Although it didn't make the slightest bit of sense, I was almost certain that my little shop gave me back a feeling of happiness and peace.
No, it didn't make sense, but it made me feel warm inside.
I locked up, carried my stuff out to the car, and planned out my evening.
Step one: Get that casserole out to the Petersons and maybe find a subtle way to ask them about Emeril's whereabouts on Sunday … at the time of the murder.
Step two: Talk to Jack about Rooster and the two-hour breakfast … at the time of the murder.
I knew with all my heart that Rooster wasn't a murderer—could not be guilty. But I also felt guilt over not telling Andy what I knew. I really needed to talk it out with Jack.
Step three: Try yet again to reach Phin by phone to find out what in the world was up with him trespassing on the UltraShopMart site and where he'd been … at the time of the murder.
Step four: Face plant in bed and sleep till noon.
* * *
When I arrived at the Petersons, casserole ready to hand over, there was an unfamiliar car parked next to the brothers' two trucks—a small, butter-yellow Volkswagen Beetle with aHonk If You Love Librariansbumper sticker on the back.
Maybe one of the family down from Nashville?
I stepped out of the car just in time to hear a door slam inside the house, and I froze, looking at the screen door in dismay. Honestly, people should close their actual doors, not just their screen doors, when it was forty degrees outside. It would solve a lot of accidental eavesdropping problems.
Taking a deep breath, I raised my chin and headed up to the house. This casserole was going into that house if I had to close my eyes and sing show tunes to avoid seeing or hearing any drama.
I knocked on the screen door and called out a hello. "Mr. Peterson and Mr. Peterson? It's me, Tess. I have a casserole for you. If this isn't a good time, I can just leave it here—"
A lovely woman, maybe in her sixties, walked into the hall from a back room and peered out at me. She had blonde hair burnished with silver, bright blue eyes, and pale skin with pink cheeks. She looked like a Dresden doll, if they'd ever made any who wore tweed skirts and fluffy cardigans with pearls.
The librarian, I was betting.
"Hello! Emeril and his brother just stepped out to, ah, well, I'm not sure what they're doing, exactly." She smiled at me and shook her head. "Boys will be boys, right?"
Since the brothers were in their early seventies, I thought calling them boys was a stretch, but she was so friendly and cheerful I automatically returned her smile.
"If I could leave this with you, then?"
"Oh, of course! Where are my manners?" She rushed down the hallway to open the door and beckon me inside. "Thank you so much. I'm sure they'll appreciate it. It smells delicious!"
Itdidsmell pretty good, not to brag.
"I warmed it up in case they want to have it for dinner this evening. If not, it'll keep just fine in the fridge for a few days or they can freeze it. I'm so sorry about Darryl."
She turned and gestured for me to follow her, leading the way into the kitchen, chatting all the way. "That's lovely of you. I hadn't met him yet, but it was very sad. Especially at Christmas. Would you like a cup of tea? Such a chilly night."
If she hadn't met him yet, she probably wasn't one of the Nashville side of the family, which brought me back to wondering who she was and why she was there.
"No, I'm fine," I said, taking in the lovely cherry-wood-paneled walls of the hallway and what must be a formal parlor as we walked. The house was definitely old, but well-maintained and scrupulously clean. Someone had polished the wood until it shone, and the home felt comfortable and inviting. The kitchen was the same, with herbs in pots on the windowsills and copper pans hanging from a rack over the island.
"Oh, you must have a cup, and we'll get to know each other while the boys work out their differences," she said, not taking no for an answer. I placed the casserole dish on a hot pad on the counter and sank down on a barstool, happy to get off my feet.
"Well, if it's not too much trouble."
"None at all. Oh! I'm sorry. I'm Angela. Angela Lovesberry, Emeril's friend. I didn't ask your name. I think my head is still in the book I'm reading." She nodded toward the breakfast nook, where a copy ofJane Eyrelay next to a pair of glasses. "I always enjoy revisiting old friends."
"I love to read too," I confided. "I'm currently in the middle of a biography of an art forger, a reread ofThe Lord of the Rings,and a book about the history of antique furniture. Oh, and I'm Tess Callahan. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lovesberry."
She stilled, cups in hand, and sent me a delighted smile. "What an eclectic list! I love to read multiple books at once too. And it's Miss Lovesberry. I never married. But please call me Angela."
