"Ah. So Brock isn't quite the high-powered industrialist his father was," Nick observed.

"Neither is Tag," I said. "No one's mentioned what he does for a living, but I wonder if he does anything at all. Maybe Brock or Tag could have been anxious to get their hands on their inheritance sooner rather than later.

"Linus and Charlotte's daughter, Missy, doesn't have a career, either," I went on. "That is, aside from doing charity work--and being the reigning queen of preppydom. She has every accessory that goes along with it, from a Burberry headband and a Chanel purse to a self-important Wall Street-type husband who's really good at slipping into the conversation the fact that he went to Harvard."

"What about ambition as a motive?" Nick asked. "Are any of the three in line to take over Merrywood Industries now that Linus has pa.s.sed away?"

"No," I replied. "According to Winston, Linus was pretty disappointed that none of his children possessed the qualities he thought were required to fill his shoes. In fact, he hired Harry Foss to be his right-hand man in the hopes that he'd do the job when the time came."

Thoughtfully, I added, "Harry was here Wednesday night, which makes him a suspect, too. Especially if you factor in ambition as a possible motive. But I noticed something interesting about him: While everyone keeps talking about how Linus was the picture of health, he's the only one who said Linus was showing signs of aging."

"Maybe he simply wasn't in denial about Linus getting older, even though the members of the immediate family were," Nick suggested.

"Could be," I agreed. "But his comment also made me wonder if he was concerned about the way Linus was running Merrywood Industries. It's possible that could have led him to want Linus out of the picture."

At this point, Lou must have decided I wasn't doing a good enough job of petting him, because he went over to the other side and placed his chin next to Nick's hand. I took over Westie duty, while Nick automatically switched from Max's neck to Lou's.

"But the one thing everyone seems to agree on is that Linus was a truly wonderful person," I continued. "His a.s.sistant, Scarlett, for example, seems to have worshipped him."

Nick blinked. "Wait--go back. Did you just tell me there's someone named Miss Scarlet in this house?"

"Actually, it's Miss Sandowsky. But if you forget about her having a last name, then yes, there's a Miss Scarlett."

"And is there a lead pipe somewhere in the house?" Nick asked, grinning. "Or maybe a candlestick?"

I rolled my eyes. By this point, the Clue comparisons had become old hat. "Both, I'm sure. But despite Tag's rather cra.s.s speculation about what the real dynamics might have been between Linus and Scarlett, I have yet to come up with a motive."

"What about Linus's wife?" Nick asked.

"Charlotte?" I stopped short. "I suppose I have to consider her, too. After all, the spouse is always one of the first people real murder investigators look at. And her own son didn't rule her out. Still, it's difficult to imagine her being the killer."

"Because she's such a sweet person?"

"No, even though she seems to be exactly that," I replied. "It's because she seems to think the sun rose and set on Linus. Still, you're absolutely right. As the victim's wife, Charlotte definitely has to occupy a prime place on our list of suspects.

"So do the three servants, since they were all here that night," I went on. "Margaret Reilly, who's the cook and also happens to be called Cook, seems unlikely. She's been working for the Merrywoods for practically her entire adult life. She seems extremely committed to this family."

Nick rubbed his chin. "Something could have happened lately to make her a lot less committed."

"You're right," I agreed. "We can't rule that possibility out, though she seems to have won Falcone over. There are two other servants, as well: a creepy butler, who's not very good at b.u.t.tling, and a maid named Gwennie, who doesn't appear to be much better at her job. In fact, I doubt the woman has ever even heard of a dust rag, not to mention a vacuum cleaner."

"Still, being lazy doesn't mean someone is a murderer," Nick commented.

"No," I agreed. "But the simple fact that they were here that night means they're suspects. Which means I need to find out more about their relationship with Linus."

"Wow," Nick said with a deep sigh. "It sounds as if you and I really have our work cut out for us."

