Bitter Sweets

erected a huge pavilion that was filled with tables full of children doing crafts: finger painting, clay modeling, and miscellaneous projects with popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and Elmer’s glue.

    Vanessa was equally easy to locate. With her purple hair and exceptional height, she was distinctive. Although, this time it wasn’t the color of her hair that Savannah noticed first. It was the expression on her face.

    She sat on a stool in the corner of the tent, a paintbrush and palette in hand. A line of children waited for her to decorate their faces with stars, moons, green cheeks, red noses, or a rainbow across their forehead.

    Savannah couldn’t remember seeing anyone more happy, more completely content.

    Vanessa was laughing and chatting with the kids, who complained of the brush “tickling.” Wearing a simple white tee shirt and jeans, she bore little resemblance to the black leather, chain-toting motorcycle mama at the Shoreline.

    The boy she had been working on was finished, and the next in line was a young girl who looked very much like Christy in fair complexion, long red hair, and dainty demeanor. She wore a pink-and-lavender crown of sparkling glitter and ribbon streamers.

    Savannah recalled what Zelda had said about Vanessa adoring Earl’s daughter. She waited, wondering if Vanessa would notice the similarity.

    “And what do you want me to paint on your face, little princess?” Vanessa asked. “How about a nice fat toad with warts and everything?”

    “No! I want something pretty!”

    “You do? How boring. How about a unicorn?”

    “That would be great! I want a white unicorn.”

    Savannah watched, staying well out of sight, as Vanessa created something resembling a unicorn with only a few strokes of the paintbrush.

    But as she worked, tears flooded Vanessa’s eyes. One spilled down her cheek.

    “Are you crying?” the little girl asked, very concerned.

    “No,” Vanessa replied, ruffling the girl’s hair. “What reason would I have to cry? I’m having fun. I just have some sand in my eye.”

    Savannah turned and walked away without disturbing Vanessa or her afternoon, surrounded by the love and rejuvenating innocence of children. Of course she had noticed the similarity between the two girls, Savannah thought. And she had shed tears accordingly.

    Did those tears mean that she had loved Earl, that she loved his daughter? Did her acts of kindness toward the children mean that she was incapable of doing anything so hideous as two murders?

    Or, as Granny Reid had observed, was it simply a case of someone being a complex mixture of good and evil?

    With a bit of computer digging, Tammy had uncovered Alan Logan’s home address: a slip number in the marina...a fiftyfoot-long sailing yacht with two masts, named The Big Bust. When the unfriendly female clerk at the antique store on Lester had told Savannah that Al had “split an hour ago,” she had hoped she would find him in the marina.

    From what little she knew about boats, she knew that owning one meant you had no time for other hobbies. Anytime she had extended a weekend invitation to a friend/boat owner, she had been refused because they were sanding, polishing, mending sails, working on the engine, or plugging leaks-when they weren’t simply trying to find out what the hell was leaking.

    Bingo, she thought as she approached the slip and saw a decidedly male figure kneeling on the deck, sanding.

    She watched his face carefully as she approached, to see if he was happy to see her, or apprehensive.

    Of course, she told herself that her interest was purely professional. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he was a very attractive man with well-defined muscles, nicely curled chestnut hair, and hazel eyes. Nope, nothing at all.

    But when he did spot her walking in his direction, she couldn’t read his expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

    Enigmatic, was the best word she could think of to file away in her ever-increasing mental cabinet.

    “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” she asked.

    She had plenty of time to listen to the seagulls squawk and contemplate the meaning of life before he finally answered. “Permission granted, Ms. Private Investigator Reid.”

    He rose from his knees, walked over to the side of the craft, and offered her a hand. “Watch your step, unless you’re a good swimmer.”

    She tried not to cling desperately to his hand, but it wasn’t easy. Like shaky ladders