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CHAPTER ONE
    N othing attracts attention like a dead whale.
    A dozen people peered at a huge black carcass beached at low tide. Seagulls shrieked and dipped. Andy and I had loved picnicking at Aylard Farm Park. From here we would gaze across the glorious Strait of Juan de Fuca. Only two years ago. It seemed like ten.
    Shortly after retiring early and moving to Vancouver Island, Andy was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Never a complainer, he’d been ignoring the symptoms. Half a year later he was ashes for our climbing red rose. The way he’d suffered, I was glad for his release. “Let go, love,” I’d said, holding his hand on that last morning. “Jane and I will be fine.” He squeezed back until my fingers ached. Then he was gone.
    The mighty whale, collapsed under its own weight, lay on the exposed tidal shelf. People were circling, even touching it. One teen was using a sharp rock to cut off pieces of skin. What the hell was wrong with some people?
    I headed back through the bushes to the main path. Why had I thought coming here would cheer me up? Tears blurred my vision. I shoved my chilly hands into my pockets. One foot caught on a gnarly root. I would have gone sprawling, but a hand grabbed my arm.
    “Whoa! Watch that first step. It’s a killer,” a deep male voice said.
    I’d ripped my tights, nothing worse. Still kneeling awkwardly in the weeds, I looked up at my Good Samaritan. The sun backlit his head like a halo. By his side was a border collie pup that began licking my face. It had a heart-shaped black mark on its white muzzle.
    “Scout, watch your manners. Not every lady likes doggy kisses. Up we go,” he said, pulling me to my feet. I braced myself against a gigantic Sitka spruce. “Anything sprained? Can you stand?”
    I cleared my throat, feeling like a fool. Then I noticed a burning, prickly feeling on my hand. “Ouch,” I said. I shook it to relieve the discomfort. “What did I land in?” A spindly plant surrounded me.
    “Stinging nettle. Let’s see,” he said, taking my palm and examining it. “Wash it well with soap and water. It’ll only bother you for a day or so. Not like poison ivy.”
    “Lucky me then,” I said. I frowned. Acting crabby in front of a complete stranger.
    “My name’s Joe Gillette. There are some moist wipes in my car. I always plan ahead. Coffee too, if you take it black.”
    His brown eyes sparkled, honest as a calf ’s. A stranger looking at me like this was a new experience. I felt girlish and shy, despite my age. I’d been married for the last fifteen years. The last time I’d dated before that…one pathetic, forgettable evening with a friend’s brother. All he could talk about was his mother’s pot roast.
    Five different answers raced through my mind. None of them sounded right. An eyebrow arched and Joe looked off at Scout chasing a seagull. “If you’re okay, then…”
    “Sorry,” I said, blushing. “Coffee would be super.” I almost added “kind sir.” Soon I’d be curtsying. Wet wipes? Did he have a child? Was he divorced? Few people came here alone. The coastal trail was a place for serious hikers, while the park attracted families.
    I followed him to his shiny black X-6 with a 1-LGL-EGL plate (one legal eagle?), parked near my rusty Neon. Given the soothing towelette, I wiped my hand. The prickly sensations eased.
    “Feel better?” he asked. A corner of his expressive mouth rose.
    I nodded and looked around. “There’s a place we can sit.”
    At a nearby picnic table, we talked over the excellent Kona coffee he’d had shipped from Hawaii. Joe was a lawyer, he said, working with the elderly. “I’m no hot-shot criminal attorney like in the movies, but I feel good about what I do. Estate planning takes plenty of care. Elders are so vulnerable. Meet the King of Loopholes. Every penny counts for those folks. I can chase a deduction faster than a ferret after a mouse.”
    His friendliness was relaxing me. “Hey, liking your job