Iola Poole’s house had been quiet for days —no sign of Alice Faye Tucker, sheriff’s deputies, or any family members or friends. I’d slipped into Bink’s Village Market on Fairhope Inlet twice now and looked for a funeral flyer among the notes taped to the front of the counter, but I hadn’t seen Iola’s. It was as if she’d never existed at all, but of course I’d found her in the blue room, and that meant that sooner or later our time in the cottage would end. I had no idea what I’d do when it happened. After weeks of looking for work around the Outer Banks, I’d figured out that between the hurricane damage and this being the off-season, no place was hiring, and even if they were, a woman with no references and no past history to offer isn’t too tempting. The last official job I’d had was riding Trammel Clarke’s show horses, and that was before one of them hooked a toe on the top rail of a jump at a grand prix event and cartwheeled to the ground with me on board.
