although I’d had a breakfast of pasty oatmeal at the boardinghouse, my mouth watered at the buttery smell of the pastry. All winter my stomach had felt empty and my hands and feet cold. Come now, I told myself sternly. There was no reason to feel sorry for myself. I had a job and a dry place to sleep. I was luckier than many, I thought, as I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe. A flake of paint floated to the floor as I did so.

I received no response, other than the phlegmy clearing of Mr. Pitts’s throat. He was forever clearing it or coughing or blowing his nose. His ailments were especially bad in the spring. Regardless, I took it as an invitation to speak. “I have your breakfast, Mr. Pitts. May I come in?” I opened the door a crack.

Behind his desk, he was bent over the morning newspaper. Only his shiny bald head greeted me. “Good morning, sir.” I waited for him to acknowledge me before setting down the tray. I’d learned that lesson well enough.

Nothing. Silence except for the tapping of his foot against the wood floor. He was displeased with me. What had I done? I swallowed and drew in a quick breath for fortification. “I have your coffee.”

Mr. Pitts turned the page of the newspaper open on his desk to the Help Wanted section. A hint?

“Sir?” I shifted weight between one foot and the other, pressing the tray against my waist. What had I done to anger him? My gaze swept the small, dark office. Everything was where it should be. His books on finance that I’d never seen him actually open were dusted and placed in alphabetical order. A decanter of whiskey and a glass for his midday drink were on the round table under the slit of a dirty window. Dirty on the outside, mind you. Inside, I cleaned once a week. The stack of correspondence I’d typed the day before waited for his signature. “The scone looks excellent this morning. Not like yesterday’s one at all.” He’d not liked the one I’d brought him the day before. Too dense. “No flakiness whatsoever,” he’d said accusingly. As if I’d cooked it myself. I knew little of his personal life, other than he was unmarried and lived with his elderly mother. Since I was required to bring his breakfast and lunch, it appeared they had no cook. What did his mother eat? I imagined her as a frail woman wrapped in an old quilt waiting for his return, hoping for a warm supper. Perhaps a little projection on my part, given my obsession with my next meal. Anyway, it was none of my concern. Still, I was curious about his life outside of these walls. That’s the way I’d always been. As curious as a cat, my mother had said about me. Curiosity wasn’t always a good quality. I’d learned that lesson from Mr. Pitts, too.

He looked up, a sheen on his wide forehead glistening in the lamplight. Perpetually overheated despite the frigid temperature of the room, his fat cheeks were the same pink as his balding scalp. This morning, he’d taken off his suit jacket, and his white shirt stretched against his rotund belly, leaving gaps between the buttons. I hoped to God one of them didn’t pop off and hit me in the eye. At least he wore an undershirt. I’d never seen him without his clothes, thankfully, but I imagined his stomach looked very much like the top of his doughy head, pink with a few wiry hairs clinging on for dear life.

“You’re late, Miss Young.” He had the kind of voice that made me think of the glutinous jelly left over after a roast had gone cold in its pan.

I wasn’t late. In fact, I was a few minutes early. I kept that to myself. I’d learned on my very first day eighteen months ago that Mr. Pitts was never wrong. I, apparently, was never right. The bakery had not been as busy as most mornings, and I’d gotten in and out faster than usual, giving me ample time to make the coffee. Mr. Pitts had told me during our initial interview that I would be required to light the fire and make coffee for him every morning, and therefore I shouldn’t dawdle with my female nonsense. “Although you don’t seem the type to fuss over your appearance. A lost cause, now isn’t it, with that red hair and pasty skin of yours.” My quick temper had flared at the comment about my hair. I hated it when people talked about my hair, as it was almost always derogatory in some way. I’d pushed my feelings as far down as possible. I’d desperately needed this job. I still did, for that matter.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Every part of me despises you. You’re a flea. A blight on the world, especially mine. Sometimes it helped if I talked to him silently.

