The words hit me like a snowball to the face—cold, shocking, and leaving behind a weird residue of feelings I’m not prepared to deal with.
“Have fun with your secret passages,” I call after her, avoiding any engagement talk as she waves and heads for the door.
I slump back in my chair, contemplating the universe’s cruel sense of humor. Winnie thinks Killion and I are heading toward engagement, while I’m drawing cartoons of him being attacked by woodland creatures.
My dark musings are interrupted by the café door banging open with enough force to make the decorative wreaths shudder. Clarabelle and Peggy barrel in like two geriatric tornadoes, scanning the room until they spot me.
“So that’s where you’ve been hiding!” Clarabelle announces loud enough for the entire café to hear. She’s wearing a hatshaped like a turkey, complete with a fabric wattle that wobbles when she moves.
“Get off your shiny hiney,” Peggy demands, strutting over in leopard print leggings that no eighty-something-year-old woman should be able to pull off, yet somehow she does. “We called Sunrise & Cinnamon, and guess who’s back from her mysterious absence? Autumn Harrington is serving up more than waffles today, and we’ve got reservations for the interrogation buffet!”
I blink at them. “You made actual reservations?”
“Table for three at noon,” Clarabelle confirms proudly. “I told them we’re food critics fromNew England Noshes. I even made business cards.” She produces a slightly crumpled index card with “FOOD CRITIC” written with a Sharpie and what appears to be a clip art image of a fork glued to it.
“Well, that’s resourceful,” I tell her. “But I doubt we’ll need them.”
“Time’s a wastin’.” Peggy taps her watch impatiently. “We’ve got a killer to corner and Eggs Benedict to consume. Two birds, one fork!”
I glance at my unfinished gala plans, then at the eager faces of my elderly partners in crime-solving.
Peyton will have my head if I don’t complete the seating arrangements by this afternoon.
On the other hand, Autumn Harrington might have poisoned someone with yew plants and then conveniently faded back into her own world right after the murder.
Really, when you look at it that way, there’s no choice at all.
“Let me get my coat on,” I say, standing up. Because nothing says “professional investigator” quite like pretending to be food critics with homemade business cards and a geriatric entourage.
Sunrise & Cinnamon, prepare to be served a three-course meal of suspicion, with extra questions on the side.
KILLION
The aroma of maple syrup, butter, and freshly ground coffee permeates every molecule of air inside Sunrise & Cinnamon.
The restaurant buzzes with the quiet hum of morning conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware against plates and the sizzle of batter hitting hot griddles from somewhere in the kitchen. Sunlight streams through the wall of windows facing the ocean, casting long, golden rectangles across polished wooden floors.
Under different circumstances, I might enjoy the ambiance of this place. The beachfront location offers a postcard-perfect view of waves crashing against the shore, and the rustic-chic décor strikes that perfect balance between upscale and comfortable that’s hard to achieve. Everything from the reclaimed wood tables to the nautical-themed artwork screams wealthy coastal New England without being pretentious about it.
But I can’t focus on any of that because sitting across from me is Venetta Brandt.
She’s wearing a dress that can only be described as aspirational—as in, she aspires to make me forget I have a girlfriend. The neckline plunges to depths that should requiresafety equipment, and she’s applied so much makeup she’d make a kabuki girl look plain as a pancake. Her red lipstick is so bright it practically requires sunglasses to look at directly, and her perfume—something expensive and overpowering—wages chemical warfare with the pleasant breakfast aromas.
I stare intently at my half-eaten waffle, hoping the maple syrup might spell out solutions to my current predicament.
This was a mistake. A colossal, relationship-endangering mistake. I should have found another real estate agent the moment Venetta answered my inquiry. But I was desperate for housing, and she responded immediately withextensive options to discuss.
Now I’m stuck in this beachfront restaurant with a woman who’s made it abundantly clear that her interest in me extends well beyond the professional. The memory of Hattie’s face last night at dinner, suspicious and hurt, flashes through my mind. If she gets wind of this breakfast meeting, it could cost us our relationship.
No rental property is worth that.
“So”—I clear my throat, attempting to steer us back to business—“about that list of available places. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Venetta’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches upward. “What’s the rush, Detective? Don’t tell me there’s been another murder in sleepy little Brambleberry Bay.” She leans forward, placing her hand distressingly close to mine on the table. “Or are you just eager to get to the next part of our day—or perhaps ournight?”
I pull my hand back under the pretense of reaching for my coffee. “Just a busy schedule. The Maple case has everyone at the department working overtime.”
“Ah yes, the baker who dropped dead. Tragic.” Her tone suggests she finds it about as tragic as a paper cut. “ButI’m specifically interested in your needs.” She licks her lips methodically and lets me know exactly which needs she’s talking about.
