When he got to Angela’s house there was an unfamiliar car in the U-shaped driveway. A middle-aged man wearing a tan suit and steel-rimmed glasses was on the steps, ostentatiously locking the front door. Connor parked close to the steps and got out.

The stranger turned to face him, jingling a set of keys. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t think so,” Connor said, resenting the unexpected presence. “I called to see Miss Lomond.”

“Was it a business matter? I’m Millett of Millett and Fiesler.”

“No—I’m a friend.” Connor moved impatiently toward the doorbell.

“Then you should know Miss Lomond doesn’t live here any more. The house is going up for sale.”

Connor froze, remembering Angela had said she wouldn’t be around, and shocked that she had not told him about selling out. “She did tell me, but I hadn’t realized she was leaving so soon,” he improvised. “When’s her furniture being collected?”

“It isn’t. The property is being sold fully furnished.”

“She’s taking nothing?”

“Not a stick. I guess Miss Lomond can afford new furniture without too much difficulty,” Millett said drily, walking toward his car. “Good morning.”

“Wait a minute.” Connor ran down the steps. “Where can I get in touch with Angela?”

Millett ran a speculative eye over Connor’s car and clothing before he answered. “Miss Lomond has bought Avalon—but I don’t know if she has moved in yet.”

“Avalon? You mean…?” Lost for words, Connor pointed south in the direction of Point Pleasant.