Free Trouble at High Tide by Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher

alternative tactic. Creeping forward, I made my way toward the counter where the kitchen appliances were, stepping gingerly and praying that I didn’t find a loose board to give me away. My target was the frying pan I’d seen on the shelf under the counter. If I could reach that, at least I’d have something with which to defend myself.
    As I approached the door, I could see that the latch was engaged—one thing in my favor. The figure on the swing shifted his weight and drew in a lungful of air, wheezing as he let it out again. I pulled myself back against the wall outof any line of sight, even were this person able to see into the dark recesses of the cabin. My breath was shallow and the pounding of my heart was loud in my ears. Could
he
hear it?
    I waited in the dark, deliberating what to do. I would need to cross in front of the screen door to reach the counter. He would surely become aware of me then. While we humans do not have the sharp senses of hearing and smell of the four-legged animals who share our world, we usually can sense when there is another person around. Even a slight motion might tip him off.
    I heard someone coming in the distance, the crunch of the gravel a telltale sign. My intruder bolted from the swing and hurried down the path toward the beach. I swung around so I could see through the screen door as he ran off. The moon shone down on the retreating figure, his gait lumbering from the heavy suitcase that he carried and the thick woolen suit that hampered his speed.
    It was the redheaded man.

Chapter Seven
    T he sun was shining the next morning and the sky was a spectacular blue. I was awake early, having barely slept the night before.
    After my intruder had run away, I’d waited for the security guard to pass by my cottage but he never materialized. Twenty minutes later, I gave up listening for him and closed the outer door, securing it from inside. I pulled the shades on all the windows, plugged in my cell phone to charge, left the frying pan next to my bed, and made another attempt to sleep. I’d managed a couple of hours, but when the sun rose, so did I. I made a mug of tea in the cottage’s efficiency kitchen and took it out to the porch.
    This time, when I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel, it wasn’t disturbing. If anything, I welcomed the company.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. I thought you’d like to see this morning’s newspaper.”
    “Good morning, Adam,” I said from my perch on the swing. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
    “The judge sends his apologies.”
    “Whatever for?” I asked, looking up at the concern in Adam’s eyes. I unfolded the newspaper. “Oh,” I said. “I see.”
    There on the front page was my picture, one that had been taken for the back of my most recent book and which my publisher had posted on its Web site. I read the headline aloud:
Mystery Author Stumbles Upon Ripper’s Latest Victim
. “Makes me sound a bit clumsy, doesn’t it?” I perused the article and put the paper down, letting it rest in my lap.
    “The judge is upset that you’ve been targeted by the press in this way,” Adam said, carefully watching my expression. I imagined that he was trying to determine what he could report back to his boss.
    “Please tell the judge that this is neither his fault nor anything he could have prevented.” I sighed. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. I can’t say that I’m used to it, but I’ll make every effort not to embarrass the family further.”
    “Oh, no. He’s not worried about the family. His concern was you, that you’d be distressed to be a focus of the press because of this Jack the Ripper business.” Adam paused, a thought coming to him. “Unless, of course, the extra attention is more positive than negative.” He cocked his head at me.
    I felt a wave of heat rise in me. “Good heavens! What are you thinking? That I’d want to use Alicia’s death to sell more books?”
    “No. No. Of course