“For God’s sake, don’t just stand there opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water. Set down my breakfast. I’ve never known a heavier breather—Miss Young—than you.” His pronunciation of my name was elongated, as if he found me astonishingly irritating.

Heavy breather? This was a new complaint. I’d not known my breathing offended him. I would have to hold my breath from now on when I came into his office. I’d have to take the risk that I might faint dead away. Getting fired for breathing would put me out on the street. The boardinghouse might not be ideal, yet it was better than a cold alley.

The newspaper, unfolded as it was, took up most of the desk. This was unusual. Most mornings he’d already read the paper by the time I arrived, and it was cast aside for me to dispose of. He didn’t know I took it home every evening. Had he known how much I looked forward to reading the news of the day in the candlelight of my room, he would have surely tossed it into the trash bin.

Was I to set the tray on the paper? No, that would make it so he couldn’t finish reading whatever had captured his attention. That would surely make him angry. Angrier. I took in another breath, forgetting my pact against breathing, and lifted only the cup and saucer from the tray and set it on the top corner of the left page. However, I was unsteady, given my nervousness, and coffee spilled over the brim of the cup into the saucer and onto the newspaper.

With a swiftness I didn’t know he possessed, Mr. Pitts swept his arm over the desk, knocking everything to the floor. The cup and saucer shattered at my feet. What remained of the coffee splashed my skirt.

I swallowed hard, willing myself not to cry. Secretarial college had not taught a course on terrible employers. It should have, given what I knew from my first job.

My mother had often said one’s fortune could change at any moment. “You must always have hope, Amelia.” Her words often came to me during the darkest moments, giving me strength and courage. Lately, though, I wondered if it was wise to dream of a better life. I suspected optimism was a cruel and fickle mistress. Wasn’t it better to accept one’s fate than to yearn for someone else’s life? If only my mother were still alive, I could have asked her.

It was only at night in my room at the boardinghouse that I felt relief from the hardness of my life. I could read then. The lending library and the stacks of books were my salvation.

Not knowing what to do with the tray, I dropped it heavily onto the dry part of the newspaper and knelt to pick up the shards and jagged pieces of china. One particularly sharp piece pierced my thumb, and blood dripped onto my skirt. My only skirt.

Mr. Pitts jerked to his feet and yanked the damp newspaper out from under the tray. “You’re the most worthless girl I’ve ever met.” He rolled the paper the way I’d once seen someone do before whipping their poor dog with it and hurled it at me. “You’re fired. Take the trash with you.”

Instinctively, I’d caught the paper and now held it against my chest. The smell of coffee filled my nose. Fired? I gulped. Should I beg? No. If I had to live on the street, so be it. I would not ask for anything more from this horrible man. “I want my pay.” I glared at him, then held out my hand. “Now. Or I go to the police.”

“The police don’t care about you.” Regardless if that were true or not, he reached into his desk and pulled out what amounted to a week’s wages. Which didn’t include today. But I didn’t argue. I just wanted out of there. I would figure it out later.

I stumbled to my desk and set the paper there while I reached for my coat. That’s when I saw it. Displayed right there in the fold for me to see. The advertisement for a secretary.

Secretary needed for family business. Candidate must be willing to relocate to a remote island off the coast of Washington state. Skills needed: typing, shorthand, writing and grammar skills, basic math, and a love of fiction.

Love of fiction? Well, if it wasn’t the exact description of me, I didn’t know what was. A frisson of excitement coursed through my body. Could this be the change I needed? I knew nothing of Washington state, other than it rained a lot there. Warm rain seemed preferable to my current situation. For in Washington, there was no Mr. Pitts. Here in Boston, there was no Mr. Pitts for me now that he’d fired me, I reminded myself.

Please, God, open this new door for me if it’s your will.
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Chapter 2

BENEDICT
The numbers swam around the page. I could not focus. Could not grasp anything I saw before me. My mind jumped from thing to thing and never landed back on the papers that covered my desk. I was in the wrong life. Born into the wrong family. Given the wrong job.

