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“Did you see Harvey again after your argument at the festival?”

“No. I had work to do here, and I wasn’t going to waste my evening chasing after a man who’d already made up his mind.” His answer came quickly, but irritation alone didn’t tell me whether it was true. “I heard he was dead the same as everyone else.”

I asked Owen to walk me through his movements that evening and whether anyone could confirm where he’d been. He gave me names of two people who’d seen him at the marina, though I’d need to speak to them before I could treat his account as corroborated. He was plainly angry with Harvey, and the loan gave that anger a practical source. But he hadn’t described an immediate threat to his livelihood beyond the risk he already understood, and I couldn’t turn that into a conclusion about what he might have done.

“I understand why you’re asking,” Owen said as I stood to leave. “If I’d known Harvey was going to end up dead, I’d have walked away from the argument. I was angry, Sheriff. That doesn’t mean I killed him.”

“I’ll take that into account,” I said. “I still need to check the details you’ve given me.”

His mouth tightened, but he nodded. I left with a clearer understanding of the dispute and a few names to follow up on. Owen had a reason to be angry, and potentially a great deal to lose if the loan became a serious problem. Whether that gave him a reason to kill Harvey was another question altogether. I wasn’t prepared to answer it on the strength of a public argument.

On Saturday, after arrangements had been made, I spoke with Simon. He was controlled and polite, with the practiced composure of someone accustomed to professional conversations in which very little was said without a reason. He confirmed that he’d been at the bank and had argued with Harvey, but he was reluctant to discuss the details.

“It was old family business,” he said. “Nothing that has any bearing on what happened to my father.”

“Your father was murdered, Simon. If the argument concerned something that happened twenty years ago, I need to understand whether it has any relevance to his death.”

He looked away for a moment, then returned his attention to me. “We disagreed. It was a private matter, and I don’t see why it needs to become public.”

“I understand that you may not want to discuss personal family matters. But you were seen arguing with your father shortly before he died, and a threatening message referring to an event twenty years ago was sent from a number assigned to you. I need to give you the opportunity to explain those facts.”

His expression tightened, though his voice remained even. “I didn’t kill my father.”

“I haven’t accused you of doing so. I’m asking you to help me understand what happened.”

Simon admitted the argument had been heated, but he continued to characterize it as an old family disagreement. He offered no detailed explanation and said he’d had no intention of causing his father harm. I didn’t push him into a confrontation simply to force a reaction. He was entitled to decline to answer questions, and I had a responsibility to distinguish between what I could establish and what I merely suspected.

Before the conversation ended, I asked whether he knew anything about the $15,000 check Harvey had written on the day he died. That question caught his attention. For the first time, his composure shifted enough for me to notice, although he recovered quickly.

“I don’t know anything about a check,” he said. “If my father wrote one, that was his business.”

I recorded his response and left it there. A brief change in expression didn’t prove he was lying, any more than his denial proved he was telling the truth. I still didn’t know what the money was for or why the argument had occurred.

Afterward, I returned to my notes. Simon had argued with Harvey over an old family matter, and a number assigned to him had been used to send a threatening message about something from twenty years ago. Joann, whose sister Shelby had died five years earlier, had presented Harvey’s check after his death. I had enough to justify following both leads, but not enough to connect them with certainty.

I closed the file and glanced at the clock. The weekend was underway, and I knew I wouldn’t get all the answers before Monday. I had confirmed that Joann’s sister was Shelby Minotte, identified Simon as the man who’d argued with Harvey at the bank, and established that the phone number associated with the threatening message had been assigned to him. But Simon had been barely in his teens when whatever happened twenty years ago took place. His reluctance to discuss the recent argument suggested there was something he didn’t want to explain, but I couldn’t assume he knew the full story, let alone that he’d been involved in it.

Owen presented a different possibility. Harvey’s refusal to extend the repayment deadline on the loan secured against Owen’s marina had left him worried about default and the financial consequences that might follow. He’d been angry enough to argue with Harvey in public, but he hadn’t claimed that Harvey threatened to take the marina, and I had no evidence that Owen’s financial difficulties had driven him to violence. I needed to verify his account of that evening and speak to the people who might confirm his whereabouts before I could judge how much weight to give the dispute, especially given that killing Harvey wouldn’t make his debt disappear.

I still needed to understand what Harvey had told his son, why he’d written Joann a check, and whether those separate pieces of the investigation belonged together. Simon’s connection to the threatening message, Owen’s financial dispute, and Joann’s receipt of the check gave me three distinct leads, but I couldn’t assume they were connected simply because they all involved Harvey. For now, I had enough to keep asking questions, but not enough to know where the answers would lead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHAT HARVEY OWED

JOSIAH

Joann Minotte, rather unusually, kept Harbor Lights open seven days a week, rotating her and her employees’ shifts so everyone got two days a week off. Sundays were one of the salon’s busiest days as it was the weekend, and Ricky had already informed me she worked both Saturdays and Sundays after I’d inquired casually about shift patterns. By eleven-thirty Sunday morning, Harbor Lights was busy enough that I had to wait several minutes before Joann could give me her attention. The salon smelled of shampoo, hairspray, and fresh coffee, and the steady hum of dryers mingled with the conversations of customers scattered between the styling stations and the waiting area. Joann moved between them with the practiced efficiency of someone who knew how to keep a business running even when half the town seemed determined to talk at once and do it while crammed into her space.

I waited near the reception desk until she finished checking an appointment in the book. She looked up at me, and I saw recognition give way to caution.

“Sheriff. Is there something I can help you with?” she asked with a small, barely there tremor in her voice.

“I'd like to speak with you about Harvey Sinclair and the check you cashed.”

Her expression changed. It was a small movement, little more than a tightening around her mouth, but I noticed it. She glanced toward the customers nearest us before looking back at me.

“I see.” She closed the appointment book. “Can we talk in the back?”