They spent the night at the only bed-and-breakfast that was open – the Harbor Inn. It overlooked the bay and the town’s small marina.
Fortunately, Cabot’s SUV had been parked several yards away from the Lost Island B and B. Some of the paint had been charred, but the car had survived the blaze, and so had the overnight bags stashed in the back. Virginia had never been more grateful for clean underwear and a change of clothes.
The owners of the Harbor Inn were a middle-aged married couple from Seattle. The two men, Barney Ricks and Dylan Crane, wore matching gold rings. There was a wedding photo on the wall behind the front desk that showed the couple dressed in elegant tuxedos, smiling with joy.
The picture of the glowing newlyweds sent a little whisper of wistfulness through Virginia. All wedding photos had that effect on her. They reminded her that her own chances of establishing a home and having a family were slim at best. She countered the sentiment the way she always did – by recalling the divorce statistics.
Barney and Dylan were solicitous and did not so much as blink when Cabot requested two rooms with a connecting door on the second floor. After a warm, comforting meal of homemade lasagna and a salad of organic greens, they offered sherry in the parlor.
The sherry was accompanied by a lot of questions and some interesting gossip.
“Word on the island is that Rose Gilbert was probably deep into the drug business,” Barney said. “The theory is that one of her competitors took her out.”
Barney was a slender man who was going bald in a sleek, elegant fashion. His husband was on the solid, well-built side, with a closely trimmed beard and a friendly, outgoing manner that was well suited to an innkeeper.
“Pretty spectacular way to get rid of the competition,” Cabot said.
“We couldn’t help but notice that whoever wired the house to explode waited until Cabot and I were inside,” Virginia added.
Barney frowned. “Good point. Any chance someone other than you two got caught in that fire?”
“There was no one else in the house,” Cabot said. “Not unless he was hiding up on the top floor, which was closed off. But I don’t think so. When we got out, we did hear someone driving away, though.”
Dylan looked intrigued. “Did you see the car?”
“No, unfortunately,” Cabot said. “Sounded like something small, though.”
“Heading toward town or the other way?” Dylan asked.
“That,” Cabot said, “is a very good question. Whoever it was did not drive away down the main road toward town. It sounded like he was going in the opposite direction. It will be interesting to see who gets on the ferry tomorrow afternoon.”
“Don’t count on seeing the car that belongs to the guy who torched the B and B,” Barney said. “This is a pretty big island and most of it is covered in forest. Plenty of places where someone could ditch a car or even push it over a cliff into the water.”
“Still, it seems likely that whoever set the fire would want to get off the island as soon as possible,” Virginia said.
“Sure. But there is another way off this island,” Dylan said.
Cabot looked at him. “By boat?”
Dylan nodded, his expression grim. “Right. A lot of people who live here have their own boats. Some of the regular visitors who come for long weekends do, too. After we heard about the explosion, Barney and I walked around the marina. Didn’t see any boats missing. But there are a lot of private docks scattered around the island. They mostly belong to people who only come here during the summer.”
Cabot nodded thoughtfully. “So you could steal or rent a boat from a marina on the mainland, bring it in to a private dock here on the island and then steal a local vehicle to drive to the Lost Island B and B to torch the place.”
“Sure,” Barney said. “Doubt if you would even need to hot-wire the vehicle. People here on the island usually leave their keys in the car.”
Virginia looked at him. “Can you tell us anything at all about Rose Gilbert?”
Barney lounged deeper into his chair, stretched out his legs and sipped his sherry. “Dylan and I had a few conversations with Rose Gilbert about the B and B business but she never seemed interested in taking our advice. We got the feeling she didn’t plan to stick around for long.”
“Did she tell you that Abigail Watkins was her half sister?” Virginia asked.
Barney and Dylan exchanged startled looks.
“No,” Barney said. “She never mentioned that. Just said she’d bought the place from Abigail and that the deal was finalized shortly before Abigail died.”
“Turns out that’s not true,” Cabot said. “From what we can tell, Rose just moved in after her half sister’s death and took over the business.”
“There wasn’t that much business to take over,” Dylan said, “not at this time of year. After Abigail got very ill, she couldn’t handle a lot of guests. Over time most of her regulars began making reservations with us.”
“Rose Gilbert did have a few guests from time to time,” Virginia pointed out. “I stayed there on a couple of occasions whenever I came to see Hannah.”
“Gilbert occasionally took in tourists off the ferry, but aside from you, there was only one person who stayed at her B and B whenever he visited the island,” Dylan said. He paused. “Now that I think about it, he drove a small car. Nothing special. Looked like a rental.”
“How would you describe him?” Cabot asked. “Young? Old?”
“Young, early to midtwenties,” Dylan said. “Never saw him up close. He didn’t spend any time in town. When he arrived he just drove straight off the ferry and went directly to Rose’s place.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know if he was on the island the night that Hannah Brewster died, would you?” Virginia asked.
Dylan seemed surprised by the question. “He was here. In fact, he was the only guest at Rose’s that night.”
Virginia sensed the sudden stillness that had come over Cabot.
“You’re sure of that?” he asked. “Because Rose distinctly told us she had two couples staying at the B and B that night.”
“I’m sure there was just the one guest,” Dylan said. “I know that because I was part of the search team that looked for Hannah the next morning. I stopped by the Lost Island B and B to ask Rose if she had seen Hannah. She said no. She didn’t want to talk. Said she had to get back to making breakfast for her guest.”
“One guest,” Virginia said. She looked at Cabot. “A man in his early to midtwenties.”
Cabot’s mouth tightened. She knew he was thinking the same thing that she was thinking. Rose’s guest might well have been a killer, but he was far too young to be Quinton Zane.
“One thing we do know about Rose Gilbert,” Cabot said quietly. “She lied to us.”
Dylan reached for the sherry decanter. “I can give you another small fact – Rose’s one and only guest left on the ferry the day after the fire. I saw him drive his car on board.”