Then I did what any other self-respecting person would do in a situation like this: I started rationalizing.

Maybe you're not the only J on Solitude Island, I thought, quickly running through the names of everyone else in the household. Charlotte, Tag, Missy and Townie, Brock ... There was Jives, of course, also known as Jonathan. But somehow I got the feeling he wasn't the one this note was meant for.

The fact that everyone else turned to face me reinforced my conclusion.

I was slightly relieved that Gwennie decided to turn on her mock-c.o.c.kney charm, taking me out of the spotlight for at least a little while.

"Sorry to bring all o' you running up 'ere loike this," Gwennie said, her accent thicker and her voice even more shrill than usual. "I just come up 'ere to turn down the beds for the noight, like always. Then I saw this and it scared the livin' dayloights outta me. Oi didn't mean to scream."

"I don't blame you for reacting that way, Gwennie," Brock said, turning back to the horrible writing on the wall.

"Is that ... blood?" Missy asked, clasping her hands over her face.

"Blimey!" Gwennie scoffed. "If that's blood, I'm Camilla Parker Bowles! And if I was, I certainly wouldn't be married to that slimy blackguard 'oo makes even King Henry look loike a saint!"

"So it's not blood?" Missy's voice was a near whisper, but at least she was able to bring herself to peek out from between her fingers.

"Not from the looks of it," Gwennie exclaimed. "Not from the smell, either."

With that, she horrified absolutely everyone by running her index finger through the scarlet smear and sticking it in her mouth.

"Ew!" Missy once again covered her face with her hands.

"Good heavens!" Charlotte cried.

Even the men looked revolted. As for me, I instinctively buried my face in Max's fur.

"Ketchup!" Gwennie announced triumphantly. "Heinz, if you ask me. Full o' those nasty chemicals that are probably wot really did poor ol' Mr. Merrywood in, Gawd rest 'is soul!"

The fact that we were all once again in an escapade involving food wasn't lost on me. Scanning the faces, I realized that Cook hadn't bothered to race upstairs with the rest of us to see what the commotion was all about.

"Okay, everybody," Townie said, breaking into my thoughts. "Whoever did this made his point. Or her point. If it was one of you, I think I speak for the rest of us when I say that if this was meant to be a practical joke, no one is amused."

"And if it was meant to be a threat," Tag interjected dryly, "next time use something a little scarier than Heinz ketchup."

"This isn't funny, Tag," Charlotte insisted. "And I don't think this was meant to be a practical joke, although to be perfectly honest, I don't know what it was meant to be."

Turning to me, she added, "If it was meant for you, Jessica, I hope you won't think that I'm the one who doesn't want you here. The same goes for the rest of you--Betty, Winston, Nick, and even those lovely dogs of yours. You're all welcome here. I hope you can put this ridiculous business behind you. In fact, I hope we all can."

"Hear, hear," Brock mumbled.

"Why don't we all go back to the dining room?" Scarlett suggested. "I'm sure Cook has prepared a lovely meal, as usual, and it's a shame to let it all go to waste."

Personally, I wasn't in a hurry to eat anything Cook had prepared.

"Oi guess Oi'm the one 'oo'll be cleaning up this mess," Gwennie said with a sigh. "I 'ope this comes out of the wallpaper. It's silk, inn't it, Missus Merrywood?"

"Don't worry about it," Charlotte said vaguely. "Just do your best. And even though most of the walls in this house are indeed covered in silk, this isn't one of them."

"Good thing," Gwennie grumbled. "Otherwise Oi could scrub me fingers to the bone and it still wouldn't keep from stainin'."

The group and our canine entourage made its way back to the dining room, all of us moving considerably more slowly than we had while storming up the stairs. There were so many of us that we broke into smaller groups, with the members chatting among themselves. I still had Max in my arms, and my lovely loyal Lou was at my side. Nick, who's at least as loyal, immediately made his way over to me and put his arm around me.

"Are you okay, Jess?" he asked, his eyes clouded with concern.

"I'm fine," I said, even though I wasn't completely sure about that.

Betty and Winston came up on my other side.

"Jessica, Winston and I both feel absolutely terrible," Betty said, softly enough that the others couldn't hear. "We're the ones who got you into this in the first place. If you and Nick want to pack your things and leave right now, we won't blame you one bit."

Glancing over at Nick to make sure he agreed, I replied, "No, I'll stay."

"Really?" Winston said, sounding as surprised as he looked.