Gesturing toward the overstuffed nylon backpack he'd lugged into the bedroom and dropped into a corner, he added, "Or you have cut out for you. After all, you're the one who agreed to help figure this thing out. As for me, I've got exams coming up in a couple of weeks. That bag over there is filled with law books, and I intend to use this weekend to get some serious work done."

"As long as you can study by candlelight," I said. "The electricity in this place seems to go out at will."

"Oh, yeah?" Gently, he pulled me down so that we were both lying across the bed. "I could get used to that. Candlelight sounds pretty romantic."

He slipped his hand under my shirt.

"Got any plans for the next half hour?" he asked, his voice suddenly low and husky.

"I do now," I replied, wrapping my arms around his neck.

I only hoped that Aunt Alvira would stay put, at least for a little while.

Nick and I wasted no time in making it clear just how glad we were to see each other--even though we'd been apart for only one night. But then he reminded me of the pact he'd made with himself before coming to the island: that he'd do the same amount of studying he would have done if he'd stayed home.

I was only too happy to leave him with his law books. I also left Max and Lou behind to keep him company as I headed downstairs to do some more nosing around.

Given the long list of suspects--and the fact that I'd barely had the chance to get any one of them alone--I hoped I'd find at least one member of the Merrywood household who was willing to sit down and have a chat. So I was pleased when I wandered into the conservatory and found Brock sprawled across the couch, in front of the roaring fire.

Both Admiral and Corky lay beside him, stretched out on the floor and basking in the warmth of the flames. It seemed that, at least for now, they had both decided that Brock was the next best thing to their absent lord and master, Linus.

"Mind if I join the three of you?" I asked.

I offered Brock a friendly smile as I settled into an armchair that gave me a good view of both him and the fireplace. By that point the two dogs had come over to greet the newcomer. Corky's fluffy, curved tail wagged excitedly, while Admiral's was more like a windshield wiper on its lowest setting.

"Not at all," Brock said, barely glancing up. "But this gray weather is sapping all my energy, so I can't promise any scintillating conversation."

"It is pretty dreary out there," I agreed. "But that just makes sitting in front of a roaring fire that much nicer."

I reached down to pat both Admiral and Corky on the head. That, of course, increased the rate of tail-wagging, which in turn prompted me to give both dogs a vigorous neck-scratching.

I froze when my fingers made contact with something hard on Admiral's neck.

Frowning, I asked, "What's this b.u.mp on Admiral?" I was talking to myself, rather than to Brock.

But he pulled himself up and bent over the ba.s.set hound to get a better look. "I don't know what you mean."

"This lump, over here," I said, pushing back Admiral's fur so Brock could see.

"I don't know," he said, sounding concerned. "I don't spend enough time around here to know anything about his health. Aside from the fact that he's getting on in years and that he could afford to lose a few pounds."

"Let me see if I can get a better look," I said.

Admiral patiently allowed me to drag him across the floor until he was underneath a lamp. Fortunately, it turned out to be one of the few in that house that had decent wattage.

I examined the small b.u.mp, wishing I'd brought my medical equipment to the island. There are probably fifty different causes for the lumps and b.u.mps that frequently show up on dogs' skin. They can be as innocuous as a wart or a callus--or as dangerous as a melanoma or some other type of cancerous growth that requires surgery.

"What is it?" Brock asked anxiously.

"It's not easy to make a quick diagnosis," I told him. "Admiral should really have a biopsy, just to be safe. But don't get too concerned, since it's probably something that's not too worrisome."

I certainly hoped so. The Merrywoods might have their quirks, but they had enough to deal with at the moment. They didn't need an ailing house pet on top of everything else.

"Maybe you could get Admiral to a vet," I suggested. "I know you're not familiar with the area since you haven't spent much time here since you were a kid, but I can give you a few names."

"Thanks," Brock said.

I turned back to Admiral, wrapping my arms around his neck. It was hard not to hug a lovable, sweet-natured dog like a ba.s.set. "I think you'll be fine, Admiral," I told him. "But it's too bad I didn't bring my clinic-on-wheels."

