Green was not Tilly’s color, and she was in serious doubt over the choice to name her butt-kicking, ballsy commander with it. Considering Tilly probably looked like a hungover Kermit the Frog, she’d be quite happy to never, ever type the word green again. Green, or mustard yellow, or even the vile shade of orange from the carrot salad she’d had for a late lunch at the airport.

The Stewart Island ferry wallowed into another trough and Tilly’s empty stomach rolled with it. Empty—because she’d already humiliatingly hurled up her salad, breakfast, and probably last night’s Thai dinner shared with her friends—and, oh dear Lord, why had she stubbornly refused the white paper bag until it was too late? Her white capri pants, which now only bore traces of mustard yellow since she’d managed to remove the carrot chunks with a whole purse pack of tissues, would never be the same.

Tilly kept her gaze locked on the Oban wharf which had just come into view, and away from the other passengers who no doubt blamed her as puke-fest patient zero. Not guilty. She was pretty sure the kid two rows in front of her barfed first. Anyway. Guess the Auckland Harbor dinner cruise she’d been on a couple of times didn’t count toward having sea legs. Who knew?

Small mercies that having already collected the house keys from Aunt Mary’s lawyer’s office in Invercargill she’d be out of these stinky pants and into a hot shower in no time.

Finally the ferry docked and Tilly collected her two suitcases, dragging them along the wharf to the main road. She spied a small grocery store, and checking both ways for traffic—spoiler: there wasn’t any—parked her two suitcases just outside the store. Two cute-as-a-button girls in jeans and flip-flops sat on a wooden bench. The dark, curly-haired one counted out coins in her friend’s palm.

“Hi, girls,” Tilly said. “Would you mind watching my bags while I do a quick shop?”

The girls exchanged glances, and the one with her brown hair tied in pigtails closed her fist over the coins. “One dollar per bag,” she said.

“For each of us,” said Curly Hair. “So we can buy ice creams.”

“Businesswomen, huh?” Smothering a smile, Tilly dug into her purse and found a couple of two dollar coins. “I can respect that.”

She held the coins over the girls’ outstretched palms and twisted her lips. “Hmmm. Maybe you better tell me your names in case you turn out to be con women instead of businesswomen and I have to call the police.”

Pigtails laughed and nudged Curly Hair. “I’m Jade Harland and this is Zoe, who used to be Zoe Murphy but then her mum married my dad and now we’re sisters.”

“Hi,” said Zoe. “Nice to meetcha, and BTW, the only police here is our Aunty Piper and she doesn’t work for the police anymore because she’s married to West, and they have a little girl called Michaela who is sooo cute”—Zoe whooped in a deep breath—“and Noah. Noah does work for the police and he’s a friend of our dad’s which means he’s pretty nice—”

“And he knows us,” Jade said earnestly. “He can tell you that we’re trustworthy.”

Tilly dropped the coins into their hands. “I believe you. My name is Tilly, so now we all know each other. I won’t be long and then you can point me in the direction of a taxi stand.”

Tilly ducked inside the store, loaded up a shopping basket with a few essentials to last her until tomorrow when she’d assess what else she’d need, and had her purchases rung up. A plastic bag in each hand, she stepped out of the store to see a big guy in coveralls chatting with the two girls.

Zoe waved her over. “This is our friend Ford.”

“Hey,” he said. “My little mates were telling me you needed a taxi.”

“Or an Uber,” she said. “I need to get to Weka Street.”

The three of them exchanged conspiring glances and grins.

“There’s no Uber in Oban,” said Ford. “But I can run you up to Weka Street, no worries. I’ll fit you in with some of the other tourists booked in for a ride to their B&Bs.”

“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

Ford rolled a massive shoulder and bent to pick up both her cases, grimacing as he stood with them. “Must be some holiday you’ve got planned, lady.”

Without waiting for her reply, he strode away from them toward a sign-painted van. Tilly said goodbye to the girls and hurried after him. After stowing her cases in the back, he slid open the van’s back door—Due South’s van, according to the signwriting, though Tilly had no idea what Due South was—and she scrambled inside to the back row of seats. Ten minutes later Ford had a carload of laughing, chattering tourists, and he pulled away from the grocery store.

Tilly was the last one in the van after they stopped at a B&B at the end of one of the hilly roads overlooking Halfmoon Bay Harbor.

“Come sit up front,” Ford said when he returned from lugging the single woman’s hiking backpack up to the B&B for her. “Otherwise I’ll feel like a bloody chauffeur.”

“Um, I’m wearing eau de seasickness, I’m afraid.” She climbed up into the passenger seat beside him. “I’m a bit whiffy.”

“You smell fine. At least, no worse than me and my eau de mechanic grease.” Ford grinned over at her.

