Copyright © 2025 by Julie Titterington

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1. The Cake

2. The Recipe

3. Mail

4. Mail

5. The Weirdo

6. The Fan

7. Mail

8. Mail

9. The Walls

10. The Conspiracy

11. The Room

12. The Suspects

13. Mail

14. Mail

15. The Rat

16. The Freezer

17. Mail

18. Mail

19. The Burden

20. The Neighbors

21. Mail

22. Mail

23. The Agent

24. The Dinner

25. The Guests

26. Mail

27. The Plot

28. The Ex

29. Mail

30. The Boyfriend

31. The Breakfast

32. The Lovers

33. Mail

34. The Mess

35. The Bakers

36. Mail

37. The Keys

38. The Writer

39. The Truck

40. Mail

41. Mail

42. Mail

43. The Sweaters

44. The Press

45. The Interviews

46. Mail

47. The Sniper

48. The Rifle

49. The Cane

50. The Killer

51. The Motive

52. Mail

53. Mail

54. The Toasts

55. The End

56. Mail

Guillermo's Pumpkin Butterscotch Cake

Jenny's Cherry-Vanilla Scones

Also By Julie Titterington

About the Author

The Cake

"Mina, I’m home!" cried Willa Lattner, stumbling into the house she shared with her great-aunt and landing in a heap beneath two immense suitcases.

The heaviest of the bags hit her squarely in the solar plexus as she fell, and she instantly regretted purchasing all those last-minute souvenirs at the airport in Rome. Who was she kidding? Even her politest friends would not be pleased with a snow globe of the Vatican, and she was never going to use that sixty-four-ounce bottle of premium olive oil. 

Yelping with pain, she noted—with greater pain—that their grand Victorian mansion had been refreshed with a coat of even brighter pink paint while she was away, a color that was now gracing the interior walls of the front entryway.

"For Pete’s sake," she muttered, trying to disentangle herself from the pile of luggage.

Evidently, Aunt Mina had disregarded their informal arrangement to postpone house renovations. Willa sighed. It wasn’t surprising. There was no telling Mina Lattner what to do. She’d agree to everything you said and cheerfully go her own way, all the same. 

Before Willa could struggle free of her luggage, she heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet racing toward her and braced herself for an onslaught of dachshunds. Twelve weeks was a long time to be away from home, but it must have felt like an eternity to her sausage dogs. The sound of barking and the clatter of claws on oak flooring grew louder and more insistent.

"Off, off!" she yelled, as several long, low dogs leaped toward her.

Killer landed directly on her still-tender stomach, while Kyle and Wags contented themself with stepping on the exposed skin of her neck. Willa laid back and resigned herself to fate. There was no telling dachshunds what to do, either. They had given her up for dead, she supposed, and this was their way of welcoming her back to the land of the living. 

Counting legs, tails, and tongues as she lay prone, Willa was astonished to find not three, but four dogs covering every inch of her exposed skin with enthusiastic slobber.

"Down boys!" said an amused voice behind her, and she craned her neck to see a spry, elderly woman watching the attack with placid enjoyment. "You too, Darlene."

Grasping her aunt’s outstretched hand, Willa scrambled to her feet before the dogs could knock her over again.

"Welcome home," Mina said, wrapping her in a tight bear hug. "You were missed, if you can’t tell."

"Thanks," said Willa, rubbing her neck. Killer was resistant to grooming, and one of his long, ragged nails had drawn blood. "I missed you guys too. More pink, Mina? Really?"

"I think it brightens the entire foyer."

"I can’t disagree with you. It’s like being inside a piece of bubble gum. Bright, sweet, and tacky."

"You’ll get used to it."

Willa rolled her eyes.

"You agreed to hold off on 'improvements' while I was on tour. And who the heck is that?" she demanded, pointing to a petite, brindled dachshund, which had broken off from the group and was now politely chasing its tail off to the side.

"That’s Darlene."

"Okay, but who is Darlene? Or whose is Darlene?" Willa asked, with a sense of growing panic. 

Mina was very capable of adding another dachshund to their herd on a whim.

"I’m afraid she’s mine," chimed a gentle, refined voice behind them. "Though I need to teach her some manners, I see."

Willa turned to see Daniel Pilkington, Mina’s dear friend and attorney, and one of her favorite people on earth.

"She’s Pilky’s latest acquisition," Mina confirmed calmly. "You knew he was staying here while you were gone, I presume. We’re making grand progress on my book."

Willa hugged the old man, who always reminded her of a cross between a raisin and Mr. Peanut.

"What on earth possessed you to get a dog, Pilky?"

"I really cannot say," he responded, spreading out his hands in a helpless gesture. "I was run away with by an impulse."

Willa smiled and squeezed his hand.

"That doesn’t sound like you."

"I bullied him into it," Mina explained. 

"Now that checks out."

"Saw a rescue dachshund up for adoption in Eureka, and persuaded him to take her. She’s a beaut, isn’t she?"

Willa bent down to stroke Darlene’s ears, noting the dog’s unusual striped coat.

"Gorgeous! How old is she?"

Mr. Pilkington shrugged.

"The shelter estimated three or four, but they did not know for sure. She was abandoned in a home that had been repossessed by the bank."

"Let’s get your things out of the doorway," said Mina, briskly shoving Kyle, Killer, and Wags aside with one of her large feet and picking up the heaviest suitcase. "Good heavens, what’s in this? Bricks?"

"Might as well be," Willa responded, glumly removing her third and fourth bags from Mr. Pilkington’s hands before the poor old man toppled underneath the weight. "My luggage and I both took on additional weight in Rome. Don't think I've ever eaten that much. How come you two have your rain jackets on? Did you just come back from a walk?"

Mina heaved a giant duffle bag into the sitting room and dusted off her hands.

"We were just headed out, in fact. I got a call from Irene Doyle not ten minutes ago. She drove by The Three Hounds on her way home from work and the lights were on."

Willa frowned. The bakery she co-owned with Mina had been open only on the weekends as they continued to search for a permanent pastry chef. The only person who accessed the building during the week was their neighbor, Jennifer Ortiz, who baked and sold donuts for The Three Hounds in exchange for kitchen space to prepare food for her brand-new bed-and-breakfast.

"Maybe Jenny left them on before she closed up for the day. Tomorrow’s Saturday—she may have stayed late to get the orders ready."

"Already checked with her. She finished the last batch of dough at two PM and closed up. Jenny’s fastidious to a fault. If she says she locked up properly, she locked up properly. Pilky and I are going to walk into town and check it out. Care to join us?"

Willa surveyed the haphazard pile of luggage in the sitting room and then looked down into the pleading eyes of Killer, Kyle, Wags, and Darlene.

"I have a lot of unpacking to do…" she began. Instantly, Mr. Pilkington’s face crumpled, Mina’s dark brows knit together, and Kyle woofed at her, reprovingly. "But it can wait. C’mon gang, who’s up for walkies?"

A light mist came off the bay as they strolled down the steep hill into town, taking it slow to spare Mina’s bad knee and Mr. Pilkington’s bad everything-else. Willa’s curly red hair became instantly frizzy, taking on the texture and volume of a fright wig. Willa snuck a look at Mina and saw with malicious satisfaction that her aunt’s hair had also doubled in volume. Lattner hair and salt air did not mix. It was the only downside of living in Humboldt Cove, California, which was otherwise perfect in every respect. 

Kyle, Killer, and Wags pulled at their leashes as they approached the main street through town. Willa suspected that Jenny Ortiz snuck them a donut each when no one was looking. Killer was practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation. 

The evening was growing dark, and most of the shops on main street had already closed for the day. Every window was dark save one. The Three Hounds Bakery was lit up like a Christmas tree. 

"Every light in the place must be on, from the front cafe to the staff lavatory in the back," said Mina, irritably.

"Jenny wasn't as careful as she said she was."

Mina bit her lip.

"Jenny Ortiz is the most detail-oriented, obsessively organized woman I’ve ever met. And she’s got a bugbear about saving electricity."

"Well, who else could it have been?"

"No one," said Mina, trying the front door. "You, me, and her are the only people with keys."

"Maybe the back is unlocked."

They marched up the narrow alley between The Three Hounds and the building next door and saw that the door was slightly ajar.

"I’m calling the cops," said Mina, pulling out her phone. 

"Really?" Willa said, skeptically. "Just because Jenny left the lights on?"

"Can't be too careful."

Willa pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen. 

"Hello?" she called out. "Anyone here?" 

A quick scan of the kitchen and the front of house revealed no signs of life. Willa peeked into the bathroom, but that was empty as well. The counters were dusted with flour and smears of white icing, and someone had left a bag of sugar on the counter. Bakery supplies were kept in large, industrial tubs. This looked to be a five-pound bag from the supermarket.

Willa turned and saw a matching bag of flour on the opposite counter, along with a small container of baking soda, newly opened. An empty eight-ounce container of cream lay on its side, oozing drops onto the counter. Willa felt a twinge of unease. Jenny Ortiz may have left the lights on or forgotten to lock the door, but she wasn’t sloppy—and she had no reason to use small quantities of flour and sugar.

"There's no one here but us and this mess. I’ll tell Mina the police aren't necessary," she began, heading toward the back door.

Suddenly, she gasped and stopped short, causing poor Mr. Pilkington to run directly into her. He knocked her forward into Wags’ hind legs and she stepped on Killer’s foot, causing a chain reaction that resulted in yelping from dogs and humans alike.

"What on earth is the matter?" questioned Mr. Pilkington, after he had regained his balance and picked up Darlene to stop her yapping.

"That," said Willa in a choked voice, pointing to a large, butcher block island adjacent to the industrial mixer.

Sitting on an ornate glass cake plate was a naked three-tiered cake, filled with white icing and topped with a spectacular orange pumpkin made of fondant. Smaller fondant sculptures of brightly colored gourds—red, blue, green, and yellow—flanked the pumpkin on both sides.

"That’s a cake," said the old man, bewildered. "This is a bakery. What's the problem?"

Willa walked over to the cake, almost too stunned to speak. She reached a trembling finger toward the filling. 

"Is that browned butter?" she asked.

She sniffed the cake.

"Smells like a pumpkin sponge, with—yes—I can see the butterscotch chips folded in. Caramel drizzle on top. I don’t believe it. I simply don’t believe it."

"Again, I fail to grasp the issue, my dear. It sounds like a delicious cake."

"Oh, it is!" she said, dazed. "It is. I’ve only had it once before—at Guillermo’s bakery in Rome."

"I don’t quite follow you."

"About a month ago, I asked my brother-in-law Guillermo to create a recipe for the latest Violet Valentine book. He’s always been my go-to recipe guy, and I really wanted something special for Browned Butter Bloodshed."

"Ugh," he said, distastefully. 

"Too gross? Shoot, blood is always tricky. The title is a work in progress. That’s not the point. We workshopped several ideas over email and Zoom, and landed on this: a pumpkin and butterscotch cake filled with browned-butter cream cheese icing and topped with salted caramel drizzle. I describe it very clearly in the book. But the book’s not out, Pilky. I haven’t even turned in all the chapters yet. No one knows about this cake except for me, Guillermo, and my agent Wallace. I didn’t even taste the prototype until about two days ago, when I finally met up with Guillermo and Wendy in Rome. So how did someone in Humboldt Cove recreate it perfectly, even down to the decor? There’s a pumpkin sculpture on top of Violet’s cake too, surrounded by a rainbow of gourds. Hers are filled with arsenic," she said, poking dubiously at the sugar pumpkin. 

"Dear me," squeaked Mr. Pilkington. "Perhaps we shouldn’t touch it, then."

"Why?"

"Whoever made this may have recreated every detail," he said, with meaning.

"Good call," Willa replied, quickly drawing back her hand.

"Alright, I've notified the Sheriff’s office," said Mina, bustling in from outside. "I had to run down the street a bit to get a good signal, and I am wet through. Hand me a kitchen towel, will you, Pilky?"

She stared at the white faces before her. 

"What’s the matter with you two? Seen a ghost?"

"You’re not far off," said Willa, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned. "A phantom cake seems to have materialized on the counter here."

"Jenny doesn’t make cakes," said Mina, scowling down at the sugar pumpkin. "She’s a pie-and-donuts kind of gal."

She moved as if to pick it up and Willa shouted "Stop!" so loudly she set the dogs off again. 

"Jenny doesn’t make cakes," Willa echoed. "So who made this one, Mina?"

"How should I know?"

"Whoever it is either knows Guillermo personally or has been reading my emails without permission. This is the core recipe for my next book."

Mina raised a skeptical brow.

"What are you saying, exactly? Good grief, Kyle, will you knock it off?" she snapped at the smallest dog, who was growling insistently at her feet and tugging at the leg of her slacks with his sharp teeth.

Willa looked over to see Killer, Wags, and Darlene barking hysterically and in unison at the door to the walk-in freezer. It was no longer functional, and they didn’t use the space except for storage. The door itself was barely accessible, blocked by tubs of marzipan and other baking supplies. Kyle let go of Mina’s hem, ran to Willa, and rammed his head into her leg. Then he trotted over to join the others.

"What’s gotten into them?" said Mina, moving toward the freezer. "Move aside—all of you—and behave with a little decorum! What is the matter? Do you smell a rat?"

She grabbed a tub of bones from the cupboard and cracked it open, throwing a handful on the floor. An instant dachshund feeding frenzy commenced, and the freezer rat was temporarily abandoned. 

"Forget the dogs for a minute, Mina. Let them bark! Listen to what I’m saying. Something is very wrong—this cake shouldn’t be here," Willa insisted. 

"This mess shouldn’t be here either," Mina replied, looking around with displeasure. "I’ve never known Jenny to be so careless."

"Jenny didn’t do this," said Willa, certain of herself. "Because Jenny could not possibly have known the recipe."

Before anyone could stop her, Mina strode toward the cake, stuck her finger into the drizzle on top, and licked it.

"Stop!" said Mr. Pilkington, seconds too late. "It might be poisoned, Mina. The cake in Willa's book contains arsenic."

"Nonsense," said Mina, stoutly. As if to prove her toughness, she crumbled off a bit of the cake underneath and ate it with gusto. Willa made a sound of dismay and Mr. Pilkington covered his eyes with his hands.

"Butterscotch!" Mina said, smacking her lips. "Delicious. And not a bit poisoned."

"Spit it out, Auntie!"

"Not a chance. This cake is as wholesome as I am. Jenny must have made it after all."

"I keep telling you, she can't have. This is a unique recipe from the pages of my not-yet-published book."

"Well, if she didn’t do it, who did?" 

The three stared at each other as the dogs began barking once more.

The Recipe

It felt like an eternity before the police arrived, though it was only long enough for Willa to shut the dogs in the small back office and try to make the others more comfortable. Mina—anxious and trying to mask it—attempted to start cleaning the bakery kitchen before Willa and Mr. Pilkington advised her to leave everything alone. She gave in with bad grace, her fingers trembling as they squeezed a kitchen towel. Mr. Pilkington, unable to remove his eyes from the cake, had turned an alarming shade of gray.

Willa helped them both to the front of house, seating them firmly in the cafe chairs and nearly force-feeding them hot camomile tea with several lumps of sugar each.

Ten or fifteen minutes after the initial discovery, they heard the distant sound of sirens and breathed a collective sigh of relief. Willa unlocked the front door, and Sheriff’s Deputy B.J. Anderson—Jake for short—strode in, accompanied by another officer Willa had never met.

"Willa!" Jake cried, surprised.

He approached her eagerly, went in for a hug, bailed halfway through, and stuck his hand out to her instead.

"I had no idea you were back in town! I thought the Fatal Fudge tour was going another week or so."

"It was," said Willa, "but I called it quits a bit early. I missed home too much. I intended to get back yesterday morning, but my flight was delayed."

"So, what’s the deal here? Mina said something about a break-in?"

"It’s weirder than that," Willa gulped. "Have a look at what we found in the back."

Jake whistled through his teeth as he took in the state of the kitchen.

"Geez," he said. "What’s with the mess? Don’t you have health codes to follow?"

The officer with him, an earnest young man whom Jake had introduced simply as ‘Henderson,’ jotted something in a small notebook without looking where he was going, tripped over his shoelaces, and stumbled forward, dropping his notebook and nearly hurling his pen across the room. Glancing down at the open notebook on the floor, Willa saw the words "safety violation" followed by a series of question marks. She rolled her eyes, and Henderson picked up his fallen gear with as much dignity as he could muster.

"We didn’t make this mess and we don’t know who did. But it has something to do with that," she said, pointing to the cake stand. "It shouldn’t be here."

The two men swiveled round to look at the pumpkin-topped layer cake.

"You think that cake snuck into your bakery?" said Henderson, after a brief moment of silence. He went on, as though humoring a lunatic. "Maybe you better sit down, ma'am. Or—wait—do you see someone next to the cake? Are they talking to you right now?"

Willa gave him a withering look, and he blushed bright red and dropped his pen again.

"Shut up, Henderson," said Jake, mildly. "What do you mean, Willa? What about the cake?"

Willa explained about the recipe and the book as best she could.

"Pumpkin and butterscotch is a popular combination. Maybe it’s a coincidence."

"I could buy that, but the cake topper is unique, and it’s exactly as I describe in Browned Butter Bloodshed, down to the color of the sugar gourds."

Jake wrinkled his nose.

"I’d revisit that title if I were you," he said. "Blood and butter don’t mix. But I take your point. That sounds pretty specific. And gourds are not exactly a normal cake decoration. Who do you think made this thing?"

"No idea! The only other person with access to this bakery is Jenny Ortiz. You know Jenny—she and her husband Matt bought the Garber House next door and turned it into a little B&B. We let her use the kitchen here in return for making the donuts we sell on the weekend. She told Mina she locked up around two PM, and she always cleans up before she leaves. There’s no way she could have seen Guillermo’s recipe, or read a draft of my book."

"Who does know the recipe?"

"A handful of people, none of whom are in Humboldt Cove."

Jake eyed her thoughtfully, and then looked at Mina and Mr. Pilkington, who had hobbled into the back now.

"Looks like you three had quite a shock."

"It’s a cake," muttered the baffled Henderson, who clearly thought they all belonged in protective care.

He scratched his chest and his badge slid off his uniform and landed with a metallic clunk on the floor.

"Did you drive?" Jake asked, ignoring the other man as he scrambled to retrieve his badge, losing his handcuffs, pen, and notebook in the process.

"We walked down with the dogs."

"You’re in no shape to hike back up that hill. Get the boys and I’ll drive you home. And Henderson—you can begin securing the scene."

"Sir?"

"I'm not sure what's going on here, but we might as well look into it further. Grab your gear out of the car and get to work. I'll be back in a minute."

The ride up Sequoia Street to the pink house was quiet and strained. Willa let Mr. Pilkington take the front seat, while she piled into the back with Mina and the dachshunds. The dogs were upset and excited, sensing the unease of their human companions. As Kyle, Killer, Wags, and Darlene jumped up and down the car seats and trotted from lap to lap, Willa wracked her brains, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for the cake, but she came up empty every time.

Jake helped Mina, Mr. Pilkington, and the dogs into the front door, but held Willa back for a moment.

"This looks like a simple B&E. Nothing was damaged; nothing was taken."

"It’s more than that," Willa said. "I’m sure of it."

"It may be more than that," he said, cautiously. "It's certainly odd. Why don't you make a list of everyone who might have seen a copy of your new book? Your agent, your editor—friends, family, whoever. That may help us figure this out. It's probably a practical joke, Willa."

"It's not very funny, if so. I’ll work on a list," she promised.

"And Willa?" he said over his shoulder as he made his way back to his car.

"Yeah?"

"Lock the house up well tonight. Doors, windows, the whole shebang."

"Seriously? I admit, the cake has me shaken, but you don’t honestly think there's anything dangerous going on—do you?"

"Not really," he said, and walked away.

She knew him well enough by now to tell when he was lying.

Mail

To Wendy Lattner-Santini

Wendy,

I told you I’d call or write when I got in, so here I am. Three-month book promotion tour accomplished, thank goodness. I landed safely. No one tried to run me over outside the airport this time.

Uber drivers must share a corporate death wish, because I’ve never met one yet who doesn’t terrify me. To be fair, though, my narrow miss a few weeks ago was with a proper taxi. Do they still have those? It was yellow. Yellow-ish.

Anyway, the drivers in San Fran don’t know the meaning of the word pedestrian.

The flight from Rome to O’Hare felt like fifty lifetimes, and not just because of the twelve-hour delay. The man next to me was snoring on my shoulder, and the woman next to HIM was watching Korean soap operas without headphones on. There was an entire high school marching band on the leg from O’Hare to San Francisco, and by the time the flight attendant got to me, they were out of ginger ale, Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, cranberry juice, coffee, and peanuts. I had to take one of those weird cookies and drink seltzer. SELTZER, Wendy.

Do you also hate seltzer? I know twins share most things but I have never known if that includes food preferences. If you DO consume atrocities like sparkling water and asparagus, I’m not sure we can be related anymore. I will always be uneasy in your presence, fearing that any moment might bring a glass of club soda or a stalk of the devil’s vegetable. How have we never talked about this?

I’m rambling. As I do in times of stress.

Let’s just say there was a uniquely odd mess waiting for me when I got home. All is not well in Humboldt Cove. I can’t get into details now, but it would help to know whether you or Guillermo happened to tell anyone about the plot of my next book—the one with the butterscotch and pumpkin cake. If so, I need their names and numbers.

I will explain everything when we talk on the phone next.

Willa

P.S. I can’t wait that long. It sounds nuts, but I think I’m being haunted by a phantom cake. Call me.

Mail

To Wallace Schmidt

Wallace,

Got your message. I landed a few hours ago, but it’s going to be awhile before you get those chapters. Tell the publisher politely to stuff it if they badger you. I’m only one woman. My fingers only move so fast. And we have a serious situation, Wallace.

Browned Butter Bloodshed has been leaked.

Side note: We really need to do a focus group on that name. Everyone who hears it turns immediately green. It’s the ‘blood,’ I think. What other scary words begin with B? Barbarous? Beastly? Bone-chilling? Get your people on it. I lost the ability to make bakery puns about five books ago.

Anyway, key threads of the plot have gone floating out into the wide world, and become caught and tangled in a break-in at one of my properties and a genuine police investigation. PR nightmare, anyone?

I have proof positive that the book is compromised. So who's the mole, Wallace? I want a list of everyone who might have seen the drafts. Your assistant Candy—her assistant—her assistant’s assistant. The barista at the office cafe, who always spells my name with one L. Your boss—the woman with the puffy bangs—and her boss, who wears long ties and sniffs a lot when he’s talking. Your therapist. (I know you talk to her about me.) Your wife, and her sister what's-her-face, with the mole. I want to say…Janet?

Everyone, Wallace. Everyone who knows even a crumb of information about Browned Butter Bloodshed is a suspect at this point.

Oh, and you might be hearing from the Klamath County Sheriff’s Department. Sorry.

Willa

P.S. Browned Butter & Bereavement? Ugh, no. That sounds like a support group for widows.

P.P.S. Speaking of PR nightmares, I attached that article from the NY paper about the whole listeria adventure at the writing conference. My name is mentioned more than once. The article is a doozy, and they had a heyday with the tagline. Also, I’m pretty sure they made up all the quotes. I don’t remember saying anything that asinine. But then, I WAS delirious. Again, sorry.

Book Buddies Barf After Blowing-Off Literary Buffet

June 8th - New York City

Three renowned mystery authors were notably absent from the highly-anticipated Black Raven Mystery Convention after an unfortunate bout of food poisoning from tainted smoked lox forced them into the hospital. The authors—Wilhelmina Lattner, Theodore Craven, and Danica Joliff—were expected to speak at a panel and attend a buffet dinner before being sidelined by a listeria infection.

The trio had shared a pre-convention meal at a local deli where the culprit, a smoked lox platter, turned their event schedule upside down. All three were admitted to a local hospital, where they remain under observation for recovery.

Wilhelmina Lattner, author of the acclaimed Violet Valentine mystery series, said from her hospital bed: "I’ve written about murder mysteries, but I never imagined I’d be taken down by a mystery fish. At least I know who did it—unfortunately, it was lunch."

Theodore Craven, best known for twisted psychological thrillers, added with a wry smile, "I was hoping for a killer buffet, but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind."

Though disappointed, Danica Joliff, the mind behind the acclaimed Fiona Fudge whodunnits, remained upbeat. "We’re plotting our escape," she joked. "But first, I’ll finish this IV drip."

Convention organizers expressed their regret at the authors' absence, wishing them a speedy recovery. Fans of the three writers sent well-wishes through social media, with many joking that their next mystery novel should center around a suspicious seafood platter.

Hospital officials expect the authors to be released within the next 48 hours.

The Weirdo

Willa lay awake far into the night, overstimulated, jetlagged, and confused. There was a gnawing pain in her stomach that even the strongest antacids could not assuage. A recent bout of food poisoning had done a number on her gut, but she suspected her discomfort was mostly due to anxiety.

What a way to return from an exhausting three-month tour. A delayed flight! A leaked book! A publicity disaster! Not to mention the hours of work that were in front of her, going through lists of Wallace’s contacts and trying to suss out the mole. It could be anyone, really. Her books were best-sellers, and there were people who would do anything for a buck or two.

Her mind circled on these questions until three AM, when she marched down to the laundry room, extracted the sleeping Kyle from his crate, and brought him up to bed with her. He nestled next to her right leg, and she finally drifted into an uneasy and restless sleep.

She awoke to the sound of whiffley snoring. Sometime in the night, Kyle had wormed his way up onto her pillow and stuck his snout firmly against her cheek. She was laying in a small puddle of drool, but whether it was hers, Kyle’s, or a combination of them both, she could not tell.

"Up and at ‘em, boy," she said, snatching her glasses off the bedside table, and accidentally knocking Kyle onto the floor. He scrambled up onto stocky legs, gave her a reproachful woof, and trotted away in search of breakfast.

Willa decided against a shower. Donning an old flannel robe, she followed Kyle down two flights of stairs, lured by the enticing smell of coffee and bacon.

When she swung open the door to the immense Victorian kitchen, however, she was surprised to see a small crowd gathered around the table. Three people crammed together along the window seat overlooking the Humboldt Cove harbor, and Mina sat opposite.

Thankful she had put on a robe to cover up the ratty t-shirt she slept in, Willa said hello to Jenny and Matt Ortiz, their next-door neighbors, and gave her aunt a quick peck on the cheek. Seated between Jenny and Matt was an older man Willa had never seen before. Like Mr. Pilkington, he carried a cane, presumably to assist with walking. Unlike Mr. Pilkington, his cane was elaborate, with a large gold topper in the shape of a human fist. It looked very heavy, and very expensive.

"Hi, everyone," said Willa, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and hoping her breath wasn't too bad.

"We were about to go make sure you were breathing," said Mina, with characteristic bluntness. "It’s ten-thirty in the morning, Willa. Jetlag is no excuse for slovenly habits. While you were lying in bed, I got up and ran a mile and cooked breakfast and paid the bills. Meanwhile, Pilky and Darlene took a walk, got me a coffee, drove to Eureka, took care of several errands, bought a week's worth of groceries, and are on their way back! And he's eighty-seven, for Pete's sake!"

Willa rolled her eyes.

"There’s bacon in the griddle there," Mina told her, as a peace offering, "and Jenny brought a few hot scones. Eat up, before Pilky gets back and feeds the rest to Darlene. This is Serafin Ortiz, by the way—Matt’s grandfather. He's been staying next door for several months now. A perfect addition to the neighborhood!"

Willa gave her hand to the tiny, handsome old gentleman and was embarrassed when he kissed it instead of shaking it. She made a beeline for the coffee and pulled a chair over to the table.

Jenny, a petite, attractive woman with great quantities of shiny black hair, pushed a plate of scones in Willa's direction.

"Cherry-vanilla!" she said, proudly. "My own recipe. Have one…or three," she added, as Willa piled her plate high. "Take some lemon curd, too. Homemade. I hope you don't mind us dropping by like this."

"Of course not! You're practically family at this point."

"We heard about what happened last night, and I got up extra early to make these for you. You poor thing! What a weird homecoming for you."

"So you didn’t make the cake, then? Or buy it?"

Jenny gave her an odd look.

"Definitely not. And I sure as heck didn’t make a mess of our kitchen. When I left in the afternoon, that thing was sparkling from head to toe. I was planning to get ahead of the donut rush, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I feel bad—if I had just stayed a little later, this wouldn't have happened."

Her husband Matt, a stocky, muscular young man with impossibly large arms, shook his head.

"Are you kidding me? Thank goodness you weren’t around when the break-in happened," he said, with feeling. "But I sure wish I had been there."

They had only been married a few months, and he was still in the head-over-heels stage. Eyeing one of his massive biceps, Willa felt doubly glad that the intruder wasn't caught red-handed. Matt had been a cage fighter once, and he was very protective of his wife.

"I would have broken that guy's nose for him, along with a few other things," Matt went on, grimly. "Can you believe he had the nerve to just walk in? In broad daylight?"

Willa tore her eyes from his upper arm. Matt did not sound like he was speaking in general terms. The "he" had definite meaning behind it.

"Who are you talking about? What guy?" asked Willa, opening a scone and slathering it with cream and lemon curd. "You guys know something I don't know?"

She bit into it and nearly moaned out loud. A light, almost cake-like texture, studded with sour cherries and flecks of vanilla bean. With the sweet cream and tart lemon curd, the pastry rang out like a virtual symphony.

"The guy that broke in to make the cake," said Matt, giving her a look of concern. "Are you okay?"

Startled out of her scone-induced ecstasy, Willa realized she had closed her eyes and was making odd "mrrphh" and "ooh" sounds.

"Sorry about that," she said, licking a stray drop of lemon curd off her finger. "Who breaks into a bakery to bake a cake? And then just leaves it there? It's like a reverse robbery! The punchline of a joke."

Jenny, Matt, and Mina exchanged meaningful looks. Serafin Ortiz was fully occupied in staring at Willa’s chin, which she realized was covered in thick clotted cream. He handed her a napkin and immediately slathered his hands with sanitizer from a small bottle he removed from his pocket.

"What’s with the side-eye?" Willa asked, wiping her face and hoping Serafin was just a germaphobe and not drawing hasty conclusions about her hygiene in general.

"One of the Seawind guests may be involved," said Jenny, shortly. "The police are looking into it. We can't find him."

The bed-and breakfast next door had only been open for six months, but in that short period it had earned quite a reputation up and down the coast of Northern California. Jenny was a fantastic chef, and despite his impressive physique and background as a fighter, Matt was an art historian specializing in Victorian furniture and decor. The combination of their talents had turned the already spectacular Garber House, Humboldt Cove’s most celebrated historical building, into a boutique inn people paid out the nose for.

Willa thought the name was unfortunate—the Seawind conjured up images of cheap, coastal motels to her—but otherwise, the business was perfect in every respect.

"What do you mean, you can't find him?"

"Didn’t turn up for the dinner he reserved last night. Didn’t turn up for his early-bird breakfast this morning, either. He isn’t answering his phone and there’s no one in his room. He’s only been with us a few nights, but he booked for the entire month!"

"Good grief. What did that set him back?" asked Mina, not known for her delicacy.

She picked up Kyle and gave his ears a good scratch while she waited for the answer.

"It’s six-hundred dollars a night," said little Mr. Ortiz, proudly. "More, with tax!"

Mina did a spit take.

"Don’t be tacky, Abuelo," said Jenny, laughing.

"Money is never tacky," said the old man, shaking his cane playfully in her direction.

Willa’s eyes widened. She knew the Seawind was expensive, but not quite that steep. She caught the speculative look in Mina’s eye and knew in that instant they were thinking the same thing. They had six extra bedrooms knocking around in this enormous monstrosity of a house—they would clean up if they put it up on Airbnb…

"So who is this guy?" she asked, shaking off financial schemes for the time being. "And why are the cops involved?"

Matt shrugged.

"A weirdo. Gave me the creeps, to be honest. Jake Anderson called last night and said they found his prints in the bakery. He was staying out back in the carriage house unit, and I didn’t want Jenny to clean his room by herself, if you know what I mean. He asked quite a few questions about the bakery when he first arrived—who owned it, how long it had been open, hours of operation—and we thought he was just being friendly. Obviously, we were wrong."

Willa whistled.

"No kidding? Why is he so interested in my bakery?"

"Search me! We don’t know anything about him except his Visa number and his name: Duane Fripp."

Now it was Willa's turn for a spit take. She coughed, spraying Mina and Kyle with flecks of bacon (to the former’s chagrin and the latter’s delight).

"Did you say Fripp?" she asked, too shocked to feel even the slightest bit of embarrassment about the small piece of masticated bacon now resting on her aunt's left cheek. "Duane? D-U-A-N-E, Duane?"

"Yeah," Matt replied. "You know him?"

"In a manner of speaking," Willa said. "Excuse me, I need to make a call."

The Fan

Rushing out of the kitchen, Willa ran up to the fourth-floor linen closet, the only spot in the house where she could get reliable cell phone reception. She dialed Jake Anderson’s number with shaking fingers and waited breathlessly for him to pick up.

"Hello?" he said, and before he could get another word out, Willa interrupted.

"Iknowwhobrokein," she said, slurring her words into an incomprehensible soup of consonants and vowels.

"Back up and slow down," Jake instructed.

"I—know–who–broke–in. If it's Duane Fripp, that is."

"You know Duane Fripp?"

Jake’s voice was tense.

"I’m coming over right now. Be there in two seconds."

He hung up, and she stared at the phone, wondering whether to call him back and demand a proper ETA. She'd prefer not to meet him in her raggedy old nightshirt and robe. But she had just stepped out of the dark closet when she heard Jake’s voice in the corridor.

"Anyone home?" he called.

Hurrying down the stairs, she met him in the foyer.

"When you said two seconds you weren’t kidding," she said, impressed.

"I was next door looking through Mr. Fripp’s room at the Seawind. We printed the kitchen last night, on a hunch. Henderson thought I was crazy, and normally I wouldn't give precious resources to a cake, however magically it appeared. But the potential of a leaked book made me uneasy, especially as someone took care not to inform you of their presence. Your publisher could lose thousands if your book launch is compromised, right?"

"Right."

"When that kind of money is on the line, I pay attention. The prints came back to this guy Fripp, and I tracked him via credit card to the B&B. So tell me everything you know about him."

"Well, it isn’t much," Willa said, reluctantly. "I’ve only met him once or twice. But I’ve had about a hundred letters from him over the last four years. And jewelry. And tribute art. Oh—and some hair."

"You mean…?"

Willa nodded.

"Duane Fripp is a Violet Valentine devotee, the head of my fan club…and my number one stalker."

Jake drew her into a dark corner of the sitting room, inadvertently tripping over her largest suitcase.

"Ow!" he cried.

She helped him up and bent over the bag, which had unzipped slightly.

"If it makes you feel any better, I brought you back a snow globe," she said, handing him a particularly large one that featured the Colosseum.

She watched him, anxiously. Souvenir purchases were difficult, full stop. Willa never knew whether people would like the kitschy things she picked out, or whether they'd prefer she just bought them a pound of chocolate each or handed them a crisp twenty-dollar bill. These social dances were already tricky with known quantities like her parents, relations, and friends, but what was Jake, exactly? A friend, surely. Was he more than that? Did he want to be more than that? Did she want him to be more than that? Willa had no idea.

She hoped the snow globe conveyed the right level of intimacy. Maybe it wasn't personal enough for their stage of friendship, and he would feel slighted. Or—oh no—what if it said too much? Could a snow globe be taken as a romantic overture? She had simply gone into the airport gift shop to get a Kit Kat and panic-purchased a random assortment of snow globes and magnets. But maybe Jake felt otherwise! Maybe Jake would think she selected this especially for him.

Willa began to sweat. Why hadn't she given him a magnet?! Magnets sent the perfect message. Hello, said a magnet. I am here because I stick to the fridge and can be easily stuffed into a carry-on suitcase.

She held her breath, hoping she hadn't absolutely beefed everything.

Jake, his mind un-tortured with the niceties of social intercourse, took it absently and set it down almost immediately on an end table already cluttered with china figures and knickknacks. Willa breathed a sigh of relief.

"Tell me everything," he said.

"There’s not much to tell! I started getting letters from Duane around the time Delicious Death really took off. That was my first bestseller, and once you make the lists, the fan mail starts pouring in. Most of it is innocuous, just kindly people telling you how much they like your work. But maybe ten percent of it has a different flavor. If I recall correctly, Duane proposed marriage right off the bat."

"Yikes."

"Yeah. Though I should clarify that he extended his hand and heart to Violet Valentine, not to me."

"He wanted to marry a fictional character?"

"I don’t think he understands she is fictional. The first time he wrote, Wallace—that’s my agent—sent out the standard form letter we give to everyone. Thanks so much for reaching out, I appreciate my fans, here’s a signed photo, etc. etc. But Duane just kept sending letters. He also organized a bunch of book signings and started the Facebook group that drives most of my fan activity. He’s a nice enough guy—I've met him a couple times at signings. But he’s grown gradually more unhinged as the years have gone on. He has a fit every time a new book comes out and there’s even a hint of danger to Violet."

"Has he ever made specific threats of violence?"

"Violence? No, no, of course not. He sends his hair every now and then, like I said, and occasionally a chapter or two of Violet Valentine fan fiction, but otherwise he’s harmless."

"What kind of fan fiction?" asked Jake, dubiously.

"Not the icky kind," Willa assured him. "She usually turns out to be an FBI agent in disguise. Or occasionally, she’s an alien sent from another planet to solve crime. He’s not particularly interested in the bakery theme, I gather."

"Are there mentions of torture? Harm to animals or children?"

"Definitely not. They’re very clean and innocent. She befriends a unicorn in one of them, and they fly off together to another planet."

"You said stalker, though. What did you mean by that?"

"I was exaggerating a bit. On occasion, he takes a picture of me at a literary conference or a fan convention and forwards it to the office. They’re always very flattering—way better than the publicity shots we normally get. This is between you and me, but we’ve actually used some of Duane’s shots for the press."

Willa clocked the incredulous look on Jake’s face.

"We always write and ask his permission. He’s a talented photographer, and—well—publicity photos usually make me look like a homeless clown. Red nose, big hair. Duane manages to capture me as I want to be, and not as I am. And he has never crossed the line. He never sends pictures of me coming out of the shower, for example, or getting into my car."

"Have the police been notified"

"No. What would we report? Kooky fan mail? Like I said, he sticks to public places. He has never tried to contact me at my home address. I’ve shaken his hand maybe two times. Duane is the sweet kind of nut. Cuckoo, but nice. That’s what I thought, at least. What is he doing here, in Humboldt Cove?"

"I don’t know. But there’s something you definitely need to see. Something fairly disturbing, and I was at a loss to explain it until now. Come over to the Seawind with me, and I’ll show you."

He looked her up and down, seeming to notice her robe and slippers for the first time.

"Er, you might want to get dressed first."

"Good call. There’s coffee and scones in the kitchen. The Ortizs are here, as well."

"Oh, shoot. That makes things tricky…I don't want them to see this just yet."

"See what?"

"Can you get in touch with your agent or someone in that office?" Jake asked, ignoring the question. "Ask if they kept any of the letters or photos. I’d like to see them, if so. I'll go try to get rid of Jenny and Matt."

Willa dressed in record time, throwing on an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt—the only two items of clothing she could find. The rest of her clothes were in the wash or packed neatly away in the suitcases downstairs. She considered trying to do something with her hair, which currently resembled a bird’s nest made from straw and bits of old fright wigs, and decided it was a lost cause.

Pulling out her phone, she flipped through her list of contacts. There was no use asking her agent Wallace directly about Duane Fripp. He handed everything even remotely unpleasant to his assistant. Who could she talk to then?

She smiled to herself and pulled out her laptop.

Mail

To Candace Yamamoto

Candy,

Hey, hey, hey! Long time no speak!

Listen, I need a favor. I could ask Wallace, but you and I both know he would pass the job along to you anyway, so I might as well save you both the superfluous step.

Do you guys have a file somewhere for fan mail or do you chuck it all as soon as the obligatory replies go out? I’m betting on the former. Knowing Wallace, there is an entire cabinet full of letters, alphabetized and categorized for easy access and retrieval. Also knowing Wallace, he made you stay late on Christmas Eve to organize it. Can you please look through my pile and forward everything that came from Duane Fripp to the Deputy Sheriff of Klamath County, California? If you have a record of Duane's address, send that along as well.

It’s a long story, which I can explain to you at a later date over crab cakes and cheap wine at that place we found across the Sound. Not the Driftwood Lounge—the other one. What was it called? The Sea Witch? The Squid? It was something nautical and slightly unpleasant.

You’ll know Duane immediately the minute you see his handwriting. He’s the one who sends the Violet Valentine fan fic and the incredibly flattering photos of me handing out signed copies at mystery cons. He also sent a lock of hair once, but you don’t need to forward that on unless you want to. I hope it was burned in the fire of a thousand suns, but I wouldn’t put it past Wallace to encase it in plastic and store it for future reference.

One more thing—is there a way someone outside the publishing company could get their sticky little mitts on draft chapters for Browned Butter Bloodshed? There’s been a leak, and you’re more likely to know about it than Wallace is. I bet the PA crowd has loads of dirt on everyone there. Speaking of which, is it true that Gerry Pinkerton got hair plugs in Mexico, and had to have them removed at great expense at a private clinic in Tacoma? I heard they sprouted mezcal worms instead of hair, but Linda from accounting is not overly reliable. Plus, her perfume is revolting. Eau de tuna.

This is fairly time-sensitive, so call or write back ASAP. And don’t pretend you’ve got better things to do. Wallace has you on dry cleaning duty this time of the week, and the junior agents can get their own dang coffee for once.

Thanks! Love you! Talk soon!

Willa

P.S. Kelp Kitchen! That’s it! Crab cakes for two at the Kelp Kitchen, date TBD.

Mail

To Craig Lattner

Hey Dad,

No time so I’ll make this short. Landed safe yesterday. Flight was delayed, and I laid over in Chicago, but it wasn't too bad. I polished off a couple deep dish pizzas by myself just to add to the nice layer of padding I acquired in Rome, so it was time well spent.

Mina’s good. Dogs are good. I’m jet lagged, and still a bit wobbly after what happened in NY, but otherwise in perfect health. Tell Mom I am safe, happy, and in one piece, and my gut health is almost back to normal (as evidenced by the consumption of two deep-dish pizzas). I have been taking the supplements she FedExed to the hotel. I have been eating bland foods. I have a follow-up appointment with my primary care doctor in Humboldt Cove. I've gained back all the weight I lost, and then some. In short, I am alive and kicking. I’ve attached a picture of myself holding today’s newspaper for proof.

Wendy and Guillermo were great, and their flat in Rome is like something out of a fairy tale. Tell Mom that Wendy definitely is NOT pregnant, so her intuition—once more—has led her astray. No grandkids on the way. Your grand-dogs are great, however, and longer than ever. They send woofs and kisses your direction.

The rest of the book tour went very well, and they really seemed to eat Violet up in Germany. French and Italian readers were more ho-hum, but I’ve got the British audience pretty well dialed in, and if Guillermo has anything to say about it, the Italians will warm up to my style sooner or later. I hold no hope for the French. You wouldn’t BELIEVE the looks I got when I tried saying "bonjour" or "un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plaît."

Withering.

There’s a bit of a situation here that's occupying my time. Find a minute when you and Mom are both home and we can have a chat.

Love you,

Willa

The Walls

Willa met with the others in the kitchen, where Serafin Ortiz was telling jokes and making Jake laugh so hard that some scone sprayed out of his nose. The old man evidently had a wicked sense of humor.

"What’s so funny?" Willa grinned, and he waved a hand at her.

"Alas, you missed it. Timing is everything," he said, winking at her. "I can’t create the same magic twice. Jennifer, would you mind grabbing my jacket, my darling? There is a bit of a nip in the air, and I think I may have the flu."

Jenny bundled him up, reminding him he'd already had his flu shot.

"I know my body," he said. "I feel the chills coming on."

"This morning you said it was too hot, Abuelo," Matt commented, stifling a grin.

"It was. And now it is too cold. My constitution is very delicate."

They all filed out the kitchen door and headed toward the gate in the fence between the two houses. Neat paving stones in the back garden of the Seawind led to a small outbuilding, the old carriage house of the Garber estate that was converted into a premium guest suite for the B&B.

"Are you sure you don't need our help?" Matt asked Jake, as Jenny led Serafin into the house.

"Not at the moment," Jake said, vaguely. "But I may have some questions for you in a bit. Is he alright?"

His eyes followed Serafin, who was hobbling up the path toward the back door. Matt groaned.

"Abuelo is always alright. Never happier than when he's faking an illness, though. We just smile and nod most of the time. Give me a holler if you need anything. I'll just be inside, fixing the sink for one of our more picky guests."

Matt left them at the entrance to the carriage house and walked back toward the B&B, whistling.

Jake opened the door and let Willa and Mina in. The suite was dark and smelled of old shoes, sweat, and something else—something indefinable. Willa’s first, whimsical guess was sadness, but she realized shortly afterward that the smell emanated from an open jar of pickled pig’s feet on the bedside table. She peered inside, recoiled, and reflected that pickled trotters did offer a pretty decent physical representation of sadness.

To Willa's surprise, Sheriff Gary Poole was standing in the corner of the dim room, watching them all intently. Jake is taking this book leak pretty seriously, Willa mused.

"Gary," said Mina, nodding cooly at him.

"Mina," he replied, inclining his head in her direction.

The two were always wary of each other, like cats fighting over the same territory—especially as it was known throughout the community that Mina planned to run for Sheriff someday. There were definite times when the county did not feel big enough to hold them both.

Willa, who did not care overmuch for Gary herself, waved a hand to acknowledge that she had seen him and hoped that was enough. The last thing in the world she wanted was to get on the bad side of Sheriff Poole. She began to feel very silly about the whole thing. It was just a book, after all. Not the plans for a nuclear weapon.

"Jake tells me you are personally acquainted with the man who currently occupies this room," Gary said, fixing a beady eye on Willa.

He had a habit of making every statement sound like an accusation. Even a post-sneeze bless you sounded like a veiled threat coming from him.

"Kind of. If it's the same Duane Fripp I know, he is the president of my Facebook fan club."