I could not make sense of the financial statement. Not me. A bird tweeted from a tree outside. By the window, dust danced in a streak of sunlight. Footsteps in the hallway outside the library drew my attention. Who could it be? Maybe Dexter bringing tea? My eyes dwelled next on the bookshelves, filled with stories I could barely read.

Why had Father done this to me? Several months ago, he’d been murdered coming home from his Friday night poker game. In an instant, everything had changed. I was now president of the company he’d spent his life building. Only now it would be destroyed because of my stupidity. I’d hated him most of the time, but I did agree with him. I was born an idiot, barely able to get through primary school, let alone run a company. Either of my brothers would have been the better choice. My sister would have been the best choice of all. Instead, in one final blow, he’d named me the president. The very last thing I’d have ever wanted.

A knocking pulled me from my tumbleweed thoughts. “Come in.”

Briggs, my youngest brother, poked his head around the door. “Have time for a chat?”

“Always for you.” My brother was home at last. No longer shunned. Now that my father was gone, he could stay here and paint instead of living as a refugee in Seattle. Father hadn’t wanted him to pursue his painting. He thought by kicking him out of the family that Briggs would come around. He underestimated my brother’s stubborn independence.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and plopped into one of the leather chairs. A quick glance at the clock told me it was mid-morning. “A little early, don’t you think?”

“Never too early for whiskey or women.” Briggs gestured with his glass in a mock toast. “Cheers. You’re looking as glum as I’ve ever seen you.”

“It’s all of this. What has he done to me?” I picked up a piece of paper and waved it at him. “Leaving this to me? Why wasn’t it Hudson?”

“I don’t know.” Briggs crossed one leg over the other. He’d been out with his favorite horse and was still in his riding attire, tan pants tucked into his tall boots and a long jacket with an ascot around his neck. Nice-looking, my brother, with his light chestnut hair and intelligent blue eyes. Like the best horse you’ve ever seen. Long legs and a lithe physique. I was more of a bull to his sleek Thoroughbred stallion. We looked nothing alike. I had almost black hair and dark blue eyes and was built wide and thick.

Another difference between us? Briggs was a charmer with the ladies whereas I could barely speak to any of them other than my sister and mother. Briggs had a wit, too—clever with a joke. Despite his outgoing personality, he never missed a detail. Visual talent, I supposed.

“The old man’s dead. I thought we could live in peace.” Briggs touched the scar on his forehead where our father had once smashed him into a wall. “But it seems he’s haunting us from the grave.”

“How’s he haunting you? You’re home now where you belong. Painting whatever you want instead of portraits of ugly rich men.”

“I meant the collective we. I’m always on your side.” Briggs grinned. “It’s always been you and me, brother. I’ll never let you down.”

“I know. As long as there’s not a woman involved,” I said, teasing.

“I’ve given up women. Haven’t I told you? They’re nothing but trouble.” One eyebrow shot up. “You won’t believe what happened to me last week.”

“I probably will believe it,” I said. “Knowing you.”

“It wasn’t my fault this time.”

Before he could tell me more, another knock on the door revealed Hudson. Surprised to see him, I stood. He rarely left his wing of the house these days. I watched him, looking for signs that he wanted to take my job. How I wished he would. If only he would insist on taking the helm of the family shipbuilding business and demand I leave it all to him. However, I saw none of that in his brown eyes. The Hudson he used to be would have wanted it. He’d been ambitious and interested in business. Until Rosemary died. After that, he seemed to care about little, keeping to himself like a dog licking his wound.

“Everything all right?” Briggs asked, standing as well.

The smallest of the three of us, Hudson took after our father in appearance, dark and compact. But the similarities stopped there. My brother was the studious type, quiet and steady, without a smidge of our father’s temper or cruelty. He’d never do to Bebe what Father had done to us. Well, to Briggs and me. Hudson and Ella had been spared the dungeon. That was only for the two misfits. The artist and the idiot.