If it wasn’t for the shiny gold band on his left hand, Tilly might have hoped he was flirting to make her feel better. It’d been a while since a guy had, and she was a smidgeon out of practice. Pointing out she smelled like vomit probably wasn’t a great line, so thank goodness the cutie beside her was taken.

They made polite small talk as Ford drove back the way they’d come. Past the kids’ playground situated next to the beach. Past the old school and a classic New Zealand country hotel-pub- restaurant. This was Due South, she’d learned via Ford’s commentary as they’d driven by earlier. Back past the scattering of little shops, a gallery/gift shop and a hair salon, and the wharf, the ferry still docked waiting for the next load of passengers to board.

But the greenery, oh my goodness, the hills of native bush behind the little town in every imaginable shade…it was like an alien landscape compared to Tilly’s natural habitat of concrete and steel and if you wanted green, hey, there was Victoria Park or the Auckland Botanical Gardens.

“Bit different from where you’re from, eh?” Ford asked as he turned into the signposted Weka Street. “Auckland, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” She shot her driver a narrowed glance. “Should I be worried about a Sasquatch or a T-Rex coming down from the hills for a human snack?”

“Might pay to keep your wits about you,” he said. “What’s the house number again? You’re staying with friends?”

“No, not with friends.” Tilly hadn’t had time to elaborate on her final destination, and dammit, her purse with the address was on the back seat. “I can’t remember the number, but it’s the Southern Seas B&B. Do you know it?”

Ford’s eyebrows popped up above the wraparound shades he’d slid on when he started driving. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but the owner of Southern Seas passed away last year. You can’t stay there.”

“Mary Duncan was my great-aunt,” Tilly said. “I’m here to sort out her estate.”

For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to admit the rest of her plans for Mary’s B&B. She might not know much—or anything—about small-town country life, but she suspected a stranger showing up to clean out a dead woman’s house ready for sale probably wouldn’t go down well.

“That’s different, then.” Ford pulled up beside a split-level house. “Everyone’s been wondering where Mary’s relatives were. Guess you’re it.”

“Yep.” Before she got dragged into any more of an explanation, she climbed out of the van and slid open the back door. She grabbed her purse and dug the property keys out from it.

“Really appreciate the ride,” she added as Ford hauled her two suitcases out and carried them to the front porch.

“Any time,” he said.

He waited while she fumbled with the keys and found the right one to unlock the door, then he transferred her cases and shopping bags into the foyer.

“Leave you to it, eh?” he said. “Maybe see you at the Easter Gala. It’s a big event around here. Everyone’s going. See ya.”

He jogged back to his van and drove away.

Tilly spun in a slow circle on the hardwood floor. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined most of the hallway, every inch of them crammed with books, knickknacks, and a thick coating of dust. She sneezed and grabbed the two shopping bags, heading along the hallway to where a dining table edge peeped out from behind a doorway.

Aunt Mary was something of an eclectic magpie, Tilly decided as she placed her shopping bags on the kitchen counter. More dust coated the surfaces, and the whole house had a musty, unlived-in smell. She cast a look back over her shoulder toward the front of the house where she’d been told Aunt Mary had been discovered in her living room. She sucked in a deep, shuddery breath at the thought of the elderly lady dying alone, and sneezed again. Dammit.

She shoved open two windows above the kitchen sink, which as a split-level home overlooked the sloping roof of the rooms below. Then she cracked open another window next to the back door, hooking it on the widest security setting. A breeze swept inside, stirring over her face and smelling of sea and sun-warmed earth. Different than exhaust fumes or the spicy aroma of curry from the convenient restaurant two doors down from her city apartment. Different, but nice. And if she started with getting the kitchen and one of the bedrooms wiped clean of dust after her shower, she’d have a liveable space until she could get stuck in cleaning properly.

Tilly dragged her suitcases into a spare room with a double bed she’d discovered after opening and closing a single bedroom, a bathroom complete with a claw-foot bathtub, a laundry room, and the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made with a seashell-print comforter and her aunt’s things still on her mirrored dresser. Silly to get a lump in her throat over a woman she barely knew, but still.

She found bath towels stacked on a shelf beside the bathtub and almost screamed “Eureka” when hot water blasted out of the shower. Ten minutes later she was once again clean, with fresh panties on, and a fluffy towel wrapped around her while she towel-dried her hair.

A muffled crash, followed by a weird shriek, came from somewhere on the other side of the bathroom door.

Oh, poopballs! Someone had broken into Mary’s house. Pranking kids? Or burglars? Looters? Antiques dealers hoping to find something of value among her aunt’s knickknacks?

Tilly cracked open the bathroom door, spied an umbrella in a hallway stand, and lunged for it. She raced toward the kitchen, with the business end of the umbrella ready to shove up an unsuspecting thief’s butt.