"That's right, you mentioned that you have one of those mobile units," Brock commented. His concern over Admiral's health, however limited, had at least infused him with enough energy that he'd apparently come out of his catatonic state.

"Yup," I replied. "It has everything a regular vet's office has."

Thoughtfully, I added, "Almost everything. There are a couple of labs I work with that do some of the more complicated testing, and if I need special equipment--for a difficult surgery, for example--I have friends who make their facilities available to me."

"Cool," Brock said, nodding. "So you get to be on the move all day."

"That's right," I said. "Even though I live on the North Sh.o.r.e, in Joshua's Hollow, I travel all over Long Island, making house calls. My business is called Reigning Cats and Dogs. My practice is primarily for small animals, but I also treat horses."

"That sounds fantastic," Brock said, looking impressed. "Running your own business like that. I mean, you seem to be pretty successful."

I shrugged. "I've done well enough. But the main thing, at least the way I see it, is that I really love what I do."

"That's my definition of success, too," Brock agreed. "Doing what you love--and being able to make money at it."

"We actually have quite a bit in common, don't we?" I observed, still scratching Admiral's neck. "The most obvious thing is that we're both in business for ourselves. I run my veterinary practice and you have a jewelry business."

"True," he said, nodding.

"And I bet you're like me in that you'd rather concentrate on the part you love instead of worrying about keeping track of finances and marketing and filing taxes." With a rueful smile, I added, "That's the problem with pursuing your pa.s.sion. There are a whole bunch of other tasks that go along with it that aren't nearly as much fun."

"But if you're good enough at the thing that's your pa.s.sion," Brock noted, "you can make enough money to hire people to do the stuff you'd rather not waste your time on."

"Point taken," I agreed. "Actually, I hired an a.s.sistant just a few months ago. She doesn't have any training in veterinary medicine, but sometimes it's helpful simply to have an extra pair of hands--especially if they're attached to a really good brain. She's great at organization, like keeping track of my finances and laying them out on spreadsheets so they look impressive. But she's also terrific at tasks like redoing my schedule whenever some kind of crisis comes up. Somehow she manages to explain things to my clients without them feeling shortchanged." I sighed before concluding, "Overall, Sunny has turned out to be worth her weight in gold."

"Sunny?" Brock asked. "That's her name?"

"It's actually Sunflower," I said, chuckling. "But that name suits her parents' lifestyle much more than it fits who she is, so she came up with her own version."

"Sounds like the kind of people I'm surrounded with in Ma.s.sachusetts," he commented with a smile.

"Is that where you live?" I asked.

He nodded. "Amherst. Up there I'm surrounded by tons of New England charm, not to mention so many colleges and universities I couldn't begin to name them all."

"So you don't live in the New York area," I said, remembering that Betty had mentioned that one of the three Merrywood offspring lived elsewhere.

"Nope. Missy and Tag both still live in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side not far from our parents' place. But I've been living in Amherst since I was eighteen. I went to college there, then decided to stay after I graduated."

"What school?"

"Hampshire."

His choice of colleges seemed like a good match. Hampshire College was as well known for its freestyle atmosphere as it was for its slightly offbeat curriculum. In fact, that entire section of Ma.s.sachusetts struck me as a place where Brock would fit right in. As he'd mentioned, it was chock-full of first-rate colleges, including Amherst, Smith, and Mount Holyoke, along with an accompanying population of intellectuals ranging from nerds to free spirits.

"Hampshire turned out to be the perfect place for me, since it truly helped me find myself," Brock continued, almost as if he'd guessed what I was thinking. "The school specializes in interdisciplinary majors, instead of just offering single-subject majors the way most colleges do. I was in the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies. The students all design their own curriculum, so I was able to take a lot of studio art courses along with cla.s.ses in philosophy and psychology and a bunch of other fields that interested me."

"It must have been great to tailor your courses to your personality," I observed.

"It was," he said. "I really appreciate having had those four years to get to know myself better. And since then I've been lucky enough to find a group of similar-minded people to live with."