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry to interrupt,” Hudson said. “But I was wondering if either of you have seen Bebe. She’s run off.”

Bebe. Another one of our family’s problems. A mischievous little demon in the body of an adorable five-year-old girl. Hudson’s wife, Rosemary, had died from influenza when Bebe was only a toddler. My brother was raising her alone, with some help from my mother. Lately, though, we’d all been distracted. The murder of our patriarch had consumed all of our thoughts. Which had made Bebe even more of a terror.

Just as I thought that, I saw her streak across the driveway, wearing her nightgown and boots. Even from this distance, I could see that her hair was tangled. What had happened?

“There she is.” I pointed out the window.

“The little beast,” Hudson muttered under his breath. “She refused to get dressed and then tricked me and ran away.”

“Tricked you how?” Briggs asked.

“She locked me in the bathroom.” Hudson’s thick eyebrows came together. “I’m not sure what to do about her. She’s gotten worse.”

“Since Father’s death,” I said. “I’ve noticed too.”

“I think she actually misses the bastard,” Hudson said. “Making her the only one who does.”

“Do you think we’ll ever know who killed him?” I asked.

“I saw Sheriff White when I was out earlier,” Briggs said. “He seems to think it was one of us.”

“Why? What did he say?” I asked.

“Just a feeling I got from him,” Briggs said. “More than anything he said.”

“I think it was one of the poker players,” Hudson said. “They all had reasons to want him gone.”

“Well, we’ll know eventually,” Briggs said. “And I didn’t do it, by the way.”

“Nor I,” Hudson said.

I didn’t say anything, too busy watching Bebe. “Look at this.”

The three of us gathered around the window. Bebe was now using a rake as a pretend horse, galloping toward the fountain that served as a watering hole for our horses. Her skinny bare legs were pink from the cold. “She’ll catch her death out there,” I said.

“I know,” Hudson said, sounding weary. “Mother thinks I should get a nanny. I agree, but where do you find one who could deal with that?” He tapped his finger against the glass.

Our Model T, driven by our sister, Ella, rumbled up the driveway. She parked. Obviously, she’d spotted Bebe and her pretend horse. She marched over to where the little girl was tilting the rake into the water. That made sense. Horses need water. I stifled a smile.

Ella, tall and strong like the rest of us, despite being of the female persuasion. Traipsing around the island on foot carrying her medical bag did that to a woman. She hauled Bebe over her shoulder and carried her across the driveway. Bebe kicked and flailed about, but she had no chance against her aunt. Soon, they disappeared, followed by the sound of the front door slamming.

“How is it Ella can do that, but I can’t?” Hudson asked. “I’m an utter failure.”

“Ella delivers cows in addition to human babies on a regular basis,” Briggs said, obviously trying to make Hudson feel better. “She’s used to beasts who wriggle.”


The next afternoon, having given up on work, I walked the crescent beach that ran along the bank of our property. Above me, the estate loomed white and pretty on the hillside. Drizzle dampened my face. The air smelled of Puget Sound. Today the water was as gray as the sky. Close to shore, fog floated just above the water like a loosely knit wool blanket. Beyond, though, I could see several of the sticking out of the water like the backs of turtles. Above me, several seagulls screeched in protest of something. Perhaps me?

Being outside usually cleared my mind, albeit briefly. Upon my return to the blasted desk, I would once again feel the tightness at my throat and the clenching of my belly. Unless a miracle happened, I was chained to the office now, struggling to make sense of a business I had no connection to, other than it had made my family very rich. I sighed and turned to go back to my prison.

Ella stood at the edge of the cliff. She lifted her hand to wave at me, and I did the same as I headed up the dirt trail to the lawn that overlooked the water. By the time I’d reached the lawn, Ella had moved to stand on the wide porch that ran the length of the house. I stomped up the stairs, grinning at the sight of my sister. She sat in one of the rocking chairs, and her dark hair had come undone and was flapping around her pink cheeks. My sister’s sapphire eyes and fair skin were stunning against her dark hair. She wore a plain skirt and blouse covered by a wool sweater. She’d been out all night, helping deliver Mary Smith’s third baby.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” I asked, leaning to kiss her cheek.