"Fan or fanatic?" Gary asked, still eyeing Willa as though she had said something nasty.

"Fanatic might be more accurate. But he's harmless, trust me."

"I doubt that very much," he replied. "Deputy, if you will…"

Jake drew the curtains, and the sun shone brightly on a wall covered with scribbles, photos, and several strings of bright red yarn, held up by thumbtacks.

Willa's legs buckled beneath her, wobbling like Jenny’s raspberry jelly. She no longer felt silly for wasting the Sheriff's time. The writing that covered nearly every square inch of the wall was garbled and often unintelligible, but there was one unifying theme.

"What the heck?! Those are pictures of me," said Willa, pointing to several grainy photos posted in prominent locations. "They’re recent, too. That’s me coming out of the airport in San Francisco—that’s the hotel where I stayed for the tour launch, at the mystery writer’s conference there. That one’s from Chicago…in the breakfast room at my hotel, to be exact. See, I'm stuffing my face with waffles. They had one of those do-it-yourself bars."

"I love those," said Mina, "but the eggs are always like hockey pucks."

Willa moved down the wall, studying each photo.

"That one is at the bookshop that hosted a signing in Philly…and that one…ugh! That was only two weeks ago—it’s a shot of me being discharged from a hospital just outside NYC. Look at the state of me! I was a dirty, tangled mess. I had to cut out a whole chunk of my hair afterward—there was no saving it. Not even Duane could make me look good in that one."

"Hospital?" said Jake, quickly. "Discharged for what?"

"Food poisoning. And woof, I had a rough go of it. Every liquid in my body made a run for it. I had to have an IV for a couple of days. Let’s just say I won’t be eating out at greasy spoons in New Jersey again."

"Well, there's no doubt about it. This is some kind of twisted shrine to Willa," said Mina, examining the photos closely. "Fanatic is putting it lightly! The man must be obsessed with her! Look at this one. It was taken from fairly far away. With a good camera, too."

Willa stumbled toward the picture Mina was tapping.

"No touching," the Sheriff ordered.

"Oh, lighten up," Mina retorted. "What's the harm? You’ve already printed everything."

"Stop that! I mean it."

"Stop what? This isn't my first rodeo, remember? You processed the room already, Gary. Think I can’t see the traces of talcum and graphite everywhere?"

"Think we don't have the guts to arrest a big-time prosecutor for evidence tampering?" Jake said lightly, breaking into the brewing storm. "Hands off, Mina. You're not above the law."

Mina snorted and withdrew her finger, somehow making it clear that she was doing it for Jake and not for Gary.

"Evidence tampering!" she repeated. "Evidence of what, exactly? Adoring my niece? I admit this guy's a loony, but if that's a crime, you’d better lock up about half the reading population of the United States."

"Half the readers in the US don't have a detailed photo itinerary of Willa's book tour," Jake said, mildly.

"Fair enough. Who is this gal, Willa?" Mina asked.

She reached out her finger to tap another photo and then caught Jake's eye and drew it back. Even Mina knew when she shouldn't push her luck.

"Huh. That's Danica Joliff—an old frenemy of mine," said Willa, peering closely at the photo of a tall, voluptuous Black woman eating the same waffles from the same waffle bar at the same hotel in Chicago.

They’d both booked a thriller fan convention that weekend. Willa peered closer and saw a corner of her own sleeve in the background of Danica’s picture. They must have been sitting only tables apart.

"Frenemies?" Jake said quickly. "Not friends?"

"Not friends. We’re cordial enough, but I think her heroine Fiona Fudge is just a copy of Violet Valentine, and she thinks I created Violet to imitate Fiona. It’s impossible to prove it, either way. Our debut novels published within a few weeks of each other, and they compete for sales. She always seems to release the new Fiona Fudge right before a new Violet book hits the shelves. Drives me nuts. But I don't know anything definitely bad about her."

"Hang on a sec. Here's Danica again, outside the same hospital," said Jake, looking at a picture further down the wall. "Did she get sick too? Or was she visiting you?"

"She was sick too."

Jake raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Willa shrugged at him.

"We put our differences aside and pooled our resources one day to rent a car so we could go to a book signing at this little mall in Nowheresville, New Jersey," she admitted. "Another writer went with us and helped pay for gas. Normally, I wouldn’t have driven that far out for a random signing, but they offered all three of us a veritable goldmine for attending, and we couldn’t turn it down. We made an ill-advised stop at a deli on the way back and shared some lox, bagels, and a heaping helping of food poisoning. Four hours later, we were all in agony and had to stop at some janky hospital about fifty miles south of the City. All three of us missed booked appearances at a high-end buffet in our honor."

"Food poisoning," mused the Sheriff. "Did the hospital identify this bout of sickness? E. Coli? Salmonella?"

"They said it was probably listeria."

"What do you mean, probably? Did they do an official test? Would it be in your medical records?"

"They ran a test on Danica, and that’s what she had, so they treated us for the same thing. It was a tiny, rural hospital without many resources. We occupied three precious beds and they were glad to see the back of us. Why?"

Jake pointed to a caption that Duane had scribbled beneath the photo of her emerging from the hospital. Arsenic, it read.

"I don’t get it," Willa said, baffled. "It was just food poisoning. Bad salmon. No one said anything about arsenic."

"Is this the other writer who got sick?" Jake asked, pointing to a Polaroid further down the wall of a large man with bright white hair and a fedora.

"Ugh, no. That’s Tad McNulty—Danica’s agent. He is the worst. This looks like it was taken at the publisher’s convention back in the Bay Area. He went on to Chicago with Danica, though. And then to New York."

"McNulty didn’t get food poisoning?"

"He wasn’t with us that day. I wouldn’t have agreed to go if Tad had gone with us. He’s the kind of guy who calls you sweetheart and offers back rubs, unsolicited. I think he stayed at the hotel, but I didn't ask."

"These two are in a lot of the pictures. Were Danica and Tad around for every stage of your book tour?" said Jake, puzzled. "I thought you were specifically promoting Fatal Fudge."

"I was. But we planned the tour so I could hit several of the most important fan conferences, writing seminars, and mystery conventions at the same time. She’d naturally go to those. It’s just coincidental."

"What happened on the 15th?" asked Mina, who had followed a line of yarn further down the wall.

"Huh?" said Willa, becoming more and more bewildered by the whole thing.

"This picture of you is circled, along with the date. You look terrified."

Willa leaned forward to look at the photo and gave a small exclamation.

"That’s me in San Francisco again. I remember that moment well," she said somberly. "I was just stepping off the curb outside the airport when a driver whizzed by and missed me by about an inch. He didn’t even stop. He just shot off, tires squealing. Scared the daylights out of me. Duane must have caught the split second afterward. What’s written underneath? I can’t quite make it out."

"First attempt," read Jake, squinting at the wall. "Failed."

"I don’t understand what’s happening."

"It's obvious," said the Sheriff, coldly. "Duane Fripp is trying to kill you, of course."

The Conspiracy

"Lord have mercy," said Mina, after a ghastly pause. "Gary, for once I think you're right. This isn’t a shrine. It’s a carefully calculated plan for murder."

"What do you mean?" gasped Willa, feeling around for something to support her shaky legs.

She grasped Jake's outstretched hand and held on tight. Mina gave her an exasperated look.

"Do the math, Willa. That man has got all his attempts to kill you written up there in black and white. First, he tried to run you over with a car. When that didn’t work, he tried poisoning you in New Jersey! Then he followed you home here, ready to finish the job. I bet that cake is chock-full of arsenic, just like in your book. You’re having it tested, I presume?" Mina asked the Sheriff.

"We will now," he replied, a touch defensively. "I wasn't about to tie up the forensics team with a cake, however mysteriously it appeared. But at this point, I think it's warranted."

"This doesn’t make any sense," Willa protested. "Look at the picture from San Fransisco. Duane must have been standing across the street when he took that. He couldn’t have been driving the car that almost hit me."

"Pfft," said Mina, waving a scornful hand. "Is that all that's bugging you? Obviously, he hired someone to do it. He wanted to be nearby so he could get a trophy picture of you getting smushed!"

There was a gentle tap-tap on the door, and the Sheriff walked over to answer it. Mr. Pilkington stood outside, leaning on his cane.

"There was nobody home when I returned," he explained, looking round at the concerned faces. "I went next door and Jenny very kindly told me I could find you here. Why, Willa, you're shaking! What is the matter, my dear? May I come in?"

Gary hesitated, sighed, and let the old man enter. Like Mina, Pilky had been one of the most respected criminal prosecutors of the last century. Unlike Mina, he still consulted in active cases.

Mina took his arm and marched him over to the wall, where she showed him each photo, taking him through their conclusions as she moved from the left to the right. Occasionally Willa or Jake added a piece of key information, but this was now the Mina Show, and she was running it.

"So you see," she told Mr. Pilkington, once she had exhausted every detail, "this maniac is obsessed with Willa, and has been trying to kill her for months now."

There was a brief silence.

"You’re wrong," said Mr. Pilkington unexpectedly.

They all looked his direction, astonished. Mr. Pilkington almost never contradicted Mina. He’d been in love with her for nearly fifty years, for one thing. And for another, it never did much good to tell Mina she was wrong.

"Look here—see? Haven't you spotted it yet? There’s a ‘suspects’ column," said Mr. Pilkington, peering nearsightedly at the wall. "It’s small, and almost hidden by the shadow of the window ledge, but it's labeled clear as day."

Everyone approached the northwest corner of the room and crowded round to take a look.

"Suspects? Who's on it?"

Mr. Pilkington's nose was almost touching the paint now as he struggled to make out Duane's writing.

"There are three names: Danica Joliff, Tad McNulty, and Steven Royce," he read. "No, sorry. That’s not an R. It must be Joyce."

"Kindly remove your nose from the wall, sir," ordered the Sheriff.

Mr. Pilkington backed away, mortified. Meanwhile, Willa had gone pale.

"Steven Joyce? Steve's name is up there?"

"Look at this!" said Mina, excitedly.

She bent over and picked up an envelope of snapshots lying innocently on the floor. Before anyone could stop her, she drew out the top photo.

"Steve's name and Steve's picture! This is Steve, right?" asked Mina, holding out a photo of a tall, handsome man with a chiseled chin and a supercilious expression.

"Yes," said Willa, faintly. "That's him."

"This envelope is stuffed with pictures of him. Duane hadn't finished his little art project yet, it seems."

"Who is this Steve?" demanded Sheriff Poole.

"My ex-boyfriend," explained Willa. "We broke up more than a year ago."

"Ah," said Jake, his face growing impassive.

"Very much ex," said Willa, hastily. "Ex, ex, ex. Like, I never want to see him again kind of ex. Ick!" she cried, flipping quickly through the stack of photos Mina handed her. "He’s at almost every hotel, every conference, and every city I went to in the last three months. This is insane. Why was he following me across the country?"

"I have no idea. Frankly, I'm stumped," asked Jake, worry lines forming between his eyebrows. He gestured at the wall in its entirety. "I've never seen anything like this. If it isn’t a plan for murder, then what the heck is it?"

"Ahem, well, if you don't mind me suggesting…" coughed Mr. Pilkington.

"Please do!"

"I believe we're looking at an investigation board. Er, the kind you would see in a true crime documentary, or an FBI drama. See? Willa is the victim—the target. Mr. Fripp evidently thought she was in danger. Over here we’ve got the suspects. The yarn is making connections between events and suspects, and there’s a timeline over here, just under the windowsill."

"What?" said Willa, beginning to regret eating all those scones. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably.

"He thought someone was trying to kill you," Mr. Pilkington explained, patiently. "And he thought that person tried more than once."

A silence ensued, during which Willa felt the room shrinking.

"No one is trying to kill me," she said, her voice cracking. "This is absolute nonsense. Take a step back, for a minute."

"Good idea," said the Sheriff. "Everyone should step away from the wall. No more fingers, toes, or noses touching that thing. It’s evidence."

"Forget the wall. Let's all back up from this rhetoric and check in with reality again. I don’t know why any of you are taking Duane Fripp seriously. Look! See!" Willa said, reaching desperately for any and all available straws. "Check out his nightstand!"

Everyone turned obediently toward a little table next to Duane’s bed, piled high with paperbacks.

"I know this author," Willa said, picking up one of the books and shaking it at them. Sheriff Poole glared at her, and she quickly put it down. "Whoops, sorry. But look. Duane was a flat-earther! This one’s by a famous apologist."

She knelt to examine the rest of the stack, careful not to touch anything else.

"Ooh," she said, reading each spine. "This one’s on the moon landing—or lack thereof. An oldie but a goodie. Aliens, aliens, lizard people…Roswell…now that’s an old one—I didn’t even know the nuts read that one anymore. Let’s see, more aliens…the pyramids…Atlantis…Aztecs…aliens…JFK, for a change. More flat earth garbage. I recognize almost all of these books. I researched conspiracy theorists for Pineapple Upside Down Peril. Duane is crazy, that’s all. Imagining things. This so-called investigation board is just an extension of his normal paranoia."

"I don’t think so," said Jake, ignoring the books and examining the wall once more. "I think he’s on to something in this case. You have had two narrow shaves in the last month, haven’t you? Those weren’t figments of Duane’s imagination."

"Accidents!"

"Maybe. And maybe not."

"What is that?" asked Mina, pointing to an expensive camera, mounted on a tripod by the window. "And why is it pointed at my kitchen?"

"It's not. It's trained on the gate between the houses right now. But we think he's setting up to do surveillance," Jake said, uncomfortably. "On Willa."

"I did not suppose he wanted to watch me undress," Mina said, with dignity.

"He probably doesn’t know whose windows are whose, especially since he arrived in Humboldt Cove before Willa finished her tour. And don't worry, there's no memory chip in the camera. We checked. I think he's just using the lens as a make-shift pair of binoculars."

"He followed me here?"

"In a manner of speaking. He arrived before you did, remember?"

"Why didn't he follow me to Europe?" Willa asked, who now had a solid case of the heebie-jeebies. "The photos up there stop in New York City."

"Where did you go after that?"

"London, Paris, Munich, Geneva, and then three days in Rome with my sister."

"Maybe he couldn’t afford it. Or he doesn’t have a passport. The next best thing was to set up here, so he could protect you the minute you returned stateside."

"Again, protect me from what? Death by bagel? Nefarious smoked fish?"

"The killer."

"There is no killer. There are only two unrelated accidents and one flat-earther with more time and money than sense."

Mr. Pilkington cleared his throat.

"Again, I think we’ve all missed something vital here," he said, dryly.

"What’s that, Pilky?" said Willa, trying to make her voice sound normal.

"Mr. Fripp did not think anyone was trying to kill you."

"Thank you! See, Pilky’s on my side."

"You just told us it was an investigation board," snapped Mina. "Make up your mind."

Mr. Pilkington cleared his throat again, reproachfully.

"With due respect, you’re overlooking the obvious."

He pointed up, and all eyes followed his finger to a scrawl at the very top of the wall, which Willa had failed to see until this point. Written in small, block letters, surrounded by hearts, was a name. And the name was not Wilhelmina Lattner.

"Duane wasn't concerned about Willa," Mr. Pilkington said. "He was trying to protect Violet Valentine."

There was another brief lull.

"There is no Violet Valentine, Pilky," said Willa, breaking the silence.

"Of course there isn’t. But Mr. Fripp found the closest approximation—Violet’s creator. Can you think of any reason why he might be especially concerned about Violet?"

Willa stared at him.

"Violet is always in some kind of scrape," she said, slowly. "But the peril has always been silly and low-stakes. Until Browned Butter Bloodshed, that is."

"Good lord," said Gary Poole, making a face. "What kind of books do you write, Ms. Lattner? I understood they were, er, women’s literature. Romance and—er—cooking. Not pulp fiction."

"Women’s literature?" Mina snorted. "How old are you, Sheriff? The crypt keeper’s got more modern notions than you do."

"They're mysteries. And it’s a working title," Willa muttered. "The point is, I decided to raise the stakes a bit in this book. I’m still working with my agent and my editor on the specifics, but I wanted Violet to get actually hurt for once. I was tired of her escaping from buildings slowly filling with water, or wriggling free of handcuffs while the villain monologued at her."

"It’s not possible to wriggle out of handcuffs," said Sheriff Poole, contemptuously.

"Yes, it is," Willa shot back. "I do research my books, you know. The situations always have to be at least plausible. You can pick a handcuff lock if you have the right implement—a bobby pin, a paperclip. There are entire YouTube videos that show you how to do it! I've done it myself. That’s not the point. The point is that I wanted to introduce a greater element of reality to the story."

"A courageous move," said Mr. Pilkington, smiling at her. "You run the risk of alienating your fan base."

"They can take this or they can move on to other authors. There are plenty of ridiculous mysteries. Some have dogs and cats solving the murders. Or ghosts."

"How would a cat solve a murder?" said Mr. Pilkington, perplexed.

Willa shrugged

"Search me. I don’t write that stuff. I shouldn’t even have dipped my toes into the culinary mystery genre, since I can’t bake. But here I am, all the same. Originally, I wanted to kill Violet off, but that was a bridge too far. My agent practically had a heart attack at the very notion. I’m contenting myself with genuinely scaring her in this one."

"Did anyone else know that?" Jake asked.

"They shouldn’t," said Willa. "But obviously, more than one element of the book was revealed ahead of time. Whoever made the mess at The Three Hounds had the recipe for the browned butter pumpkin cake. They must have gained access to at least some of the chapters." She smacked her hand onto her forehead. "You know what? In the chapter where she makes that cake, someone knocks Violet out. Hard. For her, everything fades to black, and I let that hang in the air for a couple chapters afterward as the story shifts into the perspective of a couple of her buddies. If Duane is our phantom baker, and only has part of the book, he might have gotten the wrong idea."

"He believes Violet’s life is in danger? Is that what you're implying?"

"I guess so. So there’s our explanation. Delusion! He’s mixing fantasy with reality and getting confused. If he’s trying to find Violet’s would-be killer, he’s going to have to look a long time. The villain in this one’s called Roy Blenkensop, and he’s as phony as Violet herself."

"Nice try," said Mina, hands on hips. "You're doing your best to wiggle out of this, Willa. And it's a reasonable explanation, but it can't be the explanation."

"What's your explanation, then?" Willa asked flatly. "You think someone called Roy Blenkensop really is trying to kill me?"

"Let me finish, if you please! I'm not stupid. I’ll grant you that Duane has been chasing an imaginary murderer."

"What’s the problem then?"

"Looks to me like he stumbled onto a real one!"

"That's ridiculous," said Willa, angrily. "No one's been killed."

"Yet," said Mina.

"We’ve got a more pressing problem than that," said Jake, sighing.

"And what’s that?"

"Where is Duane Fripp now?"

The Room

"We need to talk to the Ortizs," Jake said, after a moment. "Maybe they know more about Duane—or where he might be now."

"Agreed. I'll go fetch them," said Sheriff Poole. "But we won't say more than we have to—is that understood, Ms. Lattner? I don't want to alarm Matt and Jenny, and more than that, I don't want to start a witch hunt."

"Wasn't Matt in here already this morning?"

"Yes," Jake replied. "But he says he just poked his head in, and it's pretty dark in here with the blinds closed. I have to think he would have mentioned something like this if he had seen it. That wallpaper is toast, for one thing."

"They'll have to see the damage, I suppose," sighed Gary. "But I'd prefer to call it graffiti, or vandalism. Let's avoid all talk of er, murder boards and stalkers and poisonings."

"Fine by me," said Willa.

The last thing in the world she wanted was to try to explain the developing situation to the Ortizs. How could she tell them what was happening when she didn't know herself?

"Mum's the word, then?" said the Sheriff, making sure all three of them got the message.

He glared at Mina, who gave him an injured look.

"I know when to be discreet," she told him.

He sighed and exited, giving a swift, backward glance over his shoulder. The emotion on his face froze Willa's blood more than any overt language could do. He was worried, she was sure of that. And if Gary Poole was worried, there was something to worry about.

While they waited for him to return, Mina and Mr. Pilkington chatted excitedly over by the wall, swapping theories. Tired of all of it, Willa sat disconsolately on the edge of Duane's neatly made bed and picked up one of his books again.

"Lizard People," she muttered, flipping through it. "Yuck."

These paranoid doomsday guys were so unoriginal. It always seemed to be reptiles with them. Why couldn't someone come up with a nice conspiracy, for once? Maybe the earth was overrun by shapeshifting alien overlords, but maybe those overlords were hiding out as dachshunds or pugs. Why couldn't anyone write a tell-all book about some lovely, harmless Dog People instead of messing around with Reptiloids and Saurians and Draconians and all the other ridiculous variants?

She set the book down and selected another one about the pyramids. It was all the same garbage, repackaged. Mysterious lifeforms were everywhere, it seemed, and though they had the entire vastness of space to explore, they were all wearing itchy human suits and hanging out on Earth, selling cigarettes at mini-markets, or—if they were lucky—running local governments. Being a Lizard Person was a tough gig.

Must be hard to be Duane, she thought, suddenly sympathetic.

A man who could devour this much material about Lizard People and the lost city of Atlantis might find reality a hard pill to swallow. No wonder he wanted to lose himself to Violet Valentine, a woman who required nothing, asked nothing, and offered nothing but entertainment.

Jenny, Matt, and Sheriff Poole hurried in, accompanied by Serafin, who was looking excited. Willa set the book down and rose to meet them.

"What the actual heck? My walls!" cried Jenny, as she looked around her, horrified. "Is that permanent marker? That wallpaper cost thousands and thousands of dollars—it’s a genuine Victorian print. I’m going to murder that creep! I knew we should have collected the security deposit upfront, Matt. I need to get out here with a scrub brush and pail immediately…"

"I’m afraid that’s impossible," said the Sheriff. "You’ll have to keep out of the carriage house for the time being. At least until we’ve completed the investigation into Mr. Fripp’s…activities."

"Dios mio," breathed Serafin, grabbing the bedpost for support. He flinched at the contact and immediately drew out his bottle of sanitizer again. "What excitement! Forget the money, Jennifer. If a problem can be solved with money, it is no problem at all. Oh dear…my heart…my heart feels very weak."

"You’re fine, Abuelo," said Matt, helping the old man to a seat. "There’s nothing wrong with your heart."

"The doctor said I must be careful not to overdo it."

"The doctor said you were healthy as a horse."

"I’m having palpitations," Serafin insisted. "My blood sugar is plummeting—I feel it. I need my injections. Run and fetch them for me. I do not want to miss a moment!"

"You’ve already had your insulin this morning."

Jake stepped in to squash this domestic quarrel before it could get too out of hand.

"Thank you all for coming. I'm sorry about the state of the room, and even sorrier for springing it on you. I take it you didn't know about this? None of you have been inside the carriage house since Mr. Fripp checked in?"

"I peeked in here this morning to make sure he was okay since he missed his dinner and breakfast reservations, but the lights were low," Matt explained. "I called out several times, and no one answered."

"Jenny? Serafin?"

"Definitely not," said Jenny, worried. "He didn't want housekeeping while he was here, and that was a relief, if I'm honest. We've got a couple of divas in the bridal suite upstairs right now who have been taking up all of my time with fiddly little requests."

"Newlyweds?"

"Maybe. Looks like a dating couple trying to rekindle a dying romance to me. Anyway, they've been keeping me on my toes, and Serafin doesn’t deal with the visitors or the practical side of the business."

"Wrong," said Serafin, austerely. "It’s my investment property, isn’t it? Over the last few months, I have spoken with each and every guest! At length! And often!"

"You spoke to Mr. Fripp?" asked Jake.

"Certainly I did. A very, er, interesting young man. But he had kind eyes. He laughed at my jokes. We breakfasted together many days."

"Well, I don't know what Abuelo has been up to, but Matt and I left Mr. Fripp pretty well alone after he checked in," said Jenny, throwing Serafin an indulgent look. "We've got better things to do than chitchat with weirdos, especially when there are other guests demanding clean sheets and fancy coffee and instantaneous room service every dang minute of the day!"

"I saw you two talking only yesterday morning," Serafin responded. "Outside the carriage suite door!"

"He needed fresh towels! We didn't have a heart-to-heart about it. I dropped some off and left."

"You couldn't see inside?"

"No. I would have had to push my way in to see around the corner. I just stood at the door, handed him the towels, and got back to work."

"You don’t enter the guest rooms as a matter of course?" the Sheriff asked Jenny.

"Usually we change the linens and clean the bathroom, but this creep left the do-not-disturb sign on his door constantly. We only saw him for meals, where he would hog the OJ and eat all my good muffins."

"What are they there for, if not the enjoyment of guests?" Serafin demanded, still clutching his chest. "My heart…my heart is pounding. I can't breathe. Fetch my inhaler please, Jennifer."

Jenny put her arm around him affectionately.

"Hang on just a sec longer, Abuelo. Listen, Jake—Sheriff Poole—all I can say is that if we had seen what Mr. Fripp was doing in here, we would have kicked him out immediately. Scribbling on the walls! This is vandalism! No wonder he didn’t want his room serviced…"

"Thank you," said Jake. "Do you have his home address, by any chance? And his phone number?"

"No address. But we've got the phone number, and his credit card details," said Jenny, sending Matt over to the B&B to fetch the info.

"Get my insulin while you're there!" Serafin called after him. "And the albuterol! And some painkillers, please."

Matt quickened his pace, and Willa thought wryly that he would return empty-handed and claim plausible deniability.

"Any clue where Mr. Fripp might be now?" Jake asked Jenny.

"Not one," she said, with a furrowed brow. "He skipped out on his dinner reservation, as you know. And didn't show up for the early breakfast he booked. Which was good, as it happened, because one of the guests had to check out at seven this morning and there was an issue with his bill that took forever to sort with Visa. And then Thing One and Thing Two in the bridal suite upstairs insisted on sleeping in past breakfast hours but wouldn't hear of missing out on the meal, and now we have to scramble up a late brunch. Now what? How long are you going to keep this room off-limits? I'm virtually itching to clean it. What is all that stuff? Is that string I see? And…polaroids? What was he doing—using my walls for a scrapbook?"

She gave a short hoot of laughter, and did not seem to notice that no one else joined in.

"First he breaks into my kitchen and now he's into arts and crafts? What's his problem?"

"We're not sure yet," Jake told her gently. "It might be a while before you can clean this up."

"Oh well," Jenny said, throwing up her hands and grinning at him. "C'est la vie. It is what it is, I guess. Let me know if you find Mr. Fripp, so we can formally kick him out and send him a nice long bill for the repairs. After I rustle up brunch for the guests, I'll be down at The Hounds the rest of the day, assuming you’ll let me in to that, at least. It’s the weekend, and we’ve got donuts to sell."

"It's all yours," Jake told Jenny. "We finished up last night. Clean as a whistle, now. From our point of view, of course. We got all the prints and stuff we needed. What we did not do is wash the dishes. It's still fairly untidy in there."

"C'est la vie," repeated Jenny, philosophically. "Why'd the guy want to break in and make a cake anyway? And why couldn't he have vandalized the walls there instead of here? We could paint those, easy peasy. Whereas this is going to take forever to fix…"

Her eyes glazed over as she considered the work ahead of her.

"Don’t worry about it, Jenny," said Willa. "You stay here and look after the B&B. Mina and I can handle the bakery between us this weekend."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Well, how about this?" Jenny suggested. "I’ll come over to The Hounds as soon as I can to do a bit of finishing work. Icing, sprinkles, adding the jelly—this weekend it’s raspberry—filling the cream horns, etc. Then I’ll take you up on your offer. We’ve got a ton to do here."

Matt returned just then, panting, and held out a printed sheet to the Sheriff.

"All of Fripp's info is there," he said. "Card details and phone number, at least. And his email address."

"Thank you. We'll be in touch if we need more," said the Sheriff, looking meaningfully at the door.

It was a dismissal, and Matt took it as such.

"C'mon, Jenny," he said, tugging at her arm. "You too, Abuelo. Time to go. Your meds are waiting in the kitchen at home."

Jenny stared across the room, frowning and calculating exactly how long it would take to restore the wallpaper. Meanwhile, Serafin wandered over to the wall and was gleefully poking picture after picture and following red string from place to place. The Sheriff cleared his throat.

"Alright Team Ortiz, it's time to hustle," said Matt, none too eager to get on Sheriff Poole's bad side. "Those guests upstairs aren't going to poach their own eggs."

"Mmm," said Mina, whose stomach had begun rumbling. "Poached eggs. With hollandaise sauce?"

"Of course," said Jenny, laughing. "You still hungry, Mina? Even after all those scones?"

"I can always eat."

"Then you should join us for dinner tonight. You too, Jake—Gary. We've got enough food for an army."

"We've got work to do," said Jake, answering for himself and the Sheriff. "But the rest of you, feel free. Just don't stray further than this neighborhood, if you get my drift."

Willa wanted nothing more than to disappear into her room and hibernate while she tried to process everything. But Mina and Pilky loved a little company, and Jenny's dinners were legendary. The two of them accepted the invitation with pleasure, speaking on Willa's behalf as well. She gave in to the inevitable. She'd have the rest of the day to regroup, at least.

"It's settled then! We've got sausage to fry," Matt said. "C'mon, Abuelo. Time to go. Chop, chop. See you all around six?"

"Wouldn't miss it," said Mina, licking her lips.

Serafin turned from the wall, an excited expression in his dark brown eyes. Willa noticed that his hand was trembling as it held the top of the cane, and there was a slight spring in his step as he followed his grandson out the door, which she found disconcerting.

He's just hungry, she told herself, hoping it was true.

The Suspects

Jake sent Willa, Mina, and Mr. Pilkington back home.

"Stay put for now," he warned them. "I need to find this Fripp guy. Don’t go to the bakery, yet. Hunker down until I tell you otherwise. He may come back to the Seawind, or even attempt to contact Willa at home."

"Sounds like a perfect plan," Mina retorted, sarcastically. "How do you suppose I explain those restrictions to the dogs, wise guy?"

With a grin, Jake agreed that the hiding-behind-locked-doors policy could lift in pursuit of doggy relief every two hours, but only if Willa did not go outside by herself.

The morning was dull and tense. Willa felt a sense of growing dread and fear and something else, something less concrete and therefore more unnerving. It was—yes—an inevitability of sorts. Things were in motion which could not be stopped or undone. She feared that more than just Jenny's wallpaper was unsalvageable. The peace she had found in Humboldt Cove seemed to have vanished. If she wasn't safe here, on her own street, then where was she safe?

She tried to do some work, but Kyle, Killer, and Wags sensed that something was off and spent the two hours before lunch on guard duty. One would take a shift on her lap, while the others sat on her feet. Every so often, they rotated. Darlene even joined in, occasionally. She was dainty but unexpectedly heavy, releasing her weight so completely that Willa felt like someone had sewn a boulder into the pocket lining of her hooded sweatshirt.

"Et tu, Darlene?" she moaned.

"She likes you," said Mr. Pilkington, innocently pleased about it. "She’s a discerning dachshund. Very smart."

"Doxies aren’t smart. They’re savvy," Mina corrected. "There’s a difference."

"How so?"

"German shepherds are smart. Border collies are smart. That’s why they can do human jobs, like herding animals or sniffing out bombs and drugs. Dachshunds would never bother. They don’t have the attention span for that. They’re savvy—canny. They don’t believe everything the humans say. The clever breeds learn quickly, but they’re at the mercy of their handlers. Kyle, Killer, and Wags use their own judgment."

"Bomb dogs have always fascinated me," said Mr. Pilkington. "Their intelligence—their ability to sense things we cannot detect is astounding. And just consider service dogs!"

"I don't see what's so remarkable about them," Mina said caustically. "Their greatest accomplishment is having working eyes."

"They do much more than that. Service dogs can help their owners with seizures—PTSD—diabetes—even asthma attacks! The canine species is a wonder," said Mr. Pilkington, lifting Darlene off Willa’s lap and setting her sturdily on his own.

Killer jumped up to take Darlene's place.

"How’s the book going?" Willa asked, idly scratching Killer’s ears.

Her aunt and Mr. Pilkington had been working for months compiling a complete history of Klamath County, starting with the gold rush and moving through time. The collaboration required face-to-face interaction, and Mr. Pilkington had come to stay with Mina during Willa’s absence for just that purpose.

"I wouldn’t say we’d made a great deal of progress," Mr. Pilkington started, and Mina cut him off.

"Haven’t made a dent in the edits. We’ve been having too good a time here to waste our days working. Pilky’s taken me to dinner in Eureka several times, and we’ve had the Doyles and Andersons over for cards. What with that, and the dogs, and bridge, and Scrabble, we’ve been too busy to write. Busy, busy, busy! Right, Pilky?"

"Very true, my dear."

Willa suspected that much, if not all, of that busyness was manufactured. Mina was the world’s worst writer, and she knew Mr. Pilkington had been dreading the collaboration. She glanced slyly over at the old man, who winked at her before making his face blank once more.

"We’ll have time to write when we’re older," said Mina, blissfully. "That’s a boring topic, anyway. No more books. No more seeing-eye dogs. Let’s stop pretending this is a normal day. Who wants to kill you, Willa?"

"No one!" said Willa, irritably, since she had just spent the last few hours trying to think of anything but that. "It’s all a figment of Duane’s imagination. He believes the earth is flat, Mina. He thinks little green men built the pyramids, and came back a few thousand years later to shoot JFK."

"Why did you almost get run down outside the airport, then?"

"A bad driver! They exist, Mina. You should know—you're one of them."

"Not that bad. And why did you get sick, later on?"

"How should I know?!"

Startled by Willa’s vehemence, Killer uncurled himself from her lap, planted his sturdy paws on her chest, and began licking her face. Wags abandoned the foot he had been guarding with tireless vigilance and leaped up. He fell short and missed her lap, hurtling back to earth on his back like an upturned bug. Undaunted, he scrambled up to try again. Now there were two dogs depositing slobber onto her face as though offering a life-saving saliva transfusion.

Willa looked down to make sure Kyle had no intention of adding to the chaos. He adjusted himself slightly so that both feet had coverage and gave her the doggy version of a shrug. What can you do? he said with big, brown eyes. They’re hopeless. Then he promptly went back to sleep.

"I don’t have enemies," Willa said, shoving Killer and Wags off her face. "Down, boys! I’m not in any danger from Duane Fripp. Whatever is happening here is weird, but it isn’t dangerous. It may not have anything to do with me when it all boils down."

"You don’t really believe that, do you?" said Mr. Pilkington, gently stroking Darlene. "Fripp broke into your bakery and baked your original cake. His room is full of pictures of you, and his camera is pointed toward your house. It is unpleasant, my dear. No one is arguing that. But ignoring the reality of your situation would be…"

"Idiotic," said Mina.

"I was going to say incautious," Mr. Pilkington replied, smiling.

Willa smiled weakly back at him. Good old Mr. Peanut. His ‘incautious’ had just as much weight as Mina’s ‘idiotic,’ or possibly more. It was certainly more unnerving. Her sense of self wavered again and seemed to fade against a distant and scary inevitability. Willa tried to identify what she was afraid of, and could not put a name to it. Loss of safety or privacy? Death? Whatever it was had come—or was coming—and she could not stop it. The room spun and Willa seemed to spin with it.

Mr. Pilkington stretched his hand out toward hers and squeezed it tightly. She felt her soul return to her body once more and drew in a deep breath.

"Let’s remove the emotional component, and look at the facts," he suggested, adjusting his glasses and looking more like Mr. Peanut than ever. "Fripp thought you were in danger from a killer, and wrote three names in the suspects column. Let’s examine each one of them. That’s how Mina or I would handle a case, you know. It’s vital to look at every angle in order to craft the best argument."

"Grand idea, Pilky. That's exactly what we'll do," said Mina, rubbing her hands together with glee.

She shot up and scurried out the kitchen door. Moments later, she returned holding a massive poster board and a couple of Sharpies.

"Why do you have poster board lying around?" Willa said, under her breath.

Mina, whose hearing at eighty-six was as sharp as it had been at twenty-six, said, "I am ready for every eventuality. Be prepared, that’s my motto."

"That’s the Boy Scout’s motto."

"They borrowed it from me."

"I understand stocking paper, writing implements, and thumbtacks. But poster board? Are you prepared for a sixth-grade science project to drop by?"

"I’m ready for whatever drops by," Mina said darkly.

She drew a large roll of tape out of her pocket and paused, daring Willa to say anything. Then she stuck the board on the wall adjacent to the table.

"We’ll start with the ex," she said, not quite meeting Willa’s eyes. "Best to get a bad job over with, don’t you think?"

"Might as well," Willa sighed.

"Full name, age, career, and general location, please. We’ll get into motives next."

"Steven Frank Joyce. Thirty-one. Day trader. Seattle, Washington."

"Day trader," said Mina, wrinkling her nose as she wrote it down. "Blech. He would be. Okay, excellent. On to motives!"

"Resentment?" Mr. Pilkington put forth, cautiously. "Was the breakup, er, mutual?"

"Nope. I found out he had been cheating on me with his assistant. I called it off and changed my number. He pestered my friends and family for months trying to get my attention until I finally convinced him it was over. Haven’t seen or spoken to him since, though to be fair, I changed my email address and phone number again, to be safe. He might feel resentment, sure. But I have more cause to resent him. And people don’t kill one another over silly little love affairs."

"Yes they do," said Mr. Pilkington and Mina together.

"Maybe on TV. But not in real life."

"Who are the criminal prosecutors here?" Mina asked.

"You and Pilky," Willa replied, meekly.

"Who has overseen hundreds of cases of homicide?"

"Same answer."

"Alright then, we know where we stand. Stop making ridiculous and unfounded statements. Of course people are killed over silly love affairs. And this Steven fellow sounds arrogant and cocksure."

"I didn’t say that."

"Didn’t have to. ‘Day trader’ said it for you. Mr. Day Trader has a nice, big, juicy motive, then. And Duane’s photos show that he was in many of the same locations you hit during your tour. That’s opportunity."

"I don’t see how he could have done anything, though. Are you suggesting he snuck into a roach-filled deli in New Jersey and added a little dollop of arsenic to the smoked salmon, hoping I’d stop by, craving bagels and lox?"

"We won’t concern ourselves with probabilities," said Mina, airily. "That’s for the police to decide."

"How convenient," Willa murmured, hoping only Wags and Killer could hear.

"I always prioritize convenience," said Mina, with maddening complaisance. "You should reach out to Steve and see what he says. Maybe he’ll give himself away."

"I don’t want to talk to him. I've gone to great lengths to make sure he can't contact me. He doesn't know where I live, or what my email address is, or how to call me. I don't want to give him anything he can use to harass me later. He's a narcissist, Aunt Mina. Information is ammunition."

"Have it your way. It’s your neck on the line, not mine. It's only your life we're talking about."

"I guess I could email him," Willa said, glumly. "I'd have to change my address afterward."

"You could open a new account and use that," Mr. Pilkington suggested.

Willa brightened.

"That might work, actually. Okay, I'll reach out to him and see if he can explain himself."

"Who’s next?" said Mina, eager to move on.

"The other author," said Mr. Pilkington. "Danica, was it?"

"Danica Joliff," said Willa. "She’s about my age, and I think she lives in Los Angeles. She writes culinary cozy murder mysteries, just like me. Except she isn't a fraud. She knows how to bake and her recipes are probably fifth generation."

"I’ve read them," said Mina matter-of-factly. "They’re quite good."

"They’re not bad," said Willa, with the air of one making a great concession.

"That’s what good means. Do you think you’re the only woman who can write decent fiction? I grant you, Fiona Fudge is slightly more irritating than Violet Valentine, but Ms. Joliff’s plots have just a touch more complexity than yours do and far more diversity. Be just, please, Willa. Lattners do not have small minds."

This one does, thought Willa, resentfully. She had lost enough awards to the latest Fiona Fudge to feel a smidge of resentment against Danica. And no matter what anyone said, Fiona was a parody of Violet and not the other way around.

"Motive?" barked Mina. "Other than the obvious?"

"No. She has no cause to resent me, except as a rival for medals and spots on bestseller lists. But she did turn up in many of the locations I hit during my tour. We stayed in the same hotels, even. She was present when I got sick. Though I should point out that she got equally sick."

Mina waved a dismissive hand.

"It’s easy to fake sick."

"Trust me," said Willa, grimacing at the remembrance. "No one in that car was faking sick. The evidence was…let’s say it was overwhelming. And all over my best jacket."

"When trying to stage an ‘accident,’ poisoners often consume small amounts of the substance in question and then exaggerate their symptoms," explained Mr. Pilkington. "I remember one case, down in Fresno…a woman was trying to kill her mother-in-law, and she added a minuscule quantity of cyanide to the Thanksgiving stuffing. The whole family ate it and got sick."

"What was the point of making everyone sick? How could that eliminate her actual target?"

"She added an extra, massive dose of cyanide to her mother-in-law’s portion of pumpkin pie. In the whipped cream, to be precise. It was extremely foolish. Multi-victim food poisoning incidents are always investigated for reasons of public health, and officials discovered right away that the symptoms were not bacterial in nature."

"My sickness was, though. Listeria."

"You said they didn’t test you," Mina pointed out. "You said they went off Danica’s labs."

"You’re suggesting that Danica put arsenic in my lox and then switched out some test tubes in a rural hospital? That goes beyond far-fetched and into the realm of the fantastic."

Mina scribbled a few things onto the poster board and turned around again, wagging her pen at them.

"The how is not our problem! Who’s next?" she asked, happily.

"The other fellow," said Mr. Pilkington. "Ms. Joliff’s book agent. His name was something unfortunate, like Buzz or Chip."

"Flob?" suggested Mina. "Pinch?"

"Those aren’t real nicknames."

"Tad," said Willa. "Tad McNulty."

"What is Tad short for?" asked Mr. Pilkington.

"I think his real name is Theodore. To be fair, that doesn’t give him a lot of options."

"He could simply go by his full name," Mina said. "Tad sounds like a golden retriever. Okay, Theodore McNulty. Go!"

"He’s around fifty or sixty," Willa said, trying to picture Tad’s puffy, rather unwholesome face. "He represents several well-known mystery authors. He’s tried to snatch me away from Wallace more than once. Massive creep. Like I said before, he’s the back-rubbing type. But he’s got no reason to kill me."

"I can think of a million reasons. Jealousy! Resentment! Removal of a rival for his client! Irritation at the repeated spurning of back rubs! The possibilities are endless."

Mina wrote eight or nine possibilities, all of which appeared extremely unlikely to Willa. Then she sat down, exhausted.

"See?" she said to Willa, with triumph. "Lots of people hate you!"

"You don’t need to look so pleased about it," Willa grumbled. "This is all nonsense, anyway. Speculative and pointless."

"Hmm," said Mr. Pilkington, uneasily.

Woof, said Kyle. He hopped off Willa’s feet and gave her a stern, penetrating look, as though to say listen to your aunt.

"Oh, woof yourself," Willa said. "What do you know?"

Mail

To Wallace Schmidt

Dear Wallace,

Thanks for the very short and curt message detailing all the security protocols of your illustrious publishing firm! It filled me with confidence and a glowing sense of safety! I am overcome with gratitude!

Now, get off your high horse and do a little independent thinking for once in your life. I am well aware it looks bad for the company if a bestseller leaks to the public months before release. Our problem is that this doesn’t just look bad. It IS bad.

The police here have directly tied a—crime is not quite the word, so let's go with incident—to some draft chapters of Browned Butter Bloodshed. So don’t claim your offices are as impenetrable as Alcatraz. Even if they were as secure as AZKABAN, there’s always a weakness somewhere. There’s no point telling me it can’t have happened, you great lump of an ostrich. It DID happen. And from where we're currently sitting, it looks like Duane Fripp saw part of my draft.

Candy must have read you in about Duane Fripp by now. It’s been two hours since I emailed her, and that’s plenty of time for you two to hold a panicked conference in your office. I swear, Wallace, if you pretend not to recognize his name, I will dunk your smug little face into your revolting triple sugar, triple cream coffee next time I’m in Seattle. He’s the guy who SENT THE HAIR. There has only been one hair-sender. Make sure everything gets to the Sheriff’s office down here, including Fripp's address. Fly it down here yourself, if you have to.

It is unlikely, but someone may be trying to kill me, if that will help light a fire within your placid little breast. If I die, I’m taking Violet Valentine with me. There’s a clause in my contract about posthumous ghostwriting. If you try anything, I will haunt you, and I won’t just drag chains around the house and flip the lights on and off. I will float around your bathroom glaring at you. I’ll come out of the drains and pipes. You’ll spend the rest of your life running down to the YMCA for your shower and toileting needs.

I’m a touch frazzled as you might gather, especially as I know for a fact that Ned from HR dictated your smug little missive. Why can’t the company just admit that they goofed? Goofs are allowed. I’m the Queen Goof herself. To err is human. And I’m not exactly divine, but I’m going to prove my magnanimity by extending forgiveness right now. Don’t care who did it. Don’t care why it was done. Not interested in punishing anyone. I just need to know how Fripp got access to make sure no one else is wandering around with pirate copies of my book.

Respond ASAP via phone, text, or email. And if you send another form letter or consult HR in any respect, I’m taking my business elsewhere.

Hope you’re well, by the way. Say hello to Vicky and the kids for me. Looking forward to dinner at your place next month!

Best,

Willa

Mail

To Steven Joyce

Hey,

I got your contact info from Alicia, who also gave me a nice, long lecture about breaking her dearest brother’s heart and ruining his life. She had some curious misconceptions about our break-up. It’s nice to know you’re still lying to your family.

I’ll cut right to the chase. Why have you been following me around the United States, like some kind of demented duckling? I went to San Francisco, and so did you! I flew to Chicago, and what a surprise, there YOU were as well. I ended up in New York City, and your business just happened to whisk you away at exactly the same time!

Props for staying out of sight, by the way. You’ve gotten better at sneaking in the interim. Well done.

This is a courtesy message, sent out of respect for the two or three months we had before you threw me away like a used Q-Tip. So listen up. You may get a call from Klamath County law enforcement any minute now, asking for a full account of your creepy behavior.

If you have a legitimate excuse involving business travel, pull out the receipts and get them ready to go. If you were stalking me, don’t deny it. For your own good, Steve. Better be known as a pathetic lowlife than suspected of something worse.