Only the kitchen was empty.

Her gaze whipped over the countertops, fridge, oven, and finally the dining table, where ripped plastic bags were now spread across the surface.

Huh?

An indignant squawk came from floor level. Two plump, greenish parrotlike birds fought over a trail of lettuce leaves, cucumber slices, and cherry tomatoes, which were rolling around, knocked by their scrabbling claws. Upside down on the floor was the split-open plastic container her premade green salad had come in.

“That’s my dinner!”

The birds—whatever they were—paid her not the slightest attention and continued to squabble and flap. Then Tilly discovered two more feathered criminals. One attacked her loaf of bread, and the other squatted over one of the golden peaches she’d bought for dessert, pecking a giant hole in the flesh and gorging its thieving little heart out.

“Hey!” Tilly stomped barefoot around the dining table toward the birds. One of the salad thieves flapped up to the kitchen sink where he squeezed out the open window and flew away.

“Out, out, out!” She rattled the umbrella at the other three feathery little monsters, but they just waddled away from her, their birdy claws scrabbling on the floor.

Tilly reached the back door and flung it open. Circling around the dining table, she let out a rebel yell, herding them with her umbrella toward the exit. Two of the birds waddled faster and eventually swooped out the door, but the third—the ringleader, Tilly suspected—took his sweet time. She followed it out the back door onto the small landing and he flapped up to perch on the railing, giving her a filthy what’s your problem, lady? avian glare.

Tilly fisted her hands on towel-covered hips and got within spitting distance.

“Next time you break into my kitchen I’ll turn you into hot wings. You’ve been warned.”

The bird turned on the charm with the funny drunken waddle he and his pals must have perfected to con tourists for lunch scraps. Okay, it was kinda cute but—

A gust of sea breeze swept around the corner of the house, tingling over her still-damp arms and shoulders, and slamming a door shut.

Uh-oh. Tilly slowly turned her back on the strutting bird. Yup. It was the back door that slammed.

Keeping one hand clamped to the towel tucked in above her breasts, she ran to the door. Dammit to hell, it was locked. And unless she magically shrunk to green-bird size, she wasn’t fitting in through any of the kitchen windows.

The cocky hoodlum had the last laugh as it gave one more squawk and flew away, disappearing into the trees.

With Peter safely home sans his car keys, Noah headed back into town. A quick check of his watch—past quitting time—and he turned off the main road into Weka Street. He was about to pull into his driveway when a flash of movement in the garden two houses up from his caught his eye. He tapped the brakes, slowed, and tried to see through the gaps in the property’s trees for another glimpse. There it was again. Something pale blue and disappearing around the corner of the late Mary Duncan’s house.

Noah completed the turn into his driveway and parked, starting a useless debate with himself whether it was neighborhood kids goofing off or a petty crime about to take place. Had he still been in the city, the adrenaline would’ve pumped through his system because he could be walking into something worse than a potential break-in or act of vandalism in an empty house. Petty stuff made up ninety percent of his job in Oban, and Noah bloody well liked it that way.

He covered the distance between his house and Mary’s with an unhurried gait. A fat kākā perched on his direct neighbor’s fence, preening its khaki-colored feathers and pausing only to give him a got any food, mate? beady-eyed stare. Some days the Stewart Island wildlife gave him more headaches than the locals.

Stopping on the sidewalk outside Southern Seas, Noah scanned the neatly mown lawns that he and some of the other neighbors had been maintaining. Nothing seemed out of place. He continued down the driveway, along the side of the house to the back of the property where the three rentable rooms were located. He cupped a hand to the glass sliding door of the first one and looked inside. A neatly made queen bed had a seal-print duvet cover, and the rest of the room was decorated with every imaginable type of seal/sea lion-themed decor. Mary’s diabolical sense of humor in action. He moved on to the second room—shark themed—and third room—whale themed—to check. Empty and undisturbed.

“Where are you, you stinking douchenozzle of a key?” a feminine voice said from around the corner of the house.

Noah’s heart didn’t exactly leap into his throat, but it gave a jolt and caused him to freeze for a beat or two.

Female. Sounded mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Pissed off was a given. Looking for Mary’s spare house key, likely. Reasons, unknown.

Treading quietly along the concrete path, he edged toward the corner and eased his weight sideways, peering around it. He froze, still in an awkward bent angle, trying to process everything in front of him instantly.

Definitely female. Bent at the waist, picking up rocks and looking under them. Continuing to curse. Long, dark-brown hair hanging over her face. Shapely butt cheeks dotted in goose bumps, with a pair of panties that only just covered the essentials.

And she wore a pale blue towel.

Not the usual lowlife type that would attempt a B&E, if one were to judge a book by its cover. Or in this case, if the cover was showing the sexy-as-hell rear view of a woman. Since the odds of a blue towel concealing a weapon were pretty slim, Noah stepped around the corner, his black leather boots scuffing on the path.

