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enjoy the view. Earlier in the day he’d had to run the young woman and her parents out here, then take Caroline back to his office to review her great-aunt’s will. Joan Raymond had left her great-niece everything, and he wanted to make sure she had an overview of what that entailed—property, copyrights, bank accounts. There were royalty statements and investments they would have to deal with before the week was out. There were also unpublished manuscripts at the Tombs. Caroline had listened politely and attentively. She seemed like a woman who took responsibility seriously.
    “I don’t think my great-aunt felt that she knew herself very well,” Caroline said at last. “She once wrote to me saying there were a great many things she needed to understand about her own life and the world in general. She said that writing was her way of exploring them.”
    “When you put it that way, I guess one can’t blame Ms. Raymond for keeping to herself,” Pratt said. “Some of what happened to her on that island was pretty weird. I assume you know about its history.”
    “Not much,” Caroline said. “My mother told me a little about it when I was a child. Something about a murder?”
    “That’s putting it delicately,” Pratt said.
    Caroline looked at him. “What do you mean?”
    “You know,” Pratt said, “now that I think about it, I’m not sure we should be discussing this right now.”
    “Why?” she asked. “Because of the funeral?”
    “I suppose so,” he said. “I don’t know. I just think death isn’t an appropriate subject right now.”
    “When is it, Mr. Pratt?” Caroline said. “Besides, what better way is there to honor my great-aunt than by telling me about her past? Talk to me.”
    Pratt looked at her. “You really want to know, don’t you?”
    “I asked, didn’t I?”
    Pratt nodded. In that respect at least, the young woman was just like her aunt. She spoke her mind.
    “To put it bluntly,” Pratt said, “a scientist, Professor Stevens, had his throat torn out. Though Ms. Raymond denied it, others who were there that night insisted the killer was a real, honest-to-God vampire or a werewolf.”
    “You’re kidding,” Caroline said.
    Pratt shook his head. “Today most of the people in town laugh at the stories. State Trooper Willis—you met him at the funeral—actually gets angry when he hears them. Says they turned the town into a joke and killed its future as the coast’s biggest resort. But a few people, like Stephen Banning, Jr., whom you’ll meet in a few minutes, believe the stories religiously. Or irreligiously, as the case may be.”
    Pratt chuckled then stopped. Caroline hadn’t even smiled at his bon mot. This lady was a serious one.
    “What’s odd,” Pratt continued, “is that the few times the subject came up over the years—brought up by my own none-too-subtle prodding, I confess—I got the impression that your aunt believed the monster stories.”
    “As we both know, my great-aunt had quite an imagination,” Caroline said. “My grandmother Arabella—my great-aunt’s sister—told me that when Aunt Joan worked as an insurance investigator, she was always assuming aliases and wearing disguises to get information. Granny Bella said Aunt Joan loved to pretend.”
    “I’m sure she did,” Pratt said. “But many people think there really may have been something to the monster stories.”
    “Including you?” She smiled for the first time.
    Pratt blushed—not just from the accuracy of the statement but from the woman’s cheek-splitting smile.
    “My grandfather was the county police inspector during the 1940s,” he said. “He showed me the report he filed. The police checked dental records throughout Florida going back five years. They never found anyone whose teeth-marks matched those in the dead man’s throat.”
    “The killer could have been a transient.”
    “The authorities considered that possibility,” Pratt said. “But the F.B.I. files showed