Sincerely not yours,

Willa

The Rat

After a bleak lunch of olive loaf and prunes, the only foods Mina kept stocked, Willa, Mina, and Mr. Pilkington whiled away the time idly checking emails, reading the news, and playing Scrabble. Willa got trounced immediately by the other two, who were using words like paczki and rudistid without blinking an eye.

"What the heck is a dhikr?" Willa sulked, forming the word under—the best she could do with her tiles that round.

"No idea," said Mina. "I just memorize the Scrabble dictionary."

"I believe it’s a Sufi religious ceremony," said Mr. Pilkington, playing the word suq with the U of Willa’s under. He placed the Q triumphantly on a triple letter score. "Either that, or it’s a pie."

"That's it," said Willa, standing up. "I don't know why, but that is it. Game over. I'm done hanging around just waiting for something awful to happen. I don't care what Jake says. I'm going to The Three Hounds."

There was a brisk knock on the back door and Jake peered in through the window. Willa jumped, knocking over the board and spraying tiles everywhere.

"Speak of the devil!" said Mina, raising an eyebrow.

Willa threw the door wide.

"Just in time," she told Jake. "How much longer are you going to keep me under house arrest? I had to eat canned prunes for lunch. Prunes."

"You’re free to move about the cabin," he quipped, though he looked somewhat somber. "There’s no sign of Fripp anywhere. No one matching that description checked into any nearby hotels, and the airport in Arcata denied ticketing him. But we’ve evaluated the situation and determined that your risk of personal harm is legitimate until he’s found, so an officer will accompany you everywhere for the time being. And I mean everywhere."

"Pass," she said, donning her coat. "I'm going to the bakery. We've got donuts to sell."

"This isn't optional," Jake replied.

"Fine. But not that klutz Henderson," Willa pleaded. "Don’t stick me with him."

"I volunteered for the job."

He grinned at her, but the serious undercurrent remained in his smile.

"I may need to sleep here tonight. Don’t worry, I’m very comfortable bunking on the sitting room sofa."

"No need to be a martyr," scoffed Mina. "There are guest rooms on every floor. Pilky’s in one of them, but take your pick of the rest."

"Sounds good, thank you."

"I'm ready to go," said Willa, opening the door. "With you or without you."

"I'm coming with you!" Mina said indignantly. "Don't cut me out of this. And the boys are coming too. Look how restless they are," she said, looking vaguely around for the dogs and seeing only Killer, who was fast asleep on the floor, ears akimbo, tongue peeking out of his mouth. "Okay, bad example. But they need a walk at any rate. Pilky—stay here with Darlene and hold the fort."

The old man smiled at her.

"Happy to oblige. What do you want me to do if Fripp comes here looking for Willa?"

"Have Darlene eat him," Mina suggested.

"Call 911," said Jake. "And don't answer the door."

Mr. Pilkington's eyes twinkled.

"Aye, aye. Consider this fort held until your return. You three stay safe out there."

"Are we ready?" Jake asked.

"I really cannot answer for you," said Willa, with dignity. "I am ready, and I am leaving. See you later, Pilky."

"Where you go, I go," Jake replied, stubbornly.

"Knock yourself out," said Willa. "But I don’t need a bodyguard."

"Time will tell," Jake replied.

They leashed up the dogs and walked down the hill toward The Three Hounds, hoping they could fit in a good half-day of sales.

The line outside the bakery stretched around the corner, bending back as far as The Sea Hag, a little shop of seaside curios. The proprietor, Justine Galway, hurried outside as fast as her massive legs would carry her when she spotted them going by.

Her hair was pink today instead of its usual purple, and she had added at least two more ear piercings since Willa saw her last. As usual, she looked radiant, gorgeous, and enormous.

"Hey!" she called. "Stop a second. Hey, Willa. Hey, Mina. Hey, boys. And who is this little boo?" she said, cooing at Darlene. "She’s so cute I want to eat her. My momma had one just like that—stripy."

"What’s up, Justine?" asked Willa, anxious to get to The Three Hounds and start selling some donuts.

"Is it true what they’re saying?"

"What are they saying?"

"Dale was closing up the fish shop last night when he saw cops outside the bakery. Word is there was a break-in."

"There was. Sort of. Nothing was stolen."

"Well, who did it?"

"Probably some out-of-towner," Willa shrugged, hoping that was enough to stave Justine off.

"Scrawny guy, balding, yellow rain slicker?"

"You saw someone like that?" Jake said, alertly.

"Came in here yesterday morning, looking for a ring for his girlfriend. Said he wanted something expensive and high-end. I showed him that mother-of-pearl jewelry over there and he bailed. Said he’d think about it, and I played along, but there’s no way he had a girlfriend unless some kind of mail-order woman was shipping in soon. He had a bunch of groceries from Doyle’s with him, but the only things I saw were cheap beer, vapes, a five-pound bag of flour, and some bleak-AF TV dinners. That dude lived alone. What is Salisbury steak, anyway? Looks like despair on a plate."

"Is that the only time you saw him?"

"Yeah."

"Where did he go when he left here?"

"Dunno," said Justine, picking at one of her false eyelashes, where the glue was beginning to un-stick. "I had to help a tourist untangle themselves from a wind chime just then and he slipped out the front door. Why’d he break into the bakery? You guys keep cash there?"

"No. We don’t even know if that’s the guy who broke in. If it was, we don’t know what he wanted."

"You haven’t caught the perp?"

"I’m afraid not," said Jake, regretfully.

"Well, dang. In that case, I’m closing early today. Would you mind poking your head into Dale’s Fish ‘N More and telling him I said to grab his shotgun and some extra shells and get his butt over here? He’s only got a few more cod to gut today."

"No vigilante stuff, Justine," Jake warned. "Let us handle this. We’ll find the guy who broke into The Hounds. Tell Dale not to go looking for trouble."

They said goodbye to Justine and hurried up the street toward the bakery, pushing through the crowd to get to the front door.

"Give us a second to get settled, and we’ll start running through the line," Willa called to the people, some of whom cheered and some of whom booed. "The entire town must be here," she muttered.

"Well, who’s to blame them?" said Mina, indulgently. "You can’t get a better donut for a hundred miles any direction."

They unlocked the door and walked in. As usual, the bakery smelled of caramelized butter and chocolate. The dogs began sniffing furiously at the air, their snouts overloaded by delicious things.

The heady aroma of hot oil and sweet dough wafted out from the back, and Willa’s mouth began to water. Jenny hurried out into the cafe, holding a rolling pin like a baseball bat. She had wrapped an apron around her slender waist and tied her dark hair up in a messy bun on top of her head. Her face cleared when she saw it was just them, and not an intruder or a pushy customer.

"Thank goodness," she said, relaxing her arm and returning to the kitchen. "The crowd out there is getting restless, and I need help."

"Anything amiss when you arrived?" asked Willa anxiously.

"Not a thing," Jenny assured her. "There were no phantom cream puffs or anything. Nothing aside from the mess, and I made short work of that with a little soap and water. It takes more than one mysterious cake and some spilled flour to stop me!"

"You're a wonder, Jenny," Mina said, grinning ear to ear. "Will you marry us?"

Jenny cackled.

"Ha! Which one of you?"

"Either! Or both! We'd be insane not to try to get such a good pastry chef into the family."

"If I wasn't nuts about my husband, I might take you up on that," Jenny said.

"Sure you don't want to come on with The Three Hounds full time? We'd make it worth your while…"

"You're sweet to ask, but there's no way I'm abandoning Matt down at the Seawind. He can't do it alone. And for the time being, I can't do this alone. Give me a hand, will you?"

She returned to her post at the fryer, dipping donuts in a mixture of cinnamon and sugar as they came out of the oil.

"It was about time you guys turned up! After this batch is done, I need to get back home. Matt's going crazy trying to get the rooms cleaned with his grandpa following him around, hollering directions and trying to help."

"He seems like a nice old guy," Willa remarked, picking up a piping bag full of pastry cream and getting ready to fill a row of cooling donuts.

"Old?" said Mina, scornfully. "He’s not a day over eighty."

"Eighty-one, next January," Jenny said, smiling. "I knew you two would get along. He’s very taken with you, Mina. Says you’re a dish."

"So I am," said Mina, complacently. She handed Killer and Wags a half donut each and whistled for Kyle, who was still trying to sniff out that imaginary rat inside the freezer.

"His wife died a couple of years ago. He’s been at loose ends ever since, traveling between kids and grandkids and never staying in one place very long. He's bored stiff, if you ask me. Keeps himself occupied by pretending to be sick all the time. Matt just lets him do it," Jenny said, frown lines appearing between her eyes. "I don't think it's good for him. Makes him broody and inward-focused. He needs another interest in life, but I haven't been an Ortiz quite long enough to push back yet. I wonder if I could teach him some basic baking techniques…"

"Do you think he really hung out with Duane this week, or was that just talk?" Willa asked, trying to find the correct tip for piping filling.

Jenny had taught her some basic principles of decor, but it was still an uphill battle. Willa had absolutely no aptitude for baking or decorating.

"Here you go," said Jenny, handing Willa the correct tip with a grin. "You weren’t gonna get far with that star tip. With Serafin, you never know. We just let him roam the place freely while we work, and he does like people. I have no trouble believing he's chatty with the guests—even ones as weird as Duane Fripp. But frankly, I'd rather have him boring the guests with his stories than poking around the clean rooms upstairs or trying to look at our QuickBooks account. He thinks that since he loaned us the money to start the B&B, he can—Geez Louise, what’s with Kyle?"

Ignoring Mina’s whistles and the promise of a hot donut, Kyle was barking in earnest at the freezer door. Gulping down their treats, Wags and Killer trotted over, sniffed the air, and began barking as well.

"They’re convinced there’s a squirrel in there or something," Willa joked, accidentally squirting pastry cream onto her apron. "Dang it. I think I broke the bag, Jenny."

Jenny walked over to look and began laughing.

"Only you could split a bag this easily," she said, shaking her head. "I'll never understand how you ended up running a bakery. I mean, you clearly like to eat, but you definitely can't hack anything else."

Willa swatted her with a towel.

"And look at those fingers," Jenny went on, teasing her. "Like little sausages."

"Lattners all have hands like baseball mitts," Mina said. "And big bones. Not everyone's as petite as you are, Jenny. I don't know how you stay so thin, truth be told. If I spent all day in the kitchen, you'd have to roll me upstairs to bed. But, then, there's a lot more of me to love."

Jenny shrugged.

"Good genetics," she said, wincing as the dogs burst into an even louder fit of yapping. "Matt says he hopes our kids take after me and not his mom. The Ortizs spread as they age. His mom and aunts all look like Jabba the Hut."

"Everyone spreads as they age," Mina said. "It's the circle of life."

"My mom still looks pretty good," said Jake, scratching his head.

"Like all innocents, your mother is protected by fairies," Mina told him. "She never aged a day after high school. Whereas I have been a crone since I was sixteen, and proud of it."

"It helps that I don't like sweets much, either," Jenny confessed. "I love the craft of baking itself. It's an art form for me. Like a love letter to the world. A ministry, if that's not too fanciful."

She spread out her arms in a symbolic gesture.

"Hello, World!" she said. "Come and get my donuts. They're hot, fresh, and full of love. And…holy cow, I don't think I've ever seen the boys so worked up."

"When they think there's a rodent nearby, they lose their minds. They were so mad at the freezer last night we had to stick them in the office," Willa commented, wondering if it was okay to lick the excess frosting off her fingers. Probably not…

"You didn’t tell me that," said Jake, who stopped methodically shoving sprinkled donut holes in his mouth.

Willa lifted her arms so Jenny could wipe her stained apron with a damp cloth.

"Tell you what?"

"That the dogs were interested in a specific part of the kitchen. You said they were uneasy, but you didn’t mention the freezer."

Jenny's wet rag grazed Willa's arm, and a chill surged through her blood, icing even the tips of her fingers and toes. That feeling of inevitable movement toward something awful increased. It's just goosebumps, she told herself. Or prunes.

"I had bigger things on my mind. Mysterious messes and cakes that had no business here. Besides," she said, "there’s nothing in there. We don’t use it. It’s not even turned on anymore. Jenny doesn’t need to freeze anything."

Jenny nodded.

"I keep the butter, milk, eggs, and stuff like that in the fridge. The freezer is leftover from when this was a hamburger joint, back in the day."

"The doxies are just being hysterical," Mina said. "I’ve no doubt there’s a family of mice in there, but who cares? I won't tell the health inspector if you won't."

"What do you use that space for?"

"Nothing much. There’s a filing cabinet in there, and it’s where we keep our Christmas decorations and the little hearts we put up on Valentine’s Day."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Mina raised an eyebrow at him.

"Knock yourself out. As long as you don’t expect me to help you haul those bins and that fifty-pound bag of flour away."

"I’ll help," Jenny volunteered, and Willa went over to assist as well.

Between the three of them, they cleared the door to the freezer in a matter of minutes. The dogs were jumping excitedly against the door now.

"Back away," Jake said to his two helpers. "And someone grab the bratwursts, please."

Willa scooped up Darlene, while Jenny and Mina dealt with the others. Jake opened the door and felt around for a light switch. He flicked it on and became very still.

The icy feeling in Willa's limbs grew strong, and she had the sudden sensation of something lurking behind her. The feeling was so intense that she actually turned around, but there was nobody there but Jenny and Mina. She realized it wasn't a personal presence she felt. It was a foreboding, of sorts. The doom that had been creeping toward her all day was in the room. It had been waiting, til now. Waiting for Jake to open that door…

"What is it," Willa said, so flatly that the words tumbled out not as a question, but a statement.

She already knew what it must be. Who it must be.

"Found the rat," he said.

Next to Willa, Jenny moaned and raised a hand to her mouth.

"What do you mean?" Mina snapped.

"There’s a man in here."

Willa forced her reluctant lips to form the word.

"Dead?"

"As a doornail."

"Accident?"

"‘Fraid not."

"Not murder," pleaded Willa. "Please don’t say murder."

"You want me to spell it instead?"

"Murder? Really?"

Jake inspected the contents of the freezer in silence for a moment.

"Most definitely," he said.

The Freezer

Jake took a minute to call the Sheriff and let him know what was happening. The others worked together to shove the frantic dogs inside the office, and Willa ran to the front door and told the crowd of donut-hungry people to go home. They booed at her, and she shooed them away.

"Our fryer is broken," she lied, running her hands through her hair. "Come back tomorrow."

Jake’s colleague Henderson pulled up in his squad car and made his way to the front of the crowd.

"Move along, everyone. Nothing to see here," he said in an anxious falsetto, completely undoing all of Willa’s caution.

His service weapon slid out of its holster and landed on the ground.

"What's with the gun?" someone asked. "Anything the matter?"

"Everything's fine," said Henderson, scooping it up with a red face.

"You gonna fix the fryer with that thing?" hollered someone else.

Flustered, he told the crowd to move on again. No one stirred an inch, and now everyone in town knew for certain that something unsavory was happening. Exasperated, Willa ushered Henderson in, shut and locked the door behind him, and hurried back into the kitchen.

"It's Duane, isn't it?" Willa asked Jake, sick to her stomach.

"Could be. I've never seen him before. I’m going to need you all to take a look."

"One at a time, now. One at a time," said Henderson, trying to add value to the conversation and failing.

Mina approached the door, took a peek, and then backed away.

"Never seen him from Adam," she croaked, looking faint. "He is dead, right? Did you make absolutely certain? His head isn’t quite right…"

"He’s dead," Jake confirmed, quietly. "I’m sorry, Willa—Jenny—you'll have to look as well."

Willa blanched. She had never seen a dead body before, and she didn't want to start now. Mina clapped her on the back.

"Chin up," she said. "Get it over with. I'll come with you. I'm over my case of the willies, at any rate, and I want a closer look."

Jake stepped aside, and the two women walked forward. A man approaching forty with thinning hair lay just inside the door. He wore a threadbare yellow windbreaker and blue jeans and looked faintly astonished, as if death had called unexpectedly and caught him unprepared. Willa took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves and calm her stomach. Mina was right—there was something…off…about the shape of his head. And there was a fine, white powder on his jacket and the pockets of his jeans. Flour.

"White male, between thirty and fifty, five foot six—or, no, no—surely five foot seven. Severe injury to the cranium," Mina murmured, falling back into the comforting technical details required for prosecuting a case. "Fractured skull. Rigor has already set in and is wearing off…"

"You an ex-cop?" asked Henderson, eyes wide.

"Certainly not."

"Doctor?"

"No."

"How do you know his cranium is fractured?"

"Zip it, Henderson," said Jake, wearily. "And pick up your badge. It fell on the table back there. Mina Lattner used to be a criminal prosecutor, and she's still got a pretty good eye. I'd put him at five eight, though. Let's put aside the details for now. Recognize him, Willa?"

Willa nodded.

"I think it’s Duane," she said. "It’s hard to tell in that position…"

Jenny Ortiz took her turn in the freezer and returned, white-faced.

"It’s definitely Duane Fripp," she said. "Or at least, it's the man who was staying in the carriage house, and that’s the name he gave us."

"One way to find out for sure," sighed Jake. "Can we borrow some of those gloves?"

Jenny handed him the box of disposable gloves she used to handle food, and he and Henderson went to work, looking for signs of identification. Jake emerged, at last, with a grim expression on his face. He held a wallet between his gloved forefinger and thumb.

"It’s Duane Fripp, alright," he said.

Willa pulled herself together.

"Why is he?—who would have?—I don’t understand. How did he end up dead in our freezer?"

"Don’t you get it?" said Mina, fed up with her obtuseness. "You’ve got an enemy, Willa. Duane got in the way."

"This doesn’t have anything to do with me," Willa retorted, overcome with suppressed emotion—a thick, horrible sludge of guilt and fear.

"Tell that to the corpse in our freezer!"

"He may be in our freezer, but come on! Obviously, someone from his own life followed him here. Conspiracy theorists turn on their own, sometimes. People bonded by a shared distrust of everyone can’t stick together long. Us turns into them at the drop of a hat. Maybe Duane made some incautious comments at a UFO conference…"

"It’s a valid theory," squeaked Henderson, who had somehow misplaced his handcuffs and was looking nervously around for them. "I’ve seen documentaries on flat earthers, and—"

Mina cut him off, glaring at her niece.

"Uh-uh. You don’t get off that easy, my girl. Duane knew someone was after you. He was trying to stop them."

"Wait, what? Is that why he ruined my walls?" said Jenny, trying to take it all in.

"Precisely," Mina replied, maintaining eye contact with Willa. "That is why he ruined Jenny's walls, and that is why he’s lying in there right now, instead of you."

"No!" Willa protested. "It doesn’t make any sense! I don’t have enemies. This can’t be about me."

There was a look of pity now in Mina's piercing eyes.

"I think that pathetic and very brave little man in there bought you some time. He must have figured out who was behind your 'accidents' and confronted the culprit."

"At a bakery? Over a newly baked cake?"

"It's an odd way to meet an enemy, I grant you. Maybe he's not the cake baker, after all. Maybe he followed that person here and interrupted them."

"His jacket is covered with flour."

"Okay, maybe he is the baker. I haven't the faintest idea what the man was thinking! That is for Jake to determine. Maybe he simply got peckish, felt the urge to make dessert, and let himself into the most convenient kitchen around. Or maybe he arranged to meet someone here. Either way, this is where he met his maker, and there's significance to that."

"You're reaching!" Willa said.

"She's not," Jake broke in. "Mina's right. And this situation just went from bad to worse."

"Of course I'm right. He may have been delusional—he may have thought he was defending Violet Valentine or fighting off aliens—but ultimately Duane Fripp died trying to save you," Mina said brutally, poking Willa in the chest with one of her bony fingers. "The least you can do is acknowledge that—and do everything in your power to make sure the killer doesn’t take another victim."

Willa’s face grew hot and painful from suppressed tears, and the rational response she tried to make was covered by a gasping hiccup—the precursor to an ugly cry.

"Who the heck is Violet Valentine?" said Henderson.

Jake left Henderson to wait for the ambulance that would take Duane Fripp away from The Three Hounds Bakery and out of Willa’s life forever.

He insisted on escorting them all home. Only once they were safely locked inside the house with Darlene and the very concerned Mr. Pilkington did he return to help secure the crime scene, giving Willa, Mina, and the dogs strict instructions not to step a foot outside.

"Make sure they listen, Mr. Pilkington," he ordered. "I'm trusting you to be the jail warden here."

"I'm on it," said the old man, standing up as straight as he could.

"You may let the dogs out to do their business, but don’t go with them. Mina, don't even think about sneaking back downtown. And Willa, you stay away from the doors and windows."

"Come on. You don't honestly think there's a sniper lying in wait for me."

"No. But I don’t want to find out the hard way that you were in graver danger than we thought. Just be cool, Willa. Hang out in the middle of the house, and do a puzzle. Take a nap. Write your next bestseller. Whatever floats your boat. And…try not to dwell on it, huh?"

He left, and Willa watched him go, wondering how he expected her to keep her mind off something this awful.

Mail

To Candace Yamamoto

Candy,

Thanks for the forward. You’re a lifesaver. I’m sending it on to a guy I know at the Humboldt Cove Sheriff’s Department, but they’ll probably want to get it directly from you. I mean, as directly as you can GET a leftover message, heated up in the microwave and served lukewarm. Forwards are already weird—forwarding a forward is next-level. Maybe if you forward a forward of a forward enough times it turns back into the original message? Look into it for me.

I assume this Brad guy was shown the door, but make sure you still have access to his contact deets for the cops here. This has gotten bigger than just a leaked manuscript and a violated NDA. There’s a body involved now—the dead kind.

Poor old Duane. He’s sending his hair to the angels, now.

I know what you’re thinking, and I feel the need to say that I DIDN’T KILL HIM. This isn’t a writer-goes-berserk-and-turns-on-fans story. I found him, but that is the extent of my involvement. You and Wallace are going to have a heck of a time once the press gets word that the number one fan of a cozy mystery writer has turned up murdered in backwater California—on said cozy mystery writer’s personal property! Talk about life imitating art!

I am not available for comment, btw. Unless the Today Show people call. Or someone from Late Night. Direct all other inquiries to Wallace or field them yourself, if you have to. I am shocked and saddened, etc. Feel free to quote me—say anything you want as long as it’s not TOO dumb. You could add something about me "requesting privacy at this difficult time." Ugh, that makes me sound like a politician. I’ll leave it up to you.

I actually am shocked and saddened, Candy. I’ve been crying for about two hours solid. I’ve never seen a body before. He was so…surprised.

Duane may have been a weirdo, but he was OUR weirdo. I’m going to miss his flattering photos and the bizarre fan fic. The spec script in the forward you sent is genius. We should have given him a book contract while we had the chance.

I’m scared, if you can’t tell. Tell Wallace things are real, and things are serious. I’ll be in touch soon.

Willa

Mail

To B.J. Anderson

Jake,

Couldn’t catch you at the Bakery or the Sheriff’s office. I assume you’re transporting the body or doing something equally important, but I received this just now and am forwarding it for your records. If you want to get it from the horse’s mouth, talk to my agent’s PA, Candace Yamamoto. She’s the one who found the mole. If you want to bypass the horse’s mouth and go right for the throat, she sent me the contact information for the chief moron in the threads below.

Brad is the aide to the executive assistant of my agent Wallace’s boss (sounds like something from a Duolingo grammar lesson—voici l’homme qui travaille pour l’assistant du patron). This Rhodes Scholar conducted the entire transaction from his work email address, which is how Candy was able to nab him. What must life be like for the Bradley Neidermeyers of the world? Do they remember to close their mouths when they go out in the rain?

Obviously, this is not the first time our pal Brad corresponded with Duane, but it’s definitely the last. He was fired this morning. Check out his sign-off—I’ve never despised someone so much. And he had poor Duane writing spec scripts for movies that would never get made. Don’t ask me why. A source of cheap yucks for his friends? Or maybe Brad has a streak of cruelty.

I cut out all the back and forth between me and Candy, but I’m happy to paste it right back in. Let me know.

---------- Forwarded message ---------

From: Brad Neidermeyer <neidermeyer@black_widow_publishing.com>

Date: Mon, April 28, 2024, 1:59 PM

Subject: Re: Violet Valentine

To: Duane Fripp <frippster5350@getmailnow.com>

Mr. Fripp,

RE: your message, the answer is yes, of course. Obvs! When have I ever let you down? Heads up, though, dude—this project is not yet in its final stages of editing so you’ll have access only to chapters 1-9. Title is Browned Butter Bloodshed, btw. That’s a little treat for free, my man. Enjoy. For the rest, pricing as per usual, and you have my PayPal details. As soon as the $10K clears, I’ll send the manuscript on a thumb drive.

Thanks for the killer script! I’m sending it to my people for final approval. Once we get the green light, we’ll start production on the movie and fly you out to Hollywood.

Later,

The Needle Man

---------- Original message ---------

Dear Mr. Neidermeyer,

Greetings, and I hope you are well. I am writing to inquire whether you have obtained access to the latest manuscript for the Violet Valentine Mysteries, No. 13. Please let me know as soon as you can, and if our usual arrangements are satisfactory for this transaction.

Thank you in advance for your prompt acknowledgment of this message.

I have included a spec script for the Violet Valentine movie, as requested. I am a little concerned about the cost of the rights to the song mentioned in the first scene, but I feel it is important to the mood. If necessary, we can switch it out to something in the public domain. Please note that CGI will be required.

Sincerely yours,

Duane S. Frip

Delicious Death: Adapted for the screen by Duane Fripp

FADE IN

INT. SUGAR AND SPICE BAKERY—EARLY MORNING

The bakery is warm and cozy. Rows of muffins, cookies, and pies gleam under the lights. A small bell jingles as VIOLET VALENTINE steps behind the counter. Violet is wearing a purple, close-knit cardigan and humming the tune to "Blue Monday." Her raven locks are braided in two loose braids that fall over her shoulders.

She delicately arranges a tray of glowing green muffins, each one oozing a strange, otherworldly goo.

MR. BLANCHARD, an elderly man in a trench coat, shuffles to the counter, squinting at the muffins.

MR. BLANCHARD:

Morning, Violet! Those muffins look...different.

VIOLET (laughs cheerfully):

These are a special family recipe. An old Valentine secret. We brought it with us from the Old Country.

Her eyes glow briefly, flashing neon green.

MR. BLANCHARD (disconsolate):

I don’t have an appetite, even for YOUR muffins. I just came to see if you’ve heard about Crenshaw. Someone broke into his shop during the night. They took all the money from the register and several first editions. Crenshaw must have tried to stop them…he’s…he's dead, Violet. The police don't have any leads.

CUT TO A CLOSE-UP OF VIOLET’S HAND

Her hand twitches and, for just a split second, morphs into a long, purple tentacle, before snapping back to "normal" just as quickly. She freezes, glancing around.

VIOLET (concerned and upset):

Douglas—dead? No! I—I can’t believe it. Not Douglas. Who would kill him? Why? He is—was—the only person on earth who knows about…(trails off, close to tears)

MR. BLANCHARD (holding back emotion):

Eileen and I came here to forget about—about what happened to us—and to set up our tea shop. Now, nothing feels safe. The police chief has his own agenda, as you know. All the other shopkeepers are too afraid to investigate.

He stumbles out of the bakery, muttering, while Violet waves after him, her face frozen.

VIOLET (to herself):

Humans. The only species willing to kill their own. Looks like a murderer is on the menu tonight for me.

She licks her lips, staring off into the distance as her hand subtly flickers into a purple, squid-like appendage once more.

FADE TO BLACK

The Burden

Mina began their period of house arrest by creating a detailed description of the body and its position for Mr. Pilkington, who was furious he had missed the excitement and trying not to show it too openly. They began speculating about the time and cause of death, getting into a level of forensic detail that gave Willa a headache.

The dogs promptly went to sleep. They had found a body and done their duty, thank you very much, and it was time for a three or four-hour nap. Dachshunding was hard work.

After writing and returning a few emails and attempting to call her parents from the fourth-floor linen closet, Willa roamed her vast prison aimlessly, hoping Jake would come back soon with more information. She had cried herself dry, and no longer felt the weight of something impending and inevitable creeping toward her. All she had left was the doom itself—a dead body, and a burden she seemed fated to carry for the foreseeable future. The medical examiner might have taken charge of the corpse, but in a sense Duane was still hers to tend.

Her cake, her fan, her bakery—her fault.

"Let me see that forward from your agent's office again," Mina demanded, the moment Willa wandered back into the kitchen, too depressed to be alone with her thoughts any longer. "I’m making notes of everything for our investigation board, and I want another look at the spec script anyway. Funniest thing I’ve read in years. How can you hum Blue Monday?"

"That’s what you thought was funny?"

"Willa is not supposed to be in windowed rooms," chided her companion, tsking at her as loudly as he dared. "Not a step further, my dear. For your own safety."

Good old Mr. Peanut, thought Willa, smiling and coming in all the same. He’s a rule follower, that one.

Every group needed someone who stuck to the law—who crossed their Ts and dotted their Is and followed protocol. Especially since this group mostly consisted of Lattners, who went their own way and improvised on the bylaws—and dachshunds, who didn’t recognize the rule of law in any form.

"I’ll close the curtains," Willa said, extending an olive branch. She paused, her hand on the blinds. "Oh look, it’s Serafin, from next door. He’s coming this way."

She waved at him.

"Can we let him in?" wondered Mr. Pilkington. "Would Jake approve?"

"One way to find out," said Mina, rising and opening the kitchen door to admit the handsome old man.

"Buenos dias," said Mr. Pilkington, carefully lisping his S's in case Serafin was from Andalusia or Seville and had strong opinions about pronunciation.

Mr. Pilkington was the kind of man who ordered in Mandarin at Panda Express and tried out his rusty Arabic at Lebanese restaurants—well-meaning, and extremely embarrassing to those around them.

"Buenas tardes," corrected the other man, gently. "It is afternoon. And you may put your ‘lithp’ away. I am not Spanish. I am from Costa Rica."

Mr. Pilkington accepted this correction with dignity, though Willa could see he was irritated when the other man plopped himself directly next to Mina.

"Well, well, well," Serafin said genially, sanitizing his hands after contact with the door handle. "I will not stay long. I came only to make sure you will all be joining us for dinner."

"Of course we will," Mina said. "That was all settled this morning."

"You will come then? Is that a promise? I am most eager to have you in my home."

"We'll be there."

"Good, good! But I do not want to pressure you…I hear you had quite the morning. Poor Jennifer was nearly in hysterics when she returned. My grandson has been running about like a headless chicken, trying to calm her down while making beds and washing towels! Blech."

"The practical side of inn-keeping doesn’t appeal to you?" Willa said, lowering the blinds to reduce at least one of Mr. Pilkington’s stressors.

"It does not," he said, firmly. "I was very happy to supply the capital—Matthew is my only grandchild—my flesh and blood, and very dear to my heart. I believe those two will make a success of it! But I do not do manual labor. At any rate, Matthew’s bustle and Jennifer’s tears were making me too tired. I thought I’d come discover what was happening on your side of the fence. And see if you would throw an old man a bone and describe the body. Jenny refused."

He looked at them so hopefully that Willa laughed in spite of herself. Obligingly, Mina described Duane’s condition in clinical detail and fielded every minute question Serafin threw at her.

"Ah," said the old man at last, sinking further back onto the padded bench with pleasure. "You tell a good story, Mina. I am sorry he is dead, that poor man. He was very odd, but he was kind. We ate breakfast together two days. He told me some of his troubles."

"Oh yeah?" said Willa, noticing that her aunt’s bloodhound instincts had also kicked in. Both of them moved ever so slightly closer to Serafin, a movement not unseen by Mr. Pilkington, who frowned.

"What kind of troubles did Duane Fripp have?" Mina asked.

"What do all men have trouble with? Women! He loved a woman, it seemed, who did not love him back. So goes the world, eh? But that is not what was bothering him the most. He was used to unrequited love. Something different was the matter. Serafin, he said to me, just yesterday morning. Si, amigo, I responded. I am here."

Willa and Mina exchanged looks. They shared a preference for information in small, precisely worded bursts. Serafin was a storyteller. They might be here all day…

"I have an ethical dilemma, he said. If you know something is happening or about to happen—something wrong—are you morally obligated to step in? I asked him to give me an example, and he would not."

"Hmm," said Mina. "Then what did he say?"

"He thought for a moment, and said, if something bad was going to happen to you, would you want someone to tell you? I said, no, of course not, why look for trouble? and asked him what he knew that was so bad. He deflected."

Serafin made a pooh-pooh gesture with his right hand.

"He brushed it off, just like that, and tried to change the subject, but I would not let him. I pestered him for more, but he would only smile at me. You don’t like bad news, eh Serafin? he said. And I said, look, I’m a positive man. For me, there is no bad news. I don't hear it."

"Lucky man," said Mr. Pilkington, dryly.

"No luck about it. If you don’t hear no evil, and you don’t see no evil, you stay safe, right?"

"In theory," said Mina.

"Think about the person getting the news! I told him. Some people like being ostriches. Others like to face their troubles straight on. He didn’t say nothing after that. He was upset when he left breakfast and I never saw him again. Now I understand what he was talking about. He thought something bad might happen to you, eh Miss Willa? That’s what Jennifer told me. This Duane fellow was trying to keep a murderer away."

He looked keenly at Willa.

"I will pick up where my good friend Duane left off."

"Good friend? You only knew him for a few days," said Mr. Pilkington.

"Every man is my good friend. I will keep you safe, little one," he told Willa, seriously. He pounded his chest. "The killer will have to go through me if he wants to get to you!"

"I appreciate the thought, but I’m a good seven inches taller than you are," she replied, touched.

"In height, maybe. My body is weak, but in spirit I am like Goliath."

"My body’s pretty much good for nothing these days," Mina commiserated, showing him her arthritic fingers. "And now they’ve got me watching my salt intake. It’s too depressing to eat bland food. I’d rather go out in style."

"Good for you! Life is for living. As for me, I’m nothing but a walking medical journal," Serafin complained, good-naturedly. "Arthritis—diabetes—arrhythmias galore. And I get whatever is catching. Always I get what the kids bring home, eh? Strep throat. Bronchitis. That coronavirus that all the fuss was about." He crossed himself automatically and then continued. "There was a case of bubonic plague here recently, and I am certain I came down with it as well. I had spots the size of quarters from my head to my toes. Jennifer says not, but how does she know, eh? Tell me that. Where did she go to medical school? Nowhere!"

Mr. Pilkington muttered dark statistics about the Black Death under his breath and then went to get Darlene out of her basket in the corner of the room. He seemed to want a little backup.

He returned with his arms full of limp dachshund. For a moment, Darlene relaxed on his lap like a puddle of paint, paws up, ears drooping down. Then she opened one eye, seeing the stranger for the first time.

Woof, she said, sitting up. Avoiding Mr. Pilkington's grasping arms, she jumped off his lap and made a dash for Serafin, licking and pawing at him with doggy ecstasy.

"It's like she found a long-lost brother," Mina laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen a dachshund that enamored with anyone."

"I love dogs," cooed Serafin, picking her up and letting her lick his face. "And they love me."

"Clearly," said Mr. Pilkington.

"What is that there?" Serafin asked Mina, releasing Darlene just long enough to point to the large sheet of poster board now covered in scribbles.

"Just a compilation of what we know so far, and what we need to move further."

Serafin rose stiffly and removed a small pair of reading glasses from his front pocket.

"Danica Joliff," he read out. "Tad McNulty. Steven Joyce. Oho! Just like on the wall. And do you know these people, little one?" he asked Willa. "Do you know why this Steven or this Danica might want to hurt you?"

"I know all of them," said Willa, cautiously. "But I cannot think of a good enough reason for any of them to want to kill me, let alone Duane."

"Can you not?" he said, watching her with keen attention, as an odd smile played about the corners of his mouth.

There was a sudden knock on the front door, and Killer and Wags sprung out of sleep and into action, skidding across the hardwood floor as they all attempted to be the first to reach the potential intruder. Darlene went to join them and Kyle trotted over to Willa, tail up, ears alert.

"Should we get it?" Willa said hesitantly.

"You shouldn’t," Mina said, putting a hand on her great-niece’s shoulder. "But I’m going to."

"Jake said not to answer the door," Mr. Pilkington insisted. "I promised we would abide by his rules."

"Stuff his rules. It’s my house, isn’t it? My house, my rules."

"I will go with you," said Serafin grandly, just seconds before Mr. Pilkington could get the words out himself.

Mina and Serafin disappeared. Willa reached out for Mr. Pilkington’s hands, and he clasped hers firmly. Kyle waited tensely by Willa’s feet, ready to handle whatever made its way into the kitchen next.

"I’m sure it’s nothing, Pilky. Or no one."

"No one does not ring the bell, my dear."

There was a confused muddle of voices, and then the kitchen door burst open, admitting Linda and Bob Anderson—Jake’s parents, who lived at the south end of town.

"Linda!" said Willa, surprised and extremely relieved. "Bob! It’s, er, nice to see you. I wasn’t expecting—"

The essence of Linda Anderson seemed to fill the entire room. Suddenly, she was everywhere at once, tidying up dishes, petting dogs, peeking through the curtains, admiring the poster board, and talking a mile a minute. Bob plopped down and gave his attention to Killer, who lolled at his feet, tongue out.

"We were in line for donuts when we heard the news," Linda confided, to anyone who would listen. "We’d been there for what must have been what, Bob—three hours?"

"Twenty-five minutes, tops."

"Three hours and twenty-five minutes," Linda went on, blissfully, "and we saw you folks coming up to the door with B.J., which was surprising because he was in uniform and he doesn’t usually work on Saturdays. My 'mom antenna' went up, so I texted him. I thought maybe since he was with you…well, we wanted to make sure we got a donut before they were gone, and what the heck, I'll just admit it! I asked if he'd sneak one out! But he didn’t text back! I just kept trying, every fifteen minutes. I even tried WhatsIt, where we have a family chat set up…"

"WhatsApp," said Bob.

"Whats-ever! And then there you were at the door, Willa, saying the fryer was broken! And that silly Henderson kid pulled up and pushed his way in, and everyone knew the cops wouldn’t bother with a fryer. Humboldt Cove may be small, but we’re not that small. People lingered a while, because what if it was the fryer after all? But then the ambulance showed up, and that’s when people really gave up hope. Sandra Gelling was behind me and she was mad as heck because she needed donuts for some kind of Girl Scout thing she’s throwing tonight—she said she didn’t even care if there was a body in there because she’d be dead meat herself if she didn’t get some donuts back to Makayla’s troop. She’s at a difficult age."

"Mrs. Gelling?" asked Mina, her lip twitching.

"No, Makayla. Though perimenopause is no joke either! Now let me see, where was I?—Oh! Sandra’s car is in the shop, so Bob offered to drive into Arcata or McKinleyville to get some donuts for her and she took him up on it. Right as we were driving back into town, Jake finally returned my call and filled us in on what’s going on," she said, in a stage whisper. "He told us in no uncertain terms to go home and leave you alone."

"Yeah?"

"So, of course, we came right here."

"Of course," Mina agreed. "I would have done the same thing."

"Hello," said Linda, moving on to another subject with the speed and rapidity of a machine gun. She smiled eagerly at Serafin. "Who are you?"

"I am called Serafin Ortiz," he said, with a slight bow of the head. "I live next—"

"Oh, you’re Jenny’s grandpa!" Linda interrupted. "Did you teach her to cook? Because if so, I want to shake your hand! Her donuts…I swear, they melt in your mouth. And she makes the jam herself!"

"Matthew is my grandson, actually."

"Potato, potahto. They’re married. The two become one flesh, right?"

"It is a beautiful thought. I suppose that in a way—"

Serafin’s little speech was muffled when Linda enveloped him in a giant hug.

"Settle down, hon," Bob said. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ortiz. We think a lot of your grandkids here. They’ve totally revitalized the hospitality industry in this town. Before they started the B&B, we only had the Mermaid Inn—

"That’s where you stay if you want to get murdered in your sleep!" Linda interjected.

"—and little Ms. Twitterton’s Airbnb. She rents out her guest room to desperate people, but you have to move about a pound of cat hair out of the way just to get to the bed."

Linda nodded in vigorous agreement.

"When B.J.’s sister Jess got married last spring, we didn’t know where to put people. Our house only sleeps six, and that’s if you’re sucking in your gut to squeeze them in. The Mermaid Inn has damp sheets and rats and the woman who runs it only has one eye. In the end, we had Pastor Green unlock the church basement, where the youth group meets, and we set up a bunch of sleeping bags in there. The point is, if the Seawind had been open then, all our problems would’ve been solved. But the house was still occupied by Ms. Lucy Garber at that time."

"I understand she was not, perhaps, the best neighbor," said Serafin, his eyes twinkling.

"She was until she wasn’t," Linda replied, simply. "Anyhow, welcome to town, Mr. Ortiz."

"Serafin."

"Serafin. Now why does that remind me of a song…?"

Linda stared at the wall for a full twenty seconds, deep in thought.

"It’ll come to me," she promised. "So, Willa, what are we going to do about you? That’s why we came, after all. To see if we could help. B.J. seemed really worried. He said something about a stalker trying to kill you, just like in the movie I saw last week. What was it called, Bob? There was this famous movie star and one of her fans was obsessed with her. He hid in her walls, and popped out one night and killed her."

"Dear," said Bob, in admonishment.

Mina began laughing silently next to them, tickled pink by Linda’s gaffes as usual.

"That was tactless," Linda began, stricken with embarrassment. "I’m sure your stalker won’t hide inside these walls. This house is too well-built, for one. So much insulation!"

"You misheard your son," said Mina, recovering herself. "In this case, the stalker was the good guy. We actually think he was trying to protect Willa."

"Oh! So who is trying to kill you?"

Linda looked expectantly at Willa.

"I wish I knew," Willa replied, and burst into tears.

The Neighbors

Jake returned to the pink house at about three o’clock, irritated but not particularly surprised to see that Mina, Mr. Pilkington, and Willa—instead of lying low and taking cover—had gathered a large party in the kitchen, including his own parents and Matt and Jenny Ortiz, who had come looking for Serafin, and stayed for a quick cup of coffee and a chat.

"I told you three to stay put," Jake groaned.

"We did," Mina retorted. "None of us stepped a foot outside, and look there—the blinds are down, and Willa’s away from the window."

"Why all the guests, then?"

"We didn’t invite them! They showed up of their own accord," she said, flouncing away to get Jake a cup of coffee and a leftover cherry vanilla scone.

"Shoot, sorry, that's my fault," Matt told Jake and Willa in a low whisper. "Jenny needed to get out of the house for a while—and out of her own head. Our current guests are absolute nightmares. Big city idiots, rich and entitled—driving one of those stupid cyber trucks—and they can't keep their hands off each other. I'm no prude, but I'd prefer my guests weren't openly making out in the breakfast nook. Jenny and I have had it to here with their demands, though I think anything would set Jenny off right now. I don't know how you're dealing with it Willa, but she's a mess. And poor Mina—what a shock for someone her age! The old girl's putting on a brave face, but I can tell she's broken. I'm worried the bakery is tainted for all three of you—haunted."

Jake raised an eyebrow and caught Willa's eye. Matt doesn't know Mina very well, Willa thought, amused. Her aunt could take a hundred more bodies in stride. Almost nothing phased her. And as for hauntings, if Mina saw a ghost in The Three Hounds' kitchen, she'd either walk right through it or ask it to pass her the sugar.

"What's this all about, anyway?" Matt asked. "How did one of our guests end up dead? Did he know someone here in town?"

"We can't say for sure," said Jake evasively.

"He must be connected to the Lattners somehow, right? Or to the bakery at least. I mean, why else would he go there?"

"To bake a cake, presumably."

"But why?"

"We don't know yet."

"Dang. I was hoping I could worm some info out of you," Matt confided, speaking even lower. "Jenny's going to sleep a lot easier when she knows for sure that no one has a vendetta against the bakery. Plus, I thought you guys probably needed rescuing. From him," he said, nodding indulgently toward his grandfather, who was gossiping volubly with Linda Anderson in the corner. "He doesn't know when to leave. Or to keep his mouth shut. I can't even tell you the number of family reunions that have ended in shouting matches."

"It's not your fault," Jake said. "Most of this is on me. I should never have said anything to my parents."

"I think you did it on purpose," said Mina, returning with the coffee. "A subconscious desire to protect. You knew your mom would race right over here, like a great big mother hen. You’re worried, Brian Jacob Anderson, and don’t try to deny it."

"Of course I’m worried!" he said, crumbling his scone into little pieces and glumly picking through until he found the dry cherries. "I cherished a small hope that the whole thing was an accident—that the guy tripped and fell. No such luck. Duane Fripp was killed more or less instantly by a blow to the back of the head. Not self-inflicted."

Mr. Pilkington, who had been swapping fishing tips with Bob Anderson, looked up.

"Are we dealing with our old friend, the blunt instrument?" he asked dryly. "Or can you put a more definite name to this weapon?"

"Blunt instrument," said Jake, looking absently around for sugar for his coffee. "And I had to pry that out of the doctor that pronounced the death for us. There are no defensive wounds and no signs of struggle. He said the poor guy probably didn’t see it coming and almost certainly didn’t feel it."

"He did look surprised," said Willa, glad that Duane hadn’t suffered, at least.

"Was he actually killed in the bakery?" asked Jenny, looking a little green.

"It looks that way," Jake said, gently. "There are signs when a body is moved, and as far as we can determine, he died where he fell."

Her face crumpled.

"How long was he in there?"

"They think he died on Friday afternoon. Sometime after you left at two o'clock."

"There," said Matt, lamely. "See? He wasn't lying in there dead while you were baking."

"He still died in The Three Hounds, though! This is awful. My food is supposed to bring joy," she said. "I bake love into everything. How can I go on in that atmosphere? How can I create art where there is death and unhappiness everywhere!"

Matt cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"You can do it, babe," he said, patting her shoulder.

He looked helpless—wanting to comfort Jenny, but not quite knowing how. He may have known how to handle a cage fight, but he hadn't quite learned how to handle his wife. At least not yet.

"You must do it, Jennifer," said Serafin, waving his cane at her. "Your art is necessary to the world."

"You’ve got a lot of love to sprinkle into your batter," Mina added kindly. "We all taste it. Goodness always wins, Jen. I’m not going to let this ruin The Three Hounds for me, you, or anyone else. Does this town still need donuts?"