"Other Hampshire graduates?"

"No," he replied, "but people who are also motivated more by a search for fulfillment than by chasing the almighty dollar."

He hesitated before adding, "I live in kind of an experimental community called Cold Spring Farm." His tone had suddenly changed. I was pretty sure I detected an edge of defensiveness. "A bunch of us live cooperatively, meaning we split up a lot of the ch.o.r.es. We prepare and eat most of our meals together, we focus on living green, and we generally try to be supportive of one another rather than compet.i.tive. Quite a few of the people who live there are also artists, so we can bounce around ideas and just generally feed off one another's creative processes. All in all, I'm really happy with my living situation."

"It sounds as if a lot of that makes sense," I commented. "Especially the part about sharing dinner every night. It must be fun to eat with a big crowd. Sharing the cleanup isn't a bad concept, either."

Brock smiled, as if he was pleased by my approval of his chosen lifestyle.

"It's not only the practical stuff that appeals to me," he went on. "What matters even more is how good it feels to be part of a community. We're all pretty like-minded, so we focus on things that matter. The whole place is solar-powered, and we generate hardly any garbage at all, between composting and recycling and just shopping carefully. We also grow a lot of our own fruits and vegetables. That saves energy by cutting down on trips to the store."

At this point, Corky wandered back to him, probably because he feared Admiral was getting the bulk of my attention. Reaching down to pet him, Brock added wistfully, "But I'd still love to do something I really care about and make enough money to hire somebody like your a.s.sistant. I hate doing all the accounting and the day-to-day business stuff as much as you seem to. It would be so great to be free to spend all my time doing what I care about--which at this point is making jewelry."

I hesitated before saying, "This may not be any of my business, but it seems to me that your family is in a position to help you out a bit." Quickly, I added, "At least during the beginning stages of your new endeavor. I'd think your parents would have been happy to extend a loan--or even become investors."

Brock's lip curled. "You'd think, right? Unfortunately, neither of them ever had much faith in me."

"But your mother seems to think the world of you!" I exclaimed.

Still wearing a look of disdain, he said, "She does--but only in my role as the baby of the family. Since I'm her youngest, Mom seems to think I'm eight years old. But when it comes to believing in my ability to make a go of things ... Well, that's an entirely different story."

"What about your father?" I asked gently. "From everything I've heard about him, he seems to have been exceptionally generous."

"Ha!" Brock cried. "With other people, maybe. Not with his own kids. He believed we should learn to make our own way in the world. He was one of those parents who made us work for every nickel. If one of us wanted to buy a book or a CD--or even go to a movie with a bunch of friends--we had to do extra ch.o.r.es to get the cash.

"And not simple jobs like taking out the trash, either," he continued, his tone becoming increasingly bitter. "More like heavy yard work or even construction. One summer, when I was a teenager, I ended up building a new shed all by myself so I could make enough money to buy gas for my car--which of course I'd bought myself. Dad paid for the basics like food, clothing, and shelter. But we had to earn money for everything else we wanted--or needed." Scornfully, he added, "Dad called it teaching us the value of a dollar."

"But didn't that change once you all grew up?" I was thinking about Missy's love of designer duds. Since she'd mentioned herself that she was too busy doing charity work to bring in a salary of her own, I'd a.s.sumed that her ability to look as if she'd just stepped out of an ad was the result of her father's indulgence. Then again, it was possible that her husband was the one who footed the bills. He certainly looked the part of someone who was extremely successful.

As for Tag, I didn't know where he got the money to subsidize his hobbies. That car, for example.

"You'd think, right?" Brock replied. "Instead, my parents got even stingier. Especially with me. That was mainly because they never really 'got' me."

Sneering, he added, "My father used to say, 'Brock, you may be the youngest, but that doesn't mean you have to act young for the rest of your life.' Hearing that always made my blood boil. Even last weekend, when he and I had the same argument, we--"

He stopped suddenly, all the blood draining from his face.