I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image like an annoying pop song. Killion would never go anywhere with that woman. Nor would he even think about two-timing me. And if he did, I’d read him like a book and he knows it.
It must have been someone else, another couple who just happened to look like them from a distance. Pelican Cove probably has plenty of tall, dark-haired men and predatory redheads walking its streets, right?
But as we head back to my truck, a chill that has nothing to do with the November air settles between my shoulder blades. A whisper of doubt curls around my thoughts like morning mist, suggesting that maybe—just maybe—I didn’t see what I thought I saw.
Or worse, I sawexactlywhat I thought I saw.
Either way, we have a more pressing mystery to solve first. Autumn Harrington, here we come.
HATTIE
Icannot believe Rookie gets all the attention while I have to share mine with these pampered felines,Cricket complains. Her furry little tail swishes with irritation as she surveys the other cats right here back at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, more specifically in the Cottage Grill.It’s species discrimination, plain and simple.
It’s because you hissed at that Persian last time,Rookie reminds her, his golden head resting on his paws under the table.You can’t just attack anything with a fluffier coat than yours.
That wasn’t a Persian. It was an animated dust mop with an attitude problem. And I didn’t hiss, I simply suggested—with my teeth—that she reconsider the direction in which her nine lives were headed in.
Can we please focus on who gets Jolly Beary tonight?Rookie whines.It’s my turn to sleep with him!
In your soggy dreams, fur brain,Cricket mewls back.Jolly Beary and I have a standing date with that patch of moonlight on Hattie’s bed.
That would be true.
And here’s something else that’s true. As it turns out, Autumn Harrington wasn’t at her beachfront restaurant, Sunrise & Cinnamon. We called before making the trip, saving ourselves a wasted journey to Pelican Cove. We then stopped by the precinct, but Killion wasn’t there either. We were two for two in the striking-out department.
And even though I had all sorts of unholy visions of Killion and Venetta dancing through my head like sugarplum fairies from hell, I didn’t dare whisper a word to Peggy or Clarabelle.
If they got wind he might be two-timing me, they wouldn’t think twice before tarring and feathering him, possibly literally given Clarabelle’s recent interest in “colonial justice systems.”
Besides, that’s not like Killion. That’s why I invited him to dinner here at the Cottage Grill, and that’s exactly why I’m here now—waiting for Killion to arrive. Obviously, Venetta is keeping him late.
Kidding. I hope.
The Cottage Grill glows with ambient lighting that makes everyone look ten years younger and five pounds thinner, which explains its popularity with the country club set.
The vaulted ceiling with its massive wooden beams is festooned with autumn garlands, and each table sports a miniature pumpkin centerpiece with a tea light glowing inside. The air smells like seared steak, roasted root vegetables, and money—lots and lots of money.
Cricket and Rookie just darted off and are somewhere in the mix of designer pets that roam freely throughout the restaurant.
The Cottage Grill is possibly the only upscale establishment in three counties with a pets welcome policy, which just proves my theory that wealthy people love their furry friends almost as much as they love their money. Almost.
I spot Rookie schmoozing with a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel wearing what appears to be a pearl studded collar, whileCricket has cornered a sleek Siamese near the dessert cart. Mr. Jolly Beary sits abandoned on an empty chair and for a moment I actually feel sorry for him.
The hostess, Marjorie, seated me at my usual table in the corner. The perks of being an event planner for the country club include preferred seating even when the wait list stretches longer than the wine menu. I’ve hardly settled in when the front doors swing open and Killion walks in.
The man should come with a warning label. He’s wearing a tweed blazer over a charcoal button-down and dark jeans, and the combination does dangerous things to his already unfair anatomy. His dark hair is slightly windblown, and those verdant green eyes lock onto mine from across the room like he’s got some kind of Hattie-specific radar. And I sure hope he does.
I rise as he approaches, and he greets me with a kiss that’s just north of appropriate for a public setting.
“Hi,” I say brilliantly when we break apart, my vocabulary apparently on vacation.
“Hi, yourself,” he replies, sliding into the seat across from me. “You look beautiful.”
“It’s just jeans and a sweater.”
“My point stands.”
“Smooth talker.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Have you been practicing that line on someone else?”