She fixed Jenny with a beady eye.

"Nobody really needs donuts," said the younger woman, wiping a tear away.

"Blasphemy! Donuts are a necessary part of life. Do you still have a lot of love to give?"

"I sure do," Jenny said, straightening up a bit.

"There you have it," said Mina. She added, as an afterthought, "If you’re still squeamish, we can get a priest in and have him spray some of that stuff they use."

"Holy water?" suggested Mr. Pilkington, stroking Darlene—who licked his hand once and then flew off his lap in search of Serafin once more.

"Sure, whatever."

"Pastor Green does something with the communion loaf that might help," Linda said, with bright disregard for what that something might be. "Maybe she could come say a few words over the bakery."

"I will call my priest," said Serafin.

"I’ll call the Pastor," Linda said, pulling out her phone.

"There you go," Mina told Jenny, who was beginning to cheer up. "Double-blessings."

Jake let them chat a while longer and then asked everyone—politely but firmly—to return to their homes.

"You too, Mom and Dad," he said, shoving them out the door after the Ortizs.

"What if one of the girls needs us?" Linda protested. "We can camp out in front of the house, looking for derelicts."

"They'll call you if they need you," he said, taking his mother’s elbow and bear-leading her toward their car.

"I’ll come back later with soup!" Linda hollered over her shoulder.

Jake marched back into the house and shut the door, locking and bolting it behind him.

"No more guests," he told Mina.

"It wasn’t my fault," she said. "Lecture them, too!"

Willa and Mr. Pilkington shared a pained look.

"I know who instigates stuff around here," Jake said, "and it sure as heck isn’t Mr. Pilkington. No more guests—any of you. I need everyone to take this seriously."

"We are taking it seriously! We’re compiling every clue—every bit of evidence that might help," Mina said, gesturing toward the poster board. "What are you doing? Fill us in!"

"We've been trying to reach Steve Joyce, Danica Joliff, and Tad McNulty, for starters. No luck so far, but we've left messages where we could and we’re applying for warrants for email correspondence and other things. Thanks for getting that info from your publisher, by the way," he said, glancing over at Willa. "I sent it on to the Sheriff. Sounds like Duane had no problem getting the advanced copy. Leak solved."

"Not exactly," said Willa, biting her lip. "He got the pages about four months ago, according to the emails. But the cake recipe wasn’t finalized then. Guillermo put the finishing touches on it when I was in New York. So how on earth did Duane get his hands on that?"

Mail

To Wendoline Lattner-Santini

Wendy,

Thanks for the speedy reply. Sorry I missed your call.

I’m glad to hear that neither you nor G blabbed the cake recipe, though I’m not really surprised. Someone did, though. I can’t figure that bit out. And right now the leaked book is the least of my worries.

Things have really taken off here, and not in a "marvelous things are happening at an exponential rate" type of way. Picture a broken sled and a giant, icy hill with a busy road at the bottom. I’m hurtling toward something bad, Wendy, and I feel completely out of control.

Did I ever tell you about Duane Fripp? I’m pretty sure I did. He’s the superfan who took the picture of me signing books in Portland and sent it to my agent. You know the pic I mean—I used it on my Christmas card last year because my nose looked adorably snub instead of long and witch-like, and my hair had miraculously formed itself into neat corkscrew curls.

Duane is dead, Wendy.

He died at The Three Hounds. In our freezer, to be specific. Though it wasn’t on, so we weren’t dealing with a human popsicle situation.

That sounds glib, and I don’t really feel glib. I feel very sad.

Duane was Violet Valentine’s first supporter. Do you remember that? Back when Wallace took a chance on an unknown author who couldn’t bake to save her life but had aspirations to write culinary mysteries. Duane wrote fan letters, set up signings, and started the Facebook group. He also sent me his hair, which made me value those other things less, and that was my mistake. Turns out, he was a good guy. And everyone around here seems to think he died because of me. His life for mine.

Did I mention that someone wants to kill me? That might supply some much-needed context. It’s taken me a while to accept it, myself, but now I think it must be true. Because why else would someone kill sweet, harmless Duane Fripp?

Turns out, my Uber incident may not have been an accident. And my little tango with listeria may have actually been a slow dance with arsenic.

Who would hate me enough to run me over with a car or poison me?

Duane thought it might be Steve.

Yeah, THAT Steve. There are photos of him following me through the whole book tour. Do you think he’s capable of something like that? I confess I just can’t make it fit. Steve is essentially a coward. And murder takes some measure of guts. Real murder, I mean. Not Violet-Valentine-style murder, where someone neatly puts an older relative out of the way for money, without batting an eye. You have to work up to it, somehow.

Right?

There must be a safety valve in most of us, preventing us from whacking each other upside the head and taking whatever we want. I have to think it takes quite a bit of time and pressure to undo that valve.

Anyway, just thought you might want to know.

And Wendy—I love you. That’s just in case. Call me.

Willa

P.S. For the love of Pete and all that’s holy, DO NOT TELL MOM AND DAD. Let me deliver that blow my own way.

P.P.S. If the worst happens, tell them I love them too.

Mail

To Jean Lattner

Mom,

I don’t know if Dad got my email yet, but I need one of you to give me a call. I tried the house and both of your cells. I assume you’re at the movies. Something you like was coming out today, wasn’t it? With the guy from that World War II mystery show you guys watch, on Brit Box? I tried it with Mina but she always guesses the murderer before the opening credits are done, and then says they don’t get the 40s "right." I looked it up, and she was like three when the war broke out, so what does she know about the 40s?

It’s fairly important, so once you’ve finished off the popcorn and you’re back home, call me. Leave a message if you can’t get through, and I’ll run up to the linen closet and call you back.

Aunt Mina is in good health and she did fine without me while I was gone. Her old friend Mr. Pilkington has been staying here while they work on Mina’s history of Klamath County. I suspect almost no work was done. They’ve been having a ball, roaming this creaky old house with the dogs.

I know you’re dying to know and will never ask, so I’ll put you out of your misery. They are occupying separate bedrooms. They are merely friends, Mom, and as chaste as the new-driven snow. Though if I know Pilky, his sentimental heart is yearning for more. When you visit, I give you leave to match-make to your heart’s desire, but I warn you it’s a lost cause.

Book sales for Fatal Fudge are great so far. You don’t need to tell the ladies in Bible Study to buy it. 500,000 strangers are filling that gap.

Wendy and Guillermo are doing so well in Rome that I fear there is no chance they will return to us. At least not for many years. They are practically overrun by enthusiastic Italian nonnas and nonnos, plying food and pinching cheeks. The whole Santini clan dotes on Wendy, and they fed me like there was no tomorrow. Guillermo’s grandma Maria is about three feet tall and covered with tiny little wrinkles, and she makes the most delicious meatballs I’ve ever tasted. I actually thought I might die of a marinara overdose.

I know you cherished hopes that G would take the open pastry chef position at The Three Hounds, but Mina and I have found a good solution until that day comes. Our next-door neighbor Jenny is slinging donuts for us, and she has a magic touch. Her raspberry jelly would make you cry, and even your Great-Grandma Heiller did not make sufganiyot that good. Virtual pillows of dough, Mom. The itty-bitty Jewish population of Northern California will be knocking down our doors come December, looking for their Hanukkah treats.

You haven’t heard from Steve’s mom Helene, by any chance? I know things were awkward when we broke up, but the last time we talked you were still planning pedicure dates with her and chatting online. Did she mention anything about Steve doing extra traveling lately? I’ve got my reasons for asking, and they do not involve a rekindled romantic interest, so you can put that thought to bed right now.

Call me!

Willa

P.S. The dogs love the sweaters you sent, though Killer has already eaten the one you made for Kyle.

The Agent

The late afternoon was dull and lengthy, punctuated by yawns, snacks, and a slight undercurrent of tension. Willa's sense of doom had lessened to a more bearable irritation—a combination of boredom and stress, as though she was waiting for a delayed flight that might be canceled at any moment. It was an odd mixture of sensations and she wished the day would end already and put her out of her misery.

Jake was adamant that they stay put for the time being, at least until he and Sheriff Poole got a better handle on the situation. The department had finally received permission to access Duane’s online history, and a police officer in Tacoma was dispatched to visit the dead man’s house.

"There’s still a possibility Duane was killed for being Duane," Jake said.

Willa, dozing on a Victorian chaise longue under a pile of dachshunds, opened her eyes and looked over at him eagerly.

"Don’t get your hopes up, though," he warned her, and she closed her eyes again, disconsolate. "It's pretty unlikely. The man had no family, no domestic partner, and very few friends. He lived alone. He was a medical assistant by profession and worked in a small nursing home six days a week. Nights and weekends were pretty tame, too. He sold and resold classic mysteries on eBay and played online poker. This was a man who very much kept to himself. But his coworkers liked him, and so did his neighbors. He wasn't the kind of person that had enemies."

"Well, neither am I!"

Kyle and Wags had claimed the prime Willa real estate, leaving Killer to plant his massive behind on her collarbone. She moved his tail away from her mouth and sat up, knocking all three of them onto the floor.

Kyle woofed at her reproachfully and hopped right back up, while Killer and Wags wandered away in search of Darlene and any food that might be on offer. Killer lived in perpetual hope that someone might be opening a bag of kibble in another room of the house. That optimism kept him trotting from room to room and was almost his only source of exercise.

"I’ve been going over and over it in my mind," Willa said, rewarding Kyle’s loyalty by refolding his ears, which had flipped inside-out, as dachshund ears were wont to do. "I still can’t make anything fit, Jake. There is no logical reason anyone would go after me, let alone kill someone else in their way. I’m just an average sort of person with a knack for writing books."

"You don’t think it would be worth it to Danica Joliff to remove a large source of competition?"

"Frankly, no! Even if Violet Valentine and I disappeared off the face of the planet today, her sales wouldn’t be affected. We probably share the same pool of readers. It’s not a zero sum game. My fans are also fans of Fiona Fudge. And I know I complain about her 'stealing' my readers and my thunder, but there's enough to go around when it comes to the insatiable cozy mystery crowd."

"There's no personal spite at play?"

Willa shrugged.

"I mean, we’re not exactly BFFs…"

"Why not?"

"I don’t know! Jealousy, I suppose. Also, have you seen her? She makes me feel like a slug with a wig on. She’s drop-dead gorgeous."

"So are you," said Mina, materializing in the sitting room with three cups of coffee on a tray. "Here, take this, both of you. Antidote for the blahs."

"Where’s Pilky?"

"Trying to teach Darlene to sit. She’s giving him a polite hearing, but you and I both know that training an adult dachshund is a losing battle."

Jake took a mug of coffee absently and began drinking. He made a face.

"Ugh! What’s in this?"

"I put twice the amount of grounds into the machine," Mina said, with a little smirk. "This’ll wake us up. We need sharp minds to muddle through. So Danica isn’t a very viable suspect. Fair enough. How about her agent, Flob?"

"Tad," said Willa, rolling her eyes. "He’s a non-starter as well. We’re barely acquainted."

"You said he keeps trying to steal you away from Wallace."

"He’s after any bestselling author that breathes, Aunt Mina. Believe me, there’s nothing personal about it."

"I wouldn’t be so sure," said Jake, pouring his coffee into a houseplant nearby.

"Hey!" Mina cried. "Watch it, buster. You’re going to kill that poor thing."

"Better it than me. Duane thought Tad McNulty had a reasonable motive for going after you, Willa. And forgive me, but in this case, he might actually be the more neutral observer. Just because you don’t give Tad a second thought doesn’t mean he isn’t fixated on you. Duane was at all those conferences and fan conventions, and he was watching Tad closely. Maybe he saw something you can’t see. I’m not striking him off the list—not by a long shot."

Mina took a swig of her coffee, grimaced, and slyly poured it into the same potted plant.

"Men like that feel women owe them something," she said. "Did he ever ask you out?"

"Once or twice," Willa admitted. "But he’s like thirty years older than I am. I assumed it was a formality—par for the course. He makes passes at anything in a skirt."

"I know the type," said Mina, grimly. "They’re going extinct now, thank goodness. In my younger days, you had to just smile and take it."

Mr. Pilkington drifted in, holding Darlene. He chuckled at Mina.

"You never smiled at anyone you didn’t like and you never took a thing that was offered."

"I was speaking in the general, Pilky. I always did fire back. But I was very unpopular," Mina admitted. "And I got passed over for promotions, time and time again. All I was trying to say was that in my day, you had to play the game to get ahead. And back then, the rules were to smile, laugh at the jokes, duck the overt attention, and accept the inevitable: creepy back rubs, dinners out, and awful attention from geriatric men. A dinosaur like Tad McNulty may find this brave new world a little hard to swallow. And take it from me, Willa, plenty of assaults and murders are sparked by nothing more than a bruised ego and an aggressive man."

"Tad’s rising to the top of the list," Jake said, jotting down a few notes. "When did he last ask you out, Willa?"

"I don’t know," she said, helplessly. "Six or seven weeks ago, maybe? He came to one of the drinks-and-apps nights ahead of the mystery conference in San Francisco and made what felt like a perfunctory pass at me. I told him to get lost, and he did."

The doorbell rang. Killer and Wags burst out of the kitchen and skittered across the hardwood floor toward the front door, and Darlene jumped down from Mr. Pilkington’s arms and joined them in barking happily at the prospective intruder. Kyle alone seemed unconcerned.

"I’ll get it," said Jake. "Willa, move out of sight, please."

She rose and faded into the corner of the sitting room. Jake answered the door, Mina lurking directly behind him like a vengeful shadow.

"Oh," he said, opening the door wide. "Hullo, Serafin—Matt."

"C’mon in boys," said Mina.

"Can’t stay long," Matt said, apologetically. "We just came to make sure you're coming for dinner."

"Of course we are. We already said yes, didn't we? You don't have to keep asking."

"Hey, a lot has changed since this morning. I wouldn't blame you for canceling. But Jenny is stress-cooking up enough for twenty, and we figured you might still want a little comfort food after a stressful day."

"Yes, please!" said Mina. "I can’t cook for beans, and Mr. Deputy won’t hear of us going down to Fat Oscar’s for dinner. We’ll be safe enough next door, won’t we?"

She appealed to Jake, who thought for a moment and then nodded.

"I’m okay with that. As long as I’m included in the invite?"

"Of course!" said Serafin, hospitably. "Six o’clock, and don’t be late."

"We’ll be there!" said Willa, effusive in her relief that she wouldn’t have a repeat meal from Mina’s lean pantry.

She thought, on the whole, she’d rather face a killer than eat olive loaf and prunes again.

The Dinner

Willa went upstairs to shower and dress for the dinner next door, relieved that the recent discussion about suspects hadn’t touched on Steve Joyce, her ex-boyfriend. She didn’t regret his loss and genuinely never wanted to see him again, but even the mention of his name irritated her still. The love was long gone, but the pain remained like a kind of spiritual canker sore. The whole subject of Steve was tender and off-limits, and she preferred to pretend as though he didn’t exist.

The reality that he did exist and was walking around the world was bad enough. The fact that he might also be trying to kill her was too hard to accept. She was dreading the inevitable churn of emotional garbage that would initiate as soon as she had to deep-dive into Steve’s motives for wanting her dead, and it was not something she wanted to discuss with Mina, Pilky, or Jake. Especially not Jake.

She returned downstairs, freshly bathed, combed, and curled, arriving smack in the middle of a spirited conversation between Mina and Mr. Pilkington, who was looking particularly stern and channeling Mr. Peanut more than usual.

"You can’t bring a group of dogs along to a formal dinner party," he said, in his most distressed manner. "It’s not done! And certainly not without direct permission from the hostess."

"Abandon Darlene here if you want," Mina said. "Leave her as bait for Willa’s assassin. I’m bringing them with me, and Jenny can deal with it. She adores the boys, you old fuss pot. She’ll be pleased as punch to have them there."

"Her guests might be allergic to dogs," he protested.

"Their guests can lump it. Maybe this will chase them away and leave Jenny and Matt in peace. And no one is allergic to dogs," Mina said, breezily. "That is just a myth put out by the cat cartels that run big pharma."

Jake looked on, trying not to smile too overtly. When appealed to by Mr. Pilkington, he agreed that Jenny and Matt were fairly laid back and probably wouldn’t mind having the dogs along for the ride.

Mr. Pilkington wavered and then was undone by a particularly soulful look from Darlene, who saw Mina leashing up Killer, Kyle, and Wags. When a dachshund decides to look forlorn, all is lost. Mr. Pilkington gave way immediately and helped Darlene into her harness. She hopped, delighted, toward the boys, booped noses with Killer, and then wagged her tail, ready to go.

"Shall we?" said Jake, opening the door.

Willa hadn’t been inside the Garber House since it had been converted to a bed-and-breakfast. Her last visit there had not been pleasant, and she didn't like thinking about it, its former inhabitant, or anything that had transpired there. She was astounded when Jenny opened the front door and ushered them inside. The previous owner’s fussy furniture and china knickknacks were all gone in favor of attractive, modern decor and high-end original pieces. Jenny and Matt had chosen a minimalist approach that highlighted, rather than detracted from, the gorgeous scrollwork and hardwood floors of the original house. Willa understood now how they could charge such a high rate. This wasn’t a chintzy B&B, covered in old porcelain dolls and moth-eaten afghans; this was a boutique and very high-end hotel.

Much to Mr. Pilkington’s relief, Jenny seemed delighted by the addition of four wiener dogs to the party, and Willa felt sure it wasn’t just politeness. She was growing to like their temporary pastry chef more and more each time they interacted and wondered if they could ever prevail on her to join the bakery full-time. It was probably a lost cause—this inn didn’t run itself—but worth pushing, nonetheless. Maybe Jenny just needed a little more persuading. Or maybe they hadn't offered enough cold, hard cash yet. She'd suggest that to Mina next time they spoke about it. It would be worth paying even six figures if they could get someone as good as Jenny at The Three Hounds for good.

Serafin emerged from a small office just off the entry and approached them graciously, leaning on his elaborate cane. He looked tired and a little drawn, but he was dressed for the occasion with a bright red carnation in his lapel. He extended his arm to Mina and sailed with her down the hallway toward the large, formal dining room, followed by the adoring Darlene. Mr. Pilkington hobbled after them on his walking stick, looking sulky.

Willa watched them go, hoping this was not the precursor to a duel over Mina. A geriatric cane-fight was not on her Bingo card for the evening.

She had a brief, fanciful vision of Mr. Pilkington shrieking en garde and waving his stick at Serafin, who would counter with a thrust of his own gold-topped weapon. Parry, thrust, parry, thrust, and then dual coronary infarctions.

"I hope you like pot roast," said Jenny.

She wore an adorably frilly white apron and had donned pearl earrings and lipstick for the occasion. She caught Willa’s surprised and admiring glance and laughed.

"This is my B&B hostess costume," she explained. "Makes me feel exactly like Donna Reed. The guests seem to enjoy the effect, though. Come on in. The bridal suite contingent is upstairs. They've requested room service for dinner, so I'll have to take that up midway through the meal, if you don't mind. If it's not one thing, it's another in this business. An unexpected guest is coming in around eight tonight, too, so that’s thrown me off."

"Last minute?" said Jake, raising an eyebrow. "Isn’t that a bit unusual for a place this spendy?"

"Not really," said Jenny, leading them down the hall. "We’re on all the big travel sites, and sometimes people have to book with very little notice. Thankfully, we were ahead of the curve and already had a room ready to go. The carriage house suite won't be habitable for weeks, of course…and I'm not sure what to do with Mr. Fripp's stuff."

"I'll send someone for it," Jake said.

"Good. Fortunately, the third-floor rooms are just as nice. We've knocked some walls together to make a few premium suites. All that to say, I hope you don't mind, but I might not be able to get another batch of donuts ready to sell tomorrow," said Jenny, giving Willa a guilty look. "I’m not sure I can prep breakfast here and get down to the bakery in time to fry everything up."

"Don’t worry about it," Willa replied. "There’s no way we’re opening again this weekend. After a body was found in the kitchen? It’ll take days to get it up to health and safety codes."

"We’ve got a crime scene cleaner coming in," said Jake. "But I’d advise against opening tomorrow at any rate. All you’ll get is looky-loos and a reputation for being callous."

"That’s settled then," said Jenny, with a sigh of relief.

The long dining table was laid out with tasteful, plain white china and silver. It took money to create an impression that simple and flawless—and lots of it.

Serafin had seated Mina next to him with Mr. Pilkington on his other side, an arrangement that did not improve Mr. Pilkington’s case of the sulks. Jealousy was written all over his face, and he looked like a disgruntled peanut.

Jenny and Matt disappeared through a small swinging door and returned bearing steaming trays of meat and vegetables and baskets piled high with fragrant bread, hot from the oven. Willa’s stomach, tortured by prunes and processed meat, literally lurched when she smelled the pot roast, and she swallowed hard so she wouldn’t drool all over the table.

"No bread, Abuelo," said Matt gently, as Serafin reached for the nearest basket of rolls. "Meat and veg only, tonight."

"Diabetes," grumbled Serafin. "It is a heavy cross to bear. Why must all good foods be full of sugar and carbohydrates? I don’t want your broccoli and creamed spinach. I want a buttered roll! I feel fine!"

"Five minutes ago, you swore you were dying."

"That was from pneumonia, not diabetes."

"You don't have pneumonia."

"There is a tell-tale pain in my left shoulder. Pleurisy, I'm sure of it. If you would take me in for an x-ray, we would know for sure."

"You don't have pleurisy."

Darlene, who had been lying at Mr. Pilkington’s feet, jumped onto Serafin’s lap and licked his face sympathetically.

"She has a tender heart, this one," said Serafin. "She feels my pain. My cough is really very bad tonight. Perhaps she senses that my life is drawing to a close. Look, she is kissing my face."

"There’s probably food on your cheek," said Mr. Pilkington loudly.

It was a rare display of rudeness on his part. Mina attempted to kick him under the table and hit Willa’s shin instead.

"If you’re looking for food to wipe up," Mina said coldly, "I’d start with the egg on your face."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Jake began talking smoothly with Matt about crab fishing. The next ten minutes were occupied mostly with chewing, swallowing, and compliments to the chef. After a month of hotel meals and fast food, Willa was in heaven. Jenny was a fantastic cook, and everything was restaurant quality.

"You've really improved the place," Mina told Matt, looking around her with pleasure. "Last time I was here, it felt like a well-ordered mausoleum. You seem to have found a way to make it Victorian and modern at the same time. Not sure how you did it, but kudos."

Matt flexed his biceps, absently.

"Elbow grease!" he said. "And a little know-how. Everyone told me my art history degree would land me in the poorhouse, but look at us now!"

"Ha! All we have is a hundred thousand in student loan debt and a hefty mortgage," Jenny said ruefully.

"Jenny wanted me to be an electrician or a plumber," Matt confided.

"It's a steady paycheck, at least. And handy to have around the house!"

"I could still make good money cage fighting," he teased.

"Not on your life. You're no good to me injured, you goof. Plus, if your nose gets broken another time, it's going to set permanently crooked."

"I, for one, am glad you chose to direct your talents elsewhere. You two make a very nice little team," Mr. Pilkington said, taking another roll. "With a very pleasing combination of artistic sensibilities. This bread is a virtual masterpiece, Jennifer."

He kissed his hand at her. Serafin reached for the basket and Jenny smacked him away.

"No bread!" she said. "Your blood glucose is perfect right now. Don't mess with success!"

"It is for the little Darlene," he sulked, looking down at Darlene, still fawning on his lap and pawing at his hands.

"Nice try. No simple carbs. Eat your broccoli."

"So what is your long-term plan for The Three Hounds?" Matt asked Mina and Willa. "Will you ever re-open on a larger scale?"

"If we can find the right chef, we will," Mina said, giving Jenny a sly look. "How about it, Jen? Can we tear you away from all this? Whatever Matt's paying you, we'll pay double."

Jenny hooted with laughter.

"Hear that, Matt? They think you should pay me to work here!"

"Sounds good," he said, drawing her in for a little kiss. "You pay me, and I'll pay you. And somehow we'll keep up with utility bills."

The night progressed in cheerful conversation and banter, and just as dinner was drawing to a close, Serafin clinked his glass. Willa could see he was brimming with the same suppressed excitement she'd sensed earlier in the day.

"Attention!" he said, importantly. "Your attention, please."

"Everyone’s listening," Jenny said, smiling at him. "Though you may want to wait on your speech until you see my dessert—then you’ll really have something to toast!"

"Matthew has already told me I cannot have dessert," said Serafin, acidly. "I do not wish to wait. I have news that I'm finally ready to share. Big news. But firstly, I want to thank you, my dear neighbors, for gracing my home with your presence."

"Hear, hear," said Matt, pleasantly, but Willa saw Jenny’s eyelids flicker at Serafin’s use of the possessive.

It was evidently a sore spot. Willa wondered how she would feel if an elderly relative claimed ownership of the house she was living in and realized, a split second later, that that described her current situation exactly! She laughed at herself. The truth was, she didn’t mind living in Mina’s house one bit. She’d get it all someday if Mina ever condescended to die, though Willa thought that point was doubtful at best. Death wouldn’t dare to call on Mina Lattner. She’d take away his scythe, kick his bottom, and send him back to the underworld, tail between his legs.

"Second, I want to officially extend my condolences for the sad situation in which you have found yourselves. Mina, Willa, and Mr. Pokington—"

"Pilkington," corrected Mr. Pilkington, indistinctly, and Serafin did not heed him.

"You have my profound sympathy. I pledge myself to your safety and comfort and declare that no Ortiz will rest until the killer is found and justice is served. You are under our protection, Willa," he said, beaming at her.

"Thank you," she said, ignoring her impulse to smile.

It was a real gesture of friendship, and she would respect it as such. What did it matter that this gallant old man could not protect her from a kitten, let alone a murderer? The sentiment was genuine, and so was her gratitude.

"Thirdly," said Serafin, who was now trembling with excitement, "I have reason to believe that your safety will soon be guaranteed."

"Why is that?" asked Mina, buttering a roll and shamelessly handing it to Killer, who was begging next to her chair.

"Danica Joliff and Steven Joyce," repeated Serafin, rolling the words off his tongue with pleasure.

He looked up and down the table, mischief snapping in his dark eyes. Willa caught a glimpse of what he must have been like, fifty years before.

"Those are the names of two of our suspects," Mina agreed. "What about it?"

Jenny's hand flew out and knocked over her glass of wine. She sat frozen, staring at the growing stain on her nice tablecloth, while Matt drew in a sharp breath, and then cursed out loud.

"Suspects?" he barked at Mina, almost angrily. "Suspects for what?"

"Murder," she said, barking right back at him. Mina never let someone take a tone with her. "Your Mr. Fripp wrote those names on his wall. One of them wants to kill Willa—and probably killed him."

"Wrote…? What are you talking about? You mean—he put their names on the damaged wall in the carriage house?"

Mina looked over at Jake, shrugging, and Jake explained the situation.

"We don't typically reveal that kind of detail," he said. "Especially concerning people of interest in an active investigation. But yes."

"I saw the names," Serafin said, grinning at him. "I saw them and never said a word to these two."

"Oh my gosh," Matt said, leaning faintly back in his chair. "Oh my gosh. Danica Joliff and Steven Joyce. That's what you said, right? I didn't hear you wrong?"

"Those are two of the names on Fripp's wall."

"Uh, no. No, no, no!" moaned Jenny, finally managing to get something out. "Those—are the names—of our two guests. Mr. and Mrs. Nightmare, upstairs. And I'm about to bring them room service!" she said, ending on a shriek.

Serafin nodded gleefully.

"And here's the best part. The third, this—this Tad McNulty, yes?—he is the last-minute arrival!"

Willa gasped, nearly knocking over her own glass.

"You mean…?"

"Yes, dear heart," gloated Serafin. "A murderer will sleep under my roof tonight!"

The Guests

There was a great deal of commotion after this announcement, of course—most of which from Jenny, Matt, and Jake. The two former were furious that Serafin had known this rather vital piece of information about their guests and declined to share it, and the latter was demanding further details whenever he could get a word in, which wasn’t often.

"How could you sit on something like this?" Matt demanded of his grandfather, who plopped down heavily after his speech, looking rather the worse for wear. "You knew the Sheriff had kept us in the dark. You knew we didn’t recognize those names or know what they meant. Why did you hold your cards so close to the vest?"

"I didn’t want you to cancel the bookings," Serafin responded. "Or spoil the fun."

"Why didn’t you give the Sheriff a heads up, at least?" asked Jake, who was just as upset as Matt and Jenny, though hiding it better.

"I had to pick my moment—I thought you would be pleased with my ingenuity!" said the old man meekly. "I wanted to serve the cause of justice."

"You wanted to make a splash, Abuelo," Matt said, dropping his head in his hands. "Well, you did that. What do you want us to do now? Spread the welcome mat for a killer? What were you thinking?!"

"He thought he was being clever," said Jenny, near tears. "But we’re in an awful position! We can’t just kick those two out…they're booked for two more nights! And we can't cancel on McNulty—it looks bad on our record. Those third-party sites keep track of dropped reservations, and mark you down."

"How long have Steve Joyce and Danica Joliff been here?"

"Almost a week. Should we show them the door? Oh my gosh, this will ruin us."

"Don’t do anything," said Jake, hastily. "This may work out well at the end of the day. But I'm confused, Mr. Ortiz."

"Not as confused as I am," complained Mina, loudly.

She had been trying to butt into the conversation for some time now, without success.

"Did you invite McNulty here? Don’t you know how dangerous this could be?"

"No, no," said Serafin, shocked they could have so misunderstood him. "I invited no one. Fate took a hand. At four o’clock I was going over the financials—"

"You don’t need to do that, Abuelo!" said Matt, exasperated.

Serafin waved a dismissive hand and continued.

"As I was looking through last month's records, I heard a sound—a beep and then a ding ding! What is this? I thought. I looked, and a reservation had just come into the computer system. One room for the McNulty party! Aha, I thought. I recognize that name! It was fate. I said a little prayer for protection and accepted the reservation!"

"Why is he coming here?" Mina asked, looking pretty grumpy about it. She was usually ten steps ahead of everyone. "And why are Danica and Steve already here?"

"This is the only hotel in town," Mr. Pilkington pointed out. "Unless you count the Mermaid Inn."

"But why did they come to Humboldt Cove at all?"

"I don’t know," said Jake, rising from his seat. "But I’m sure as heck going to find out. Excuse me, folks. I need to call the Sheriff."

Jake was gone for several minutes, during which Willa began to grow concerned about Serafin. His face had gone from a rich bronze to a rather pasty gray, like overcooked oatmeal, and his hands were noticeably shaking.

"Eat something," Matt ordered. "You haven’t touched your dinner. I’ll get the glucose monitor."

"I’m fine," said Serafin, picking up a sprig of broccoli and shoving it whole into his mouth. "No pokes, please. Look, I am being a good boy. I am eating my veggies."

Darlene, who had disappeared after Serafin’s speech to explore the downstairs rooms with Killer, returned now. Instead of going dutifully to Mr. Pilkington, she hopped up on Serafin’s lap again and nudged his face with her snout. He continued eating broccoli, feeding some of it to her as well while Mr. Pilkington looked on.

"Oh, wipe that ridiculous frown off your face, Pilky," Mina said. "She knows her master. She’s just giving Serafin a little extra TLC tonight. Besides, we've got other fish to fry. Like making sure one of those people upstairs doesn't kill my niece!"

"This can't be happening," Matt moaned. "I knew those two upstairs were awful but I didn't think they were this awful. What do they have against you, Willa?"

"One of them is my ex-boyfriend," Willa said, shortly.

"Ah," said Jenny, with sympathy. "I'm sorry. He's a piece of work."

"Tell me about it. And the other one is a literary rival. I had no idea they were dating. Let alone married."

"I don't think they're married," Matt said, thoughtfully. "No rings. I think they're trying it out to see how it feels."

"Bleh," said Willa, laying her head down on the table.

This was a little too much to process. Darlene stopped earnestly licking Serafin’s face and walked across his lap toward Willa, giving her cheek an encouraging boop.

"Thanks, girl," she said. "But no amount of boops can make this better."

Jake hurried back into the dining room and placed a hand on Jenny’s shoulder.

"Are you okay having those three sleep here tonight?"

"Do you want us to do it?"

"If you can stomach it, then yes. And do you have any additional beds available?" he asked.

Jenny shook her head at him, disgusted.

"Sorry, you want me to host three potential murderers and someone else?"

"Only if you have room," Jake said, smiling. "A police officer—or two. I’m staying next door as a precaution, but if you have the beds for it, I’d like to install Officer Henderson here and possibly the Sheriff as well. Gary does like to be hands on at times."

Dazed, Jenny said there were enough beds to add two more guests. She was trapped in a hotel proprietor’s living nightmare. Five people to host at once, three of them potential criminals and two of them cops. She couldn’t turn the guests away without risking the B&B’s rank and reputation, and she couldn’t very well tell the County Sheriff he wasn’t welcome. Her only real option was to get out the clean sheets and hope to heck that there were no shoot-outs over muffins and bacon in the breakfast room.

"The department is good for it," Jake said, with a weak smile. "We’ll pay double, for the inconvenience."

"Okay," said Jenny, brightening.

"Nonsense!" boomed Serafin. "The Sheriff and his officer will stay here as my guests."

Looking at Matt and Jenny’s faces, Willa thought Serafin might be in more danger tonight than she was. Jake bent down over Jenny’s chair.

"We’ll pay," he whispered. "Don’t worry."

Pulling herself together, Jenny rose from the table.

"I hate to be that person," she said, with regret. "It’s bad manners to evict the dinner guests before dessert. But apparently, I’ve got three rooms to prep instead of one."

"We’re leaving," said Willa, scooping up as many dogs as she could carry. "Thanks for the pot roast."

Mina frowned.

"Hey!" she said. "Wait just a minute, here. I want to stay and see the fireworks! Don’t we get to meet the suspects? I’ve been waiting a year for a chance to tell that smug son of a gun Steve Joyce where to get off, and I want Danica Joliff’s autograph."

"Out," said Jake, pointing to the door. "Matt and Jenny have enough to deal with already."

"Do not worry, dear lady," said Serafin, magnanimously. "You will all return for breakfast tomorrow. We shall see which of these malfeasants killed my friend Duane. Then, the hunt shall be afoot! That's what Sherlock says, eh?"

"He says the game’s afoot," corrected Mr. Pilkington, who had already donned his coat, hat, and shoes in his eagerness to leave.

"Game, hunt, match—whatever."

"Can we, please?" Mina pleaded, batting her eyes in Jake’s direction.

He considered.

"I don’t think it would be a bad idea to get them in the same room with Willa. Sometimes we get useful information in an informal environment. Especially if the suspects are uncomfortable," he said, grinning. "Awkward social situations are the police officer’s best friend. People talk when they’re nervous. I’ll see what Gary says, and we can go from there. Would it be okay with you, Jenny? Could you handle four more for breakfast?"

Jenny, who had recovered her equilibrium and natural hustle, grinned back at him.

"Oh, sure. What’s the difference? I always make more than enough anyhow," she said. "And if we’re going to have the extra trouble, we may as well have a little extra fun. I’d like to see this horrible ex of Willa’s squirm a little. Especially if he had the gall to kill one of my guests, rest his weird little soul."

"Bring the dogs," said Matt. "We’ll fry up an entire pig’s worth of bacon, and have a nice little murder hunt."

"With me as bait?" said Willa, a little frustrated that no one had asked her how she felt about breakfasting with three potential assassins—all of whom she would have tried to dodge even under normal circumstances. She was already scared to sleep in the house next door, even with Jake on guard.

"I will protect you," said Serafin.

"Mina and I will look after you," said Mr. Pilkington.

"The Sheriff and I have got your back," Jake promised.

Willa hesitated. She didn’t think much of Serafin’s offer, and Pilky and Mina were more likely to get her killed than otherwise. She might be okay with Jake and Gary Poole as bodyguards, but you never knew. She looked down at the dogs, squirming in her arms.

Woof, said Kyle, gazing into her eyes with complete confidence.

Willa shrugged. No one was going to get past Kyle.

"I’m in," she sighed.

They went home, laden with dachshunds, leftover pot roast, and an entire cherry pie, which Jenny thrust into Mr. Pilkington’s hand at the last minute. It only just escaped being swallowed whole by Darlene, but Jake rescued it and carried it safely back to Mina’s kitchen.

Willa went upstairs to her tiny, fourth-floor office to check her email as soon as they returned, and almost immediately ran downstairs again with her laptop, forgetting to unplug the mouse, which trailed behind, hitting every stair as she went down.

"Look at this!" she said, whacking a wedge of cherry pie across the table and setting the computer screen in front of Jake.

"Look at what? This Disney quiz? Which Princess are you—take the test and find out," he read, puzzled.

"Mulan," said Mina, without missing a beat.

"I’m Belle, myself," said Mr. Pilkington, giving Darlene a piece of his pastry crust.

"I think I’d be Belle, too," said Jake. "She likes books, right?"

"No, no, no," said Willa. She grabbed the rogue mouse off the floor and clicked over to the correct screen. "This. It’s from my agent, Wallace."

The two older people grabbed their reading glasses and crowded next to Jake, reading the email over his shoulder.

"What the heck…?" said Mina, when she had finished.

Mr. Pilkington tried to say something and was reduced to a speechless lump. Sensing trouble, Killer, Kyle, and Wags began barking in unison.

"Send this to the Sheriff," Jake said. "Now."

Mail

To Sheriff Gary Poole

Sheriff Poole,

Deputy Anderson asked me to forward this to you for the county records. If you need more context or information, reply here this evening or we can touch base in the morning. You can also try calling my number, but the reception here is notoriously bad. For whatever reason, my AT&T signal is sucked into some kind of localized black hole, but Jake’s ridiculous, tiny little carrier gets a great signal. You all seem to use it here, perhaps for obvious reasons—it’s that one with the green monster in the commercials? The CGI is circa 1999, at best? The mascot looks like a booger? Ringing any bells?

Bloog Wireless!

I’m sure Jake will fill you in on the primary details in some kind of official way, but he asked me to put this down in writing as well. He said it helps to have a paper trail for this kind of thing.

Commence paper trail.

I received this email from my agent, Wallace Schmidt, at around seven this evening. He left a voicemail message as well, which I did not receive for the reasons aforementioned.

I’ve forwarded it as is. You can disregard the chit-chat. He knows I live in Humboldt Cove. He just likes to pretend he can’t quite pull up the name.

The real meat is in the forward he sent ME, from our dead man, Duane Fripp. I think Duane must have had some kind of ‘email alarm’ trigger to auto-send the message. I don’t understand how that stuff works, but I assume your police IT guys do.

To be clear for the record, I’m sending you a message from my agent, who sent me an email from Duane Fripp, who sent him a message to pass onto me, so I could give it to Violet Valentine, who doesn’t exist.

Sorry for the Russian doll of forwards within forwards here.

I do also feel the need to point out that poor old Duane isn’t quite as eloquent as he seems. Half the email is lifted from Pride & Prejudice.

Anyway, here it is.

Yours,

Wilhelmina Lattner

---------- Forwarded message ---------

From: Wallace Schmidt <wallace@black_widow_publishing.com>

Subject: You’ll Never Believe What Fripp Did THIS Time

To: Wilhelmina Lattner <authorwillalattner@lattnerbooks.com>

Willa,

Sounds like you’re having quite a time down there in [insert small town], California. Have you considered that the wieners might be bad luck? They don’t even have legs. They are abominations of nature.

I did send Browned Butter Bloodshed to a focus group, btw, and they agree the name is a dud. One person said it reminded them of "cutting their fingers when chopping vegetables." Delightful! I’ve got Candy working on it. Does it have to be browned butter? If you can take that bit out we’ll have more to work with. Let me know.

This came in just now from our old friend Duane, and I have no idea what to do with it. It sounds to me like he might have bugged your phone or cloned your computer. I’m happy to pass it on to whatever authorities you think best, but I wanted you to see it first. It’s…a doozy. Sorry.

Love and hugs,

Wallace

P.S. If you threaten to die and haunt my pipes again, I’ll die out of spite first and possess your white noise machine with show tunes sung a quarter step sharp. Consider yourself warned.

---------- Forwarded message ---------

From: Duane Fripp <frippster5350@getmailnow.com>

Date: Mon, Oct 28, 2024, 1:59 PM

Subject: Goodbye, Violet Valentine

To: Wallace Schmidt <wallace@black_widow_publishing.com>

Dear Mr. Schmidt,

I want to start by saying I have valued our correspondence over the years, your kind wishes, and your thoughtful care for Violet Valentine. As a final act of courtesy, I would appreciate it if you would pass a message on to Ms. Lattner. She’s the only person who knows how to contact Violet Valentine. I’ve included the message below, in the body of the email. Please ask Ms. Lattner to get it to Violet as soon as possible.

Thanks again,

Duane Fripp

Ms. Valentine,

I have never wished to intrude on your privacy, but in death, I hope I might take a liberty I did not give myself in life.

You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. Your sweetness and goodness are truly angelic, and your bravery in the face of countless enemies and almost constant danger has served as an inspiration to me for the last few years.

I have kept constant watch over you to preserve you from danger, and I know you will not be angry when you hear that I have overseen the safety of your digital communications. I have reason to believe that your life is once again at risk. This time, the enemy is an agent of the Russian secret police, disguised as a salesman for Belgian chocolate. You will encounter him soon. He is being aided and abetted by a Wall Street goon called Steven Joyce, who I have personally seen fraternizing with Fiona Fudge herself in New York City. Watch out for Fiona. She wants to take over your bakery.

Be on your guard, and be well, dearest, loveliest Violet.

Yours in life and death, Duane Fripp

The Plot

They spent the rest of the evening huddled over Willa’s laptop, reading the strange email over and over again.

"I don’t like this Wallace fellow," said Mr. Pilkington, distressed. "He’s very glib, Willa. And this is no laughing matter."

He had not stopped wringing his hands since the first read-through, and Darlene picked up on some of his angst. She sat on his lap, whining, and driving the others nearly to distraction.

"Wallace is alright," Willa said, bringing him a cup of camomile tea. "He has a heart, even if it’s buried deep beneath several layers of flab and snark. Drink up, Pilky. It’s herbal. Supposed to calm your nerves. You’re giving us all the fidgets."

"You’re remarkably calm yourself, for a woman who’s just discovered three would-be assassins are staying next door and her phone and email messages are being monitored," said Mina, as she bit into her fourth slice of pie.

"Were," said Willa, watching her aunt eat and feeling wistful. "And we don't know that for sure."

She did not like pie and wished Jenny had sent them cookies instead. All Mina had on hand were some stale Oreos, which were better than nothing, but not by much. She had a strong, strange desire for a slice of the pumpkin and butterscotch cake, with that thick, sweet and salty layer of browned butter.

Duane probably spat in it, she reminded herself. But she longed for access to the Klamath County Sherrif’s evidence lock-up, all the same.

"All we really know is that Duane said he was watching Violet’s digital communiques," Jake reminded Mina. "And whatever he had set up must be inactive now. He’s dead."

"Sounds like guessing," said Mina. "Plus a lot of assumptions. And you know what assumptions make, don’t you?"

"You don’t need to finish that thought. We’ll turn those assumptions into facts as soon as I get Willa's phone and computer to the forensic IT guys I work with."

Willa took an Oreo from the package and bit down into a soft mush.

"Duane must have cloned my laptop," she said, wrapping the rest of the disappointing cookie in her napkin. "It’s the only explanation for how he got that cake recipe. The last few weeks are hazy, so I checked my outbox and my calendar. Turns out, I never sent Wallace the actual recipe. I only talked to him on the phone about the concept."

"Someone may have listened in on his line."

"No, I didn’t tell Wallace anything about the ingredients or ratios or anything. I don’t know how to bake, remember? And I hadn’t decided to add the butterscotch yet. No one from the publishing house, the mole Brad Neidermeyer included, could have replicated the recipe unless they struck onto it by pure dumb luck. But Guillermo emailed me a copy just to confirm it had all the elements I wanted. There’s no doubt in my mind that Duane accessed my inbox."

"Well, he had to protect Violet from that nefarious Belgian chocolate salesman," said Mr. Pilkington, who had finished his drink and recovered both his composure and his sense of humor. "Dear, dear. How sinister. Cyanide in the caramel creams, I gather."

"Something like that."

"I know what Belgian chocolates are, but what in the deep blue sea is a Belgian chocolate salesman?" asked Mina.

"Someone who sells Belgian chocolates," Mr. Pilkington replied. "Obviously."

"It could be a Belgian who happens to sell chocolate."

"Or someone who sells chocolates to Belgians!" added Mr. Pilkington, happily sneaking his pie crust to Darlene.

"It’s the first one," said Willa, getting up to make herself a cup of tea.

That camomile stuff must have restorative properties. What the heck is camomile, anyway? she wondered. She hoped it wasn't crushed lizard, or something equally unpleasant. She needed something soothing. Her nerves were ripped to shreds. Steve Joyce was actually next door. Next door! And had been for days…

"We’re agreed that Duane probably got the recipe off your computer. Why did he make the cake?" asked Jake suddenly.

Willa stared at him, halfway through dunking her tea bag into a mug of boiling water.

"You know what?" she said. "I never stopped to think about it."

"It’s obvious," Mina said, with a little snort. "To impress you."

"I don’t think he wanted to impress me, Aunt Mina. It must have been a gift for Violet."

"He never gave Violet anything before, did he?"

"Other than hair? No."

"Why now, then?"

"How should I know?"

"This cake is from the book. What’s happening in the book when the cake gets made? You said something about arsenic, didn’t you? Elaborate."

Willa sipped her tea, glad to have something other than Steve to think about.

"Well, it all comes down to the 'nefarious Belgian chocolate salesman', as Pilky put it. The character is called Roy Blenkensop."

"What a name!" said Mina, shaking her head. "Where do you get this stuff?"

"From my head. And shameless borrowing from Agatha Christie."

"Blenkensop is not a very menacing surname, my dear," said Mr. Pilkington, mildly.

"I know—that’s why I picked it! It’s supposed to lull Violet and the reader into a false sense of security. He’s really called Boris Ivanov, and he works for a Russian cartel."

