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as my assistant. But I can absolutely guarantee that never in a million years would it be possible to convince anyone that we were a couple."
    "I get it," Cyrus said. "You're trying to tell me that I'm not your type."
    She thought about the unsubtle threat he had issued a moment ago. "No," she said. "You're definitely not my type. And there's one more thing I want clear here. I don't know much about private investigators, but I've noticed that on TV they always carry guns."
    "I'm a real-life investigator, Ms. Swift, not a TV private eye."
    "I trust that means you don't actually carry a gun around with you. I absolutely refuse to share a house with a strange man who carries a gun. I detest guns."
    "So do I." Cyrus moved his left shoulder slightly. "I once had a nasty experience with one."

    At six-thirty that evening, Eugenia poured herself a glass of chilled sauvignon blanc and went to stand at her living room window. Her condominium was located midway up in a high-rise building in the heart of the city. She had paid extra for the view of Elliott Bay, but she considered the money well spent. Something about vast expanses of water was soothing to her soul.
    She had spent the last four months engaged in a major remodeling project, which was finally complete. She had ordered the architect to tear down every wall except those needed for privacy in the bath and bedroom. The background color was white, a perfect foil for her growing collection of West Coast studio glass art. The contemporary glass sculptures glowed on carefully lit pedestals arranged around the room.
    An arched entry divided the hall from the white-carpeted living room. A low, white sofa and white leather chairs together with some glass tables comprised the furnishings.
    The only color in the room besides the brilliantly hued glass sculptures was around the gas fireplace.
    Eugenia studied the hand-painted amber and green tiles that formed the fireplace surround. Nellie Grant had designed them for her.
    The last time she had seen Nellie was here in this very room. The remodeling had been in its final stages. The wall beside the fireplace had still been open and tiles had been stacked on the floor, when Nellie appeared at the front door. That had been the morning after Adam Daventry had fallen to his death.
    Rather than wait for the private ferry that served Frog Cove Island, Nellie had used Daventry's launch to get to the mainland. She had rented a car and driven an hour and a half into Seattle.
    She had definitely not been grieving.
     
You were right, Eugenia. He was a bastard. I should have listened to you. I'm not sorry he's dead. I know that sounds awful, but it's the truth. I have to return to the island this afternoon to get the rest of my stuff, but after that I never want to see the place again.

    Eugenia glanced at the painting above the recently completed fireplace. It was one of Nellie's works, the first in a series called Glass , she had explained. It depicted a late-nineteenth-century French vase from the Daventry collection. Nellie had captured the rich, vibrant colors and the enthralling effects of light shining through the glass.
     
Daventry said that since he had no children for me to paint, he wanted me to do some portraits of his favorite glass pieces. I did four of them before he died. Now that he's gone, I figure they belong to me. I want you to have this one, Eugenia. Sort of a housewarming gift. You've been terrific about encouraging my work.

    Nellie had been eager to get her career as an artist under way. Eugenia suspected that was one of the reasons she had fallen victim to Daventry's charm. He had convinced her that he could introduce her to the right people and get her work hung in the most prestigious galleries.
    Eugenia walked, slipper-shod, across the new white rug. She paused beside a pedestal and gazed into the swirling green depths of a whimsical glass sculpture that had been created by a young artist in Anacortes.
    Watching the