"You don't know Jessie as well as I do," Nick told him with pride. "Somebody telling her in no uncertain terms that they'd prefer it if she left is exactly the type of thing that makes her even more determined to stay--and to accomplish what she came here to accomplish."

He squeezed my hand. "And the fact that she won't let anyone bully her is only one of the ten million reasons I love this woman."

I smiled wanly. Not that I didn't appreciate Nick's loyalty. It was just that at the moment, I wasn't completely sure that opting to stay on Solitude Island was the right decision.

To be honest, if Lieutenant Falcone hadn't charged me with doing my own murder investigation, I might have taken this warning written in blood-red ketchup as my cue to leave.

But for the first time ever, he'd invited me to prove to him just how good I was at solving crimes, and that changed everything. In fact, his belief in me--or perhaps his determination to show me once and for all that I wasn't the sleuth I thought I was--made me unwilling to back down.

Even in the face of tomato-based threats.

I had trouble focusing on the conversation going on around me once we all sat back down to dinner. But it wasn't the message someone had written for me in pretend blood that kept me so preoccupied.

It was the realization that so far I'd been working pretty hard to find out all I could about other people in Linus Merrywood's inner circle, but I hadn't thought to find out what the man himself was really like.

True, I'd made plenty of a.s.sumptions about him, based primarily on what other people had told me. One interesting thing was that, even though he had a lot of money, he apparently hadn't been anxious to share it with his kids.

Then there was his love life. He might have been having a fling with his attractive young a.s.sistant. Or--just as likely--he was a loyal, loving husband to his wife, who had clearly adored him.

As I shoveled in spoonful after spoonful of vichyssoise--another dish Margaret had mastered--I obsessed about the kind of man Linus Merrywood really was. Aside from the way he'd conducted himself--or perhaps as a result of it--had he been the universally loved patriarch that people kept saying he was? Or had there been another side to him?

Maybe this house was filled with secrets, deceptions, and downright lies. But there was one person I was pretty sure would tell me the truth.

After dinner, Nick and I walked away from the dining room in silence. I was lost in thought, plotting my strategy for confronting Alvira--and hoping she'd be able to give me some insights into Linus Merrywood.

I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I did a double take when I found myself face-to-face with another senior citizen. Instead of Alvira, I was looking at Betty. Winston was right behind her. It would have been difficult to decide which one of them looked more distraught.

"I hope you're not too upset, Jessica," Betty said, reaching over and patting my arm comfortingly.

"That silly message on the wall was probably nothing more than somebody's idea of a practical joke," Winston added, "even though it was a very bad idea."

"I'm fine," I a.s.sured them. "Believe me, it takes more than a few smears of ketchup to scare me off."

"I'm sure that's true," Betty agreed. "But Winston and I still feel terrible that we dragged you into this."

"When we asked you to come to Solitude Island with us, we never dreamed that someone would threaten you," Winston said.

"Don't worry, you two," I insisted, draping my arm around Betty's thin shoulders and giving her a squeeze. "Actually, the whole thing is pretty funny, when you think about it."

Neither of them looked convinced. "We appreciate your bravery--and your determination," Betty said, hugging me back. "But, honestly, if you and Nick decide to pack up and just get the heck out of here, Winston and I would both understand--"

The ringing of the doorbell made the four of us freeze.

"Who could that be?" I asked, even though I already had a pretty good idea.

The others must have, too, since we all hurried toward the front hallway. We stopped right before we reached it, preferring to do a little reconnaissance before revealing our presence.

"Oh, dear," Betty whispered, peering through the doorway that separated us from the front hallway. "It's that horrid homicide detective again."

"Falcone," I said, the two syllables coming out like a groan.

Sure enough, when I did some peering of my own, I saw that Lieutenant Falcone was standing right inside the door. Even though he'd barely come into the house, he was already exhibiting his usual charm by scowling at Jives.

"I suppose it's a good thing that he's working on the case so hard," Betty commented softly.

"I'm sure he's doing everything he can to solve this," I whispered back. I couldn't resist adding, "Including calling in his experts."

I watched as Falcone stomped his feet loudly, all the better to splatter drops of rain over the marble floor, the walls, and even the ceramic urn. I hoped the sudden influx of moisture wouldn't cause whatever ancient material it was made of to dissolve.

"Sorry to bother everybody on a Sat.u.r.day evening," he told Jives, not sounding the least bit sorry. He thrust his arm out, handing over the wet raincoat he'd just peeled off.