Jake guffawed and almost choked on his bite of cherry pie. The dogs ran up, hopefully. Sometimes when humans made that noise, things fell on the ground.

"You don’t go in for the subtle approach, I see," Jake said, disappointing the doxies by managing to swallow everything.

"The Violet Valentine series is loud and obvious and firmly tongue in cheek. Cozy mysteries are supposed to provide an escape. And before you sneer too openly, Aunt Mina, remember that I research everything heavily and make sure it's all possible. If she escapes from handcuffs, I make sure I can do it too. It helps me write the scenes better and lends a touch of reality. Violet poses as a magician in one of the first books, so I taught myself a bunch of simple card tricks. And I learned how to tell fortunes for Berry Dangerous—the killer in that one is a fake psychic."

"Fascinating," said Jake. "And insane. In a good way."

"My YouTube history is long and weird. But it's not all sleight-of-hand and lock picking. I apply the same principle to physical strength and fitness. If Violet has to swim across a lake or something, I always try it out and see how tired I would get. And she doesn't lift anything I can't lift."

"She flew a plane in the one I just read," said Mina.

"Well, I can't learn how to do everything," Willa said, defensively. "But they're always based in some form of reality. No magic."

"She—piloted—an airplane."

"People don’t want to read about depressing stuff, like divorce or child abuse or national politics! They want plucky heroines, near escapes, and plenty of twists. I like the twists best, myself. I always try to work in two or three. So hang on to your hats, because Boris Ivanov isn’t the villain’s real name either," said Willa, smugly. "He’s actually Rory Bennington, British national and undercover detective, and he’s one of the good guys. He and Violet start working together in the last chapter but one. Duane never read that far."

"He thought your real ex-boyfriend was working with Roy Blenkensop—a fictional character," said Jake meditatively. "I wonder why."

"He was mentally ill. Does there need to be another reason?"

"I’d prefer to believe there was a method to his madness. Who makes the cake in the book, Willa? Is it Violet, or is it someone else?"

"Violet makes the cake. It’s supposed to be a warning message to her friend."

"Why not just call?" scoffed Mina.

"It’s a long story. She can’t reach her friend by phone or text, and she can’t gain access to the giant house party her friend is attending, so she comes up with an idea to make this elaborate pumpkin cake and sneak it into the catering van. She places a large fondant pumpkin on the top."

"Is there a message inside it or something?"

"The pumpkin is the message."

"How can a pumpkin be a message?"

"It's hard to explain and involves a lot of backstory."

"Please, elaborate. I want to hear about this 'pumpkin message'."

"For our purposes, all you need to know is that the pumpkin is a signal between the friends. It means danger, watch out, beware—all of that. But Violet gets attacked in the bakery before she finishes the cake—"

"Conked on the head, yes. You told us about that."

"Exactly. And the cake gets switched out with a different cake that contains arsenic."

"Why would anyone put arsenic in a pumpkin cake?"

"Well, again, it’s a long story. The reader thinks it’s to poison Violet’s friend. The friend doesn’t end up eating it though, because—hmm, well, that’s too hard to explain. Another guy eats the cake by accident. Anyway, when Violet wakes up from her coma, she—"

"Coma?" groaned Mina. "What’s next? Twin switching? A long-lost brother, back from the dead?"

"When she wakes up, she has to think of another way to warn her friend. Basically, she—"

"Stop, stop, stop. This is all giving me a headache," said Mina, clapping her hands over her ears. "It’s worse than hearing about someone else's dreams. No more novel recaps, please. The character names and aliases are bad enough. Don’t torture us with the plot as well! How do you manage to write coherently?"

"It’s no worse than the typical legal brief," said Jake. "When I was your law clerk, you made me go through some real stinkers. So the cake in the book was a warning message, right? Could Duane have been trying to send Violet a similar message? Danger, watch out, beware…"

"I guess," said Willa, doubtfully.

"Maybe the cake wasn’t for Violet," said Mr. Pilkington.

"Who else would it be for?" Mina said, rubbing her temples. "Oh, my head aches. You’re the one who keeps insisting that Duane was trying to protect Violet. And we have it from the man himself that he was in love with Violet Valentine."

"I know that. But maybe this time, he was trying to reach out to Willa," said the old man, simply.

The Ex

Mina threw her used napkin at Mr. Pilkington and booed loudly. Killer, who was always in for a good howl, joined in.

"Stop trying to confuse me," she complained. "It is bad enough with all the name-switching in Willa’s books. I can’t afford to get muddled in real life as well. What are you talking about, Pilky? Be concise. And use short words."

"He knew Willa was a real person," said Mr. Pilkington, removing Mina’s wadded napkin from where it had landed between his nose and his glasses and folding it neatly onto the table. "He mentioned her by name in his email and asked her to pass his last message on to Violet. That shows me he had at least a nodding acquaintance with reality."

"Why would he bake Willa a cake?"

"As a warning message, just as Jake suggested. We have ample proof that Mr. Fripp did not feel comfortable mixing fantasy with reality. He rarely approached Willa. We may reasonably assume that he intended to keep her personal entity separate from that of Violet Valentine. In his mind, the cake may have been the only option—the only way to bridge the worlds of fantasy and reality and warn her."

"Why not just email? That would send a message without the need for personal contact," said Mina, frowning.

Mr. Pilkington cleared his throat.

"Well—I believe Mr. Fripp was a romantic at heart."

"Him? That balding weirdo?"

"I am not speaking of, ahem, a more carnal form of romance," he said, blushing beet red. "I am speaking of his frame of mind. He was not a pragmatist, one assumes. He had a propensity for the emotional—the symbolic—the realm of imagination. Communicating via literary symbols is essentially a romantic idea."

"I think you’re on to something," Jake said, rubbing his bearded chin. "I’ll have the folks at the lab dig into the cake—see if they can find a written message or some kind of baked-in token. Right now, they’re only looking for signs of poison."

"I doubt you’ll find anything," said Mr. Pilkington, who disposed of concealment and was now openly feeding the ecstatic Darlene large wedges of pie. "The cake itself is the message. Probably, he intended to put it on the doorstep, ring the bell, and run away. Or perhaps he intended all along to leave it in the bakery."

"With a giant mess for her to clean up?" Mina scoffed. "Nice gesture."

"No," said Mr. Pilkington, sadly. "I do not think he intended to leave a mess. He could not tidy up."

"Well, why not? And don’t tell me it’s because he’s a man, because you’re the tidiest person I know."

"No indeed. Men can clean and cook quite as well as women. But dead men can do neither, my dear."

Mina, Mr. Pilkington, and the dogs took themselves off to bed shortly afterward, leaving Willa and Jake alone in the kitchen with the remains of the pie, several used tea bags, and a sticky mess.

"Speaking of cleaning," said Willa, with a sigh.

She began collecting the dishes and the empty pie plate.

"I’ll wash, you dry," offered Jake.

They tidied for a while in silence.

"We need to discuss the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room," Jake said eventually, as he tossed the last tea bag into the garbage.

"Who, Killer?"

He smiled at her wanly.

"He does look like about three Darlenes and a Kyle, doesn’t he? But no, that is not who I meant. I need to know everything you can tell me about Steven Joyce."

Willa slumped down at the kitchen table and stared at the window, noticing several tiny lights in the dark harbor below.

"Your mind is wandering," said Jake, snapping his fingers at her. "I need you to focus. Why did Duane Fripp think your ex-boyfriend was in league with a fictional villain? And don’t say it's because he was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. That won’t fly. Just how bad was this break-up? I need to know whether to put cops on duty outside tonight. Gary and Henderson are at the B&B, on alert, and I doubt Mr. Joyce or Ms. Joliff could sneak past them to get here…but you never know."

"Why doesn't Gary just talk to them tonight?"

"He has," said Jake evasively. "Of course. At length. And he spoke to Tad McNulty as well, as soon as he arrived. They understand the situation now, at least as far as it pertains to Duane Fripp. Your name was mentioned, of course. But he didn't say anything about where you live or what you're doing now."

"They must know I live here. They shouldn't, but they must, right?"

"Why shouldn't they?"

"I keep my location and address absolutely private. On purpose. Partly to protect myself from over eager fans, but mostly because Steve wouldn't leave me alone for the first few months after we broke up. My agent Wallace knows where I live, and so does my family, but no one else should."

"Duane did."

"Duane knew a lot of things he shouldn't have known. But I can't think of a legitimate reason for Steve, Danica, or Tad to visit this dinky town that doesn't lead directly back to me. They have to know I'm here, right?"

"One of them may simply have tracked Duane here. At any rate, we like to keep things to ourselves. Makes it easier to trip people up later. So I'll ask again: how bad was the break-up?"

Willa made a face.

"It could have been worse," she said, feeling depressed.

"That bad, huh?"

"Pretty bad. He had an affair—didn’t even bother denying it. He just thought I would grin and bear it. I don’t think anyone but him was surprised when I left and cut things off. My parents liked him, but my brother and sister hated his guts. My brother-in-law Guillermo called him a ‘stronzo’."

"What does that mean?"

"I'd rather not repeat it. Anyway, Steve’s ego was pretty bruised when I broke up with him. He’s the kind of guy who is astonished when anything doesn’t go his way. Not mad, mind you—genuinely astonished. He assumes the sun revolves around him, and any information to the contrary does not compute. Textbook narcissist. He gaslight me for a long time before I saw through it. Way too long. I always believed him when he said I was too touchy, or overly sensitive, or imagining things. He tried to blame the cheating on me, too, and that's when the spell wore off. My eyes opened up."

"The Emperor had no clothes?"

"Stark naked," Willa confirmed. "People like that are terrifying—they submit to a lie so completely that objective truth does not exist. Well, Steve's 'truth' is that I was immature and would change my mind once I came to my senses. That’s why he tried to get me back for months after the breakup."

"Tried to get you back how?"

"Phone calls, texts, letters. I changed my number a couple of times, but he’d always wheedle it out of someone. He even tried to make nice with my parents to get them on his side."

"Did that work?"

"No. They felt sorry for him, that’s all. I was at my wit’s end. You can only change your number so many times before people think you’re in the witness protection program. After what happened last year with—with Mina going missing and all that—"

"Say no more," he broke in, hastily. "I know it’s a difficult subject."

"Well, I was tired of being afraid. I called him and we hashed it out. After that, he left me alone."

"Until a couple months ago."

"Apparently. I swear I never saw him at any of the tour stops. What was the point? Why follow me around without approaching me? What’s the endgame, there?"

Jake looked at her for a long time.

"You’ve described someone brash, bold, and self-assured," he said eventually. "Someone who wouldn’t be squeamish about running into an ex, and someone who believes they’re special. He didn’t reach out to you, however, and he took great pains to make sure you didn’t see him. If Duane hadn’t been so vigilant—"

"Weird."

"Let’s go with obsessive. That covers vigilant and weird. Without Duane’s obsession and camera, we never would have known Steve Joyce was within a thousand miles of you. So if I had to guess, his end game is pretty clear."

Willa watched the lights in the harbor below and gulped.

"You mean…?"

"Murder, Willa," said Jake, worry in every line of his face. "Murder."

Mail

To Guillermo Santini

G,

Greetings from out west. And let me extend an official written thank you for hosting me last week.

Wendy’s probably filled you in on all the happenings here, so I won’t bore you by rehashing old news. That’s not what I’m writing about. Or not exactly.

I’ve gone off the pumpkin and butterscotch idea a bit since last we spoke, for obvious reasons. But even putting aside the cake-made-by-corpse issue, I’m wavering on the pumpkin element so I don’t want to double down on it. There’s a whole Autumn/Halloween vibe to pumpkin which might prevent people from trying the recipe in the spring or summer.

Is there another base flavor we can use? I’ve racked my brains and all I can come up with is banana or zucchini.

The Zombie Zucchini Cake has a ring to it, but it doesn’t fit this book very well. So, bananas, then? Banana Bloodshed is less off-putting than Browned Butter Bloodshed, and banana doesn't always mean food right off the bat. There’s Banana Republic, and the Banana Belt, and Bananarama. Whereas butter is never anything but butter.

I guess you can "butter" someone up. And then there’s the whole "butter won’t melt in your mouth" thing which I have NEVER figured out.

Anyway, people might be less likely to gag at something like Banana Bread & Bloodshed. Plus, it rhymes! We’re on to something here, G! I think we need that kind of ‘produce’ feel for the cake, and besides, veg and fruit make the moistest cakes.

I’ve never understood the problem with the word "moist," by the way. All the best foods are moist. You guys were already married before Grandma Harriet died, right? My mom’s mom? She made this white cake that tasted like an old kitchen sponge left out in the sun. And then called it Angel’s Food, as though that would fool anyone.

No one says, "Mmm, have a taste of this filet mignon, it’s SO DRY." No one eats dry toast by choice. And I’ve never met a soul who enjoys a nice, pithy apple, just beginning to shrivel.

Oh! Apples! Would an apple cake work just as well? I imagine there’d be a slight textural difference, but maybe that doesn’t matter. I’ll leave all that up to you. You’re the genius, after all.

Okay. Enough cake talk. I'll get to the real point now.

Did you ever like Steve? Was there ever a time, in the years we dated, where you thought, "This is a decent guy"? I can’t ask Wendy, because she’s firmly in defend-my-twin-to-the-bitter-end mode, and Steve is dead to her. You’ve got a little more perspective. If I say to Wendy, "Can you picture Steve killing anyone?" her answer will be an emphatic yes.

So I’m asking you.

Is Steven Joyce capable of murder? Answer honestly, and don’t give me the Guillermo special, please. I don’t care about your humanist philosophy, and the whole "all men contain multitudes" speech. I’m not interested in applying generalities to specific people. For example, my sweet, vague Mr. Peanut would never hurt so much as a TAPEWORM that got in his way. And you know as well as I do that there are people who are just bad from the get-go. Otherwise, how can you explain prop comics?

Is Steve a baddie?

Would you be surprised if you found out I died at his hand? Or would you shake your head and say, "I knew it all along"?

Please advise.

Willa

P.S. There is such a thing as zucchini cake, right? I’m not imagining that? Is it good? It sounds watery and unappetizing, like zucchini, but you can’t always go by appearances. Dragon fruit looks like it should be lovely and it is like eating nothing—only somehow more disappointing.

The Boyfriend

The next day dawned bright and clear. It was a rare occurrence in Humboldt Cove, which was usually socked in with fog until about ten AM, even on the sunniest days.

Willa, who had slept with Kyle again as a good-luck charm against burglars and nightmares, rolled out of bed and yawned. He opened one eye and yawned back at her. She threw off the covers, hurriedly. It was a toss-up which of them had the worst morning breath, but at least she could do something about hers.

She brushed her teeth, got dressed, and threw her hair back in a messy ponytail, without bothering to run the pick through it first. There was a knot in the back the size of a duck's egg, and she couldn’t face it. She knew the ponytail would make things exponentially worse, and that Nighttime Willa would curse her for that decision, but Morning Willa was in a hurry. Nighttime Willa could deal with the tangled mess on her own. I might even be dead by then, she thought, comfortably. There was a silver lining for everything.

Killer and Wags were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. They nosed Kyle resentfully, somehow aware he had once again partaken of the forbidden bed. Usually, Willa couldn’t stand a squirmy little dog body underneath her sheets and sleepovers were a rare occurrence. There was something about Kyle, however, that she found soothing when she was anxious. When she awoke during the night, sweating from a nightmare about Steven chasing her while wielding a bloody banana, there was Kyle, snoring away. His dogginess made short work of her demons.

Jake, Mina, and Mr. Pilkington were already in the kitchen, gulping down coffee like it was going out of style. Willa snatched the pot away from her aunt.

"I need this more than you do," she told Mina. "You’re not about to face your ex-boyfriend and a couple of literary foes."

"I’m eighty-six," was Mina’s reply, in as frail a voice as she could manage.

"And as beautiful as you were at twenty-six," said Mr. Pilkington, gallantly handing her his cup to finish.

"Don’t steal Pilky’s coffee," Willa scolded.

"There will be coffee at the Seawind," said Jake severely to everyone. "Keep up your energy for breakfast, all of you. We need our wits about us."

"Personally, I cannot wait," said Mina, looking like she had just won the lottery. "Jenny’s pastries and a messy confrontation with three potential killers? This is my dream breakfast! What’s the plan? How shall we play this? Good cop, bad cop? Prosecutor and defense? Crazy loose cannon and calm, reasonable ally? I’ll rile them up, and Pilky can tamp them back down. Then you swoop in for the kill!"

"I cannot appreciate your choice of words, my dear," said Mr. Pilkington.

"Just be yourself, Mina," Jake said, grinning. "Believe me, that’ll throw them off enough."

Willa’s heart was in her throat as they walked toward the front door of the Seawind. She had never truly understood the idiom before, but now it made perfect sense. When she tried to swallow, there was an unwieldy mass in the way, fluttering irritably and making a nuisance of itself. She wished it would go back to her chest where it belonged, but realized that a heart in the throat was better than a heart in the stomach. She was less likely to throw up on the scones if the center of her nervousness was located a little higher up.

It had been almost a year since she had last seen Steve, and she was never eager to talk to Tad McNulty. As for Danica, the last time they spoke was over bags of IV fluid in a sad little hospital in New Jersey—a memory she thought they could both do without. She wouldn’t be surprised if Danica simply got up and left when they arrived.

Mina was holding the leashes, but Killer, Kyle, and Wags lingered back with Willa rather than sprinting forward, as usual. They must have sensed her uneasiness. Even Darlene was keeping pace with her, occasionally nosing her jeans in a friendly manner, as if to say, we got you.

Willa cheered up a little. She had Jake, and Mina, and Pilky. She had Jenny, Matt, and Serafin to stand between her and whoever had killed Duane Fripp. And most of all, these little bratwursts would always have her back.

Jake rang the bell, having made it very clear to Mina who would be in charge of the morning’s proceedings. She agreed with a meekness they all found suspicious, but short of handcuffing her to the chair back home, Jake was wise enough to know there was no way to keep Mina Lattner from being herself.

Serafin answered the door.

"Are you alright?" whispered Willa, as she walked past.

"Perfectly fine," he said, stoutly.

But he was sweating a little, and the shadows under his eyes were dark and pronounced.

"You look awful," Mina scoffed, giving his shoulder a compassionate pat. "Maybe sit this one out. Take a nap. Get some rest."

"I did not sleep well," he admitted, trying to smile at them. "Lumpy mattress! And there is tension in the air here. Family tension, which I will not bore you with. Bad feelings—arguments. They blame me for much, those two. What's more, I fear I have come down with strep throat. There is a telltale scratchiness in the back of my throat."

Darlene trotted over to him, pawing at his legs.

"Aw, this little sweetheart," he said, lifting her up. "She adores me."

Darlene began solemnly licking his face.

"Do you mind if I retain my companion during breakfast?" Serafin asked Mr. Pilkington. "She cheers my spirits, this one."

Mr. Pilkington could hardly refuse, especially since Serafin did seem very frail. But Willa could tell he didn’t like it one bit.

"The guests are within," Serafin said, pointing to the breakfast room at the back of the house with a conspiratorial grin. "Your friend the Sheriff and his bland companion have already eaten. They are upstairs, I think. The others are sitting along the window that looks down to the ocean. Two of them are nestled together, very close. Very, very close, if you catch my meaning."

He made a smooching noise that seemed to delight Darlene.

"The third is at another table, looking at his phone and pretending he is important. I must talk to my assistant at once," Serafin said, in imitation. "No, no, buy the other one! And fax me those results!"

"That does sound like Tad," Willa muttered.

Jenny appeared from the direction of the kitchen, balancing a plate of cinnamon rolls and a large carafe of fragrant coffee.

"Thank goodness you’re here," she said, distractedly. "Can one of you grab the chafing dish of sausage?"

"I’ll get it," said Jake.

"You’re an angel. I left it on the counter. Not you, Abuelo—let the Deputy do it. Oh man, look at you! Did you get up at five again this morning? You need to just stay in bed when you wake that early. You'll get back to sleep."

"I am fine," said Serafin, loudly.

"Last night you swore you were dying of tuberculosis."

"And now, I am fine."

Matt burst around the corner.

"We’re out of those little packets of jam," he told his wife, then skidded to a stop in the hallway. "Oh, hey guys! You’re just in time. There are eggs already in the chafer at the buffet table, and hot scones and butter. We’ll have sausage, coffee, and tea out as soon as we can. Good grief, Abuelo, you look like you’re about to keel over. Sit down!"

"I’m fine," insisted Serafin, again.

"Fine, shmine. I'm going to start locking your door if you won't stay in bed at night! No more wandering the halls."

"Come on, Serafin," said Mina, trying to preserve his dignity. "Show me where to sit. I want a chair by you, and I’m tired of standing around—not to mention famished!"

Arm in arm, the two of them tottered into the breakfast room with Darlene, pursued by an increasingly indignant Mr. Pilkington, whose two favorite girls had just been swept along without him.

"Your ex is really something, Willa," Jenny said, as Willa gathered Kyle, Wags, and Killer and prepared to follow. "Don't think I've ever met a bigger jerk. But he is gorgeous…and so tall."

"Jenny likes ‘em tall," said Matt, grinning. "I don’t know how she ended up with me."

"It wasn’t for your money," Jenny joked, pinching his cheek and giving him a big kiss.

Matt hurried away again to help Jake with the sausage, but Jenny lingered in the hall with Willa.

"Why’d you break up, anyway?"

"He was a dog," said Willa, and then catching Killer’s eye, felt the need to apologize to the canine species in general. "A cheater," she corrected. "With a roving eye and no conscience."

"Ick," said Jenny, wrinkling her nose. "Not surprising. That girl better watch her back."

Jenny disappeared through the swinging door into the breakfast room, and Willa took a deep breath and followed her through. Tad McNulty, looking sleek and smug, was shouting orders into his smartphone and spreading butter onto a piece of toast. He sat alone.

Steven Joyce and Danica Joliff were canoodling—openly and brazenly—at another table. The two unlocked themselves from a tight embrace and looked over at the door, startled. Danica half-rose from her chair.

"Willa? Willa Lattner?"

She has no idea I live next door, Willa thought. Or…she's a fantastic actress.

"What are you doing here?" Danica asked, staring.

Willa stared back at her, dumbly. Confusion, shame, and shock covered Danica's face, and her mouth was slightly open, like a gasping salmon. She looked like a child caught swearing in church or listening to heavy metal at the library. Was anyone that good of an actress?

"Hey there, babe," said Steve, who wasn't the least bit frazzled by Willa's sudden appearance. "This is quite the coincidence! Nice to see you again! Small world, eh?"

"Nope," said Willa, suddenly overcome with revulsion at the whole thing.

It was the first word she could think of, and the most illustrative of her feelings. She waved a hand in the general direction of Danica and Steve, said "Nope" again, with more decision, and turning on her heels, she hurried out of the room.

Just before the door swung shut, she heard Kyle growling softly behind her.

The Breakfast

Willa ran smack into Jake in the hallway and almost knocked over three pounds of link sausage at the same time.

"Whoa!" he said, struggling to regain his hold on the hot chafing dish. "Where’s the fire?"

"In there," she said, voice trembling. "Steve and Danica are in there, snogging it up. And when he saw me, he wasn’t even embarrassed. He called me babe."

"Ugh. Unforgivable," said Jake, and he was dead serious. "Did they seem surprised to see you?"

"She did—he didn’t."

"Interesting. How about McNulty—was he surprised?"

"I didn’t stick around long enough to observe," she said, shamefaced.

"No worries. Mina was almost certainly watching him. We can get her first impressions a little later. Oof, this sausage is getting heavy. Ready to go back in?"

Willa tried to lift her feet and found she was glued to Jenny and Matt’s gorgeous restored oak flooring.

"No," she wailed. "I can’t face it, Jake. I can’t face a potential killer and my ex-boyfriend making out with my biggest competitor. It’s too much."

"You can," he said, seriously. "Because you’ve got to."

"Why?"

A surge of rebellion swelled in Willa's chest, as the indignity of it all began to hit her. To be sneered at and patronized by an ex as toxic as Steve—in front of her family and friends—was unbearable. It's a violation of the Geneva Convention, she told herself, getting hot in the face. Everything about it was cruel and unusual.

No one had the right to force her back in there. Not Jake, not Mina, not even Sheriff Poole. Nope, nope, nope.

"Why? Because a man is dead, Willa," Jake said. "It's literally my job to find out who killed him."

"It's not my job, though. This is none of my business."

She glared at Jake, and he gazed back at her.

"It may not be your job, but it sure as heck is your business. Duane may have put it all on the line for you. It’s time to return the favor. You can do this, Willa. Into the lion’s den we go."

Kyle pushed his long nose against the breakfast room's swinging door and trotted out in search of Willa. He jumped against her insistently, throwing her off balance, but removing that stuck, frozen feeling from her limbs. She reached down automatically to flip his ears back, and he licked her hand. Courage flowed directly from Kyle and into Willa's heart.

"We’ll bring a lion of our own," said Jake, giving her a crooked smile. "Come on Kyle. Let's get 'em."

The mood in the breakfast room now was hard to decipher. Mina, Serafin, and Darlene were having a grand old time at one of the small circular tables, laughing loudly and shoveling great mouthfuls of hot buttered scones and jam into their faces (and snouts).

Tad McNulty had wrapped up his phone conversation and was now deep in conversation with Matt Ortiz about salmon fishing. Mr. Pilkington was helping Jenny arrange food along the buffet table with his back to the room, refusing to see Mina and Darlene being wined and dined.

Steve's eyes were on his phone, while Danica pushed cold scrambled eggs around her plate, looking rather sick. Wags and Killer had posted themselves at that table and sat politely next to Steve’s polished brown loafers. They may have pegged him as the most likely human to drop a few handouts, but Willa preferred to believe they were on bouncer duty.

"Good morning again," Willa said, forcing herself to sound cheerful and unaffected. "Sorry for the hasty exit just then. I…er…"

"She remembered she’d left me in the hall with about forty pounds of hot sausage," Jake said, smoothly. "Help me over there, will you?"

Silently, she assisted Jake in bringing the chafer to the buffet and then turned again to face Danica and Steve. She stuck out a hand to the former.

"Danica, what a surprise! I never expected to run into you here," Willa said, hoping she looked pleasant and neutral and not as ghastly as she felt. "And Steve, this is definitely a shocker. What brings you two to Humboldt Cove?"

"Didn’t you know?" said Steve, flashing her a winning smile. "We’re here for the murder, of course."

Steve had always known how to make a splash.

Tad McNulty turned around in his chair, astonished, and even Darlene stopped licking sugar-free jam off Serafin’s face and stared at the arrogant stranger. He smiled cooly at them all and continued slicing refined, bite-sized morsels of his cherry scone with his knife and sliding them onto his fork, like a European.

It was a habit Willa had always despised, primarily because she cut and shoveled her food with one hand, like a good American.

"What do you mean by that?" Jake demanded, slipping onto a chair at the adjacent table and beckoning Willa in that direction.

She sat next to him and had the satisfaction of seeing Steve blink.

"It was a joke, man," Steve replied, unsure what to make of this bold stranger. "And I was speaking to your friend, not to you."

Kyle jumped onto Willa’s lap, turned around three times, and then slumped down, watching Steve through half-lidded eyes. He growled again, ever so slightly.

Jake gave Steve one of his crookedest smiles.

"Seems like a weird thing to laugh about."

"Get lost," said Steve, who had recovered his poise and was trying to pretend there wasn’t a bearded stranger and a troop of hostile dachshunds staring him down. "Where did you get this creep, Wills? Are you bargain-hunting for boyfriends, now? Don’t tell me there’s a Paul Bunyan dating app. What’s it called—Babes?"

Willa shook her head at him, astounded by his complacency. She realized, a split-second later, that Jake wasn’t in uniform. No wonder Steve’s feeling his oats so much, she thought maliciously. He’ll change his tune in about five seconds.

"Get it? Babes, Willa. Because of the blue ox. Get it?"

"I always get it," she said, wishing there wasn’t quite so much sweat running down the back of her neck.

"Why are you all looking at me like that?" Steve asked smoothly. "It was a joke. Lighten up. Don't tell me you haven't heard about the murder that happened here a few days ago."

"Oh, I've heard about it."

"It's hilarious, Wills. We actually got questioned last night—hand to God—by a real life sheriff."

"It's not funny," snapped Danica.

"I think it is. I can't wait to tell the guys at work that a hick cop questioned us for three hours about some random guy who died downtown."

"Hardly random," Danica said, in a low and desperate voice. "Just shut up. What are you doing, Steve? You want to get us in more trouble?"

"Oh, come on, Danny. The Sheriff said the guy knew us, but he was just making things up. He's probably bored out of his mind most days. I bet he couldn't wait to rake a few big city slickers over the coals. You should have been there, Wills. You should've seen the poor schmuck he had with him. Andy Griffith and Barney Fife, I kid you not, and good ol' Barney did the whole shtick—dropping his gun and forgetting to write stuff down. I about died laughing."

"I don’t believe we’ve been introduced yet, Mr. Joyce," said Jake, breaking into the conversation and matching Steve’s tone with a deadly nonchalance of his own. "My name is Jacob Anderson."

"Nice to meet you, Jake. You Willa's boyfriend?"

"I'm the Sheriff's Deputy, actually. I'm here to ask you a few more questions about the murder you're discussing so freely this morning."

Steve managed to keep his face reasonably neutral—though Willa could tell he was discomposed.

Tad McNulty started uneasily and scooted his chair closer to the wall.

"What is this?" he said, his voice breaking. "Some kind of set-up? Or do high-ranking police officials usually get their breakfast here?"

"We haven't met either," said Jake, whirling around at him with a grin.

Willa had never seen Jake smile like that. She found it rather terrifying. Tad’s insect eyes grew buggier than usual. He tried to move his chair even further away and ran into the leg of the table with his foot.

Eyes watering with pain, he mumbled, "Nice to meet you, Deputy."

"Likewise," said Jake, turning back to Steve and Danica. "And good morning to you, Ms. Joliff. You are Danica Joliff, correct?"

Danica fluttered her hand at him nervously. Her eyes kept darting from Steve to Willa, and back to Steve again, but he was studiously avoiding her—staring politely at Jake instead.

All of a sudden, Willa felt sorry for Danica. She vividly remembered what it was like to be ignored by Steven Joyce.

"Okay. Now that we're acquainted, suppose you all tell me just what in the heck you’re doing in Humboldt Cove," said Jake.

The Lovers

All three guests began talking at once.

Tad McNulty was the loudest by far, and his fat little hands waved hysterically around, nearly smacking Mina in the face more than once.

Danica, much more rationally, was speaking in turns to Willa and Jake. She had regained some command over herself, but she looked miserable. Whether she was mostly embarrassed or mostly scared, Willa could not tell. She suspected there were equal parts humiliation and anxiety at war with Danica’s instincts to remain calm, cool, and collected.

Steve showed the most composure, by far. He let Tad and Danica talk, occasionally interjecting something in a smooth voice that raised the hair on the back of Willa’s neck. Every time he opened his mouth, Kyle growled softly.

The room was full of muddled chatter, as people talked over each other, tripped on their words, and asked and answered questions almost in the same breath.

"The explanation is very simple," said Tad, breathing quickly. "Though I question your right to ask for one, Deputy. After all, we’re not suspects in any kind of official way, even though our conversation with your sheriff yesterday was almost hostile. In fact, I spoke to my lawyer directly afterward, and—"

"Who told you that you weren't official suspects?" Jake replied, coldly.

"Well, I just assumed…the whole idea is ridiculous…we didn't even know this man…"

"Steve and I are here on vacation," Danica said, her pleasant low voice overlapping with Tad’s distressed tenor. "We heard the town was a nice coastal getaway. And this bed-and-breakfast has a great reputation."

"Can it, Danny. I’m well aware of our rights in this situation, and we don’t need to answer any questions," Steve said pleasantly, watching Willa and Jake to see how the statement was received. "Our vacation plans are none of your business."

Tad glared in Steve's direction.

"He doesn't speak for me," he told Jake quickly. "My lawyer has directed me not to say anything more to law enforcement without his presence. But my client and I are willing to speak to you off the record if we could have assurances of—"

"I don’t think we need assurances to have a simple conversation," said Danica, trying to get Tad’s attention. "After all, we haven’t done anything wrong, and—"

"Quiet, please, my love," Steve said, showing the first cracks in his calm facade. He gripped Danica's arm. "We don't owe them an explanation and we don’t have any legal obligation to speak without a warrant. I’m sure this man is just doing his job, but he’s got no evidence whatsoever that we’re involved in this death. The Sheriff was grasping at straws last night. Now, I don’t know what Ms. Lattner has been saying, but I wouldn't listen much to her if I were you, Deputy Anderson. She's prone to hysteria. Go ahead and ask your questions, but we're not saying a word."

Kyle sat up on Willa’s lap and began growling more obviously in Steve’s direction. Willa thought she heard Jake say "good boy" under his breath.

"Danica and I are more than happy to cooperate," Tad said, his chubby face growing redder with each passing moment. "Mr. Joyce does not speak for me or Ms. Joliff, no matter how much he might want—"

"Silence!" boomed Serafin, standing up from his chair and clinking his fork against his water glass. "All of you, be quiet at once!"

The room fell silent, mostly out of shock that such a loud noise could come from such a tiny man.

"You are all guests in my home," said Serafin, only slightly moderating his voice now. It still echoed impressively around the breakfast room. "You are eating my food and drinking my coffee. I do not take my hospitality lightly. While you remain under my roof, you will speak to each other with civility, one at a time. And you will listen to the Deputy and answer his questions. Is that understood? Ah, good. You may continue," he told Jake, with a gracious nod of the head.

Astonished by this interruption but not really displeased, Jake cleared his throat and continued.

"Here’s the situation, ladies and gentlemen. As you know, yesterday we found the body of one Duane Fripp. Search of Mr. Fripp’s room at this hotel showed that he suspected at least one of you of targeting the life of Ms. Lattner."

"I take issue with that entire hypothesis. You haven’t shown us proof of any such belief on the part of Mr. Fripp or anyone—" Steve began. He was silenced by another terrifying smile from Jake.

"The Sheriff went over this with you. I've read the transcript. We let you off easy last evening. It was late—you were tired. I'm happy to show you whatever evidence you want shortly. But what I require first is proof of your physical whereabouts yesterday between eight AM and seven PM. And a believable explanation for why you're in Humboldt Cove at all," he said.

"I am simply here as an escort for Ms. Joliff. The weekend was her idea."

Danica shot him a look of surprise and disbelief.

"Escort in what capacity?"

"I don’t understand the question."

"Would you like an interpreter? If English is not your native language, the department can provide—"

"I speak English. I don’t understand the purport of the question."

"Are you related to Ms. Joliff? Her brother, perhaps?" asked Jake.

Steve looked down from his own pasty white skin to Danica’s glowing brown complexion.

"Is that what you really think?" he said, trying to look dignified and failing.

Jenny and Matt slipped quietly out of the room. They had a business to run, after all, and couldn't be seen enjoying any of this or taking sides against a guest.

"We’re not allowed to make assumptions in the force," Jake said blandly. "So unless you like playing twenty questions, I suggest you answer simply and clearly. What’s your relationship to Ms. Joliff?"

"I’m his girlfriend," said Danica, quickly. "No more games, Steve. For crying out loud."

"I need him to say it, Ms. Joliff."

Jake waited.

"We’re lovers," Steve admitted, defeated.

Wags shook his ears and Kyle gave a sharp little yap that showed Willa the dogs thought the word "lovers" was just as gross as she did. Mr. Pilkington squeaked a little, as he always did whenever someone said something icky, and Danica grimaced. Willa felt herself warming to the girl for the first time ever.

"There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" said Jake. "What are you doing here, Ms. Joliff?"

"I can answer that," said Tad, quickly. "My client is a public figure. She writes murder mysteries. Darn good ones, too. Bestsellers. She’s got one coming out next week, in fact. She needed a little break. A romantic getaway, where she could rest her brain and body. These two haven't had much alone time lately, and this town seemed like the perfect place. Quiet, scenic—just the ticket."

"Did you know Willa Lattner lived here?"

"No," said Danica, emphatically.

"Why are you here, Mr. McNulty?" Jake asked. "I don't know many people who accompany their clients on 'romantic getaways.'"

"Danny asked me to come out for one night so we could handle some details of her upcoming publicity tour."

Jake turned to Danica.

"Is that true?"

"Yes," she said, breathing quickly. "I don't like talking on the phone and I'm sick to death of video chats. I paid for Tad to come up here for a night so we could meet in person. My book tours take quite a bit of advance planning. And I've been extremely busy lately, doing the circuit of mystery conventions and fan shows."

"When my talent whistles, I come, right? So I was a bit annoyed when I rolled in and found the goldarn County Sheriff waiting for me," said Tad, resentfully. "I've got absolutely nothing to do with what happened here, and I don't know this Fripp guy. Never met him, never heard of him. Don't recognize his picture. None of us do. I can't imagine why he knows my name at all, unless it's some kind of smear job," he said, giving Willa a speculative look. "But I'm not complaining, Deputy. I look for silver linings. You have to, in my profession. So you might as well know we’ve invited the press up here to interview Danny at the scene of the crime, so to speak. This is a big PR opportunity, after all, and not one that comes along every day."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I stayed up all night, sending messages and calling in favors. This fell into our lap, right ahead of her book tour. Absolute, freaking gold. A murder mystery writer involved in a real murder mystery? You can't pay for an opportunity like that, and believe me, I've tried. Called in every last IOU, and it paid off. There are a dozen or more journalists about to descend on this town tomorrow morning, and you guys can thank me for it. Economy boom, guaranteed! Is this the only hotel?"

"You—invited—the press—to come observe—this murder investigation?" said Jake, enunciating each word slowly, as outrage took over every feature.

Over in the corner, Mina had begun cackling.

"Oh my stars," she said, nearly gasping for air. "I can’t breathe. You do realize you three are actual persons of interest in an actual murder, right? You realize you might go to jail, right?"

"I don't see what's so funny," Tad said, pulling at his shirt collar.

"How do you think it looks to show up in a tiny town where a woman you're suspected of attempting to murder lives quietly and out of the public eye?"

"We didn't know she lived here!" Tad protested, turning red. "We're not really suspects. The Sheriff said he wanted us to help him out, that's all. Assist with the inquiries. I swear! And he didn't say nothing about Ms. Lattner actually living here. I'm still not convinced this isn't a good, old-fashioned small-town shake down. Wouldn't be the first time local law enforcement tried to bleed a little money out of rich visitors. Seems a little convenient that a murder would happen right when a famous writer and a rich businessman were visiting."

"More than a little convenient!"

"We're not complaining, lady. Fair play to the Sheriff if he wants to try his luck shaking dimes and quarters out of us. We got good lawyers. Heck, I'm feeling fairly charitable toward him at the moment. I swear I could never cook up a marketing trick better than this one—not for a million bucks. But fair is fair—I see your point. We don't want to be selfish. How about this? A peace offering. We'll let Ms. Lattner hop on board for a few interviews if she’s not above a little promotion for Fatal Fudge. Completely gratis, of course. Normally I'd charge a little fee for arranging this kind of PR, but—"

Mina was fairly hooting now with laughter.

"Does your doctor know you’re loose and roaming the streets? Not only did you elbow your way into the town where my niece is trying to live in peaceful anonymity, you're actually staying next door. You're only feet from where she sleeps. Do you realize how bad that looks? In what a sinister light that paints you? Apart from a callous invasion of her privacy, we can reasonably suspect any and all of you of coming here with criminal intent."

"Not me," protested Tad. "I didn't get here 'til last night."

"What were you thinking? What were your lawyers thinking, letting you arrange a PR circus while you're implicated in a serious felony? We don’t have the death penalty in California anymore, but one or all of you will face at least one life sentence once we pin this on you—and we will."

Willa turned to Jake, shocked he was letting Mina have free rein. He shrugged at her, and sipped his coffee. There weren't many people in the world quite as biting and incisive as Mina Lattner when she got going. And this wasn't an official police interview, after all. No one had been cautioned or charged. Just a few friends and a couple of dachshunds having eggs and sausage.

"So why did a murdered man think you had it out for my niece? Tell me that, mister. Or should I ask your client instead? She's been pretty quiet."

Danica tried to say something, but Tad spoke over her.

"No, no, you don't understand! I don't have nothing against Ms. Lattner and I didn't kill no one! I told you I never even heard of the guy who died. He was just some nobody."

"Settle down, Tad," Steve advised, coldly. "Be quiet. You don't need to defend yourself."

"Sure I do! This lady is practically accusing me of murder! She can't prove we knew him, and she can't say we killed him. If she does, why—why that's slander!"

"Oh, so you do know at least one legal term," Mina chortled. "That's a relief. I thought you were a complete moron. Now tell me, which press organizations should we expect to swoop down into our quiet little town? And how exactly do you plan to make your client look good in these interviews? The press aren't dumb—most of them, anyway. The stories won't be flattering. How's this for a headline: Callous Murder Mystery Writer Tries To Profit From Death of Lonely Medical Assistant?"

"Oh my gosh," said Danica, dropping her face into her hands.

"Ooh, here's a good one," said Mina, who was on a roll now. "Famous Writer Pulls Strings to Turn Murder Into Media Circus: Family of Deceased Sues For Millions."

Danica began crying while Tad initiated a quiet panic attack at his table. Goaded by Mina into indiscretion, Steve finally lost his temper and begun yelling threats at her, Klamath County, Jake, and Willa, indiscriminately. Serafin rose, howling orders and threatening to throw every last one of the guests out of his house if they couldn't be quiet. Darlene ran toward Mr. Pilkington, barking shrilly, and Wags, Killer, and Kyle joined in the racket.

"Get the dogs," said Jake, in a low voice to Willa. "Go home, and for crying out loud, take Mina and Mr. Pilkington with you. I’ll be over shortly."

Willa leashed all four dogs, grabbed Mina’s arm, beckoned to Mr. Pilkington, and hauled everyone out of the breakfast room, running into Jenny on her way out.

"What’s going on in there?" said the younger woman, alarm washing over her face.

"The dams of Hades have broken loose," said Mina, with satisfaction. "The guests are at each other’s throats, and Serafin has joined the fray. And oh," she said, as a kind of parting shot. "You might want to scramble up a few more eggs. You’re almost out."

Mail

To Wallace Schmidt

Wallace,

I rang your office and they said you were away. Then I tried your cell, and no one answered. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were ducking my calls. PICK UP NEXT TIME.

We’ve got a problem. Or, I should say, an additional problem. They are really starting to stack up.

Remember that creep, Tad McNulty? I can’t pull up the name of his agency, but he’s hard to miss. White hair, no neck, bulging insect eyes. He had too much wine at the literary dinner in New Orleans last year and hit on Candy and me while simultaneously choking on a shrimp puff, and you had to call a waiter over to help out.

He showed up in town late last night, and he’s actually staying in the house next door with Danica Joliff in tow, plus your old buddy Steve. Yes, THAT Steve. Steve and Danica are dating, apparently, a fact that has taken this already bad week to new levels of terrible.

I don’t particularly like Danica, but she doesn’t deserve Steve.

Here’s the really bad part. Tad called the press about Duane Fripp. Spilled the whole story as far as I know, almost certainly including MY name. He had the gall to suggest I might want to hop on the PR train and sit for a few interviews with Danica about this exciting real-world murder mystery. There are hordes of reporters about to descend on the town, all of whom will be knocking on my door, looking for an exclusive.

You need to get your butt down here ASAP. Bring Candy. Fly into Arcata if you can. If you can’t, fly to Medford and drive down. I’m not about to handle this impromptu press junket by myself. You know me. I start sweating at the first question and by number ten, I’m just making whistling sounds with my nose and quoting random movie lines. The optics are already bad enough. It was MY stalker that got killed. People might actually think I did it! And I didn’t!

(Deep down, I am very, very worried I DID do it while sleepwalking and have suppressed the memory. Does that happen? No, wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.)

You and Candy are welcome to stay here, but I know you’re allergic to dogs, and there are four of them at the moment. There may still be room at the B&B next door, though I don’t know if you’re ready to take on Tad, Steve, and Danica either. Your other option is to stay further down the coast. I’m sure there’s a Motel 6 ready and waiting for you.

Call me when you have your flight booked. I’ll try to pick you up from the airport.

Willa

The Mess

"What a mess," said Willa, throwing herself down on the sitting room sofa.

She grabbed a pillow, covered her face, and let out a muffled scream. A few embroidery threads got caught in her mouth, and she drew the cushion away, surprised to see the words "Home Is Where the Heart Is". The stitches were uneven and screamed homemade. Mina must have sewn it in some past period of domesticity.

"Try not to damage the decor," Mina advised, watching her niece with cool amusement. "I realize this is a bit of a pickle, but there’s no need to be destructive. I worked hard on that thing."

"It is repulsive and maudlin," said Mr. Pilkington, in a rare burst of candor. He sat next to Willa and patted her shoulder. "Let it all out, my dear. Scream to your heart’s content. Nothing could make this cushion any uglier."

Mina sat on a sagging armchair, picked up Wags, and began stroking his silky coat.

"You want to get your hands on a dachshund," she advised Willa. "Best stress treatment ever invented. The longer the dog, the more intense the relief. Go on, try it."

She nudged Killer gently in Willa’s direction, and Willa bent to hoist him up. He was getting fatter every day and increasingly resembled a sausage just about to burst from its casing. Willa nuzzled her face into his neck and let herself inhale that comforting doggy smell.

"I can’t say I care much for your ex-boyfriend," Mina said, after a moment. "It is shocking that you ever dated him."

Willa exhaled wearily into Killer’s shiny black fur.

"I have a hard time grasping it myself. He wasn’t quite so overtly smarmy when were dating. Or maybe he was, and I couldn’t see it!"

"He is not the type of young man I would wish to see courting a friend of mine," said Mr. Pilkington, in his quaint, old-fashioned way.

"He is a cad and a bounder," agreed Mina, in her own unique turn of phrase. "As is his companion, who appears to be a frog wearing a suit."

Mr. Pilkington nodded enthusiastically.

"You’ve hit it exactly! That’s who he reminded me of! Toad of Toad Hall."

"So why do we think they’re really here?"

Willa lifted her head and looked at Mina, surprised.

"They said why! Steve and Danica came for a romantic getaway and Tad tagged along."

