Deep Waters

of those Voyagers could have climbed up the old beach path, gone straight to Gwendolyn's motor home, shot her, and then rejoined the crowd on the beach. No one would have noticed because of the fog. The killer could have returned to the campground with the main group shortly after midnight."
    "This is beginning to sound complicated," Bea muttered. "When you think about it, any one of those Voyagers could have done it that way. Couldn't tell them apart in the fog what with those blue and white hooded robes they all wear."
    "I sure don't envy Chief Tybern," Ted said sagely. "Hell of a job sorting out this mess."
    "Especially given his lack of experience," Radiance murmured dryly. "We haven't had a murder in Whispering Waters Cove in over ten years. And the last one was easy to solve, remember?"
    Ted nodded. "Right. That was the time Tom Frazier's wife finally got fed up with old Tom beatin' up on her. She conked him on the head with a tire iron. Jury called it self-defense."
    "Which it most certainly was," Bea added. "That Tom was a real sonofabitch."
    The door of the cafe slammed open. The crash riveted everyone's attention. Charity and the others turned to see Arlene Fenton, breathless, disheveled, and obviously on the thin edge of rising panic. She flew into the cafe and then came to a quivering halt. Her wide-eyed gaze went straight to Charity.
    "Ms. Truitt, thank God," she breathed in a shaky voice. "I went to your house, but you weren't there. And you weren't at your shop. I finally realized you must be in here."
    "Arlene." Charity put down her latte and got to her feet. "What is it? What's wrong?"
    "You have to save him. You have to save Newlin."
    "Newlin? Calm down, Arlene." Charity started toward her. "Tell me what happened."
    "Chief Tybern arrested Newlin a few minutes ago."
    There was a collective gasp of shock from the small group gathered in the cafe.
    "Oh, my God," Charity whispered. "Not Newlin."
    Arlene rushed toward Charity with a stricken expression. "Ms. Truitt, what are we going to do? Everyone in town knows how much Newlin hated Gwendolyn Pitt. He was always saying that someone should do something about her."
    Charity put her arms around her and looked at the other shopkeepers.
    No one said a word. Arlene was right. Everyone in town knew that Newlin had been enraged by Gwendolyn Pitt's scam.
    "He didn't do it," Arlene wailed. "I know he didn't. Newlin's no murderer. But he's got no one to help him."
    "I'll go down to the station and talk to Chief Tybern," Charity said quietly.
    Not that she had any notion of what to say to the chief, Charity thought, as she walked up the steps of the small Whispering Waters Cove Police Station twenty minutes later. Newlin was her employee and her friend. She felt she had to help.
    Mentally, she started to tick off an action item list. The first thing to do, obviously, was see about getting Newlin out on bail. She had no idea how that process worked, but Hank Tybern could explain it to her. The second thing on the agenda was to get a lawyer for Newlin. A good one. The only lawyer in town was Phyllis Dartmoor. She handled estates and wills, not criminal cases. That meant contacting someone in Seattle.
    Charity was concentrating so hard on the logistics of freeing Newlin that she didn't see him standing in the shadowed doorway of the police station until she nearly blundered straight into him.
    "Charity." Newlin stared at her in astonishment. "What are you doing here?"
    "I came to rescue you." Charity glanced around the empty interior of the small station. "Arlene said you were under arrest."
    "Nah." Newlin grimaced. "At least, not yet. The Chief just asked me to come in for questioning. I guess Arlene leaped to a few conclusions."
    "She was very worried about you, Newlin."
    Newlin looked considerably cheered by that news. "Yeah?"
    A sturdy, bald-headed man ambled out of the small office behind the station's unattended front desk. "Mornin', Charity. Bit early to be rushin' around like this, isn't it?"
    Charity turned and smiled politely. She had met Hank Tybern several times during the past few months. He was middle-aged with the weather-beaten features of a man who had spent his early years on commercial fishing boats.
    Tybern was the old-fashioned sort, solid family man, steady and calm in his ways. A bit of a plodder, perhaps, but thorough. Charity suspected that the slow, easygoing facade masked a savvy intelligence. Hank had lived in Whispering Waters Cove most