"We're all glad that you and your staff are working 'round the clock," Jives drawled. Gingerly accepting the sopping garment and holding it as far away from his body as he could, he added, "I'll just hang this up. In a bawth-tub."

Glancing at the others, I said, "Let me talk to him alone."

"Gladly," Betty said. She turned and skittered away, dragging Winston along with her.

"Are you sure you don't want some moral support?" Nick asked. "I know this guy isn't exactly your favorite person."

That was certainly true enough. But tonight I had some solid information to share with him.

"Thanks," I told him, "but this is one time that Falcone is treating me with what could be loosely defined as respect."

Nick gave my shoulder a quick squeeze of encouragement, then dashed off.

"Docta Poppa," Falcone greeted me loudly as I stepped into the hallway. For a change, he looked genuinely pleased to see me.

"h.e.l.lo, Lieutenant," I replied. I realized that my heartbeat had suddenly sped up. While I had some information to share with him, I hoped the reason he was making a house call was to report that he'd found some important evidence of his own. Maybe even evidence that was important enough to identify Linus's killer.

"So what's wit' all this rain?" Falcone muttered, barely glancing at me as he angrily brushed a few remaining drops off the sleeves of his jacket. Not only was it a bad fit, it screamed polyester. "And what about that friggin' ferry? You'd think people who have this much money would build themselves a bridge!"

"Rough seas?" I asked politely, trying to hide my glee over the fact that the man had truly met his match in Mother Nature.

His response was a glare. "If the press wasn't still all over this, watchin' every move we make, I woulda sent somebody else in my place." Glancing around as if wanting to check that no one was listening, he added, "But I also wanted a chance to, y'know, check in wit' you. Whaddya got for me, Poppa?"

Plenty, I thought. I had a ne'er-do-well son with a couple of expensive ex-wives, a pa.s.sion for overpriced toys, and a serious gambling problem, and his baby brother, who was looking for a windfall to support his current fascination with beads. I had a seemingly loyal daughter who was secretly playing footsy with Daddy's right-hand man, trying to cover up her dalliance by lavishing undue amounts of affection on her husband.

I also had a cook who claimed devotion to her boss but as queen of the kitchen was the person who served the birthday cake that killed him. Two other servants, as well, who were in reality actors looking to make a financial killing. I had a personal a.s.sistant who went back and forth between playing the lady and the tramp with alarming facility, and a CFO who had started to doubt the number one man's ability to run the show.

The only problem was, I didn't have anything conclusive. And apparently Falcone didn't, either.

"I consider everyone who was in the house the night Linus died a suspect," I told him, after giving him a quick summary of everything I'd learned since his visit the day before. "The problem is, I haven't been able to figure out which one of them is the murderer."

Disappointment flashed across his face. "I was hopin' for more, Poppa. What about evidence? Any chance you uncovered somethin' the rest of us missed?"

I debated whether or not to tell him about Linus's diaries. But it took me only a second or two to decide to come clean. After all, whatever I might think of Falcone personally, he and I had the same goal: seeing Linus Merrywood's killer brought to justice.

"Has anyone mentioned Aunt Alvira?" I asked.

His puzzled look gave me my answer.

"She's Linus's sister," I explained. "She lives in the attic."

He stared at me. "You're kiddin' me, right?"

"Nope."

By this point, his expression had morphed into one of annoyance. "So what you're tellin' me is that we got another suspect, right in this house."

Actually, I hadn't even entertained the possibility that Alvira could be the killer. But while my gut told me she was innocent, I realized I couldn't completely discount her as a suspect. After all, she was one more person who had been in the house the night of the birthday dinner.

It dawned on me that I might have been terribly naive in not considering the idea up until now.

"Then I guess I got one more person to talk to," Falcone said.

The very idea filled me with alarm--until I realized that if there was one person who could hold her own against Anthony Falcone, it was Aunt Alvira.

"Alvira gave me the only real clue I've come up with," I noted.

"Which is?" he prompted impatiently.

"Apparently Linus Merrywood kept a diary throughout his life," I explained. "Alvira thought he might have written about something that was going on that could provide some insight into who might have wanted him dead--and why."

"And does it?" he asked.

"I ... I don't know," I had to admit. "I haven't been able to find it."

His beady eyes narrowed slightly. "This Alvira sounds like she might know somethin'. Maybe even more than she's lettin' on."

"Would you like me to show you to her room?" I offered.