"And you believed that?" Mina said, giving her a pitying look.

"Let’s just say I prefer that explanation to the alternative. I don’t exactly relish the thought that someone is trying to bump me off, Aunt Mina."

"Don’t look so worried. Pilky and I won’t let anything happen to you. Try to enjoy the experience, if you can. You’re living out a murder mystery! Suspects! Alibis! Fingerprints! Speaking of which, I cannot wait to hear exactly where Steven and Danica say they were while Duane was having his head bashed in," said Mina. "Do you think they'll alibi each other, or go turncoat? And where was Tad? He says he arrived last night, but he might have been in the area for days, staying in Eureka or Arcata."

"It’s still possible that someone else killed Duane, you know."

Mina gave her that same look of intense pity.

"It's possible that pigs fly, too. Perhaps we’ve never observed them taking off from their pens. My money is on Steven Joyce. I’ve never met a man I wanted to kick quite so badly."

"He is a bit of a swine," Mr. Pilkington replied.

It was as near as he ever got to profanity.

They stayed where they were for about an hour, snuggling the dogs and exchanging half-baked theories until Jake returned.

"Everything okay here?" he said, drooping with exhaustion onto the edge of Mina’s armchair.

"No one has come charging in with a chainsaw, if that’s what you mean," Mina replied, placing her gnarled hand on his and squeezing.

Jake was her prodigy—her former law clerk—and Mina thought of him more like a son than a colleague.

"You look like death warmed over," she went on. "What happened back there?"

Jake sighed.

"World War Three. You scared them good, Mina."

"I hope so!"

"That's why I let you blather on. Normally, I wouldn't allow little old ladies to sidetrack my interrogations. But a bit of breakfast heckling never hurt anyone, and this time it helped. The Sheriff and Henderson turned up right after you three hit the bricks. Gary showed no mercy, and by the time I left they had turned on each other completely. None of them were together Friday afternoon, so none of them could vouch for the others. Once they realized that, the fingers started pointing pretty quickly."

"Where do they say they were?"

Willa sat up, eager to hear the answer to this question.

"Danica drove down to Santa Rosa to visit her grandmother, while Steve Joyce attended a virtual meeting for his company, GFS."

"They paused their romantic getaway to visit elderly relatives and take work calls?" Mina asked. "What is this GFS, anyway? Never heard of it."

"Global Financial Solutions."

Mina snorted.

"They might as well call themselves Evil, Inc."

"We’re checking now to see if people remember him being there," said Jake. "The meeting involved shareholders overseas, and went from three PM to ten PM. If Steve gave a presentation or had his camera on throughout, we might be able to rule him out. We know Duane must have been alive at two o’clock, because that’s when Jenny closed up for the day. And he must have stayed alive long enough to mix, bake, and decorate the cake. How long does it take to put together a cake like that, Willa?"

Willa gave him a dirty look.

"No idea, Jake. Never made a cake in my life. Famously."

"I keep forgetting," he groaned. "How do you make everything sound so delicious?"

"Imagination," said Mina, dismissively. "So where was Frogman during this period of time?"

"Frogman?" repeated Jake, puzzled.

She drew her chin down and puffed out her cheeks, giving a not-unreasonable impression of Tad McNulty.

"Ah. Tad was a little vague about his whereabouts. Refused to admit to being in California at all. We pointed out how bad that looked and he said he didn't care. He's waiting for his lawyer before he'll say another word about it."

"First glimmer of intelligence I’ve seen in the man," said Mina, with grudging admiration. "I can’t imagine why Danica Joliff or Prince Charming said anything to you without counsel present."

"Well, you see things from the lawyer’s perspective," Jake smiled. "And it was just breakfast, remember?"

"When can we expect Mr. Toad’s attorney to grace us with his presence?"

"Later this evening, I gather. Gary and Henderson are going to spend the afternoon chasing down the alibis. They have all been told, very politely, not to leave town—but I don’t think wild horses could drag Tad away at this point. There are three TV new stations sending cameras and a couple of newspaper reporters flying in as well. I hope you have a good interview game, Willa, because I don’t know if you’ll be able to avoid it."

"I don’t," said Willa, disconsolately. "Last time I was on camera, I mispronounced the word ‘slaughter’ and then giggled for about twenty seconds."

"I saw that," Mina chuckled. "How about the time when the reporter asked your opinion of Agatha Christie, and you said she was ‘a jewel in the corn of England’? You tried to correct it to crown, but it was too late."

Willa flushed bright red.

"I just say the first thing that pops into my head," she wailed. "It’s humiliating. And if there are hair and makeup people, it’s even worse. The hair ladies take one look at me and start whispering, and then four or five people come over and start yanking up my hair by the roots, trying to make things behave. Then the wardrobe people come by and make tsking noises because my hair clashes with the awful pink blouse they picked out. When they’re all done poking and prodding me, I go on camera with about a pound of mousse on my head, bright blue eyeliner, and some kind of awful lime green blazer. They always pivot to lime green."

"Do you have to go back over to the Seawind, or are you staying with us for a while?" Mr. Pilkington asked Jake, tactfully drawing the conversation away from hair and makeup.

"I’m with you the rest of the day or until Gary tells me otherwise. Bodyguard duty."

"What are we going to do to pass the time?" Mina said, rubbing her hands together. "Scrabble? Crosswords? We can order delivery from Fat Oscar's and I can get some old movies on the TV."

"Fat Oscar’s doesn’t deliver."

"Justine Galway will bring it up, if we ask her. It's only a hop, skip, and a jump from her shop to Oscar's. She'll be dying to get the scoop at any rate."

"Works for me. Mexican food for all, on the department. But no movies. I think," said Jake, "that we should bake a cake."

The Bakers

Willa held out against Jake’s plan for as long as she could.

"I don’t know how to bake!" she protested.

"How hard can it be? It’s just chemistry, right? Mix these elements, add this rising agent, apply heat."

"Mina’s kitchen isn’t properly equipped. She doesn’t have a mixer. Or flour. Or sugar."

"I’ve got eggs, though," said Mina, helpfully. "And butter. And oil, if you need. Baking soda somewhere too, to take care of the fridge smells."

"We need more than just kitchen staples," Willa said. "Guillermo’s cake calls for canned pumpkin, butterscotch chips, and caramels."

"Write it all down for me," said Jake. "Justine Galway's not the only person in this town who can deliver."

Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang and Jake’s parents bustled in, their arms full of grocery bags from Doyle’s. After Bob Anderson dropped his bags in the kitchen, he went back out to the car and returned hauling a stand mixer in a large box.

Linda gave Willa a tight hug, squeezed her hand, kissed her cheek, told her she looked beautiful, asked her how she was holding up, and then—without waiting for the answer—began demanding specifics of the cake recipe.

Willa printed off a few copies of Guillermo’s recipe and handed them out. Only she, Jake, and Linda were planning to actually execute the cake, but Mina and Mr. Pilkington had planted themselves on the window bench as spectators and pored over the recipe now like it was a play program.

"What if we get stuck?" Willa wondered aloud.

"I’ve made lots of cakes," Linda replied, blithely.

"From boxes," clarified her husband.

"Same thing!"

"I don’t think it is, Ma," Jake said, uncertainly.

"I know! We’ll get Jenny over here to help," said Mina. "I'll run over there and see if she’s got a minute."

"She’s trying to deal with guests right now," Willa said, but it was too late. Mina was already out the door.

She returned a moment or two later with both Jenny and Serafin in tow.

"You don’t have to do this, Jenny!" Willa cried, stricken with remorse.

Poor Jenny already had her plate piled so high. But the young woman just smiled at her, cheerfully.

"Hey, I owe you one. I was happy to get out of the house," she said. "Serafin is an angel. He hired a cleaning service to help get us through the next few days, so Matt and I are footloose and fancy-free, except for breakfasts! And I could not have been happier to leave Sad Girl, Jerk-Face, and Ribbets McGee in Sheriff Poole’s capable hands. Matt only wishes he had an excuse this good!"

"Ribbets McGee," laughed Mina. "Perfect."

"That one is nothing but a warty toad," said Serafin, beaming. "I would spit on him, but I do not wish to waste good saliva."

Looking at the old man’s wrinkled face, Willa silently agreed. He couldn’t afford to lose even a drop of moisture.

"I am feeling a bit dizzy," he said, putting a hand to his head. "Maybe it is the thought of that toad eating my food and sleeping in my sheets."

"Sit down here," Willa coaxed, taking his arm and gently depositing him next to Mina and Mr. Pilkington.

Darlene immediately left Mr. Pilkington’s lap in favor of Serafin’s and loaned him a little of her own saliva.

"Is he okay?" Willa whispered in Jenny’s ear.

"Totally and completely fine, as always. He's a hypochondriac," said the other woman, frankly. "Like all of us, he feels crummy when he gets up too early or sneaks too many sweets, but otherwise, he's healthy. Serafin’s doctor won’t even take his calls anymore—Matt or I have to proxy for him."

"Why?"

"Because over the last six months, he’s claimed to have the bubonic plague, typhoid, and smallpox. The doctor explained that smallpox wasn’t a thing anymore, and Serafin argued with him! He’s like a creaky door. He complains a lot, but he’ll never actually die."

Willa snuck another look at Serafin and saw him laughing delightedly at one of Mina’s jokes. She couldn’t imagine someone so full of life dying. But then, she would never have imagined that Duane would die either…

Snapping herself out of this depressing reverie, Willa thrust a copy of the recipe into Jenny’s hands. Jenny read it over carefully and gave her an encouraging smile.

"I’m no cake expert," she said, "but this looks pretty easy. We don’t have to whip egg whites or mess around with complicated folding instructions. Just a simple oil-based mix. Should be lovely and moist, with a light crumb."

"Don’t say moist," complained Serafin and Mina together.

"Quiet, you two," Willa commanded. "This is going to be difficult enough without your input. Okay, Jenny, what’s first?"

"Hang on," said Jake. "I’ve got to time this, remember? I want to get it exact, so we need to factor in cooling time as well. Everyone ready?"

Jenny held the recipe aloft, Linda waved a spatula, Willa picked up a can opener, and Killer wagged his tail, primed and ready to catch whatever fell on the floor.

"As ready as we’ll ever be," Willa sighed. "Does anyone know how to use this thing?"

The cake itself did not take long to put together. Jenny was right; it was a simple recipe, without much fuss. Willa mixed oil, sugar, eggs, and pumpkin puree together, and added a tablespoon or so of vanilla.

"Looks like this calls for cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves," said Jake, peering down at the recipe. "It’s a pumpkin spice cake?"

"Yeah," said Willa, picking up a broken eggshell with the tips of her fingers and tossing it into the sink.

"Isn’t the book coming out in January?"

"You think the recipe is too seasonal? I was worried about that."

"People will be up to their eyeballs in pumpkin spice by then," Jake said, scratching his head. "Is there another flavor you could use instead?"

"Cardamom," suggested Linda. "That’s a thing, right? Or am I thinking of coriander?"

"Don't put coriander in this cake!" Jenny said, alarmed.

"Cumin?"

"Ugh! You’re getting colder, Linda! You were closer with cardamom, but I wouldn’t recommend that either. It still reads like a warm spice. It’s often the base for chai tea."

She took the recipe from Jake and read through it again.

"I know! What if we double down on the butterscotch? We’ll still make a pumpkin sponge, but flavor it heavily with vanilla and butterscotch chips, and call it good. Pumpkin doesn’t taste like much of anything on its own. My guess is that the butterscotch and the browned butter icing will take over, and it will be a cake for all seasons!"

"It’s worth a shot," said Willa, hoping that spice removal would not result in some sort of catastrophic recipe malfunction.

She poured out another cup of butterscotch chips and threw them into the batter with the flour, salt, and baking powder. A few quick swipes of the spatula, and everything was combined.

"What’s next?" she asked.

"Nothing! You’re done."

Linda and Jenny smiled at her.

"What, really?"

"You just made a cake, Willa."

"But it was so easy!"

"It’s not baked yet," cried Mina, from the audience. "She can still mess it up!"

"Who are those Muppets who sit in the balcony, heckling the performers?" Willa muttered to Jake.

Jake checked his watch.

"Okay, the batter only took about ten minutes to put together. How long is the baking time?"

"I don’t know this oven," said Jenny. "But I’d suggest we put the pans in for twenty minutes and then check for doneness. It'll probably take more like twenty-five or thirty minutes, but better safe than sorry."

"So far, so good. What’s next?"

"Well, if it was me, I’d start browning the butter for the icing," said Jenny.

She showed Willa and a very eager Linda exactly how to brown butter, a process Willa found terrifying. One second too long, and the little flecks of caramelized butter could burn to a crisp. She let Jenny steer the ship entirely on this part of the recipe, watching the final stages through her fingers.

Between the baking cake and the browning butter, the kitchen was beginning to smell like heaven.

"Now what?" Willa asked.

"Now, we wait. Can’t finish the icing until the butter has cooled, and we can’t do a thing to the cake until it’s baked."

Willa wiped a little sweat from her forehead and sniffed her armpits. Mina’s gigantic, Victorian kitchen was technically large enough to hold ten more people and a dozen more dachshunds, but she had already tripped twice over Killer and once over Wags, run into Linda, and bumped elbows with Jake. Overheated and overrun, she wished Mina and Pilky would disappear upstairs and that Serafin, Linda, and Bob would all toddle back to their respective homes. Baking was stressful enough. Baking with an audience was excruciating.

"I know what let’s do," said Mina, who was in rare form today. "While we wait, let’s have a game of charades!"

"Goody!" squealed Linda.

"I believe I will head home," said Serafin, struggling to stand. He planted his cane and hoisted himself up, eager to get away before Mina drew him in.

"Go get a nap, Abuelo," Jenny commanded, as he hurried out the door. "And don't bother Matt!"

Mina, Mr. Pilkington, and Linda moved eagerly toward the sitting room. The swinging door shut behind them, and Bob Anderson gave his son a panicked look.

"Don’t make me play charades alone with them," he pleaded.

"Sorry, Dad. I’ve got to stay and time this out to the minute."

"Coming, Willa?" Bob said, hopefully.

"Sorry," Willa said, not sorry in the least. "I’m going to keep working on the cake. And while it bakes, I need to return some work emails."

"Jenny?"

"Heck no," said Jenny, without bothering to find another excuse.

Deprived of allies, Bob’s shoulders drooped.

"Slip out the back," Willa advised.

"No," he replied, bravely. "I can do it."

"Way to take one for the team," Jake called after him.

"There goes a true American hero," Willa agreed.

Mail

To Joshua Lattner

Josh,

Hey big brother. Sorry for the delay, but I just now saw this message. You went to spam again. Why does Google always think you are phishing me? Is it the tone of the email? Or just a random process—this one in the good bin, this one in the bad bin? An oink, oink here and a moo, moo there?

Thank you for the timely heads up. Tragically, I already knew most of what you had to tell me. I wish I could go back in time and un-spam you, but we haven’t got the technology for that. Soon, I hope.

Though—when the time travel code is cracked, I suspect we’ll spend every spare moment trying to fix that one time we tripped on the school stage, or burped in a meeting, or said that really weird thing to the boy we liked. No one’s going to travel back and cure polio or assassinate Hitler. We’ll all be too worried about our precious skins. I DO really wish I could stop 12-year-old-me before I plucked almost all my eyebrows off, but it was the style at the time…

I digress, as per usual.

Someone died in the bakery, as you are already aware. GEEZ, Josh, don’t the people at The Seattle Times have better things to do? Aren’t you guys supposed to be reporting on famine and drought? What about all that union-busting stuff you were onto a few months ago? Does one little murder really deserve all this attention? That was four questions in a row. If a tree falls in the woods, does anyone hear? And what IS the sound of one hand clapping? There, now you’ve got six to answer.

Obviously, The Times thinks there’s a story here if they’re sending a team down for an interview, and I appreciate the advance warning with all my heart. Unfortunately, I got the info already directly from the idiot who planned the whole thing.

Can you give me any insider info on the reporter that’s coming? Or her crew? How many cameras are we talking? And are we looking at a full-color spread or just a column on the sixth page?

I guess that doesn’t really matter. No one reads the newspaper anymore.

That is not a slam on your profession. It’s just a sad statement of fact. I am much more terrified of the TV reporters and the social media influencers that will swarm at any moment, asking how I feel about finding the body of my biggest fan in my freezer.

What kind of a question IS that, anyway? Why do they always ask people how they feel when things go haywire? No one ever feels grand, thank you very much.

I’ll call you later and let you know how it goes. My love to Jen and the girls. You guys need to get over to Rome, btw. Wendy and Guillermo are living the good life. Huge flat, overlooking the city. Flowers on the veranda. Non-stop meals of pasta, wine, and bread. I put on ten pounds, easy. You can leave the girls here with Aunt Mina and me if you and Jen want a second honeymoon. We’ve got four dogs living here now, so adding a couple of kiddos will be no big deal.

I AM NOT comparing Charlotte and Isabel to dogs. Don’t tell Jen I said that.

Love you!

Willa

P.S. Oh, forgot to mention—someone is (probably) trying to kill me. So…yeah. Goodbye, maybe.

The Keys

Out in the sitting room, Willa heard clapping and jeering and guessed that the friendly game of charades was getting rowdy. Mina was incapable of playing any game for fun. Games were for winning, and she had no pity on teammates who did not share that opinion. Willa shut her laptop with a bang, startling Jenny Ortiz, who had sat down for a minute to "rest her legs" and fallen fast asleep on the kitchen table.

The timer in Jake’s hands went off, and Jake—who had also dozed off—fumbled and dropped it onto the floor, where it continued to beep mercilessly. Killer, Kyle, Wags, and Darlene abandoned the game of charades, sprinted toward the kitchen, and took turns barking at the timer until Willa picked it up.

The fall had damaged its control systems, so in the end, they had to take the batteries out to stop the ceaseless assault of beeps. Meanwhile, Jenny checked the cakes.

"Just about perfect," she said, showing them a toothpick with only one or two crumbs. "Some people like to see it completely clean, but I try to time it so that it’s almost done. The cake keeps cooking after you take it out."

"Is that what Duane would have done?" asked Jake.

"Dunno. So add two or three minutes to the time, just in case."

"How long will these take to cool?"

"At least an hour," said Jenny.

"And what would Duane have done during that hour?"

"Made the browned butter icing, I imagine. And the caramel sauce."

Jenny unwrapped a block of cream cheese and plopped it into the mixer without getting it on her hands, a feat Willa found particularly impressive. Then she scooped in the cooled browned butter and set the mixer to high.

"Powdered sugar next," she hollered, over the sound of the beating blades.

Within minutes, she had produced a silky smooth, off-white icing. She handed Jake and Willa a spoon each.

"Oh man," moaned Willa. "This is even better than I remember. Tastes like toffee."

Jenny tucked the bowl of icing in the fridge to chill and whipped up a caramel sauce by melting candies into heavy whipping cream.

"We’ll drizzle this on the top once it’s finished," she said. "And that’s it!"

"How long will it take to fill and ice the cakes?"

"No more than twenty minutes."

"How about the fondant decorations?"

Jenny considered.

"I don't know, honestly. I don't do a lot of fancy decorating. Duane must have taken classes or hired someone else to make them. Maybe he came to town already prepared."

Jake checked his watch.

"I think we can safely say that Duane was at The Three Hounds for at least two hours before he was killed, then. And probably more like three or four if he made the decorations himself. You’re sure you left at two PM?"

"Certain," said Jenny, nodding. "I had to be back up the hill by two-fifteen to help Matt."

"That means the killer struck between, what, five and seven PM?"

"That must be the window," said Willa. "The cake was finished when Mina, Pilky, and I showed up around eight-thirty. And there was no sign of Duane…"

"You didn’t notice that the bins near the freezer were moved, right?"

"No. I would have sworn it was all just as usual."

"So would I," said Jenny, soberly. "Whoever did this took their time and made sure to get everything back in the exact right place."

"But why?" asked Willa.

Jenny gave her a funny look.

"So we wouldn’t find the body, of course."

"That doesn’t make sense," Willa protested. "They left the cake there, in a prominent place. And the mess. And they must have assumed we’d find Duane sooner or later. They wanted him to be found, or they’d have taken him away with them."

"Maybe they were afraid of being seen."

"You can drive a car right up the alley to the back door, and no one would ever see you. That night it was dark and rainy, and all the shops closed at five. No one was walking around. The killer could easily have hauled the body away, but they didn’t."

"I guess so…"

"So why did they bother to hide him at all?"

Jake gazed at Willa, somberly.

"To buy themselves some time," he said. "Loading up a body and finding a safe place to dump it would take an hour or more. And if that person needed to slide right back into their hotel room, or rejoin a meeting…well, every minute counts."

Willa sat on the kitchen table, swinging her feet. She felt very, very tired. And extremely confused.

"I don’t get it," she said. "Our theory is that Duane died because he knew someone was plotting to kill me, right?"

"So far," Jake replied, with his usual caution.

"Why didn’t the killer go back to Duane’s room at the Seawind and clean up the evidence? Or look for clues Duane may have left behind? And how did they know he was on to them in the first place?"

"As for the latter, no idea. But as to the former, they may not have known where he was staying."

"That's the biggest stretch I've heard all week. Too many coincidences."

"Coincidences are more frequent than you realize. Random things happen all the time. And he didn’t have a key on him or any kind of paperwork from the Seawind."

Jenny made an odd noise.

"He didn’t have keys on him?" she said. "I just assumed they were in an evidence lock-up. Are you telling me some lunatic is wandering the streets of Humboldt Cove with keys to the Seawind in their pocket?"

"It's possible. But we changed the locks on the carriage house suite yesterday."

"You don’t understand," said Jenny, angrily. "We give our guests two keys when they check in. One for their room, and one for the front door to the hotel. The murderer could let themselves in at any time! Can you imagine the liability issues we could face for that? I've had it, you guys. Seriously. If even one more thing goes wrong, I'm leaving the hotel business for good and coming on as a full-time pastry chef."

Jake clapped his hand on her shoulder.

"It’s okay, Jenny. We’ll have the locks changed on all the doors to the B&B. But…you understand the point may be moot, don’t you?"

"How so?"

"The killer probably has their own set of keys to the Seawind," he said. "Remember?"

Jenny laughed, suddenly and helplessly.

"Oh yeah," she said. "Man. What a week. Well, that about does it for me, then. Do you guys still want a permanent chef?"

"Uh, yes!" said Willa, bounding over to give her a hug.

"I'm in," said Jenny recklessly, hugging her back. "Screw the hotel. Screw the guests. And screw the murderer. I'm in."

"What will Matt say?"

"Matt will probably jump for joy, and offer to come on as your decorator and handyman," she said. "So now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to give him the first piece of good news we've had in a year. Just slap the icing between the layers once they’re cooled. And then dump the drizzle on top."

Willa, who had never iced a cake in her life and couldn’t imagine how to slap or dump anything, gave her a thumbs up and sent her on her way.

She and Jake watched out the window to make sure Jenny returned home safely and were surprised to see the tall, graceful form of Danica Joliff heading their way. Jenny and Danica passed each other at the side gate with a curt nod and continued moving in opposite directions.

"I think she’s coming here," said Willa, incredulously.

"Looks that way," Jake replied. "Let her in! Maybe she’s got something interesting to say."

His tone was calm, but she noticed he was checking his holster to make sure his service weapon was at the ready.

The Writer

Acacophony of barking greeted Danica before she could even knock. The dogs followed Jake as he turned the handle and welcomed her in, and though they stopped barking once they had duly sniffed her black high heels, Wags and Killer escorted her to her seat at the kitchen table and remained on guard. Kyle resumed his usual post at Willa’s side, and Darlene—uninterested in this perfumed stranger—trotted back to find Mr. Pilkington in the sitting room.

"I don’t know why I’m here," said Danica, after a moment or two of silence. "This was a bad idea. I’ll go."

"It's okay," said Willa, whose feelings toward Danica had been undergoing a slow but steady shift since the morning. "Stay a while, please. I want you to."

"I didn't know you lived here," Danica blurted. "I really didn't. I just thought this was a cute B&B in a cute town."

"It's okay," Willa repeated.

Danica resumed her worried expression.

"Steve and Tad don’t know I’m here," she said, a trifle guiltily. "They wouldn’t like it. Tad wants me to prep for the press interviews tomorrow. And Steve doesn’t want me talking to cops without him there."

"That’s a little old-fashioned, don’t you think?" said Willa.

"I do," Danica said, her face breaking into an unexpected smile. "It’s sexist, for one. And for two, Black women are plenty wary of cops on their own. I don’t need him speaking for me to law enforcement. And besides, I haven’t done anything wrong."

"Do you mind if I ask what suddenly possessed you to go visit your grandmother on Friday this week?" Jake asked.

"She’s sick," said Danica, briefly. "She asked me to come. Again, I've done nothing wrong. I didn't know the man who died, and I truly had no idea Willa lived nearby. I thought she was from Seattle."

"I was," said Willa. "Until last year. Now I live full time in Humboldt Cove. When I’m not traveling out-of-state, that is. Are you feeling better, by the way?"

Danica laughed.

"Yeah. That was pretty bad, wasn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick before. And I thought poor what's-his-face was going to die. He’ll never go anywhere with us again."

"It was his fault for ordering that plate of lox," said Willa, shrugging.

"I hear you had a pretty close encounter with listeria," Jake said carefully, watching Danica for any sign of discomfort or awareness.

She simply nodded at him.

"Close is not quite the word. We got personal, that bug and me. I've had food poisoning before, but that was nothing compared to this. Docs even sent the health department people after that deli, or so they told me. Serves them right, too. They could have killed us with that fish. Plenty of people die from listeria. We got lucky."

"Do you have a copy of your hospital records—or your lab report?" Jake asked.

Danica looked at him like he had just asked her to produce a rabbit and three or four doves out of a hat.

"Why would I have that?" she said. "It was some tiny little hospital in backwater New Jersey. They weren’t connected to a big HMO. They didn’t even take my insurance."

"Mine either," Willa said, in commiseration. "I was out six thousand bucks, and for what? Just some IV fluid and antibiotics."

"Did they show you the lab results when they came in?"

Danica gave him that same questioning look.

"I don’t think so. And I didn’t ask for them. I don’t know the difference between E. Coli and listeria and I wasn’t about to start an argument about microbiology while I was puking my guts out. Why? What's it to you? Do you represent Big Salmonella or the Botulism Board? Who cares what it was? They gave us the right treatment, we got better, end of story."

"It’s relevant to the investigation, Ms. Joliff."

"Relevant how? What does my gut health have to do with the poor guy who died? What do I have to do with him at all, if it comes to that? I didn’t process a word your sheriff said about it last night—or this morning. It all just sounded like blah, blah, blah. The dead man wrote my name somewhere, is that it?"

"Yes."

"So what? I'm a public figure. Lots of people know who I am."

"What about Steven Joyce?"

"What about him?"

"Do you know why Duane Fripp scribbled his name on the wall? He's not a public figure."

"No."

"Did you see Steve any time Friday afternoon or evening?"

"I rolled back into town around midnight, and he was already asleep. The only person I saw between Friday morning and Friday night was my granny and the guy who delivered pizza to her house. Do you think Steve is involved because of her?" she asked, pointing at Willa. "Because he’s been done with her for a long time."

Willa put her hands up.

"The feeling is mutual."

"Who suggested the Seawind to you?"

"I thought it was Steve," said Danica, on the defensive. "But he says it was a travel website. Do you really think Steve came here to—what?—kill a guy he didn't know? Why would he do that?"

"You tell me," said Jake, raising an eyebrow at her. "Because from where we’re sitting, it looks like one of you three did exactly that. Duane implicated each one of you in a serious crime."

"What crime?"

"Attempted murder."

Danica said a rude word and laughed.

"Okay, dude, but you haven’t told me why you think that. And the Sheriff didn’t either. He said I was a person of interest, that’s it. Well, why are you interested in me? Has she been saying stuff?" she asked, giving Willa an unfriendly look.

"Ms. Lattner did supply some personal information about you," Jake admitted, "but only after we found your name and photos of you in the dead man’s room. He had pictures of you from San Francisco, Chicago, and New York."

"Ew," said Danica, making a face. "Why was he following me around? Is he creeping on female mystery authors?"

"Duane Fripp was following Ms. Lattner, not you. You happened to be in many of the same places at the same time Ms. Lattner experienced some, er, unexplained accidents. Possible attempts on her life."

Danica gaped at him.

"No joke?"

"No joke. Mr. Fripp thought you might be involved."

"What kind of accidents? And why would I want to hurt Willa?"

Jake shrugged.

"You tell us."

Danica gave Willa a sidelong glance.

"You think I’m trying to kill you?" she asked her, directly.

"No," said Willa, who until this moment had not been sure. "I can honestly say that I don’t. But Duane Fripp did. I’ve seen the evidence, Danica. For whatever reason, he thought you might be after me. Well, not me exactly. Violet Valentine. The guy had a few screws loose."

"That is some serious nonsense," said Danica, emphatically. "I mean, I’d happily kill off Violet Valentine in one of my books, if copyright law didn’t exist. And then I’d have Fiona Fudge solve her murder. But that's the extent of it. The only reason I'm still in town is that Tad arranged for an LA morning show to interview me on the latest Fiona Fudge book. I take all the free PR I can get, and I don’t ask questions. Otherwise, I would be long gone and out of your hair. This is a very embarrassing situation, and sorry Willa—I don’t care about you enough to want you dead. I hate to admit it, but I actually kind of like you. You're less awful than I thought."

"I kind of like you, too. You could be much worse."

They shook hands, solemnly, as if signing a pact. It was an odd gesture of friendship, this exchange of mediocre compliments, but after days of worrying that Danica might want to kill her, Willa found great comfort in being damned with faint praise.

The Truck

Danica stayed for a while and helped Jake and Willa fill and ice the cakes.

"I gotta hand it to you," she told Willa, as they scooped the browned butter and cream cheese concoction out of the bowl and stacked it onto the bottom layer. "I'm impressed. This is some real Martha Stuart business right here. I always slap recipes in the back of my books, but only because Tad says that’s the thing to do. I just get them off the internet, or have my PA figure it out. I never learned how to bake."

Willa began laughing, helplessly.

"And I thought I was the only fraud! This whole time, I’ve resented you for being the real deal. I definitely can’t bake. And I didn’t make this cake," she said.

"No kidding? You’re not a fifties housewife, then?"

"Not even close."

"I’ve hated you for years because I thought you were some kind of domestic goddess who could also write."

"Ditto! But I can barely operate the microwave. I get my recipes from my brother-in-law."

"You actually did make this cake," Jake reminded her.

"Technically. But it doesn’t count. Jenny and your mom were there the whole time, telling me what to do."

"It does count," he said. "Don’t sell yourself short. And don’t make baking a bigger deal than it is. If my mom can bake, then anyone can."

The dogs, who were lurking down by their ankles hoping for crumbs to drop, grew suddenly alert. Willa looked down to see the hair on Kyle’s neck standing on end. Jake moved swiftly to the window and peered out.

"Looks like we have another visitor," he said. "Steven Joyce is headed this direction. He’s aiming for the front door, though."

"Maybe he’s walking up the hill to look at the view," said Willa, hopefully.

The street ended abruptly at a cliff that looked out over the ocean.

"Nope. He just opened the front gate and is walking toward the entry."

Danica dropped the spatula she was holding.

"I don’t want him to see me here," she said.

"Why not?" Willa asked, genuinely curious.

"We had a giant argument this morning after you guys left. He’s acting like a jerk," Danica said. "He’ll pick a fight if he finds out I came over here."

"You can slip out the back," Jake said, opening the door to let her out.

"Thanks."

"Just don’t slip out of town," he called after her, only half-joking.

"I won’t," she promised. "I want my shot at the spotlight. And Willa—you should do the press junket with me. Just saying—it would be dumb to pass it up. Tad has a rough agenda. You want a copy?"

"I guess so," Willa sighed. "I might as well try to fit in a few plugs for Fatal Fudge."

"I’ll email you. Shoot—here comes Steve. I’m out of here. Tootles."

Jake shut and locked the door behind her, and looked at Willa.

"You want to hightail it upstairs why you still can?" he asked. "I know he’s not your favorite person. And he might be dangerous."

Willa wrinkled her nose and considered her next move. She didn’t particularly want to talk to Steve. But she also felt strongly that Steve should be embarrassed to talk to her—not the other way around. How dare he come to her town with another writer on his arm?

"I’m not going to hide in my own house," she said, stubbornly. "Besides," she added, with a return of good spirits, "whether he wants to kill me, lecture me, or kiss me, he’s going to have to get through Mina, Pilky, and your parents first. And if they don’t rope him into charades, I’ll eat my hat."

In the end, Willa decided to ride out and meet the enemy in honest battle. Even Steve did not deserve to be dumped into an involuntary party game. Stronger men than Steven Joyce had left this house weeping after a round of Celebrity or Mafia with Mina.

Flanked by the dogs and backed up by Jake, Willa felt invincible as she walked down the long corridor to the sitting room. She felt even better when she saw Steve squished uncomfortably between Mina and Linda on the smallest loveseat. And her spirits soared higher still when she heard Linda asking where Steve had bought his cologne, because it smelled "almost as good as the one her grandfather used to wear."

Steve was used to women fawning over him. He was not used to being unfavorably compared to the aged relations of suburban housewives.

"Ah, there you are," said Mina, smiling slyly at Willa. "I was just about to go fetch you. Look what the cat dragged in."

Steve eyed her uncertainly. He didn't love being likened to miscellaneous feline detritus either. He shot Mina a brilliant smile, but the wicked old lady just stared back at him. Mina was immune to almost all forms of charm—dachshunds excepted.

"Hey, there. I wanted to talk," Steve explained to Willa. "Alone."

He attempted to rise, quickly thwarted by the old sofa cushion—which had lost its structural integrity nearly fifty years prior—and the ample behinds of the two women next to him. Willa saw him struggle to stand up a second time, and fall back into the saggy springs of the loveseat, defeated. Linda Anderson patted his knee in a motherly way.

"I hear you’re an old friend of our Willa," she said. "What brings you to Humboldt Cove? Couldn’t stay away from her, eh?"

Steve made a polite noise, but Willa could tell the question irritated him, and he didn't have the least idea how to answer it without committing one or two social faux pas.

"What made you think I'd want to talk to you?" Willa asked, declining to throw him a conversational life preserver.

She perched on the arm of Mr. Pilkington’s chair.

"I've learned more specifics about—what happened," he said, delicately. "I’m worried about you, Wills. It really seems like someone's after you. Can we go somewhere more private?"

Willa flinched at this use of her pet name, which was reserved for very close friends and family only.

"Thanks for your concern, Steven," she said, with conspicuous formality, "but I’d worry more about yourself if I were you. You're a murder suspect, remember? I'm not going anywhere alone with you."

His lip twitched, as it always did when he was angry. Willa’s heart used to sink at that twitch—in the bad old days, it had signaled the advent of the silent treatment or several days of sulking on Steven’s part. Now she observed it with impartial interest.

"You're imagining things, as usual. Why would I want to kill you?" he snarled, attracting the attention of Killer, Kyle, and Wags with his vehemence.

They began snarling right back at him. You can't emotionally manipulate a dog, Willa realized, wishing she'd met the boys a little earlier in life.

"The only reason I’m here," he said, moderating his tone, "is because you sent that frankly unhinged email yesterday. I never would have dreamt of approaching you otherwise. You’re not the easiest person to be around, you know."

Jake looked questioningly at Willa.

"Email?"

"Before we found the body," she explained. "When we thought this was just about stalkers and weirdos. I wanted to know why he was following me around the country."

"You opened the communication door, not me. I have always respected your privacy. But I knew I’d have to explain the Danica situation sooner or later," Steve said. "I thought it might…hurt your feelings…to find out in an email or from a press release. That's part of the reason we decided to spend our vacation here. To break it to you in the gentlest way possible. Even after everything you've done, I still care what happens to you, Wills."

"When have you ever worried about hurting my feelings?" Willa said, hoping she didn’t sound as bitter as she felt. "And how did you know where I lived, anyway? I’ve gone to great lengths to make sure that isn’t public info."

Steve began to look a little foolish. Mina pounced on him immediately.

"Tell us how you knew my niece’s location and address," she said. "And be snappy about it."

Steve shut his mouth mulishly for a beat or two. Then he turned on Mina, making a desperate, belated attempt to scale the high ground once more.

"I don’t have to tell you anything. I certainly don’t owe an explanation to you, her, him, them, or anyone but Willa," he said, pointing in turn to Mina, Linda, Bob, and the dogs.

From a certain stiffening of his shoulders, Willa could tell that poor old Mr. Peanut was hurt by this verbal exclusion. First, Serafin had stolen all the attention, shoving him out of the spotlight—and now even this 'swine' was making him of no account.

Jake, who had been watching Steve silently for some time, spoke up now.

"Food for thought, but do you think you might owe an explanation to me? Same question," he said, grinning. "Why did you know where Willa Lattner lived before seeing her this morning?"

Steve straightened his waist as tall as he could, since he was still pinned between Mina and Linda.

"I plead the fifth."

Jake chuckled.

"You’re not being detained, buddy. Save all that for when you’re in official police custody, which might be soon the way you're going. For now, if you don’t want to answer the question, just don’t answer the question."

"How about I ask it, since you said you’d be happy to tell me," Willa added, cheered by Jake’s laughter and Steve’s discomfiture. "Let's say I believe your explanation. Let's say I buy your statement that you wanted to 'break' the Danica news to me. What made you think you’d find me in Humboldt Cove?"

"I should go," he said, trying to scramble to his feet and leave with a few scraps of dignity. "It's obvious you're in a mood, Willa. Come find me when you're ready to have a reasonable and mature conversation. You owe me that much."

Kyle growled into the silence, which was otherwise absolute. Steve could feel the air leaving the room, and tugged nervously at his shirt. He had committed the narcissist's most deadly error—trying to gaslight his victim in the presence of witnesses.

"Danica thinks you're here for a romantic getaway. Were you going to bring her with you when you 'broke it' to me?" Willa asked.

"We're all adults here," Steve said. "Stop acting like a child."

"Danica didn't know I lived here."

"Yes, she did. We talked about it."

"Ah. So which is it? Did you come to have a heart-to-heart with your old girlfriend, or spend a romantic weekend with your current partner? The two seem mutually exclusive."

Steve’s face grew bright red, a fact that made Willa even happier. She’d never seen him so out of sorts before. It was an almost cathartic experience. He scrambled up, tripped over Mina’s massive foot, and landed on the carpet, where Killer and Wags took gleeful turns hopping on and off his back before he could get up again.

A warm glow spread through Willa's body. Now, this—this was a feeling.

What do the Germans call it? Willa wondered, searching her brain for the right word. Schadenfreude, that was it.

She smiled, watching the man who had broken her heart grovel on the floor, fending off dachshunds.

Steve left as quickly as he could after his close encounter with the doxies and Mina’s faded Persian rug, and no one was sorry to see him go.

"He seemed nice," said Linda, unconvinced.

Even her overflowing well of charity did not run that deep.

"He seemed scared," Jake said, rubbing his chin. "What was that, Willa? Genuine fear, or just embarrassment?"

Willa broke up a scuffle between Darlene and Killer over an ancient sliver of toast that had languished under the loveseat for time unending before Steve accidentally kicked it out. She handed Darlene to Mr. Pilkington and left Killer on the ground, crustless and forlorn.

"I couldn’t tell you," she said, honestly. "I’ve never seen him particularly ruffled before. Angry, sure. Irritated. But until today, I had never witnessed him fall to pieces. Why was he really here? What did he say when you answered the door, Mina?"

"He gave me the same line he gave you—that he was worried about you and wanted to check in. I didn’t believe him then and I still don’t. I wouldn’t even let him in until he emptied his pockets and showed me he was unarmed."

"What would you have done if he had a gun?" Jake asked, half-admiring, half-exasperated.

"Shut the door, of course!" Mina said. "If you ask me—"

The doorbell rang, and Mina broke off mid-sentence.

"Now what?" she said, springing up from the loveseat and scuttling toward the door. "Expecting any more ex-boyfriends, Willa? Or has Flob come to pay us a call this time?"

It was neither Tad McNulty, nor a former paramour. Justine Galway and her partner, Dale Snood, stood on the mat, holding a bag of takeout from Fat Oscar's and a few vacuum-sealed parcels of fish.

"Oh," said Mina, unceremoniously. "Food's here!"

She stepped aside and let the visitors through. Willa could never see Justine and Dale without thinking about Jack Sprat, who could eat no fat, and whose wife could eat no lean. Dale and Justine weren’t married (except perhaps by common law), but otherwise they fit the nursery rhyme to a T. Justine looked particularly enormous and glowing today, and Dale seemed to have lost a few more teeth since she saw him last.

"Brought ya some abalone," said Dale, winking at Mr. Pilkington. The two had formed an odd friendship over the last year, exchanging seafood delicacies for free legal advice on a regular basis. Mr. Pilkington had an unquenchable appetite for shellfish, and Dale always seemed to be in need of legal guidance. "Fresh steelhead, too. Lot of new folks in town, ain't there? We thought ya'll might have guests and need a little extra chow."

"The out-of-towners are staying next door," Mina said, snatching greedily at the steelhead all the same.

"We passed one of them on the sidewalk and saw him go into the Seawind," Justine said, lowering herself with a thud onto the nearest chair. "Blond guy. Pretty bougie haircut. Looks like he buys and sells crypto or something. But I only say that because he drives one of those dog-ugly cyber trucks. No offense, Kyle."

Kyle licked her hand affectionately to show there was no offense taken.

"Hang on," said Jake. "How do you know what he drives? As far as I know, his car is parked behind the B&B."

"I saw him driving it. That's how I knew he must be a rich tech bro of some kind, cuz who else would be caught dead in that thing? Dale says they look like someone ran over a toy and tried to make the best of it."

"Real men drive real trucks," Dale said, in confirmation. He smiled, showing all his gums and a few empty tooth sockets. "Give me a Dodge. Give me a Ford. American-made, and made to last. Heck, I don’t even know how to pronounce Tesla."

"You just did," said Mina. "It’s not that hard, Dale."

"What kind of language is that, anyhow?"

"Everybody focus!" said Jake, turning to Justine. "You saw that man driving a Tesla? When was that?"

"A few days ago. He came into The Sea Hag on Friday morning, right after the guy I told you about," Justine said, unwittingly dropping a conversational bomb into the room. "The one trying to buy jewelry for a pretend girlfriend. And I remember thinking nature was pretty cruel sometimes. Why is one person born looking like a damp napkin, while someone else gets to be a Ken doll? Doesn’t seem fair to me."

"What was he doing there?" said Willa, realizing how rude the question sounded just a fraction too late.

Fortunately, Justine either didn't notice or wasn't offended by the implication.

"Dunno. He asked me if I could give him directions to The Three Hounds, that's all. I told him it wasn’t open except on Saturdays and Sundays, and he said dang, thanks anyway, and left. I watched him through the window. He hopped into his stupid truck and roared off north toward the on-ramp to the 101. I assumed he was just passing through. I had no idea he was staying up here with Jenny and Matt."

"Did you see him speak to the man in the yellow slicker? Did they run into each other on the street, for example? Or have a quick chat by the car?"

Justine squinted, trying to recall.

"They did talk," she said, "now that I think of it. But it didn’t last long. Could have been nothing more than 'Hi, how are you,' or 'Thanks for holding the door'. They didn’t fight or anything. I would have remembered that. But the scrawny guy did scoot away pretty fast, if I remember. Why do you want to know? Don’t tell me you think that guy is your killer? Huge waste, if so. He looks like a zhuzhed-up G.I. Joe, only cuter. You still single, Willa? Yeah? Well chica, head next door and see if you can chat him up. If I didn’t think Dale’d get jealous, I’d hit that myself. Heck, Dale—cyber truck or no cyber truck, I'm gonna put him on my hall pass list."

"You do you, baby doll," Dale said, waving a magnanimous hand at her.

"What’s a hall pass?" asked Linda, innocently.

"It’s the people we’re allowed to—you know—without it counting as cheating," Justine explained. "I’ve got Timothy Oliphant and Ryan Gosling on there right now, but I wouldn’t mind adding that guy. I like blond and tall."

"Oh," said Linda, enlightened. "For me, it’s Paul Newman and George Clooney. And Bob’s got Suzanne Sommers."

"Paul Newman is dead," said Mr. Pilkington, bewildered by the conversation in general.

"Still," said Linda, with a cheeky look at Willa.

"So Steven Joyce actually spoke to Duane Fripp on Friday," said Jake, sticking to what was, for him, the main point. "Things are starting to look very bad for him."

"Maybe there is an innocent explanation for their conversation," suggested Mr. Pilkington. "A simple greeting, as Ms. Galway suggested."

"Tosh," said Mina. "You heard Justine. He wanted directions to The Three Hounds to begin with. That's strike number one. And we have an eyewitness now that will swear she saw him speak to Duane Fripp. He must have come here either to meet up with the dead man or to spy on Willa. Either way, he was asking for trouble."

Jake nodded at her.

"I agree. We should be able to find out pretty quick if he and Duane had any previous phone or email contact. And he flat-out admitted he knew Willa lived here."

"That fact alone makes me less likely to suspect him," said Mr. Pilkington. "A guilty person may have tried to conceal that fact."

"An intelligent guilty person would," Mina retorted.

"Guilty or not, how did he get my address?" Willa said. "No one in my life would give it up to Steve. They know how I feel about him."

"These days, it’s not that hard to figure out where someone lives," said Jake regretfully. "Internet searches can turn up a lot. Well, it looks like the Sheriff and I need to have a more formal conversation with Mr. Joyce."

"He’ll invoke the fifth again," Mina retorted.

"I’m sure he will. But thanks to Justine's powers of observation, I’ve got enough to hold him on now. Unless he can prove exactly where he was on Friday between two and eight PM and give me a good explanation for why he was talking to Duane Fripp in town, he’ll be spending the night in the Klamath County courthouse. We’ve got a bed with his name on it in the holding cells."

There was a satisfied silence in the room.

Then Linda, who had not been listening to a word, asked, "Who’s that man who hosted that singing thingy? You know, the one with the mean judge and the other guy and Paula Abdul. The Z Factor? Anyway, he does Wheel now, or maybe Jeopardy, and I think his name starts with an N."

