Murder in Montauk

“Because you freed my time, I was able to get some painting in.” Miles held out a small painting to Mama. “I hope you like it.”

Mama took the watercolor from him and held it so that it caught the light. In the space of a postcard, Miles had condensed the essence of Montauk—the white froth of the waves, the opalescence of the water, and the crisp blue of the sky, tied together by the ribbon of sand that was the coastline.

“This is exquisite!” Mama whispered, in awe of the gift’s intricacy. “I shall treasure this always.”

“I claim it when she passes on,” Whitt said irreverently, looking over her mother’s shoulder at the little masterpiece. Finley shook her head, taking the painting from her mother to get a better look.

“You’re overseas, so I’ll have it hung in my place before you even get home for the service!” Finley said, her eyebrows raised in challenge.