Harbour Falls (A Harbour Falls Mystery #1)(80)

And, of course, there was also Jennifer Weston—another suspect. She certainly had her own demons and anger issues. That fact had been made clear throughout almost all of my limited interactions with her, particularly on the most recent ferry ride I’d shared with her. Apart from her veiled threats, it made me wary to know she was aware of private things pertaining to Adam.

Someone had told her, and based on her angry reaction that day on the ferry, I was fairly sure it had not been Chelsea. But someone had hinted at Adam’s sexual prowess in the bedroom. Who would know something like that? Someone who’d been with him sexually…or someone who’d known someone who had been intimate with Adam?



Jennifer had known about my high school crush on Adam, and there was only one person I’d ever divulged that information to: Ami Dubois-Hensley. Maybe she was the source of Jennifer’s information. But did that mean…God, no! My stomach churned at the thought of Ami ever having been with Adam. Though she certainly fit the bill of what his “type” had been prior to meeting me. Ami was beautiful, and she had long, blonde hair.

Hmmm, maybe he had slept with her. But Ami had all those mental issues, and I just couldn’t see Adam exploiting them by seducing her. Not to mention she was married. And she was his employee, which brought up a whole host of other potential problems. After evading an insider trading charge, surely a sexual harassment suit was the last thing Adam would have wanted.

No, if Ami had been the one to tell Jennifer those things, then she had heard them from someone else. I felt certain of this, but I wondered who would have shared that kind of information with Ami Hensley.

And how bizarre was it that she’d gone out to LA to contact my agent…and Julian? Telling them I was in danger here on the island. From what? From whom? Was Ami really trying to protect me? How much did she know? Did she have knowledge of what had happened to Chelsea Hannigan?

Good Lord! This whole thing was so confusing that a part of me wished something would surface to prove Chelsea had been the victim of some random stranger passing through town. But no, that wasn’t going to happen. There were too many suspects right here. And they all had motives.

And then there was the mystery blonde, the woman kissing Chelsea in the picture. She never came forward, so the likelihood she held some kind of pertinent—and probably damning—information was very high. I needed to find her so I could question her. She had to know something, especially if she’d known Chelsea, well, intimately. But Jimmy hadn’t recognized her as someone who frequented the bar. He said she’d been there only a few times, and always with Ms. Hannigan. Who was she?



A blonde mystery woman…

For a fleeting moment, I considered Helena. But how crazy and unlikely would that be? She was my friend now, and why would someone wishing to remain anonymous be so forthcoming with so much information? Almost a little too forthcoming, a little voice whispered in my head. And Helena’s alibi was less than ironclad. But Helena and Chelsea? Did I really want to start down that path? It was just too outlandish. She’d never do something like that to Adam. And she’d definitely not hurt Nate; she clearly loved him too much.

Adam was probably correct—the mystery blonde would turn out to be just some random Harbourtown resident Chelsea had hooked up with. Maybe.

I still felt the picture held the key to solving this whole thing. Adam had dismissed its significance, but I wasn’t so convinced it was useless. Whoever was in that photograph had miraculously managed to avoid suspicion for far too long. And as far as I was concerned, it was up to me to make sure that no longer remained the case. Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that damn picture.

And here I was again, rehashing the facts as I knew them in my head. Clearly it was time for a diversion. I dumped my cereal down the disposal, gave it a whirl, and put my bowl in the sink. Next I took the eggplant Parmesan out of the freezer and plopped it onto the counter with a resounding thud. There.

Even though it was dreary out, the rain had stopped, and the temperature was mild. I should get out and enjoy the day, I thought. Sitting around here was just making me crazy, and for the love of God, I was sick and tired of cooking. Cooking hadn’t helped, but maybe a little exploration here on the island would “clear” my head.



I had yet to check out the heavily forested, mostly impassable, east side of the island. The car would be useless, but hiking on a mild October afternoon like this one sounded like a welcome respite. So I laced up my hiking boots, smoothed out my jeans, and tied a light jacket around my waist in case the thin sweater I had on proved inadequate.

After grabbing a bottle of cold water out of the fridge, I left the cottage and started north. This time I stayed off the trails and stuck to the paved main road. It was the most direct route anyway, and I soon reached the western boundary of Adam’s property.

In Adam’s absence Max was spending time patrolling up here, just generally keeping an eye on things. I’d seen him drive by my cottage in his dark green Hummer a number of times over the past several days. I figured Adam was behind all the surveillance. It seemed silly and overdone to me, because the few residents who were on the island were Adam’s trusted friends. But I supposed it was the individuals who traveled back and forth on the ferry, and their possible passengers, he was distrustful of.

I continued along the edge of the road as it curved past Adam’s driveway. I now knew the long, winding lane—wider now that the undergrowth had died out in the changing season—split off in two directions a few hundred yards ahead. One lane led to Adam’s house and the other to a set of garages where his other vehicles—more sports cars and a black Range Rover that was mainly used in the winter—were kept.