Trouble at High Tide by Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher

judge’s house from the beach. I pretty much stayed close to there. Did this fellow cause a problem for you?”
    “No, not at all,” I said. “It was just a little unsettling.”
    “A murder like this has us all on edge,” he said. “My wife’s afraid to leave the house at night. Of course, I told her that she wasn’t the sort of woman who attracts a nut like this, but you know how women are.” He realized he might have offended and laughed to soften the comment. I said nothing.
    Jock backed his motorbike away from a shelf holding fishing tackle, and I climbed on. With me riding behind him, he rounded the corner of the garage, rolled down the drive and onto the road before any of the reporters had a chance to identify his passenger. I hoped. It was only when we were on Harrington Sound Road that I chanced a look back to be certain we weren’t being followed. No one in sight. I sighed with relief and decided to enjoy the ride. The weather was warm, the sky clear, and I smiled as the breeze whipped my collar and ballooned the back of my blouse as we rode toward town.
    We turned right at Blue Hole Hill and soon found ourselves on the causeway that leads to St. David’s Island and the traffic circle to Kindley Field Road. One more traffic circle at Mullet Bay Road and we were on our way into St. George’s.
    Jock let me off at King’s Square, and I traded his extra helmet for my pink ball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. With so many tourists similarly attired, I hoped I could escape notice and enjoy a leisurely anonymous afternoon.
    The closest restaurant was the White Horse Pub, whichpromised a view of the water—and of a cruise ship docked at the nearby terminal. It was a little early for lunch when I entered the dark interior of the tavern; the throng of tourists that would certainly jam in at noon had yet to arrive. I asked for a table overlooking the harbor and was pleased to find myself the only diner in the covered area outside, at least for the time being. Since breakfast was no longer being served, I perused the luncheon menu and decided on an appetizer, conch fritters served with an arugula salad and Key lime mustard sauce, and a glass of iced tea. Not exactly eggs and bacon but a welcome meal for this hungry lady.
    I removed the pink cap and the sunglasses and took a deep breath. This is what I had been looking for when Tom offered the use of one of his cottages for a week’s stay: balmy weather, exotic dishes, and seven days to relax at the beach with few distractions and no demands on my time. I watched as the passengers from the cruise ship disembarked and walked toward King’s Square. They were a colorful group, the men in plaid or pastel shorts and polo shirts, with ball caps shading their eyes from the sun, the women attired in similar colors, some in sundresses and with large floppy hats serving the same function. Years ago, the men would have had cameras dangling from straps around their necks, but these days most held up their cell phones or pocket versions of a video camera to record the street scenes and the town’s beautiful old buildings.
    Bermudian architecture owes much to English stone buildings of the seventeenth century. Originally built with Bermuda limestone—now in short supply—the houses are painted in soft hues approved by the government and featuredistinctive whitewashed slate roofs, which are terraced to collect rainwater in an underground tank.
    In my home state of Maine where fresh water is plentiful, thanks in part to its thousands of lakes, we never think about where the water that runs from our taps originates. Here in Bermuda the opposite is true. This beautiful island has no central water supply provided to residents. The cisterns that sit under its homes and apartment complexes—and groundwater pumped into holding tanks—must provide the population’s needs. The government has a treatment plant that offers high-quality water to augment a homeowner’s private