“I wanted some fresh air first.” She stifled a yawn behind an ungloved hand. My sister wasn’t much for formalities. “Mother wants to see you in the living room.”

My stomach clenched. What did she want now? To go over the numbers again? What purpose did that serve? I couldn’t make sense of any of it. All these numbers listed in a ledger that swam before my eyes. Why couldn’t I stay outside and chop wood? That’s what I’d done yesterday afternoon. The slight ache in my muscles reminded me that I’d perhaps overdone it.

“How is Mrs. Smith?” I asked, wrapping myself around one of the posts.

“She’s well. Fat baby boy. They named him Isaiah.”

“Nice name,” I mumbled, thinking of my mother waiting inside. “I should probably go in.”

“Yes, probably.”

“How did Mother seem?”

“A little better, I think. Not quite so pinched around the mouth,” Ella said. “But it’s hard to say with her, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” I excused myself and went into the house, taking off my coat and hat and giving them to Dexter, our butler of sorts. He was not a true butler, he often reminded me, because he was an American and not properly schooled in the ways of the English butler. Whatever we called him, he was indispensable to us, running the estate with an easy grace that I found bewildering.

“Your mother’s waiting by the fireplace,” Dexter said. “I had the cook brew a fresh pot of coffee, and she sent up some cookies as well.”

I smiled. Dexter knew how much I enjoyed sweets in the afternoon. “Thank you.”

Mother was sitting in her favorite chair by the fire. Our hearth was made from limestone imported from somewhere or other. Father never ceased to tell whoever was around the entire story. He’d loved to present himself as above everyone else. I’d cringed every time we had a new visitor who had to endure the tour around the house. Tours that took a while. There were two wings in either direction, with Hudson and Bebe taking up one end and my mother the other. Ella, Briggs, and I had rooms in the middle of the house, down the hall from our music room and the library, where I now worked. Father had spent a lot of time in Seattle, but much of the work could be done from here. It was my understanding that the manager in Seattle ran the factory well. He would have had to, or Father would have fired him. That gave me a little peace of mind, but not a lot.

Mother was dressed in black. A small, frail woman, she was still pretty despite being in her fifties. Too young to be a widow. Although in her case, it must be a relief. She no longer had to worry that her husband would hurt her for some small infraction.

“Dearest, come in.” She gestured toward the chair opposite hers. As promised, a coffeepot and a plate of cookies were on the table.

“Hello, Mother.” I kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Just fine.” She gave me a tentative smile.

I poured myself a coffee, grateful for the warmth, and sat. “Did you want to see me about something?”

She lifted her gaze to the fire and then over to me. “I have an idea.”

I braced myself. What was it? Had she convinced Hudson to take over the family affairs? That had to be it. She was probably worried I would lose our fortune. Humiliated and warm suddenly from shame, I told myself it was probably for the best. I was a failure. Father had been right to call me stupid. I’d never done anything to prove him wrong.

“Have you spoken with Hudson? Has he agreed to take my place?” I asked in a rush.

She shook her head before taking a sip from her coffee. “No, he’s not up to it. Sadness has him by the tail.”

I briefly closed my eyes, thinking about the house I was building for myself on another part of the island. It had been my plan to move away from this house and live how I wanted. Grow a garden and have a few animals. Just me. But now that Father was dead, I was needed here. For the time being, anyway.

“I think we should hire an assistant for you,” Mother said.

“An assistant? Like a secretary?”

“Yes, exactly. Someone clever with sums and who can write well. You can instruct them what to do, and they will carry it out.”

Again, my old enemy shame made me hot and flushed. She was right. It would solve a lot of problems. Namely, that I was totally incompetent. “What about our privacy?”

