“Something like that,” he mutters, tucking the phone away without responding to the message. “Look, Hattie, I?—”
Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by the arrival of our food. Tiffany sets down plates heaped with enough calories to fuel a marathon, then disappears with the efficiency of someone who knows not to interrupt what looks like the beginning of a serious conversation.
But Killion doesn’t restart whatever he was going to say. Instead, he picks up his burger and takes a bite that suggests he’s trying to avoid talking by keeping his mouth permanently full.
I spear a piece of grilled chicken as my thoughts begin to swirl.
Killion is hiding something. Something that has him jumpy and distracted, something that keeps lighting up his phone, something that has him creating a mental static shield against my abilities.
Or someone.
A flash of auburn hair and a predatory smile swim through my memory. I push it away, focusing instead on the case. Yew poisoning. A planned murder. Autumn Harrington and her restaurant by the sea, where Killion conveniently couldn’t be found today.
I’m about to ask him another question when his phone chirps yet again.
“Someone is popular tonight,” I observe and my tone is sharper than the steak knives on the next table.
He doesn’t respond, just checks the screen then sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I have to go. There’s a situation I need to handle.”
“A situation? Involving yew trees, perhaps?”
“It’s—complicated.”
“That seems to be the theme of the day.”
He rises, drops a quick kiss on my forehead, and pulls out his wallet to leave enough cash to cover dinner. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
And then he’s gone, striding across the restaurant like a man with a four-alarm fire to extinguish, leaving me with a half-eaten meal and a fully formed suspicion.
Cricket leaps onto his vacated chair, her green eyes fixed on mine.That man is hiding something bigger than the hairball I left in your slipper last week.
“Thanks for the analysis,” I mutter, pushing a fry around my plate.
Something is definitely off. Killion never leaves in the middle of dinner. Never checks his phone repeatedly during a meal. Never shields his thoughts from me so completely.
And while part of me wants to chase after him, demanding answers, another part knows that I need to focus on the Maple case. One mystery at a time.
Besides, if Killion is hiding something—or someone—I’ll find out soon enough. I didn’t become the unofficial head of the Brambleberry Bay murder club by overlooking clues, even when they lead to places I’d rather not go.
I collect my things to leave. My appetite may be gone, but my determination is growing by the second.
Autumn Harrington, you’re next on my list. And something tells me you’ve got secrets worth spilling—possibly with a side of pumpkin spice.
HATTIE
Istill don’t understand why humans put clothes on fake turkeys,Cricket muses from her perch atop a stack of linen samples right here in the Cottage House rotunda.They’re already wearing feathers. It’s redundant.
They’re not real turkeys,Rookie explains with the patience of a kindergarten teacher dealing with a particularly baffled student.They’re decorations. Like how Hattie puts that reindeer sweater on you at Christmas.
We do NOT speak of the reindeer sweater,Cricket hisses while her tail puffs to twice its normal size.That was a dark time in my life.
Rookie woofs out a laugh.Jolly Beary thinks you looked cute in it.
Jolly Beary is a stuffed animal with questionable taste,Cricket shoots back.He’d think you looked cute in a tutu.
Winnie sent yet another employee to the rotunda this afternoon and now the Cottage House looks as if autumn exploded all over it, and the aftermath was then decorated by Martha Stewart on a Thanksgiving bender.
Garlands of preserved leaves wind around every column, massive arrangements of chrysanthemums and wheat stalks occupy every flat surface, and an army of decorative turkeys—some tasteful, others less so—stand guard over the proceedings like feathered sentinels.
