Lethal Legend by Kathy Lynn Emerson

Monroe had set before them. If Ben was right and Graham Somener was innocent of any crime, then he deserved to know what else scandal-seeking reporters might hear about him.
    “There’s something I need to tell you before the sheriff gets here, Mr. Somener. Someone has hired a private detective to investigate you. The fellow claims you are using Keep Island as a base for illegal operations of some sort.” In terse sentences she recounted the details of Justus Palmer’s visit to Ben’s house in Bangor.
    Somener swore and took a long swallow from his wine glass. The two bright spots of color highlighting his cheekbones suggested barely leashed rage. “There’s no basis in truth for such a rumor, but a story like that, especially at this time, is a confounded nuisance.” He glared at Diana, as if he blamed her for Palmer’s suspicions.
    “It will do you no good to kill the messenger.” Diana did not believe she was in any physical danger, but Graham Somener’s temper was simmering again, threatening to boil over. Serena Dunbar had twisted her napkin into a tight ball and held it crushed in a white-knuckled grip—a powder keg ready to explode. As Diana watched, she flung it away with an anguished cry and reached for the wine decanter to refill her empty glass.
    “You should be able to avoid reporters’ questions, and Justus Palmer, too,” Ben said to Graham Somener, “but we’ll all have to talk to the sheriff. What do you plan to tell him?”
    “As little as possible.” With the caution of a man afraid he might break something, Somener lifted his wineglass and took a single sip before gently placing it back on the table, then delicately ate a small bite of the beef. Narrow-eyed, he glanced at Ben.
    “I’d advise you to tell the truth,” Ben said. “All of it.”
    “The truth is that Frank Ennis is dead.” Surliness had replaced Somener’s anger. “If his equipment was tampered with, and I’m not convinced it was, then I have no idea who did it or when. There’s nothing else I can tell the authorities.”
    “Miss Dunbar?” Unprepared for Ben’s attention to shift to her, she spilled her wine. “You hired Frank Ennis. You knew him before he came here. Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”
    “Of course not!” She collected herself almost at once, although she ignored the stain spreading across the tablecloth. “He was a capable archaeologist. He’d worked on a number of excavations. There is no reason I can think of for anyone to wish him ill.”
    “Was he the only one who would have used that diving suit?”
    She answered him with a reluctant nod.
    “That’s right.” Paul Carstairs’s voice was low but easily audible. “It’s too big for either of us.”
    “What about that other boat?” Graham Somener interrupted. “The dory. Who were those men and what did the one with the binoculars see?”
    “Nothing!” Miss Dunbar’s voice was sharp. “They saw nothing. Frank died underwater, out of sight.” Righting her empty glass, she refilled it and gulped down half the contents.
    “What if that private detective was one of the men in the boat?” Somener had caught hold of a new idea and clung to it with the tenacity of a terrier.
    Diana closed her eyes, trying to call up an image of what she had seen, but the dory had been too far away. “I didn’t recognize anyone, but I suppose it’s possible.”
    “I don’t like this,” Somener muttered. “I don’t like it at all. I want to know who hired that detective. Can you find out for me?”
    “I can try,” Ben said.
    Miss Dunbar abruptly rose to her feet. Taking her wine glass with her, she bolted from the room.
    “Serena!” Somener started to follow her.
    Diana was faster. “I’ll make certain she’s all right,” she promised, sprinting after the other woman.
    Behind her she heard Ben speak in his most soothing tone of voice. “It has been a stressful day, Graham. Most likely she needs a little time