Free On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3) by Melanie Jackson

key, but soon had the door open and managed to locate my sensible flannel nightgown and struggle into it.
    I looked around my rented room with sleepy eyes as I pulled off my socks and had some last groggy thoughts. I liked the room and the inn. Not as much as I liked home, but it was a pleasant place on a stormy night and I would sleep well enough in my borrowed bed.
    And I liked Bryson. I liked a lot of people in the islands—and I loved Kelvin and Barney and Wendover House.
    None of which I would have if my great-grandfather hadn’t disappeared. Or died, but I had a strong feeling now that he wasn’t among the island’s spirits.
    It’s a melancholy fact that everything fades with time—beauty, health, memory. How much had Kelvin lost before he rebelled and tried to defy Fate by escaping? At least Death had had the courtesy to wait until my great-grandfather was old before coming close, maybe a consolation prize for spending all his life on Little Goose so my grandma and her children could be free.
    The rain was picking up when I finished brushing my teeth and lightning crackled far away. And the wind too grew restless. It moaned in the eaves. It was the kind of night when ghosts walked, at least for some of us.
    But none of the ghosts was Kelvin and that was good enough.
    I turned off the light and pulled the covers over my head.
     
     

Chapter 7
     
    Morning found me feeling stronger and happy to see the storm had passed off in the night.
    The urge to go home was still strong, but so was the inclination to have one more chat with Bryson now that I wasn’t half-blind with exhaustion. And I needed a ride back to the island, so why not drop in on my favorite officer of the law?
    Anyway, I still had his gloves. It was only courteous that I call.
    I hadn’t visited Bryson’s cottage before and I assured myself that dropping off his gloves was a good excuse for a visit.
    My walk was short and appealing, decorated with daffodils. The cottage was small but charming, slightly Italianate in style and set back in a stand of lilacs that would be stunning in May though now they were depressingly bare. The narcissus were up though, their oils released by the pummeling rain and their smell strong enough to be intrusive, though usually I liked them.
    I walked slowly up the path that began at the narrow gate. Most of the snow was gone and I could see the brick was new, laid in a charming herringbone design that worked better for curving paths than the more standard running bond pattern so many homes used.
    Herringbone. My shadow self, the one who works on intuition rather than logic, told me that this was important and to pay attention to this observation or it would start making mischief in my dreams.
    My first thoughts were obvious. Of course the tomb came to mind and for a moment my legs went weak—but only for a moment. But what on earth would Bryson have to do with stealing bodies? I couldn’t think of a reason. Didn’t want to think of a reason. And anyway, he might have hired someone to lay his path. Probably he had.
    And yet….
    I had a moment of dizziness. Television, newspapers, churches, social clubs, they all condition us to expect a certain reality. Show the brain something different than this lifelong expectation of normalcy and it resists. My conscious mind was in denial that there was any reason for Bryson to be involved with my great-grandfather’s death. Or non-death. Or delayed death. But the subconscious was looking things over and drawing conclusions.
    “Tess?” The door opened and Bryson stepped out. He had a mug in his hand and it steamed violently in the cold.
    I held up his gloves and made myself smile.
    “Guess what I found.”
    “So that’s where they went. Want to come in? Coffee’s fresh.”
    “Just for a moment, thanks. I need to be getting back to Little Goose. It isn’t that Ben isn’t a great dogsitter but I don’t want to abuse his hospitality while Barney is teething.”
    “You