"Ryan Seacrest," laughed Mina. "Tiny man, big hair."

Linda slapped her knee.

"Ryan Seacrest! I knew there was an N in there somewhere. That’s the one. He’s on my pass list too. That okay, Bob?"

"So long as I can add Vanna White to mine."

"Deal!"

"Oh, for Pete’s sake," muttered Jake, mortified.

Mail

To Craig & Jean Lattner

Mom & Dad,

I’m tagging you both in this so there are no hilarious games of telephone or any Lattner he-said, she-said debacles.

It was great to finally talk to you. It occurred to me only AFTER I hung up that I should probably get some ground rules in writing while I still can.

Rule number one is pretty simple. You CANNOT talk about the murder, the book leak, my dead fan, or the upcoming press junket to anyone except Wendy, Guillermo, and Josh. I know I said that on the phone, but I fear I was not specific enough. Mom, this means you can’t tell Sharon anything. And I do mean ANYTHING. You can’t say, "Willa’s certainly been having a time of it lately," and look concerned. You can’t swear her to secrecy. You’re just going to have to act like everything is fine. No hinting around or winky-winks. Absolute silence.

That ban extends to the aunties and Grandpa as well. I can’t stop Aunt Mina from gossiping to them. I imagine she will. But don’t YOU two be the weakest links. Stay strong, like good, old-fashioned American steel, and do not flop at the first application of pressure, like uncooked fettuccine.

Dad, you should probably avoid golf dates with Herb and the guys until everything is public. I know you MEAN well, but something happens to you when you’re on the green, and I do not want Herb Simmons’ wife sending me a casserole via the US postal service.

Code of silence. Pretend we are from Sicily and invoke omertà. (Dad, please explain that reference to Mom.)

I forgot to say this bit on the phone, and it’s very important. You may receive a call(s) from various press agencies, requesting an interview. Say nothing or very little. "No comment," works well, but in a pinch, you can just hang up on them. It’s not THAT rude, Mom.

This is important, guys. Remember, loose lips sink ships, and I am in the tiniest bit of actual danger, which I undersold on the phone. My friend Jake is staying here as bodyguard, and the Sheriff himself is next door, and Mina’s here keeping an eye on me, and the dogs won’t let me out of their sight. I will be fine, and your presence is not required. The best thing you can do for me is to keep your mouths shut and keep the prayers coming.

I’ll call again tomorrow with updates. Love you!

Willa

Mail

To Candace Yamamoto

Candy,

You guys seriously aren’t coming? Neither you nor Wallace are answering the phone, so I guess I already know the answer to that. I know when I'm being shut out.

How could you both get COVID at the same time? You’re allowed to fly now with COVID, you know. And while I appreciate your offer to get down here as soon as your fever drops below 102, the press sharks will smell the blood in the water and rip me to shreds long before your nose stops running.

I can’t BELIEVE you two are throwing me overboard to fend for myself. I’m afraid of sharks, and you know I can’t swim! I can barely dog-paddle!

What do I do? Should I answer all the questions or only some of them? Should I smile when the cameras are on, or will that make me look crazy? What if I DON’T smile, and that makes me look crazier? What if they ask really dumb questions? Am I allowed to say "next, please" and move on, or do I have to answer everything? Someone shoved a mic in my face once and asked me what my favorite color was, and the whole thing was so inane that my mind went blank. I ended up saying 'blellow.'

You and Wallace are supposed to throw yourselves in front of me like human shields. I am going to say something stupid or make some kind of awful noise. It will be played back with auto tune on YouTube for the rest of my life, and I’ll end up as a question on Jeopardy in 2050.

Which failing author went viral after an on-camera interview where she tried to adjust her glasses and put her finger directly up her nose?

I’m not being melodramatic. THAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE, CANDY. I got a bloody nose and even the TEACHER laughed and Todd Parker un-asked me to prom.

Oh my gosh, it’s going to happen again. This is the end of my career.

I’m gonna need some serious Zoom coaching, Candy. The minute you can put on a robe and sit in front of a camera, we’re jumping on a call. And you had better spoon-feed me a couple useful phrases, or so help me, I’m going to say something weird and get the whole publishing house canceled.

Get well soon.

Love,

Willa

P.S. I watched Steve fall flat on his face today, and not in a metaphorical capacity. It was the best thing that has ever happened to me. Can’t wait to give you the deets.

P.P.S. I know you two aren't actually sick, Candy. Pass that on to Wallace. Channel Al Pacino and tell him he broke my heart. HE BROKE MY HEART.

Mail

To Danica Joliff

Danica,

Thanks for the agenda. Or should I say, the harbinger of doom?

I can’t believe Tad was able to get that many reporters to Humboldt Cove on such short notice. What did he TELL them, do you know? He must have promised to hand them Jack the Ripper on a platter.

I don’t want anything to do with Celebrity News Now, or that other one—the cheap TMZ knock-off. Hard pass. My agent won’t be here to field the offensive/dumb questions for me, and I’m not a celebrity. Neither are you, by the way. They’ll chew us both up, and when they figure out no one but book nerds knows who we are, they’ll spit us out, but not before telling their audience "who wore it best."

I will sit with the people from the Seattle Times and the San Francisco morning show. And the literary blogger, if you don’t mind sharing the spotlight. So three of the ten Tad lined up. The crew from New York definitely wants a piece of you, not me, so I won’t butt my way into that one.

Do you mind if we do my interviews down at the bakery? It’s a little callous, I admit, but the cleaners will be done by then. I don’t want even minor members of the paparazzi within five feet of my house. Feel free to do them all at The Three Hounds, in fact. Despite what my aunt says, there is no bad publicity. Duane's dead, and it can't hurt him. And I don’t care why people buy my donuts, as long as they buy them.

Looks like the first interview is lined up for nine, so I’ll see you two down at the bakery around eight.

Willa

The Sweaters

Jake did not invite Willa to accompany him back to The Seawind.

"You can’t be there while we’re formally cautioning a murder suspect," he explained, and before Mina could get her oar in, he added, "No one’s going back over to the B&B with me."

Everyone else went home, and soon it was just Mina, Willa, and Mr. Pilkington left in the sitting room, staring at each other.

"Who’s up for a game of Scrabble?" asked Mina, and Willa excused herself as quickly as possible, saying she had emails to write.

That was true, thankfully. But she would cheerfully have lied to get out of another game of Scrabble with those two. What could you do with someone who memorized the dictionary?

She returned downstairs after a while, feeling worse than when she went up, and made her way into the kitchen, where Mina and Mr. Pilkington were eating enormous wedges of the newly baked cake and finishing up a rousing game of Scrabble.

"What’s cracking, Charlie Brown?" asked Mina, curiously. "Bad case of the mopes?"

Willa straightened her shoulders and tried to look a trifle less forlorn.

"My agent and his PA aren’t coming to help with the interviews," she said.

"Too bad. But I don’t see why you’ve got to be such a sad-sack about it."

"Your poor niece has been through a lot the last few days," Mr. Pilkington said, rising to Willa’s defense. "Jet-lag, the threat of personal harm, a murder—not to mention the arrival of her ex-boyfriend, and the subsequent discovery of his probable guilt. That’s a lot for one person to hold."

"I never implied for a moment that it wasn’t," Mina said, carelessly laying out tiles to form the word quixotic. "But she wasn’t nearly so dragged down when she went upstairs. Why does it matter if your agent can’t make it here, Willa? That man wasn’t going to save you from a killer. I've seen his photo. He looks like a naked mole rat."

"I didn’t want his protection from Steve, Danica, or Tad. I wanted him to shield me from the press. Danica just emailed me a list of the interviews Tad set up. I would happily strangle him if I didn’t think Jake would catch me. I’m worthless in front of cameras."

"I find that surprising," said Mina, totting up her points on the score sheet. "I’m fantastic with reporters."

"Is she ever! I never saw her back down from a hostile judge, a rival attorney, or a T.V. anchorman," said Mr. Pilkington, in corroboration. "She’d make them sweat, not the other way around."

"They used to call me the Iron Lady. Nothing could frazzle me."

"Well, bully for you, Mina, but that hardly helps me out," Willa complained. "I didn’t get the invincible gene, I guess. I’m a mere mortal, whose mouth goes dry whenever someone sticks a microphone in my face. Wallace or his assistant Candy always go with me to press interviews. Like all good marketers, the camera loves Wallace. Without him, I may do anything! Drool—accidentally drop the F bomb while discussing waterfowl—make a flatulent-adjacent squeaking sound on my chair—mis-attribute a Dorothy Sayers quote to Agatha Christie—forget a question that was asked five seconds before and stare at the camera with my mouth open—"

Willa paused to take a breath in the middle of this list, and Mr. Pilkington took her hand, earnestly.

"Those are all extremely unlikely scenarios, my dear."

"Unfortunately, their likelihood is not in question. With the possible exception of the drool, all of those things have already happened to me!"

"Good! You've got them out of the way then," said Mina, who finished calculating the Scrabble scores and set down her pen. "I win," she announced, "by ten. Better luck next time. And your problem is easy to solve, Willa. Just bring the dogs."

"What?"

"Take the boys with you! Everyone loves a dachshund. Instant icebreaker. And a feel-good slam-dunk for the reporters. Any chair-squeaking can be blamed on the dogs, and if you misquote someone, no one will notice. They’ll be too entranced by the objective cuteness before them."

Willa blinked. It was actually a pretty good idea.

"You can borrow Darlene too," said Mr. Pilkington, "to increase the adorability overload. The journalists will be gobsmacked—powerless against four sausage dogs."

Mina whacked the table with her right hand, excited by a new idea.

"I know! I’ll get their sweaters!"

"And I’ll get Darlene’s ear bow!" volunteered Mr. Pilkington.

"Doxies in cable-knit sweaters," Mina crowed with satisfaction. "Those press monkeys won’t know what hit them!"

Jake returned shortly, looking pleased with himself.

"Steve Joyce is on his way to the courthouse as we speak," he said, cutting himself a piece of the pumpkin cake.

"What happened?"

"A lot of serendipitous things collided at once. Steve’s office in San Francisco finally got back to us. His camera wasn't on during the meeting, and he only spoke during the first half hour."

Mina whistled.

"I knew his alibi would be phony."

"That isn’t even the juiciest bit. While Gary was talking to Steve’s boss, the IT forensics crew called me. There’s hard evidence of communication between Steve and Duane Fripp."

Willa nearly dropped the cup of tea she was holding. She felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach.

"What?"

"There is email correspondence between them dating back three months."

"About me?"

"I haven’t read it yet. But probably."

"Have they spoken on the phone?"

"Not that we can tell—so far. But any communication amounts to a smoking gun at this point, especially since Steve denied any prior personal knowledge of Duane. Armed with all this new ammunition, we fetched Steve out of his room, brought him downstairs, and told him we had evidence that a) he knew the murdered man prior to arriving in town, and b) he talked to him on Friday. Steve clammed up. Refused to answer. The Sheriff arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Duane Fripp, and he pled the fifth for real this time."

"As any sensible person would do," Mina said. "He has half a brain, at least."

"Gary and Henderson are taking him off to be processed, and wait for his attorney."

"Well, then! Mystery solved!" said Mina, who—inspired by Jake—went to fetch herself another slice of cake.

Willa wished she could feel that cavalier about it. She had loved Steve, once. And he had occupied a not-small portion of her adult life. The thought that he wanted to kill her—and had ended someone else’s life in order to make that happen—went beyond jarring to horrifying.

"What’s the matter with you?" Mina asked, noting Willa’s ashy complexion. "Sit down before you keel over."

"Why does he want to hurt me?" Willa said, choking on the words.

Until this moment, she had not quite believed it. Mina strode over and gave her a firm hug.

"Doesn’t matter why," she said. "The police have arrested the right man, and that's all you need to think about for the moment."

"Maybe," Jake cautioned. "But I’m not letting down my guard just yet. Lots of people leave their cameras off during meetings. And the email communication between him and Fripp, while disturbing, may bear an innocent interpretation. We have no evidence they spoke more recently than a few weeks ago."

Mina put her hands on bony hips.

"Yes, you do. Justine Galway saw them talking outside her shop."

"The words outside The Sea Hag may have been nothing more sinister than ‘cold outside, eh?’"

"That man snuck into Humboldt Cove like a cat burglar."

"People can be sneaky and gross without breaking the law," Jake said, mildly. "It's not illegal to be a dirtbag. I don’t know why he really came to town or what he intended to do at The Three Hounds on Friday morning. I’m more interested to know if he killed Duane Fripp on Friday evening."

"Of course he did! You’d have to be blind not to see it. It’s as plain as the nose on your face."

"I’m not blind, Mina. I think it’s likely Steven Joyce is our killer. But I’m not quite ready to bet Willa’s life on it," he said. Are you?"

The Press

They passed a more or less quiet evening at home. Linda and Bob returned with tamales and enchiladas around seven and left again at nine, after many, many hints from Willa, and eventually an outright imperative from Jake.

"Willa’s got a big day tomorrow," he said, pushing his mother out the door. "We’ve all had enough to eat and drink."

"What about bedding? I’ve got some hot water bottles I could lend you if it gets too cold. This house is drafty. I should know! Spent the first eighteen years of my life shivering away on the third floor."

Linda's family had owned the rambling, creaky old house until Mina bought it and stamped her pink signature all over it.

"How much does it run you to heat this place?" Bob asked, interested. "She’s not built for central heating, not by a long shot. Can’t be south of five hundred smackeroos a month, eh Mina?"

Tickled by the subject, Mina offered to get her utility bill, but Jake stopped her.

"We have enough pillows and extra sheets and no one has needed a hot water bottle since about 1920. So long, Ma, so long, Dad. Out!"

Willa went up to bed almost immediately afterward, though she spent a bad hour simultaneously working through the knot in her hair and wondering what she had done to Steve to make him want to kill her. She couldn't untangle either mess, and eventually, she dozed off and slept without dreams until morning.

She lay under her thick, white comforter for a while, drowsy with sleep and overwhelmed with an unpleasant sensation. It must be her first day at a new school. Or, no—the morning of a dentist appointment. Did she have a root canal scheduled later? Eyes closed, she searched her brain for the cause of this almost existential dread and remembered, with a jolt, that she had to sit through at least three journalist interviews today.

The pit in her stomach grew worse, if anything. She’d rather have the root canal.

After she had showered, she stood in her closet for ten minutes, shivering in her towel as she rejected outfit after outfit. She finally selected a pair of plain black slacks and a yellow sweater that made her look like a road sign. It was the brightest thing she had, but no matter what she picked, she was going to appear dull and flavorless next to Danica Joliff.

Taming her curls with half a bottle of leave-in conditioner, she hurried downstairs to grab a bite to eat, hoping she had risen before Mina or Pilky. She didn’t really want company while she faced the press. It was a futile hope, however. They were both there, sipping tea—neatly dressed and shod, like a couple of kids ready to go to Sunday School. They clearly intended to accompany her down into the town.

She looked them over, sighed, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Good morning to you too, Eeyore," Mina said tartly.

"You two don’t have to come with me. It would be better if you didn’t. I’ll be less nervous."

"Someone’s got to wrangle the dogs," her aunt replied, pointing to the corner, where Kyle, Wags, Killer, and Darlene were patiently waiting to be harnessed and leashed.

All four of them were wearing sweaters, and even Darlene seemed embarrassed about it.

"Sorry, guys," Willa said. "It’s all for a good cause."

"Where they go, I go," said Mina. "And besides, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get murdered."

"Steve’s in jail."

"I am entertaining the possibility that Deputy Anderson may be right, and you are still in danger."

Jake, who had just entered, grinned at her.

"Will you put that in writing?"

"Like any good lawyer," said Mina haughtily, "I never put anything incriminating in writing."

Danica and Tad were waiting for them outside The Three Hounds when they arrived, holding to-go cups of coffee from Doyle’s Grocery Store.

There was a TV van parked across the street, and Willa eyed it nervously.

"Come on in," she said, as Jake removed the police seal and unlocked the front door. "Let’s get this stuff cleaned up before anyone else arrives. I’m all in favor of a little publicity for the bakery, but I’d prefer it if the press photos didn’t scream ‘crime scene’ quite so much."

"Are you serious?" Tad protested, watching in horror as Willa ripped down more police tape and wadded it into a ball. "This is PR gold. Can you imagine the photos they’d get with all this in the background? People would kill for this ambiance."

"I’ve had enough killing already."

"Your funeral," he said, shrugging.

"I’d rephrase that if I were you, sir," said Mina, coldly.

"Why, lady? I’m clean as a whistle. No one can pin anything on me. I don't have a single thing against your niece. And we all know the killer is locked up," Tad shot back. "I don’t know what that guy’s problem is, or why he wanted to knock off an offenseless little weirdo, but whatever was motivating him, it’s over now. He’s a goner. He’ll spend the rest of his life in jail."

"In that case, maybe now you're ready to tell us all where you were Friday afternoon and evening."

Tad blinked his bulgy eyes and puffed his cheeks.

"I don't have to tell you nothing," he said. "You don't have the right to ask me where I was or what I was doing."

"Were you in Humboldt Cove that day?" Mina asked, point blank.

"None of your business."

"That sounds like a yes to me."

"Danica knows I wasn't here."

He looked to her for corroboration, and she turned away.

"Just because she didn't see you doesn't mean you weren't here," said Mina, ruthlessly.

"I've had about enough of this!" Tad huffed. "We all know who croaked that guy, and his name isn't Tad McNulty. Steven Joyce is a two-faced liar and a cheater—sorry, Danny, but it's true. I never liked him, and I'm not surprised he killed someone—hard to believe he wasn't caught doing something criminal before."

Danica excused herself in a choked voice and made for the restroom. Tad mumbled something under his breath and prepared to follow her, putting on a compassionate expression.

"I didn’t mean it like that," he said, trotting to keep up.

He could change his face like a child changes a Mr. Potato Head doll. Frown off, smile on. Out with the happy eyes, on with the angry eyes. Willa wondered idly if he could swap his eyebrows out that easily.

"Maybe I should go after her," Willa said, uncertainly.

"She won’t get much comfort from Flob," Mina said, and this time Willa didn’t bother correcting her. "That said, I’d let her be. You don’t want to pour lemon juice onto her open wound. It’s bad enough that she dated that monster. Hugs and consoling words from the monster’s ex-girlfriend-slash-murder-target won't improve her mood."

Danica emerged from the bathroom after a few minutes, red-eyed but composed, and Tad trotted after her.

"You ready for this?" Jake asked Willa, who had been picking up the same mug of tea and setting it back down again for the last fifteen minutes. "You might want to actually drink that, you know. The hot water will soothe your nerves."

"If I put anything in my stomach right now, it’s going to come back up," Willa said, gulping.

Outside the large bakery window, people hauling cameras and other equipment began to gather on the sidewalk. She caught the eye of a small, dark-haired woman with an eager chipmunk face, and her heart sank even further. The woman was struggling under the weight of about forty pounds of makeup in a large silver case, and a young man behind her was toting a selection of blow dryers, curling irons, hair straighteners, and other assorted implements of torture.

"You didn’t say anything about hair and makeup," she told Danica and Tad in a high-pitched voice.

"Gotta look good for the camera, dollface," Tad chuckled. "And here's a bit of advice—smile once in a while."

Jake and Mr. Pilkington drew in sharp breaths and looked at Willa to see how she would take this piece of effrontery.

"Try again," she said, hands on hips. "Start over."

"I'm just being friendly, sugar. You'd be a lot more photogenic if you smiled. Get your act together, and I'd be willing to take you out, even. Show you a good time. But first you need to get a little lipstick on, or some mascara."

"Heck, no," Willa began, and her aunt placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You do not talk that way. Not in my town, and not on my property," said Mina, pointing her bony finger in Tad’s face and astounding them all by adding, "Bye, Felicity. Get lost."

He gaped at her, baffled.

"The phrase is 'Bye, Felicia,'" murmured Willa.

"Whatever. Felicity, Felicia, Falafel. The point is the goodbye, right? Take a hike, you creep. Come back with an apology when you've grown a brain."

"I was just being friendly," he whined. "Can't you take a joke? Geez."

"I can take a joke. Haven't heard one today, though. Pick up that 'dollface' crap and take it back to whatever pretend version of the past you think you remember."

"Women today are so touchy," he huffed. "People used to have thicker skin."

Mina smiled fiercely.

"I've got a secret for you, Flob," she said, leaning in and beckoning him with one finger. "Women have always hated you. They just don't have to pretend anymore."

Thrown off by the 'Flob' and Mina's whole vibe, which he did not expect in a woman of eighty-five, Tad's mouth snapped shut. Tail between his legs, he retreated behind the cafe counter, muttering something about a fresh cup of coffee.

Jake had already fled to the backroom, where he could laugh without Mina seeing him.

The Interviews

The reporting team from Rise & Shine San Francisco was brisk and professional, and to Willa’s relief, the chipmunk lady took one look at her hair and decided not to mess with it too much.

"No offense," she said, showing a pair of prominent front teeth. "But if I get going on that whole situation we’ll be here ‘til tomorrow. You look pretty good already. Clearly you’ve learned how to style it. If that was my hair, I’d probably shave my head and get a couple of wigs, but I admire you for making it work."

"Thanks," said Willa, unsure whether this was a compliment.

"You’re very welcome, hon. You look just like an Amazon warrior princess or something. I'm gonna pin it up around your face, and call it good."

She began yanking Willa's hair into painful little twists and fastening them tight on the back of her head with bobby pins. Willa's curls kept flopping loose, however.

"Lord have mercy—this'll take the whole dang box," the Chipmunk clucked, sending her assistant to look for something stronger.

He returned with a few industrial-sized pins and she shoved them in, stabbing Willa's scalp and making her eyes water. Then she applied a full can of hairspray.

"There now," she said, standing back to admire her work. "If that comes out, I'll pay you a million bucks, hon. Those twists should stay in 'til judgment day. I’m going to put on some bright red lipstick for the cameras and then you’ll be ready to go. Sorry, pink’s a no-go. With that hair and that shirt? You’ll look like you died of consumption and got buried already. Gotta get color on those lips and cheeks."

Willa submitted to the clown make-up, hoping the Chipmunk was right and everything looked different on camera. Currently, she resembled Raggedy Ann. All she needed was a pinafore to make the look complete.

Everyone made a big deal of the dachshunds and was more than happy for Willa to keep them with her during the interview.

"I’m going to die," raved the Chipmunk’s young male assistant, whose name was something improbable, like Jean-Michele. "I’m literally going to die. I’ve got to get this up on the socials. Four little wieners in sweaters. Someone kill me before I die."

The host of the segment, Jessica St. Clair, was an attractive blond woman with a designer pantsuit and an irritating laugh. She ignored Willa and Danica completely until the camera began rolling. They might as well have been lint on the carpet. Danica attempted a hello but Willa didn't even try to engage. She was content to be lint for the time being. Lint could not embarrass itself.

When the producer called action, Jessica powered on like a congenial robot. She began, predictably, by raving over the dachshunds, but after that was out of the way, she seemed genuinely interested in what Danica and Willa had to say about the writing process, their fan base, and the cozy mystery genre in general. The interview progressed nicely with half an hour of pleasant chat and no mention of Duane Fripp or murder.

"Let’s get into why we’re really here," said Jessica, at the thirty-minute mark.

Willa flinched. She had known it was coming, but part of her hoped this day would just be softball questions, be-sweatered doxies, and a succession of Chipmunks and Jean-Micheles.

"Three days ago, a man was killed in this very bakery," said Jessica, looking directly into the camera. "The motive is still unclear, but we do know this for sure: Ms. Joliff and Ms. Lattner are directly involved in the case. How does it feel to be part of a murder investigation, ladies? Is this a genuine instance of life imitating art? And will it affect the way you write your novels going forward?"

Willa’s mouth opened. It even began moving, but nothing came out. Danica took over.

"We’re devastated by the death, Jessica. And we’re cooperating closely with the police to ensure that whoever did this is captured and punished. The law enforcement process is fascinating, and I’m sure we'll benefit from this up-close-and-personal view of it. But both of us could have done without a crash course in murder protocol."

"Were either of you directly involved with the murder?"

"No. Of course not."

"Be completely honest with me now, and the listeners at home. Who killed Duane Fripp?"

"I wish I knew," said Danica, cooly.

Disappointed with this calm and balanced answer, Jessica St. Clair addressed herself solely to Willa this time. She was a predator, out for blood, and if she couldn't get blood, she was determined to get a few tears, at least.

"You had a special author-fan dynamic with the deceased. Do you feel personally responsible for what happened here?"

Willa worked her vocal cords and discovered that she had forgotten how to speak English. What was the word she was looking for? It was a good word, she was sure. One that would satisfy the carnivorous and insatiable woman who stared at her now, expecting a brilliant answer. And it started with—oh yes, of course—it started with a letter of the alphabet. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Thank goodness. Now she was getting somewhere! The word she was looking for began with a letter of some sort. Was it Z?

No, nothing started with Z.

Except for…zebra! Zebra was a word! And zebra began with Z! Phew. Though there were other Z words, too. Zipper, zoo, zigzag. That was it. That solved everything.

"Zipper," whispered Willa, inaudibly.

No one heard her, and Jessica pressed on, mercilessly.

"Do you expect to keep your bakery going after this violent death? Will customer loyalty extend that far? And will your readers be able to move past this?"

This time, Willa said "flermph."

"For a possible suspect in a violent death, you don't seem eager to defend yourself."

"I'm not…"

"Did you kill Duane Fripp, Ms. Lattner? Did you finally snap with a fan who went too far? Did you lure him here to end his life? Is his blood on your hands?"

Behind the camera, an exasperated Mina put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. The dogs began barking, and the producer called for a pause in filming.

"We’re going to have to lose the wieners," he said, briskly.

"Uh-uh. We’re done," said Danica, rising from her seat. "Use the footage you’ve got and be grateful for it. We’ve got more interviews to get through. And—hey, buddy—eyes on me. Can you see my face right now? Got your listening ears on? Good. Edit this in a misleading way, and you'll hear from my lawyer."

"Oh, come now, Ms. Joliff," said the producer uneasily. "There's such a thing as freedom of the press."

Danica stared back at him, unsmiling.

"There's such a thing as slander too. Personally, I'm loaded, and so is Ms. Lattner. We've got no problem drawing out a lawsuit against the studio and the show. We can pay attorney fees for years and years…"

"I get the point."

"…and years and years and years," Danica went on, remorselessly. "And we play to win. I could use a hundred million bucks. How about you, Willa? Want to add to your bank account?"

"We can broadcast whatever we want," said the producer.

"Your interviewer called Ms. Lattner a suspect. That's a lie."

"We said she might be. No law against speculation."

"Oh, yeah, go right ahead, dude," Danica laughed. "Speculate. See how that works out for you. How about you, Jessie?"

Jessica bit her attractive and pouty lip.

"Do you want to stay on camera, St. Clair? People who lose the network millions get desk jobs. Think about it."

With the first sign of good sense or proper feeling Willa had ever witnessed in him, Tad backed her up, and between him, Mina, and Jake, they managed to expel the entire crew and the disappointed Jessica St. Clair within twenty minutes.

"I almost had her," she heard Jessica complain as she left.

Willa shut the door and leaned against it.

"We’ve got to do more of these?" she moaned.

"It’s just print interviews for you from now on," Danica said, sympathetically. "No more gotcha questions on camera."

Mina, who was gazing out the window to make sure no one from Rise & Shine San Francisco was going to weasel their way back in, exhaled in displeasure.

"I recognize that vehicle," she said, pointing to a smaller van parked further down the street. "That’s the local news. Dang it, who told them to horn in on this?"

She grabbed hold of Tad, who was trying to pretend he was part of the wallpaper.

"I thought they might want a scoop," he said, yelping as she gripped his arm. "I wanted to throw them a bone. Face-to-face interview with the owners of the Murder Bakery. You’ll be famous, lady. Your donut sales will go through the roof."

"You little sneak," Mina fumed.

"Here they come," Tad squealed, trying to unhook Mina’s claws from his wrist. "And they won’t want to talk to big city outsiders like Danica or me. We’ll just melt into the background, and come back in, say, twenty minutes? The Seattle Times writer is due around then."

"Run and hide," Mina said, releasing him. "And you better hope I don’t catch you."

Tad and Danica went out through the back door in the kitchen, leaving the others to wait for the local TV crew.

"You can run and hide too," Jake told Mina and Willa. "I’ll just tell them no one’s here."

"Lattners never run," said Mina. "Lattners stay and fight. I’ve faced down some of the toughest judges in the country. I think I can handle a dinky network affiliate news crew."

Willa, who would have been happy to sprint away and burrow into the nearest hiding place, picked up Kyle and stuffed her face into his fluffy pink sweater.

"Did you say 'zipper'?" Jake whispered.

She shoved her head further into Kyle's sweater. There were times when only a warm dachshund could help.

The local news team consisted of one camera guy, one producer, and a shy anchorwoman, who stuttered when she talked and seemed equally star-struck by Mina, Willa, Jake, and Mr. Pilkington. It quickly became clear that she didn’t know who any of them were.

The producer set Willa and Mina up in chairs facing the window, so he could frame the pastry case in the shot.

Willa watched as he counted down silently on his fingers and pointed to the nervous presenter. She cleared her throat.

"I’m here in Humboldt Cove today with Wilhelmina and Wilhelmina Lattner, the owners of The Three Hounds Bakery, where just three days ago—"

The producer cut her off.

"You said the same name twice, honey. Let’s take it again from the top."

The woman checked her notes.

"It’s says Wilhelmina Lattner and Wilhelmina Lattner," she said, worried. "I must have written it down wrong."

"You didn’t goof," Mina assured her, kindly. There was nothing Mina liked more than an underdog. "We’ve got the same name. Why don’t you go with Mina and Willa Lattner, co-owners, etc.?"

"That okay, Bill?" the girl asked, looking at the producer.

"Okay with me if it’s okay with them," he said, holding up his fingers again. "From the top now. Three, two…"

He counted the final "one" silently.

"I’m here in Humboldt Cove today with Mina and Willa Lattner, co-owners of The Three Hounds Bakery, where just three days ago—"

Unfortunately, the viewers of the five o’clock news were never to know what had happened just three days ago. A shot rang out, shattering the bakery’s plate glass window and cutting the reporter off mid-sentence.

Mail

To Wendoline Lattner-Santini

Wendy,

Getting out ahead of Mom and Dad (I hope). If they called you at work already, I apologize. I asked them not to, but you know how Mom is.

This morning, someone took a potshot at me while I was inside the bakery. No one was hurt, thank God, but we’re all badly shaken up.

Badly shaken up sounds very adult and proper. What I actually am is SCARED OUT OF MY FREAKING WITS. I’ve never been around live gunfire. The noise was so startling I fell off my stool and hit the ground. There was a burst of pain, and for a minute I thought my leg had taken a bullet. What actually happened is that I landed hard on the handle of a fallen coffee cup, which is much less romantic and heroic. My thigh has a bruise on it the size of Wyoming, but I am otherwise unmaimed.

Aunt Mina went white as a sheet afterward, and I was afraid she was going to have a heart attack. And my poor Mr. Peanut fainted dead away. He's in the hospital.

I was being interviewed at the time by a local news station. The reporter who was leading the story did not stop screaming for about twenty minutes afterward and had to be taken away by the paramedics to be treated for shock. She’ll never make a war correspondent, that one. I imagine she’s going to go back to school after this to start a new career as a dental hygienist.

Jake and the dogs were there as well, and they’re okay too. Jake ran out immediately to locate the shooter, but no dice. They took one shot and hightailed it out of there. By the time we had our wits about us, there wasn’t a trace left of them, whoever they were.

Steve was safely in the Klamath County jail system at the time, so it wasn’t him. It could have been anyone, really. And they might not even have been shooting at ME. Maybe it was a sworn enemy of Mr. Peanut, come to exact revenge. Maybe the shrieky reporter was doing a hard-hitting story on a drug cartel. Maybe Wags is really an agent for the CIA, and his dachshund cover was blown.

Yeah, Wendy, I know the bullet had my name on it. You don't have to rub it in.

Jake is off coordinating man hunts with Sheriff Poole. I haven't seen him in a couple of hours. He said he was going to check on Pilky and then come right back, but it's been a while now and I'm getting antsy. There's a junior officer here to guard me with about five legs and eight arms, and he keeps knocking down china statues and accidentally tripping over lamp cords. Any assassin that tries to get in will take one look at this guy and laugh their head off. He has already misplaced his gun two times. Heavy shades of Gomer Pyle.

Meanwhile, Mina is stress-cleaning the pantry to take her mind off things. There are SEVEN expired boxes of raisin bran on the kitchen counter, and a container of granola bars purchased in 1999, and at least a dozen cans of cream of mushroom soup that went bad when we were still in high school. There is also the perfunctory bag of barley found in nearly every pantry in America. I have literally never eaten barley at someone’s home. Have you?

Everything is wrong right now, and I’m scared. I don’t think I knew what scared WAS until this happened. My fingers feel weird and my feet are tingly. I can’t swallow food or speak without my voice cracking. And I still can’t bring myself to accept the fact that someone wants me dead. What have I done to deserve this? I know I’m not always as good as I should be, but I’m not BAD.

Did a witch hex me? Did I offend a fairy-in-disguise? I don’t know how to invoke the curse of the pharaohs, but I’m pretty sure you have to be in Egypt to do it. I’ve never murdered anyone. I don't cheat on my taxes or my partners. I don’t lie. I give to charity. I don’t steal.

Oh, actually, when we were seven, I stole a Mounds bar out of your Halloween basket and replaced it with a lone Tootsie Roll. Not the long kind, which might have been closer to a fair trade—it was one of the stubby ones. Is that what this is about?

I’m sorry, Universe! Mea culpa.

Okay, I’m done shaking my fist. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. Tootsie Rolls continue to exist, though no one eats them.

I can hear from the barking downstairs that Jake must be back from his little check-in at the hospital. I hope Mr. Peanut is okay. I can't stand it that he's there all alone, but at least his little Darlene is with him. Aunt Mina told the EMTs she was a service animal. Mina commits every sin in the book (and several no one has written down yet) and no one is after her blood!

Gotta run. I’m stuck inside for the immediate future, so the footman will always find me at home, if you should happen to call. But I’ll try calling you once I’m sure you and G are home.

I love you so much, Wendy. SO MUCH. I don’t tell you that enough. Talk shortly.

Willa

The Sniper

Jake came back in a squad car, lights on, sirens blaring, to show the neighborhood and any lurking killers he meant business. Henderson fumbled with the lock and Jake slipped in.

"How's Pilky?" Mina demanded, before Jake even had time to remove his shoes. "Did you see him? Give it to me straight. I can take it."

"He's doing great," Jake said, gently. "When I left, they were hanging a new bag of saline for his IV drip, and he was doing a crossword and flirting with the nurses. They said he can come home later tonight."

"The hospital didn’t mind that Darlene was there, did they?" Willa asked.

"Nope," he said, his face creasing into a smile. "Talk about a funny story. Far from being upset that she was there, they recognized Darlene at the hospital and welcomed her with open arms and lots of cuddles."

"Recognized how?"

"Well, she's very distinctive looking, with those stripes. Hard to miss. And she used to be there often with her former owner. It seems she really was a service dog!"

"You're kidding me," Mina said, shocked and pleased that her embellishment had hit so close to the truth. "Well, how do you like that? The shelter people can't have known or they wouldn't have let Pilky take her. Aren't service dogs expensive? Aren't there great big waiting lists for them?"

"I would think so! Anyway, when I left, the nurses were taking turns holding her, and they couldn't decide who to love on more—Mr. Pilkington or Darlene. Though they were calling her Snuggles or Pumpkin or something like that. Where did Mr. Pilkington get 'Darlene' from?"

"Search me! He took one look at her and told me that was her name. She looked like a Darlene, he said. Did he—did he seem okay?" Mina asked gruffly.

Jake grabbed her shoulder and pulled her in for a side hug.

"He's going to be alright."

Jake released Mina and rubbed his eyes.

"Everyone okay here, Henderson?" he asked.

Startled by being addressed, the younger man dropped the coffee mug he had been holding.

"Just put that anywhere," Mina said.

Henderson scrambled to pick it up, coloring brightly. Mina made him very nervous.

"Everything is copacetic," he said, trying to make his high tenor into a more commanding bass and failing miserably. "The Sheriff said he'd be by soon with an update."

"No suspicious activity outside?"

"None, sir," squeaked Henderson, who seemed to be undergoing a belated puberty.

"Is that your gun?" Jake asked, looking pointedly at a nearby end table, where Henderson's Glock sat casually next to a vase of flowers.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The vocal fry was even more pronounced this time.

"Don't let me catch you without it again."

"No, sir. It won't happen again."

"Oof, I'm starving," Jake said, turning his attention to more pressing matters. "Got anything to eat here, ladies?"

He strode down the hall toward the kitchen and the others followed, always up for a little more dessert. Mina cut them each large wedges of the pumpkin cake and dug into her portion with gusto.

"Any news?" she asked Jake.

"Nothing good," he replied glumly.

Willa set down her fork. Suddenly, she didn't have much of an appetite.

"You and Gary haven't learned anything?" Mina said, whose appetite was unaffected. "Nothing? What have you been doing?"

She looked as scandalized as it was possible to look with a mouth full of cake. Jake rolled his eyes at her.

"I didn't say 'nothing'. I said nothing good. We know the bullet came from a rifle, and we’re fairly certain it was fired from the roof of the old Humboldt Cove Patisserie. It’s been standing empty for almost a year now. Someone climbed the fire escape and fired from there. They didn’t leave any prints or the rifle, and they even picked up the shell casing."

"A sniper?" Willa said, horrified.

Terrifying images of armed military men lying prone to take carefully aimed kill shots filled her brain. She followed Mina's lead and stuffed an entire slice of pumpkin cake into her mouth, hoping that would push out the scaries. Her skull could only hold so much, after all. More cake must equal fewer thoughts.

"A sniper would not have missed," Mina told her brusquely.

Jake nodded.

"The bullet went way high. Hit about two feet above your head. A crack shot would have stayed the extra few seconds to shoot again. We’re looking at an amateur who got spooked—when the bullet went wide, he cut his losses and fled the scene."

"He?" said Willa, swallowing the enormous mouthful of cake and feeling worse, if anything.

Apparently, you could not eat your way out of depressing ideation. Who knew?

"Or she," Jake said. "We can’t get hold of Danica Joliff. Someone saw her at Doyle’s, picking up a can of soda around the general time of the shooting, but they didn’t look at the clock. It’s only a five-minute walk from the grocery store to the downtown area, which would have given her plenty of time to take her soda, climb the roof, and shoot out the window of The Hounds."

"That doesn't sound like Danica," Willa protested.

"Maybe not. But if it wasn't her, where is she? She isn't answering her phone. She isn't in her room at the Seawind or at any of the restaurants or shops in town. We checked the library and the local churches, too. There's nowhere else for a stranger to go during the day."

"She left town, then."

"Her car is still parked right outside the Seawind."

"Could have hitched her way out," Mina said, smashing another forkful of cake into her mouth. "What about the Frogman? Where's he?"

"We can't find Tad McNulty either," Jake replied, shortly. "His phone is off. He and Danica walked down into town to meet up with you this morning, according to Jenny and Matt, and Tad's car was outside as recently as nine-thirty when Matt took out the recycling. It’s gone now, and so is he."

"So…it was Tad all along? I guess that makes sense. I thought it was weird that he arranged a press spot just for me and Mina. He doesn't seem like the type to share the spotlight."

"Maybe," Jake said, frustrated. "There might be a million reasons we can’t find him now. For all we know, he saw Danica do it, got scared, and drove the heck out of town. We’ve got an APB out and every squad car in the area is looking for him."

"What if he comes here?" Willa asked, fighting down an increasing wave of panic. "What if he still has the rifle? Where would he even get a rifle? He doesn’t seem like the hunting type."

"Plenty of non-hunters own guns. He isn’t a registered owner, but there are no federal laws about registry and he lives in Las Vegas most of the year. Nevada doesn’t require much from gun owners. Same goes for Danica. No guns registered in her name, but that means nothing. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to get within five feet of this house without my say-so," Jake assured her.

With near-perfect comedic timing, there was a sharp rap on the kitchen door. Mina clucked her tongue at him.

"Nobody's going to get within five feet, eh?" she said.

"Get back," Jake commanded.

Willa hurried to the corner of the kitchen, where Kyle, Killer, and Wags were all fast asleep in their baskets. Killer stirred for a moment, but it was just to roll further onto his back. He lay there snoring, with his legs in the air and his tongue hanging slightly out. Some watchdogs, Willa thought.

"Who is it?" Jake called out, moving until he was next to the door, but not directly in front of it. Henderson took position on the other side of the door.

Relief washed over their faces as they heard a muffled greeting, followed by a formal identification from Sheriff Poole on the other side of the door. Willa let out a breath. She didn’t like Gary, but she'd never been more thrilled to hear his slightly arrogant and condescending voice.

Jake unlocked the door, and Gary strode in, followed by the entire Ortiz clan.

"Jenny—Matt," said Willa, surprised. "Serafin! Are you guys okay?"

Jenny’s face was ashen, and she and Matt supported Serafin between them.

"I decided to evacuate the Seawind," Gary explained, speaking low so that Serafin could not hear. "Danica Joliff and Tad McNulty’s whereabouts are still unknown, and one or both of them may return to their rooms at the B&B. I’m not taking chances with civilians. If there's no objection, I’d like Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz to remain here for the time being."

"Far from objecting, I'm thrilled to have them," said Mina, though Gary hadn't addressed her personally.

He gave her an absent nod.

"Okay, that's that, then. I’m going out to look for Joliff and McNulty, but I’m leaving a few uniformed officers to watch this place and the house next door, in case he returns. Henderson, you're with me."

"Yes, sir!"

"You okay with this?" Matt asked them anxiously. "We didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Abuelo’s getting very cranky. Jenny and I can bunk on the couch or even throw a few blankets on the floor in a pinch."

"Fine with us!" Mina said.

"You're not just saying that?"

"We're delighted to have you," Willa assured him. "We’ve got plenty of beds for you all. The more the merrier, at this point! Having a little extra company will keep our minds off of—well, everything."

The Sheriff left, and Jake locked the door behind him. Willa helped Serafin hobble into the sitting room.

"He’s sulking," Jenny whispered to Willa. "Says he feels awful. His blood sugar is fine—better than usual, even—so the doctor says it’s probably just stress, but Matt and I are worried. It would be just like him to drop dead of a heart attack at the worst possible moment."

Mina pulled up an armchair for Serafin and found an afghan for his lap. He frowned, looking around.

"Where is my little Darlene?"

Mina tucked the afghan in around the edges and gave his cheek a playful pat.

"With Pilky, at the hospital. Try Kyle, he's a sweetheart."

"No, thank you. The good Kyle may stay where he is. I only want the little one, the striped Darlene. She loves me, that one."

"She loves everyone. Mmm, I love your cologne," Mina said candidly. "It's very floral—notes of citrus, as well."

"It is only Old Spice," he said, pleased.

Willa handed Serafin a cushion for his back and sniffed the air, gingerly. Smelled more like Fruit Loops to her. Serafin had probably been raiding Jenny and Matt's cereal cupboard in the B&B's breakfast room.

"Get comfortable," Mina told everyone. "Take off your shoes and stay a while! Glad you're here. Willa and I might be at each other’s throats, otherwise. Cabin fever, and all that. Nothing I like better than entertaining, especially when it’s with such good neighbors. Don’t have much to eat, though. Hope you like olive loaf."

"We were scared stiff to stay at home," Jenny told Mina, frankly. "You’re doing us the favor. And I’m sure we can get some food delivered. In fact, it’s on us. We’ll pay for everything. Don’t, er, cook anything on our behalf. You guys have already been through so much."

Willa suspected Jenny’s offer to cover the catering for this house party from hell was less about gratitude for the hospitality and more about saving her stomach from the horrors of olive loaf.

"This week has certainly turned out different than I hoped," Mina said, glumly. "Not that I don't enjoy a good old-fashioned country-house murder mystery! But being shot at is not as fun as I thought it would be."

Matt gave her an odd look.

"You thought this would be fun? I’ve got a stress ulcer from the possibility that one of our guests is a killer. It was bad enough when that Duane guy ended up dead. Now that there are firearms involved and dangerous criminals on the lam, I wish I was a hundred miles away."

"Why don’t you guys take off?" Willa whispered, pulling Jenny slightly aside. "Your sister lives down in Santa Rosa, right? Close the inn and go stay with her for a while. Jake and the Sheriff will make sure nothing happens to the house. And it’s not like The Three Hounds will reopen anytime soon."

She gulped. It was going to cost a fortune to replace that giant window in the front…let alone overcome all the bad juju from having a murder and a shooting there in the same week. People could forgive one or the other, but both? The bakery might be in serious trouble.

"That’s what we want to do, but Serafin refuses to leave," Jenny said, rolling her eyes. "And Matt won’t cross him. He’s our only investor, you know."

"I don’t understand," Willa replied, looking over at Serafin, who seemed very out of sorts. "Why is he so determined to stay? It’s not like this is his home. He’s just visiting."

"Don’t ask me! He’s a stubborn old bear, sometimes. He had some kind of weird connection to the guy that died. Don't get me wrong, Serafin talks to anyone he comes across—waitresses, baristas, mail carriers, gas station employees. He thinks everyone is his personal friend. But this seems different. He keeps muttering about things Duane told him, and conversations they had. It’s almost like…"

Jenny’s eyes grew abstracted.

"Like what?"

"It’s like he feels responsible for it," Jenny said, laughing a little at the absurdity of the statement.

"How could he be responsible?"

"Go figure! Matt thinks it’s a cultural thing. We extended hospitality to Duane Fripp, and he died on ‘our watch.’ Serafin feels like he failed as a host, I guess."

"You don't think he knows something he's not telling?" Willa asked.

Serafin did seem off his feed, and more beaten down than she'd seen before.

"No," said Jenny, firmly. "Anything Serafin knows, wants to know, or even thinks he knows spills out immediately, whether you want to hear it or not."

Willa watched as Mina helped Serafin put his feet up on the recliner, made him more comfortable with another cushion, and brought him a large glass of water.

