Island of Deceit by Candice Poarch Page B

identifying mark was stuck to her blouse. The crime lab was doing a search for the owner of the prescription, but it could take a few days.
    Harper and John headed back to the island, talking about the case most of the way and how they would proceed.
    â€œLet’s question some of the fishermen,” Harper said. It was easy enough for someone to pull a small boat into the marsh and dump the body, but he still believed the murderer lived on the island.
    Â 
    Now that enough time had passed that he wouldn’t be blamed for the shooting at the outhouse, Trent took the first ferry over from the mainland and drove directly to the house. The key was under the potted plant on the front porch, exactly as the real-estate agent had promised. Who in their right mind would leave a key in such an obvious place? Everyone on the island probably knew about her hiding place. He was going to have to fix some way to make sure nobody got in the house while he was sleeping.
    He’d quickly unpacked his gear and put up his exercise equipment. Couldn’t afford to get out of shape while he was here.
    He was hungry and figured he’d get the lay of the land early on. He headed around the island. It took no more than twenty minutes—and that was due to a tractor moving slower than an old woman. The asshole had waited for a car to approach on the other side of the road to pull to the side and wave Trent around. By the time the car passed, the driver had maneuvered the damn tractor to the center of the road again.
    Trent wanted to beat the hell out of the old man. When he’d finally turned off, the old geezer had the nerve to wave and holler, “Have a nice day.” It took considerable restraint for him not to flip him off.
    There were two—two—places to eat on the entire island. Trent finally stopped at what passed for the heart of the town and found a place that actually had the nerve to call itself the Greasy Spoon. Several vehicles were parked in the gravel parking lot. Across the street seemed to be the town center, with the sheriff’s office and the courthouse and administrative offices—a one-floor building with a million steps leading up to the front door.
    Trent found a parking space in a free area where he was sure he’d escape dings in his truck. The Greasy Spoon seemed to be the jumping place in the morning. Trent shook his head. He missed D.C. already.
    He already knew he’d have to trek all the way to Norfolk to find anything approaching civilization. The last thing he needed was some country bump-kin pulling out his shotgun when he went to bed with one of his daughters. And this looked just like one of those places.
    But this wasn’t like the fast-food places he usually frequented. He scanned the food on the tables. Although the faire matched its greasy name, the eggs were real and homemade. He ordered two sausage-and-egg biscuits and coffee.
    As soon as he opened the door, he heard talk about a robbery. But everyone had stopped talking by the time he made it to the cash register and all eyes were glued on him. The person standing beside him in line actually spoke. Trent glanced around, then realized the man was greeting him. Trent managed a “Good morning” a beat late. The buzz started up again.
    The hairdresser’s robbery got equal gossip time with the corpse found near Trent’s rental house. The crime scene tape was still up near the marsh. He hadn’t killed the man who was staying there, so what the hell was going on?
    The people here acted as if one robbery and one corpse was big news. Hell, that was nothing compared with the crime in D.C.
    Trent paid for his food and snagged a table when four guys got up to leave.
    Trent dug into his food and closed his eyes to savor it. Real homemade biscuits, full of flavor and dripping in butter. And the best sausage he’d ever tasted.
    He listened intently to the local gossip while he ate. These people