“That’s something we have to let go of, I suppose. If we hire the right person, it won’t matter.”

“Where do we find this secretary? No one on the island is qualified. That I know of, anyway.”

“I’ve engaged a clever staffing expert back in Boston. She’s written to me with a viable candidate for the position.”

“What? Already? You did it without speaking with me first?”

“I thought you might say no,” Mother said without meeting my gaze.

I breathed out, then set aside my coffee. “I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

“It’s not because you’re not capable.”

“But it is.”

“You’re going to do well. With a little help. The detail work can be done by someone else. Think of how freeing it will be. You won’t be tied to the desk all day. An assistant will take care of things and compensate for your little issues.”

“Little issues?” I barked out a bitter laugh. “They’re more than little. Regardless, I agree. I should have thought of it myself.”

“We’ve all been overwhelmed, dearest. None of this is your fault.”

This clever assistant would be my way out. He could do the work, and I would simply be the figurehead, steering strategy but without the headache of all the minutiae.

My mother withdrew her hand from the cookie plate, obviously changing her mind about a treat. “Mrs. Mantle—that’s the name of the woman back east—she said she thinks she can find the perfect person for us.”

“Will this ease your mind?” I asked.

“More than you can know. Not because I don’t believe in you, darling, but because I hate to see you frustrated and sad. This was supposed to be our new chance for happiness.”

“What was?” I asked.

“Your father’s death. Finally, we’re free. I don’t want us to waste another moment sad or afraid. All right?”

“Yes, Mother.” I reached over to take her hand in mine. “If you think this is best, then so do I.”

“There’s something else I want to tell you about,” Mother said, abruptly changing the subject. “In case something happens to me and so that you understand part of the financial picture before the assistant comes.”

“Mother, nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“I hope not. But I still think it’s wise that I keep you abreast of what I know. Your father had his thumb on more people than just his family. People who might have wanted him dead.”

“The poker players?” I asked. “What do you know?”

“Timothy Bains was run out of his church back east after a girl in the congregation accused him of taking advantage of her. He lost his wife and child over it. Roland said he was innocent and that he’d been framed. That’s why he offered him the position here.”

“That’s not a motive.”

“I suppose not,” Mother said. “Other than he might like to be out from under your father’s control. Roland told him what to do, and Timothy felt he had no choice but to do it. Even when it tested his morality.”

“As in?”

“Timothy has been responsible for keeping your father’s mistresses secret, including sneaking them here to the island on the boat.”

My stomach churned. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“It’s all right. I knew about them anyway.”

She went on to tell me that Caleb King, our teacher, had fallen in love with one of his students and been sent away. “Your father pays him a pittance, and he’s stuck here.”

Michael Moon, our dry goods owner, had embezzled money from his employer. “Roland gave him the shop to run but took fifty percent of the profits. The same is true for Matthew Goodwell. Your father took half of everything in exchange for giving him the pub when no one else would have taken a chance on him.”

“What did Goodwell do?” I asked. All these men were trapped by Father, just as I’d been as a child. Perhaps I still was.

“He was accused of burning down the bar he worked for. Roland said he was innocent. Regardless, your father helped himself to the profits.

“There’s Sheriff White, too,” Mother said. “Apparently, he’d fallen in love with a female prisoner accused of killing her husband and helped her escape. They’d not been able to pin it on him, but the damage to his reputation meant he was out of law enforcement in Seattle.”

“All in all,” Mother said, “these five men have something to gain from Roland’s death.”

“As I said to the sheriff the day we buried Father, there isn’t a person on this island who isn’t a suspect, including all of us.”

“Well, none of us did it.” Mother’s eyes widened. “You don’t really think any of us capable of killing, do you?”

“Not really. Regardless, it’s true that none of us are sad he’s gone.”

If Father had wanted to leave a legacy, he had done so. Only a murder mystery with a dozen suspects wasn’t what he had in mind. That I knew with certainty.

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