A shrill, cat-caught-in-a-sliding-door shriek split the air. She whirled in a half crouch, one hand holding the towel in place, the other angled in a kung-fu position. Her face scrunched in fight-or-flight mode, the curves of her breasts pushed up against her white-knuckled fist, and the tangle of hair around her bare shoulders made her look both fierce and fragile at the same time.

Aware of the availability of a number of loose rocks nearby that could be used to brain him, Noah held out a palm and set his facial expression to good cop. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The woman did a quick traverse of him from his boots to his standard blue uniform pants and light-blue shirt with the New Zealand Police insignia on the sleeve. She straightened, dropping the kung-fu hand to rejoin her other keeping the towel in place.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she said.

Her gaze skipped upward from his chest level. Bold, curious, and clear hazel eyes met his. She had a girl-next-door prettiness with a fringe of long lashes framing her eyes and the kind of naturally fuller lower lip that gave her mouth a just-kissed pout. Her nose crinkled again.

“Actually, it is what it looks like.” She tipped her head to the side, in the direction of Mary’s back door. “I got locked out.”

He followed her head tip with a nod of his own. “Of this house?”

As opposed to some guy’s house in an evening walk of shame. But as much as she didn’t seem to fit the profile of opportunist thief, neither would any sane male kick her out of his bed.

“Yes, this house,” she enunciated slowly. “It’s my great-aunt’s.”

Was it a criminal’s lucky guess that the house was owned by a woman, or was she telling the truth? He folded his arms, planted his feet hip distance apart and gave her the bad-cop eyeball. “State your full name and current address. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Two long beats passed in which the woman’s neatly shaped eyebrows rose and her shoulders straightened. “Matilda Rose Montgomery,” she said, then rattled off an Auckland address. “I can’t show you my driver’s license at the moment as it’s inside, but you can frisk me if you like.”

Laughter lines creasing her eyes gave away her amusement.

“That won’t be necessary.” But it was tempting. “I think it’s safe to assume you’re not a hardened criminal.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

Noah’s jaw ached with the effort of keeping a straight face. “Are you trying to get arrested, Matilda?”

“No. Sorry, Officer! But if we’re going to continue this conversation while I’m standing here freezing my boobs off, you should probably call me Tilly. And if you’re going to arrest anyone, it should be those stinkin’ birds that locked me out of Mary’s kitchen.”

“Birds locked you out?”

She narrowed her pretty hazel eyes at the house. “Yes, birds. I caught a flock or gang or whatever a group of them are called of those big greenish birds ripping into my groceries after I’d had a shower.”

“Ah. They’d be kākā.” The open windows of Mary’s kitchen above him caught his eye. “You can’t leave windows open around here without screens covering them. They’ll take any opportunity to stage a raid.”

“I chased a bunch of them outside and the door blew shut. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes looking for my aunt’s spare key.” She huffed out a sigh and her breasts wobbled dangerously.

Noah averted his gaze even though his attractive-female-cleavage alarm was going nuts, took a wide sidestep around Tilly, and headed up the path toward the back door. He reminded himself with an internal face-shove away from her that although he was off duty, he wasn’t Officer Douchebag about to hit on what he’d begun to believe was a genuine ‘oops’ moment.

“Mary’s your great-aunt?” he asked, climbing the steps onto the landing.

“Yes. On my dad’s side.”

The sound of her soft padding footsteps on the wood right behind him prickled down his spine. He flicked a glance through Mary’s kitchen window, and sure enough, there were groceries scattered all over the dining table.

“I only met her a handful of times growing up because she and my mum didn’t get along,” Tilly continued. “But when I was older, we saw each other a little more. Once she came up to Auckland and took me to a theme park. We went on all the scariest roller coasters together.”

Noah rattled the door handle and gave the door a testing shove with his shoulder. Nope, it didn’t budge. She really had locked herself out.

“I already tried that.”

Noah allowed himself a quick grin since the woman huffing indignantly behind him couldn’t see it.

“Sometimes Mary’s back door sticks. I was just checking to make sure it was really locked.”

“It’s really, really locked,” she said. “And you knew Mary?”

“I did.” He crouched down and lifted the sea-lion-themed welcome mat. No key.

“First place I looked, and a pretty dangerous spot to stash a spare key.”

“Not in Oban. Knowing Mary, it could be hidden anywhere now.” He stood and half turned to find her leaning against the deck rail, her arms wrapped around her upper body.

“Perfect.” She gave a full-body shiver and grimaced. “Well, thanks for trying. Any other ideas?”

“Yeah. But you’re not going to like it much.” He chuckled, the first laugh he’d had that day.

Who said life here was boring?