We all agree, and one by one, they gather their dishes and bags, exchanging hugs as I promise to text after tomorrow’s interview with Oliver.
Peyton is the first to leave, citing an early meeting with the gala chef committee. Then Chevy and Tipper take off together, deep in conversation about a recipe Henry is trying to perfect.
“We’ll see you tomorrow for Operation Interview the Silver Fox,” Peggy says, giving me a hug that smells like perfume from 1972 and comfort.
“Ten o’clock sharp at the Cozy Bean,” Clarabelle confirms. “We’ll be the ones in the trench coats and sunglasses.”
“Please don’t wear trench coats and sunglasses,” I plead.
“You’re right.” She nods solemnly. “Too obvious. We’ll go with casual resort wear. No one suspects retirees in visors.”
Bunny, the last to leave, lingers in the doorway. “This was fun,” she says, surprisingly sincere beneath her usual flirtatious armor. “We should do it more often, even when people aren’t being murdered.”
“That would certainly improve the town’s mortality rate,” I agree.
I walk them to their cars, the night air crisp and tinged with woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Rookie trots alongside us, Mr. Jolly Beary secured in his mouth, while Cricket observes from the safety of the porch, unwilling to risk her paws on the cold ground.
As Bunny’s convertible pulls away with its taillights disappearing down the winding road through the pines, a movement near the cabin across the way catches my eye. A tall figure emerges onto the porch, outlined by the warm light spilling from inside.
My heart does a little jumping jack.
I’d know that silhouette anywhere! The broad shoulders, the confident stance, the slight tilt of the head when something catches his attention.
It’s Killion.
What is he doing at one of the rental cabins? And at this hour?
Before I can process this, a second figure joins him on the porch—slimmer, feminine, with a distinctive fan of long hair as she turns.
The door closes behind them, plunging the porch into darkness, but not before I catch a glimpse of auburn hair and the flash of an expensive-looking blazer.
They move toward a white truck parked nearby—Killion’s truck—and I’m about to call out when the headlights flash on, momentarily blinding me. By the time my vision clears, the truckis already pulling away, followed closely by a sleek maroon sedan that peels out of the gravel lot with unnecessary speed.
A sleek maroon sedan.
Venetta Brandt’ssleek maroon sedan.
I stand frozen on my own porch, Rookie whining softly at my feet, as both vehicles disappear down the road.
What in the heck is going on?
And why does it feel like I’ve just witnessed something I was never meant to see?
HATTIE
Why do humans insist on leaving us at home when they go to food places?Cricket’s rather indignant thoughts echo in my memory from earlier this evening.We’re excellent judges of character. I can tell a murderer from a regular person just by the way they pet me.
How’s that?Rookie had asked, his golden head tilting in confusion.
Murderers pet counterclockwise,Cricket scoffed.Everyone knows this.
What about people who don’t pet you at all?
Definitely serial killers.
The conversation continued just as I prepared to leave them with Killion for the evening—a decision that twisted my stomach into a pretzel after last night’s sighting of him with Venetta. But when he showed up at the country club just before closing, looking like the poster boy for law enforcement respectability, I momentarily questioned whether I’d imagined the whole cabin scenario.
He’d offered to take me to dinner and his green eyes held mine with that intensity that usually turns my knees to jelly. And they so did.