"Well, now what?" said Mina, cheerfully.

She was really in her element now. A house full of people to whom she could lay down the law and an interesting mystery to solve. Mina was the only person having a good time, however. Serafin was drawn and gray, and Matt kept peeking through the windows, muttering about potential shoot-outs and the cost of getting blood out of new carpet.

Even the dogs were on edge. To Willa, it felt like the calm before the storm.

This must have been what it was like during the air raids in London, she thought, looking around at the odd assortment of people, all of them braced for the worst. She wondered how long they’d have to stay cooped up in this house, waiting for Tad or Danica to be captured. She was no longer particularly worried about her personal safety. There was no way someone was breaking in here to kill her—not with the uniforms on guard out front, and Jake in here.

But tempers were going to get strained inside before long.

The Rifle

The afternoon wore on. No one felt much like playing games, and even Mina stopped trying to create a party atmosphere after a while.

Serafin fell asleep more or less instantly, and there was nothing for the others to do but sit in the house, eat cake, fidget, make small talk, and hope that someone would call or radio Jake soon with better news.

The news, when it came, wasn't good.

"They just caught up with Tad outside of Eureka," Jake said, returning from the upstairs linen closet, where he had taken a call from the Sheriff. "They're bringing him back to Klamath County for questioning, but Gary says he's acting cagey."

"Any sign of Danica?"

"No, and Tad swears he doesn't know where she is. They parted ways shortly after leaving the Hounds. He says he went down to the harbor to walk on the pier and have a smoke, and that Danica was going to grab a snack at Doyle's while they waited for the local news people to finish up with you. He heard the gunfire and the screaming—the pier is only a couple blocks from The Hounds—and panicked. Took F street all the way back up to Sequoia, avoiding the downtown section, got in his car, and drove away as fast as he could go."

"Why, though?"

"He claims he was scared of Danica. Said she was, and I quote, 'capable of anything,' and jealous of Steve's continued fascination with you."

"What's going to happen to him?"

"He's going to join Steve in a holding cell until we can get this figured out. He didn't have any firearms on him, but he could easily have ditched the gun anywhere between here and Fortuna, which is where they found him—gassing up and preparing to get the heck out of Dodge."

Jake's radio crackled with a message and there was a quick rap at the back door. He opened it to let in a uniformed officer.

"Warrant came through for Ms. Joliff's car," he said, his eyes darting from Jake to Willa, unsure whether to be explicit.

"And?"

The officer stepped back outside, beckoning Jake after him. Willa followed, curious to see what was up. A policewoman stood next to the open trunk of Danica's car. She held a rifle aloft so Jake could see it.

"Been fired recently," she called. "Going by smell, at least."

"It was Danica?" breathed Willa, almost too shocked to speak.

"Looks that way," Jake agreed.

Jake sent Willa back inside so he could speak privately with the two officers. He returned shortly with a grim expression.

"I'm going next door with Officer Phelps," he said. "She and I are going to search Danica's room—see if there are clues to where she may have gone. We're setting up a trace on her phone as well. I'm leaving Garrison on duty out front just in case Danica tries to return. But I think this is over now, Willa. Danica overplayed her hand and backed herself into a corner. She can't come back here, and she probably knows we're on to her. She's almost certainly hiding somewhere in town, but she may be trying to hitch a ride down by the highway. We're bringing in several more officers to help with a manhunt, but I can safely promise you this will be over by nightfall. She's got nowhere to go."

"Why did she come back up here to stash the rifle in her car?" Willa asked, puzzled. "Why not get in and drive away?"

Jake shrugged.

"Maybe she saw Jenny or Matt in the window and didn't want to risk it. Or maybe she knew we'd be looking for her car and decided to hike out on foot."

"Or maybe Tad's the one who hid the rifle in her car, hoping to pin it on her."

Willa had a hard time believing Danica would hate her enough to want to kill her. Not after they had made a cake together. For two non-chefs, that felt like the equivalent of the trenches. They were comrades in arms now. Or in the culinary arts, at least.

What's more, Danica had really saved her hide in that interview. She could have stood by and watched Willa drown in a sea of sweat and garbled phrases, rejoicing when Jessica St. Clair made mincemeat of her and baked her into a lovely Christmas pie. Who wouldn't like to see their biggest professional rival gobbled up on national television? More sales for Fiona Fudge, and a nice high profile for Danica Joliff!

But she'd stepped in and spoken for Willa. She'd extended a true mantle of friendship. To throw that away now seemed odd. And for what—Steve? Steve wasn't worth fighting over. He was nothing—a cardboard cutout impersonating a man. Whereas Danica was beautiful, talented, vibrant, smart, funny. She wouldn't fight to the death for a knock-off Ken doll. It was much easier to believe that old Ribbets McGee had turned treacherous and was trying to frame his client.

Plenty of women are taken in by the Steves of the world, Willa reminded herself. You were.

She didn't know Danica well. And the other woman's decision to step in and shut down a toxic interview may have been mere self-preservation. Who would want to be seen on TV with a drooling idiot covered in dachshunds? Or worse still, it might have been a cold and calculated move to throw Willa off her guard.

"Tad's way more likely to be a killer," Willa told Jake, trying to believe it.

"It's still possible," Jake agreed. "I'm in no hurry to jump to conclusions. If it was Tad, he's safe in custody now. But we need to find Danica to settle this for good. You okay holing up here a little while longer? I'll be gone ten minutes, tops."

"Go," she said. "You have my blessing. The sooner we get this figured out, the less likely it is I'll spend the evening playing parlor games and eating old lunch meat. No one's going to hurt me in the next ten minutes. I've got the dogs, and Mina, and Matt and Jenny, and the guy on duty outside. I'd like to see someone try to get in here, that's all."

Jake flinched slightly.

"What?" Willa asked.

"That had a 'famous last words' quality about it," he said, smiling crookedly at her. "I have a policy against tempting fate."

Willa shook a little salt out of the shaker on the table, pinched it, and threw it over her left shoulder.

"There," she said. "Fate sorted."

Willa went back into the sitting room to fill the others in on everything that had transpired. Serafin was still fast asleep.

"It's good he can't hear this," Matt said, watching his grandfather with a kind of exasperated affection. "He's been way too excitable lately. His 'symptoms' and complaints have stepped up, and it's almost too much for Jenny and I to handle. What do you do with someone who's convinced they're dying all the time?"

"Tell him to stuff it and grow up," Mina suggested. "Or better still, take him seriously. Buy his coffin, and store it at the house. Start asking him what hymns he wants at his funeral. That'll shut him up pretty quick."

Matt grinned at her.

"You try it. If we do, we'll pay for it. I'm already worried he'll decide on a whim to withdraw his money and put it somewhere else. Now that we've got one dead houseguest and have been unwittingly hosting a killer, he may decide to pull the plug on the Seawind for good. He's been worse than ever since we found Duane. Touchy—jumpy—more squirrelly than ever. If you ask me, it's wounded pride."

"How so?"

"How dare someone kill his friend—that kind of stuff. Nevermind that he only knew Duane for a couple of days. He'd acting like someone murdered his father."

Matt grinned again, amused by the thought, but Willa felt a prickle of unease. Why was Serafin taking this so hard? Did the old man have a legitimate reason to feel guilty about Duane's death—one that did not involve a breach of hospitality? Her eyes drifted toward the gold-topped cane and she remembered that Duane had been killed by a heavy blow to the back of the head…

"He's gonna pull his money out and leave us high and dry," Jenny groaned. "I can feel it in my bones."

"Serafin's no dummy," said Mina. "He knows a good investment when he sees one. He may be a bit of a hypochondriac, but he's intelligent. He won't let a little thing like this affect his business judgment."

"A little thing?" Jenny repeated, amused. "A murdered man and his murderer, staying under our roof? A bakery with a corpse in the freezer and a shot-out window? I love you, Mina, but you're not a normal person."

"Thank you," replied the old woman, pleased. "Stop fussing so much, Jenny. None of this has been pleasant, I grant you. But you can make the most of it. People love haunted B&Bs. They eat it up—pay extra to sleep with the ghosts! Play up the murder angle in your literature! Charge a thousand bucks extra for the carriage house."

"Duane Fripp didn't die there!"

"So? You don't have to mention that little fact. That house is over a hundred years old. Someone must have died there. Do the whole ghost thing, and I guarantee you'll sell out every week. You'll make enough to hire a helper for Matt full-time, and you can give your undivided attention to the bakery. I fully intend to capitalize on what's happened at The Three Hounds."

"We are not going to run a 'haunted bakery,'" Willa said, alarmed.

Mina was fully capable of donning a sheet and chains and gliding through The Three Hounds while people were trying to order.

"Of course not. People don't want ghosts amongst their coffee and krullers. But we can use this murder momentum to redecorate, rebrand, and throw a grand re-opening ceremony! Think of it, Willa. Press galore. Everyone loves an underdog story, and everyone loves a fresh start. Speaking of a fresh start, my coffee needs refreshing. Let's give Serafin a little peace and quiet. Come on back to the kitchen, everyone. I'll make a fresh pot."

Willa pulled Jenny aside once more.

"Where was Serafin on Friday afternoon?"

Jenny frowned in thought.

"I don't know. When I got home, I went straight to work on cleaning the third floor guest rooms. I didn't see Matt or Serafin until supper time, and we eat late. Why?"

"I can't shake the feeling that he may know something pertinent to the case."

"Don't overthink it, Willa. Like I said before, if he saw anything remotely juicy, he'd be giving nightly reenactments in the parlor."

Willa let it go, though a pit had begun to form in her gut, and she felt that creeping sense of inevitability beginning to lurk behind her once more—the presence of something dark and evil.

No one is here but us, you loon, she told herself. No killers, no bodies. You're becoming morbid. What you need is a little pick-me-up.

At first, the coffee seemed to lift the mood. But time marched on, and Jake's ten minutes swiftly turned into fifteen and then twenty. After thirty minutes had gone by, Willa's nerves—already heightened by too much caffeine—were frayed to a nub. She jumped at every little noise, and the dogs—picking up on her anxiety—were becoming restless as well. Kyle kept making irritating whining noises under his breath, and Killer and Wags began running in circles, ears flapping in the breeze. Unable to stand the edgy atmosphere, Mina chose to focus her nervous energy on practical matters.

"You're handy, aren't you, Matt?" she asked, giving the young man a canny look.

"Reasonably," he said. "I try to fix most things at the inn myself."

"I've got a window upstairs that won't open, no matter what I do. The lock mechanism is jammed or something. Care to take a look? We might as well do something while we're doing nothing!"

Matt agreed, glad to have a task. The two went upstairs, leaving Jenny and Willa alone with the dogs.

"I love the boys," said Jenny, watching Wags and Killer make their twentieth lap around the kitchen island, "but they are driving me nuts. Don't they ever get tired?"

"They'll stop if we give them something better to do. Let's feed them," Willa suggested. "It's almost mealtime for them, anyway. Come on back to the laundry room with me. If you grab the kibble, I'll get their food bowls and water dishes and bring them out here. They like a little company while they dine."

Jenny followed Willa back to the large, modern laundry room at the back of the house, where the dogs slept at night. Willa opened the door and went in, noticing with only half her mind that the window was ajar.

"The bag of kibble is under the counter there," she told Jenny, bending down to pick up Kyle's bowl.

Jenny did not answer. She was too busy gaping at the small alcove behind the door, where Danica Joliff stood glaring at them.

Willa dropped the metal water bowl; it rolled under the sink, hitting the drainpipe with a ringing clang.

Danica had flattened herself against the wall behind the door. Her normally immaculate hair was wild, and her face stained with tears and mud. The TV makeup had run, and the smudged black of her mascara and eyeliner mixed with the bright red blush on her cheekbones, making her look almost insane. She had a butcher knife in one hand, and the other was pointing at the two women.

"You?" she hissed. "Step back! That's right, further in. Don't make a move or a sound, or I swear I'll use this."

"Danica," said Willa, putting up her hands and trying to stay calm. "It's okay. We don't want to hurt you. We want to help."

There was a protracted silence as Danica's eyes darted from one woman to the other. The dogs nosed the intruder's dirty slacks politely and then looked up at Willa, irritated that no kibble was forthcoming. They did not seem worried in the slightest that an armed madwoman was threatening their mistress. Wags woofed reproachfully, but his mind was clearly on food. He nosed his bowl in Willa's direction.

"Give me the knife, and we can figure this out," Willa said, throwing Wags a dirty look.

Of all the times to think about food! Attack! she signaled silently, but the dogs didn't pick up what she was putting down. Kyle, who decided no lunch was coming, trotted out of the laundry room, bored with the whole thing. Wags followed. Only Killer remained, cherishing hopes that someone might give him something to eat. He nosed Danica's ankles again as if this wild, bedraggled woman might have a bone or two rolled up in the cuffs of her pants.

"Drop the knife and let us help," Jenny pleaded.

"I want to help you, Danica," Willa said.

"Help? You want to help?"

Danica began laughing helplessly, hysterically, and she ended with a sob.

"You can't help, you absolute monster," she shrieked. "How could you do it? How could you do that to him?"

The image of Steve and Danica canoodling at the breakfast table ran through Willa's brain. So this was about Steve. How disappointing. Willa didn't particularly want to die, but there was something particularly galling about dying on behalf of Steven Joyce. Next to her, Jenny began shaking uncontrollably.

"I never meant to hurt Steve," Willa began. "I don't know what he told you, but he's the one who cheated on me, Danica—not the other way around. I don't want him. And he doesn't want me, I assure you. You can have him."

"Please, leave us alone," Jenny said.

She was shaking so hard now that Willa worried she might faint.

"Shut up!" Danica hissed, holding out the knife. "You won't get away with this. Get back, Willa. Over in the corner."

"Don't hurt her!" Jenny sobbed. "Please."

"Willa, I swear, if you don't move back, I'll—"

Danica did not have a chance to finish her threat. Serafin Ortiz appeared in the doorway behind her. He raised his gold-topped cane and struck, all feebleness gone.

Danica fell to the ground, senseless.

"I told you this would come in handy," crowed Serafin, extremely pleased with himself.

The Cane

Willa never could remember exactly what happened next. Shock, relief, horror, and amusement blended together to create quite an effective memory loss drug for her.

She recalled seeing a trickle of blood run down Danica's unconscious face, and Serafin holding his cane aloft, hooting with triumph. She remembered Matt Ortiz's mingled shock and pride when he saw that his aged grandfather had saved the day. She could pull up, with perfect detail, Mina's terrified look when she found them standing there in the laundry room, and Jake's white and frozen demeanor when he ran in minutes later, to take charge of the situation.

Everything else was a total blank. She didn't know who called the ambulance to take Danica away, or who led her back into the kitchen, plying her with sugary tea and a warm blanket to stop her shivering.

"I don't understand," she said, over and over. "I don't understand."

"There's nothing to understand," Mina said, holding her close and rubbing her back to calm her body. "You were in danger, and now you're not. Thank God for Serafin."

"I told you there was nothing wrong with you, Abuelo!" Matt said, virtually bursting with pride. "You're as strong as an ox, and twice as brave! Wait until Mom hears about this! Abuelo to the rescue!"

Serafin accepted all the praise gladly, though Willa noted he looked exhausted and haggard. Single-handedly catching a killer was a big ask for anyone. For an octogenarian hypochondriac, it was beyond impressive. She felt silly now that she had suspected him of anything more than a natural interest in Duane's passing. He was just a tired old man who needed to feel useful. This might be enough to keep him going for a good, long while.

Jake, who had gone outside to make some calls and speak with the Sheriff, returned to the kitchen now, grinning.

"Well, I gotta hand it to you, Serafin. You really came through. We're going to have to get you a badge, one of these days! You really walloped her good, too. Doctors say she's got a massive concussion."

"I will face the consequences," Serafin said grandly. "I will take my punishment for the assault."

"No one is charging you with anything," Jake said, stifling a grin. "She had a weapon. You were defending two unarmed women and yourself. You're a hero."

"I am a hero!" Serafin repeated, straightening his shoulders.

The Ortizs went home shortly afterward. Mina helped Willa upstairs, where she fell into bed, exhausted in body and mind. She still didn't understand why Danica had done any of it, or how she had pulled it off. But that could wait for another time. Just before she drifted off, she wondered why the dogs hadn't barked to warn them that Danica was hiding there. And why they hadn't bothered to defend her. They're off their game, she thought, drowsily. Getting slack. Gotta have a little talk with them…

She fell asleep and slept hard, lost in oblivion.

When she awoke, it was almost dark outside, and she had a splitting headache. Reaching up automatically, she felt the sea of bobby pins digging into her scalp and cursed the Chipmunk once more. It was going to take hours to pull them all out. She heard a car pull up to the house and stood drowsily to peer out her bedroom window. Jake's squad car was below, and he was helping an elderly man step out of it. Mr. Pilkington looked up, caught her eye, and waved. She waved back, delighted, and ran downstairs to greet him. Hairpin extraction could wait.

"Hello there, Sleeping Beauty," said Mina, meeting her in the entryway. "Feeling better?"

"Definitely. I don't know why I was so tired, but I must have been out for hours."

"Shock," said Mina, matter-of-factly. "You had a terrible experience. Bodies shut down when bad things happen. Defense mechanism. I had a good long nap myself, and I'll wager Serafin will be asleep until tomorrow. Didn't know he had it in him! Well, I'm proud of both of you. But we've got more important things to do now. Pilky's home!"

Mina threw open the door and Jake helped Mr. Pilkington step over the threshold; even his trusty walking stick couldn’t support his trembling legs. She looked on, wringing her hands. She had been desperately worried about her dearest friend, though she wouldn’t have admitted it for anything.

"Clean bill of health?" Mina asked, as Jake gently deposited Mr. Pilkington on the softest chair in the sitting room.

"They said I was fit for action," Mr. Pilkington said, attempting to appear chipper. "Just a little scare and nothing a good sleep and a hot bath can’t cure."

"Hullo, Darlene," Willa said, picking up the dachshund and giving her a quick cuddle. She set her down to join Kyle, Killer, and Wags in a romp around the sitting room. "Looks like she's happy to be home."

"She's just a happy girl," he replied, smiling. "She was equally delighted to be at the hospital, I assure you. They made such a fuss of her there! Did Jake tell you the news?"

"That she really is a service dog? Yeah. That's crazy! Maybe Mina is psychic!"

"It's the least crazy thing that's happened this week," Mina said severely. "You scared me to death, Pilky. Don't ever do something like that again. My heart can't take it."

"It sounds like you had much worse adventures after I left," Mr. Pilkington said, scolding her right back. "I was horrified when Jacob told me what happened. I confess, I am disappointed in the outcome. My money was on our Mr. Toad as the killer. I liked Ms. Joliff. It is unpleasant to think that all this time, she harbored such a hatred in her breast for Willa. Sour grapes, I presume? She suspected her boyfriend still carried a torch for you and wanted to remove the competition?"

"That's what it sounded like," said Willa, uncertainly. "But I've got to think there's a component of mental illness. She must have known I wasn't a threat to her relationship."

"I'm curious what she'll say when she wakes up," Jake said. "This may all be about sales when it boils down."

"I hope not. Poor Duane. Being killed for love, however misguided, seems better than being killed for cold, hard cash and a competitive advantage."

"I can't think it matters much to Duane," Mina said.

Willa sighed, depressed.

"Maybe you're right. Stay there," Willa told Mr. Pilkington. "Don’t move an inch. I’ll be back with a cup of tea and a crossword for you. Aunt Mina, make sure he doesn’t lift a toe off the ground until I’m back."

"On it," said Mina, adjusting a pillow behind the old man’s back.

When Willa left, she was sitting on the edge of Mr. Pilkington's chair, holding his hand. Jake followed her back into the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" he asked, once they had cleared the door. "That was quite the ordeal."

"I'm fine," she said. "It will just take a while to regain my equilibrium. This day has been horrifically long and eventful. First the interviews, then the shooting, then Danica showing up with a knife! I've had enough excitement for a year. Two years. You know what—that's enough excitement for a lifetime. I'll be happy if nothing ever happens again, and the rest of my life is spent breathing and eating, like an amoeba."

"You've been through the wringer."

"Well, it could have been a lot worse. I'm alive, right?"

"No thanks to me! This feels like my fault," Jake said, sitting down heavily on the window seat with a stricken face. "I should never have left you."

"How could you have known Danica was hiding in here? She must have broken in before we even returned from the bakery."

"Still my fault. I should have secured the house."

"Don't beat yourself up. I blame the dogs more than I blame you," she said, looking daggers at Kyle, Killer, and Wags. "There she was, wielding a knife in my face, and all you boys could do was sniff her and whine for food? Shame on all three of you!"

Kyle had the grace to look slightly chastened, but the only thing Killer heard was 'food,' and Wags yawned at her, brazenly.

"They should turn in their dachshund badges," Jake teased her, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it.

He was taking this hard.

"I've heard them yap more at the mailman!" she said. "Cheer up, Jake. Everything is okay. I'm fine, Jenny's fine, and Serafin will dine out on this for the rest of his life. Now he'll have something better to talk about than his many ailments! A real story of heroism trumps a list of fake symptoms any day. Jenny's convinced all his complaining is just a cry for attention. Well, now he has something to be proud of and a legitimate reason to hog everyone's attention for years to come."

"Maybe you're right," Jake said, trying to smile. "Well, I've got a mountain of paperwork ahead of me. If you don't mind, I'll leave Mr. Pilkington in your capable hands and head back to the Station. You're in no danger now. Oh, and will you return Serafin's cane to him? I took it with me in case we wanted it for evidence, but Gary said there's no need. We have a clear picture of what happened and two eyewitnesses. There won't be any debate about what he used to subdue Danica. It's in my car—I'll grab it for you on my way out."

"I'll return it right now," Willa said. "I suspect Mina and Pilky would like a little privacy, anyway. And maybe Jenny and I can make a plan to reopen the bakery."

She followed Jake out to his car, Killer, Kyle, Wags, and Darlene in tow, and took the cane. Then she walked slowly up to the front door of the Seawind, dogs at her heels. Her phone rang just before she reached for the knocker, and she stopped to answer it, pleased she was getting reception up on the hill for once.

"Ms. Lattner?" said a strange voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, that's me."

"My name is Geri Billings—I'm a nurse up at St. Denis's. You're listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. Daniel Pilkington. I couldn't reach Mr. Pilkington by phone so I thought I'd try you."

"He just got home, but our cell service is notoriously bad. What can I help you with?"

"The doctor wants to make sure he doesn't need refills on his insulin. We realized just after he left that we hadn't updated his chart and we don't know who his primary doctor is. We like to make sure people have good home care."

"Insulin?" Willa repeated. "I think there might be a mix-up somewhere. Pilky's not diabetic."

"Are you sure?" said the nurse, doubtfully.

"Positive. I know him very well. He certainly does not take insulin."

"Why does he have a diabetic alert dog?"

"Oh!" Willa said, and began laughing. "You mean Darlene?"

Darlene looked up and wagged her tail.

"We had no idea she was a diabetic alert dog. We didn't even know she was a service dog until today. He got her from a shelter."

"A shelter? Well, that explains it," said the nurse, laughing a little as well. "Gosh, she's sweet. He's lucky to have her. We knew her as Peaches. Her owner had Type 1 diabetes, and it wasn't well-managed. Peaches—Darlene—was there to alert him when his blood sugar spiked or dropped. Poor old guy. He didn't have any family. We wondered what happened to her when he died, but we assumed a family member took her and passed her on to someone else. Okay, well, never mind! I'll let the doctor know he's all set—no insulin needed."

"Thanks," said Willa, and hung up.

She stood at the front entrance to the Seawind, struck by a sudden thought. She rapped quickly on the door. Jenny answered after a moment, startled to see all four dogs and Willa standing there with Serafin's cane.

"Come on in," she said, welcoming Willa and the doxies into the foyer. "Matt took Serafin out to get supplies in Eureka. There's a specialty Latin grocery store there and he wants to make us an authentic Costa Rican dinner tonight. A feast, to—to celebrate, you know. I don't feel much like celebrating myself."

"I know what you mean. I just got up from a marathon nap," Willa said. "But I still feel pretty awful."

"Serafin's treating it all like a big joke and enjoying himself. Well, he wasn't the one who had a knife waved in his face," said Jenny, with a touch of resentment. "I don't think my pulse has slowed down since it happened."

"You should get some rest," Willa said, sympathetically. "You've been burning the candle at both ends. I just stopped by to return Serafin's cane. Jake says they don't need it for evidence. You and I were both there and can say exactly what happened."

Jenny took the cane, shuddering, and Willa hastened to reassure her.

"It's okay, Jenny. Truly. There's no blood on it or anything. It's good as new, for when Serafin gets back. Speaking of which," said Willa, her brow wrinkling, "I just got the weirdest call. The hospital where Pilky was admitted just called to ask if he needed an insulin refill."

Jenny dropped the cane and it fell with a clatter to the floor, narrowly missing Wags, who skittered away like a cockroach.

"What do you mean?" Jenny said. "He's not diabetic, is he?"

"No. But it turns out Darlene is a diabetic alert dog! Can you believe it? They saw her with him and drew the wrong conclusion."

"Funny," said Jenny, absently stooping to pick up the cane.

"That's what I thought at first. Just a funny coincidence. But then I remembered how Darlene has been all over Serafin the last few days. Licking him, nudging him, pawing him all over. She won't leave him alone! What if she's—I don't know—sensing something off with his blood sugar? I know you said it's well-controlled, but dogs are extra sensitive. She may be onto something you and Serafin haven't detected yet. You know best, of course, but I think Serafin may need extra bloodwork. Maybe your home glucose monitor isn't working anymore."

Jenny remained slightly crouched with her back to Willa—as still as a statue.

"Jenny?" Willa said, concerned.

Suddenly, Jenny swooped down, grabbed the cane, and whirled around. Her face was red with fear and fury as she gazed at Darlene.

"You stupid little wiener," she said, breathing hard. "I hate dogs."

Willa stepped back in alarm, nearly tripping over Kyle and Killer. Darlene trotted behind Willa's legs with Wags, peeking her head out every few seconds to yap.

"What's going on?" Willa asked stupidly.

She began edging her way toward the door, but Jenny brandished the cane in her face.

"Not so fast," Jenny said, her voice trembling with emotion. "Sit down—right there, in that chair. Don't try to run or—or—I will split you open with this thing. You saw what it did to Danica when an eighty-year-old weakling swung it."

She gave it an experimental whoosh, narrowly missing Willa's nose.

"Hey, watch it!" Willa cried.

"You watch it. Sit down, or I'll take your head off, Willa. I swear I will."

The Killer

Willa's head spun, and she tripped on Wags, trying to find a foothold.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

Silently, Jenny scanned the room, her face brightening after a few seconds.

"I knew I saw cuffs here!" said Jenny, marching over to an end table and triumphantly brandishing a pair of silver handcuffs. She seemed genuinely excited to share this win with Willa, as though they were still decorating donuts at The Three Hounds. "The Henderson kid left them the last time he was in the house. Why did they give him a badge? That guy would forget his head if it wasn't permanently glued to his neck."

She smiled, inviting Willa to laugh with her. Then—remembering what was actually happening, her grin faded. She tried to move the barking Killer out of the way with her foot and pushed too hard. He yelped in pain.

"Hey! Leave him alone!"

"I barely touched him," Jenny protested. "Look how fat he is! He wouldn't even feel a bullet."

Willa's heart skipped a beat at the word "bullet" and her vision went partially black from fear and anger. She let the anger take over, figuring she'd need it to get through this. If Jenny hurt the dogs, she'd—she'd—well, she'd do something.

"Turn around—hands behind your back," Jenny said brusquely.

Willa stared at her. This was like something from one of the worst Violet Valentines, except—no, this was way cheesier. Handcuffs? For real? She pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming and winced. Handcuffs or no handcuffs, this was real life. She considered refusing to comply, but—afraid of what Jenny might do to her or the dogs with that cane—Willa eventually turned and put her wrists together. Jenny clicked the cuffs into place and shoved Willa roughly down onto an armchair.

"Stay there while I think a minute."

"No way!" said Willa, springing up again.

She may have let herself be cuffed, but she wasn't going to be shoved around as well. Jenny's face darkened with anger and a wave of panic.

"Sit down," she commanded, her voice breaking with fear. "Try to get up, and I'll—I'll split you open."

Willa remained standing, eyeing the cane. There was no way Jenny was actually going to hit her with that thing. Not sweet, reasonable Jenny. This couldn't actually be happening. She must be in some kind of weird stress dream. She pinched herself again and muttered ouch.

Jenny frowned at her.

"I'm serious. Serafin had this special made—the top is heavy as heck and you saw what it did to Danica. And Duane."

She swung it through the air again menacingly.

"Are you crazy?" Willa said, sitting down at once. She didn't want that thing anywhere near her head. But she was angrier now, and she let her fury lead the way. "You killed Duane?"

"You're really something, Willa, you know that?" Jenny snapped. "Everyone acts like you're a creative genius, but at the end of the day, you can't even—ugh. I told Matt you weren't smart enough to write those books. I told him you had a ghostwriter. He didn't believe me."

"I don't have a ghostwriter!" Willa retorted indignantly.

"Liar! Just—just shut up and let me think!"

Willa noticed, almost absently, that Jenny had cuffed her palms facing together, and not outward. Amateur, she thought. The police knew how to do it right. It was near impossible to get out of cuffs if your palms weren't touching.

If they were, though…

Hmm. Could she pick the lock? Maybe, she thought, trying not to get her hopes up. She'd spent hours practicing with cuff locks at one time. But that was years ago, and it had been a mere exercise—a fun research project for her books. Whereas this was real life, with real stakes. She didn't have unlimited hours to tinker, and no smooth-voiced YouTuber talking through the process this time. Plus, she'd need something more than her wits to pick the lock. Her eyes darted about the room, looking for a safety pin. A toothpick. Anything long and thin. Heck, she'd have welcomed a stick of uncooked pasta at this point.

Nothing.

Jenny's sitting room was immaculate, of course. No loose nail files. No lovely, open safety pins. Not a strand of spaghetti to be seen.

Willa blinked back a couple of hot tears, feeling gutted. Nothing was going right today. The whole ordeal with Danica—the shooting—and that horrible gotcha interview. She should never have agreed to any of it! Here she was, about to die, and her last morning on earth was spent in the indignity of the hair-and-make-up chair, receiving backhanded compliments from a Chipmunk who yanked her curls up like carrots and tried fruitlessly to tame her mane with painful, poky hairpins.

Hairpins. Silently begging the Chipmunk's pardon, Willa sat up straighter in her chair. This could work.

Technically.

It was possible, if not probable. She gave herself about a five percent chance of pulling it off before Jenny brained her with the cane. Five percent wasn't great, but it was better than nothing. Sure, worming out of handcuffs while a villain monologued at you was a very Violet Valentine-y thing to do, but tropes were tropes for a reason. She might as well try it.

"Don't hurt me, Jenny," she said, forcing herself to snivel. "Please, don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you say."

She leaned against the chair, closing her eyes and letting some of the already-formed tears roll down her cheeks. Carefully, she rubbed her head against the back of the chair. Nothing happened. Those pins weren't going anywhere.

The Chipmunk had known her business.

Unwilling to give up, she began moving her head back and forth, like a cat rubbing up against a scratching post. I must look insane, she thought, and noticed with relief that Jenny was frowning at the floor.

Willa smashed her head into the leather for what seemed like an eternity until at last, one of the bobby pins shook free. It slid along the back of the chair and landed on the seat cushion behind her. She shifted slightly so she could sit on it without Jenny noticing. Killer, Kyle, and Wags—fearful and worried—trotted over by her feet and stood guard, growling and occasionally letting out a sharp woof. Now that there was real danger, they were on alert. Darlene crawled under the chair, whining.

"Shut them up," Jenny said, a trifle hysterically.

"They're not trained seals, and I don't have any fish. They do as they please," Willa replied irritably, forgetting to be cowed and meek.

"Shut—them—up. Or else."

Lay it on thick this time, Willa chided herself. Think snively.

"Don't hurt them! They'll be good, I promise. But I don't understand what's happening," Willa said, faking a sob. She felt carefully around for the hairpin with the tips of her fingers while trying to keep the front of her body completely still. "Did you really kill Duane? Why? What did he ever do to you?"

Jenny glared at Willa, and she stopped feeling for the hairpin for a moment and let out another whimper, for good measure.

"You've never been poor, have you?" Jenny said, with contempt. "Yeah, I didn't think so. You had rich, suburban parents and an aunt down here rolling in money. And you make a mint from those books of yours, or so I hear. Must be nice to sit around all day, getting fat, eating whatever you want, and making money for doing nothing."

"Fat?!" said Willa, momentarily neglecting once more to appear hysterical.

"You weigh a lot more than I do," Jenny said, pointing at her own petite frame.

"I'm like a foot taller than you are!" Willa said, immediately kicking herself for this show of spirit.

This was no time to debate with Jenny over finer points like who outweighed who. She sniffed a few more times and hoped it was convincing. Jenny favored her with a contemptuous look.

"Oh, stop crying. And by all means, tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. I've seen how much cake you eat. You've got a problem, girl. You're spreading. You'll approach manatee territory soon if you're not careful. Some of us burn all our calories scrubbing floors and taking out the garbage and frying up someone else's donuts just to make ends meet. This is the first time in our married life Matt and I have had a cent and that's only because Serafin wanted to try out being a fairy godfather for a while. Any minute, he's going to snatch all that money back and all we'll have is a pile of debt, a house we can't pay for, and a dead business."

"He loves you guys," Willa protested, trying to move past the manatee comment.

She hadn't gained that much weight in Rome…

"Serafin loves himself, period. He treats us like indentured servants. Enough is enough, you know? A few weeks ago, Serafin told Matt he was leaving us most of his money. Matt just laughed it off. Last year Serafin's will had the money going to a nephew, and the year before that the whole pile was going to Matt's mom. We knew the old goat wouldn't keep the current will more than a few months before he tired of us and moved on to another family member—or lost his mind completely and left it all to charity."

Jenny walked over to the window to peek out the curtain and Willa felt for the hairpin once more. The tips of her fingers brushed against something hard and metallic, and she seized it eagerly. Breathe, she told herself. Easy does it.

Handcuff locks weren't too hard to pick if you knew the tricks. She'd done it before.

In your living room, said a spiteful little voice in her head. With unlimited time, no pressure, a bowl of popcorn, and Wendy and Guillermo cheering you on.

Shut it, she told the voice, sternly. This was no time for self-doubt. This was an occasion to let her ego run free, and she was going to indulge every shred of confidence she had, earned or not. If Violet Valentine could manage it, then surely she could too. She was way smarter than Violet. She ate Violet Valentine for breakfast. She could out-pick Violet any day, with any lock.

Even with fat little manatee fingers.

The Motive

"What does any of this have to do with Duane?" Willa asked.

She had a good grip on the hairpin now. This lock wasn't quite the same as the one she had practiced on, but she knew she could get it open eventually if she had enough time.

"Jake's car is gone," Jenny said, still watching out the window. "Where is he?"

"He went back to the station to file some paperwork."

"Who's home over there?"

"Just Mina and Pilky."

Jenny turned back toward Willa, relief over every feature.

"Good. That makes things easier," she said, letting out a big breath.

Willa could see, even from her seated position on the chair, that Jenny's hands were shaking. She's not used to being a bad guy, Willa thought.

"What were you saying, just now?" Jenny asked, rubbing her temples. "Something about Duane? I was sorry I had to—you know." She let out a long, shuddering sigh. "He actually was a pretty nice guy. But he got in the way."

"Of what?"

"Oh my gosh, don't you listen to anything? The money. That money was ours, rightfully. And we'd get it if Serafin would just—if nature would take its course before he changed his mind. I knew I couldn't just—kill—him," Jenny explained, wrinkling her nose when she said 'kill' like it was a dirty word. "People pay attention when someone dies right after they change their will—especially someone as rich as Serafin. His death would have to be natural."

"Hang on, what? You've been trying to get rid of Serafin? Ugh," said Willa, disgusted. "This is about you and Matt trying to earn a little extra cash?"

Jenny's face, which had been thoughtful, suddenly darkened.

"Matt doesn't know, and he never will. He actually likes Serafin. And he's not the type to take action. Nothing gets done unless I do it. Lucky for me," she said, bitterly, "that entitled old man expected me to be his nurse as well as his granddaughter, cook, maid, laundress, and landlady. Matt's squeamish around needles, so I had to do the insulin shots and the finger pokes and all that. And one day, when Serafin was being particularly insufferable, I started daydreaming about what would happen if I didn't give him the shots. Daydreams soon turned to plans, and plans to reality. I started slow—watered the insulin down, just to see what would happen."

"What happened?" asked Willa, curious despite herself.

"Not much. His numbers jumped around a little, but he was mostly fine. So I figured I'd have to stop them altogether."

"Didn't he or Matt notice you weren't giving him the injections?"

Willa trained her eyes on Jenny with polite attention, but her mind was on a slender hairpin and a tiny lock.

"Obviously, I was still giving him shots. There just wasn't anything in them but saline. He never bothered to learn how the glucose monitor worked, and neither did Matt. They just trusted me. So I kept saying everything was A-OK. The old man is such a hypochondriac—who was going to believe him if he started feeling off? His doctor doesn't take his calls, remember? No one listens to him. No matter how sick he got, I could always tell Matt things were fine. In another week, Serafin would have been too far gone to save. Just a nice, natural, peaceful death."

"Doesn't sound very natural to me."

"I didn't give him diabetes," Jenny snapped, defensively. "I just let things take their course."

"Withholding his insulin is exactly the same as poisoning him."

Jenny shook her head, as if trying to convince herself.

"Nuh-uh. His wonky pancreas is on him. Or God. Or evolution, or whatever. Not on me. I didn't give him diabetes. It's dog-eat-dog out there. Survival of the fittest, you know?"

Gathering courage, Darlene emerged from under the chair, hackles raised, and joined the boys in their orgy of barking.

"Dog-eat-dog?" repeated Willa, sarcastically. "That's garbage, and you know it. That's not how humans—or dogs—have survived through the years. We beat out other species because we travel in packs. We take care of each other."

"You think those dumb little sausage dogs care about anything but food? You think she," said Jenny, spitting in Darlene's direction, "actually cares about people with diabetes? You think she'd bat an eye if Serafin died? I don't. Service dogs are just circus freaks—trained to do a trick. And non-service dogs are worse. They take up space."

"What does this have to do with Duane? You can't exactly blame natural selection for his death, can you?"

Willa's finger slipped, and she dropped the hairpin. Drat, she thought, trying to keep her face as neutral as possible. Now she had to start all over again. She was letting anger get the best of her, and that five percent chance had shrunk to two or three…

"The weirdo sat at his window all day like Jimmy Stewart, watching people with the zoom lens of his camera. He looked into the windows here one morning and saw me emptying the insulin in the kitchen sink and filling the injections with saline. Apparently, he worked in a nursing home or something. He recognized the labels and figured out what I was doing. He took a bunch of pictures. And then he pulled me aside and told me he knew."

"Seriously?" said Willa, almost surprised enough to drop the hairpin again. "Why didn't he go to the police? Or talk to Serafin in person?"

"Duane was weird, but he was also nice," Jenny said, shrugging uncomfortably. "He didn't want Serafin to know about it—said it would break his heart. He liked the old coot. Go figure. And he felt bad for me. He knew I was trying to make ends meet. He worked with a lot of old guys like that, and understood how irritating they could be. He advised me to wait it out."

"And what did you say?"

"What could I say? I cried a lot—pretended I had temporarily lost my mind and begged him to have mercy. And he believed me. Said he wouldn't rat me out, as long as I went straight from then on. And if I would help him with a little project he was working on…"

Jenny smirked at her, and once again Willa had the odd sensation that they were buddies once more, just shooting the breeze…

"Of course! You made the cake," she gasped, genuinely astonished she hadn't seriously considered it before.

"Obviously. He was as clueless as you are in the kitchen."

"Did he tell you why he wanted to make it?"

"He gave me a lot of BS about you and Violet Valentine. He actually thought she was real, and you were like her biographer, or something. The cake was a warning message. Go figure. It was impossible to follow, and I didn't try, after a while. I do know he was convinced that people were trying to kill you. Lizard People in disguise. He said he saw one in town."

"Come again?"

Jenny frowned.

"Don't ask me what he meant by it. He said he saw a Lizard Person, and I didn't ask questions. Matt's sister is into that conspiracy stuff. I know from long experience there's no point arguing about it. You gotta just nod, smile, and play along. I pretended to be worried about you. I let him into the bakery after work that day and helped him bake and decorate the cake. And then I asked him to get me something from the freezer. I watched him move all the stuff out of the way and then I followed him in there with Serafin's cane…"

Jenny curled her lip at the recollection and turned a little green. Willa almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Serafin takes a three-hour siesta every afternoon, and I knew he wouldn't miss it. I slipped it back into his room before he woke up. The cops were never going to look for a murder weapon in an old guy's room. This thing is heavy," she said, looking down at the cane. "It didn't take much to knock Duane flat. After that, I pushed all the stuff back against the freezer, and ran back up the hill through the woods behind town. I snuck into the Seawind garden from the back gate that abuts the green space and retrieved the memory chip from Duane's camera."

"Why bother with the cake?" Willa said. "Why not just kill him here?"

She almost had the lock now. Just a few seconds more…

"I wasn't going to do it at the B&B!"

Jenny seemed unable to verbalize her actions. She was treating murder as though it was something not quite nice—a bathroom word.

"Say murder, Jenny. Just say you killed him."

Jenny pretended Willa hadn't spoken.

"Anyway, I didn't want to spotlight the Seawind. That would have thrown the focus on me and Matt right from the start. I figured if Duane was found at your bakery, making your recipe, he'd be your problem. I saw your picture all over the walls in his room. Serious stalker vibes. I was naive enough to think you might even be suspected. But your flight was late, and here we are."

Sweating from stress and exertion, fingers cramping and heart racing, Willa finally felt the small click of the handcuffs unlocking. She had done it! She had actually done it! Kyle's keen ears perked, and she hoped he wouldn't give the show away. Gingerly, she slipped her wrists free, debating her next move. Jenny still held the cane in her right hand, and she looked very capable of breaking Willa's teeth with it.

"Are you the one who shot out the bakery window?" Willa asked, hoping to buy herself some time.

"Of course."

"Why? Why not kill Duane and call it good?"

"I was going to, believe me. But then Serafin made his little dinner announcement about the other suspects. I wanted to strangle him at the time, but then I realized it was a gift. Besides, he was getting sicker, and I wanted to draw attention away from him—make sure people thought this whole thing was about you. What better way than to stage another near-death experience? I could have actually hit you, you know. I'm a good shot."

She paused and stared at Willa, as though waiting for a "thank you." Willa said nothing.

"I just wanted to scare everyone and throw a little more blame around—see if it would stick to anyone. Steve, Tad, Danica, whoever. In a pinch, I would even have thrown Serafin under the bus. That's why I used his cane in the first place. Emergency contingency. I planted a few seeds with you and other people, just in case I needed him to take the fall. If Danica hadn't fallen into my lap, I may even have resorted to a faked confession in a suicide note. He has been acting weird, and Matt would have bought it. Luckily, I didn't need to go that route. Danica made the perfect stoolie. And she left her trunk unlocked—come on, she was practically begging me to put the rifle there."

"You know you might have ruined her life, don't you?"

"So? Have you seen her? She's drop-dead gorgeous, skinny, successful, and rich. She already won the life lottery. I think she can handle a little heat from the cops. I had no idea she was going to show up with a knife, though. Yikes. I was never so glad to see Serafin in my whole life. He finally did something right. I hope that crazy chick never wakes up again."

"I don't understand!" Willa cried, genuinely frustrated. "If Danica wasn't the murderer, why was she hiding in my laundry room? Why did she try to kill us?"

Jenny shrugged.

"Don't know, don't care. I figured it was about that guy, Steve. I can't believe you dumped him. You must have brain damage. Men that wealthy and attractive don't come around all the time. And you aren't exactly Cleopatra—you were freaking lucky to land a guy like that."

"If you count bad luck. He's a monster, Jenny. You met him."

"So? What does that have to do with his money? If I could go back in time, I'd dig for gold and snag a rich older man. Don't get me wrong, I adore my husband—love him to pieces. But it sucks being poor. I hate it. Meanwhile, chunkos like you just stumble into wealthy guys and don't even realize how lucky you are."

"Stop talking about my weight," Willa said, coldly. "I'm not even—ugh, it doesn't matter. You don't get to be personally offended by the shape of my body. And what do you mean, poor? The bed-and-breakfast is always full, and you're charging six hundred a night! You guys must be cleaning up!"

"Cleaning up?" Jenny repeated with a bitter laugh. "You think I would spend my weekends making donuts for my neighbors if we were cleaning up? Every penny we earn is going to Matt's student loans right now. I wish he had gone to trade school, instead of trying for a four-year degree. We'd be happier now if he was a plumber."

"What now?" Willa asked Jenny, staying very still. Her only chance was to take the other woman completely off guard. "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I don't see what choice I have," Jenny said, running her hands through her dark hair. She began anxiously pacing the room. "I have to do it. Right? Yeah. Yeah. You know too much."

"I won't say anything," said Willa lamely.

She and Jenny both knew she was lying.

"I don't want to do it here," Jenny muttered. "Matt and Serafin might be back any minute. Dang it…what should I do?"

"You should let me go."

"Not gonna happen. I think we're going to have to take a little drive out to the Redwoods. Or—yeah—hear me out—there's a handy cliff at the end of the road."

"You're going to push me off a cliff?!"

"You don't have to put it like that," Jenny said, irritated. "That's not what it will look like to your family. Accidents happen, you know."

Willa blinked at the other woman's audacity.

"You're going to accidentally hurl me into the ocean? However will you manage to shift so much weight?" Willa said, sarcastically. "And how do you plan on explaining my disappearance? Tad, Steve, and Danica are all locked up or otherwise accounted for, remember? And Serafin is safe with Matt right now, thank God. Who are you going to blame for it this time?"

"I'll think of something," Jenny said, with a return of her natural cheerfulness. "Maybe we can cook up another suspect Duane didn't know about! You have any other literary rivals or ex-boyfriends? Know any real-life Lizard People?"

"I can't believe this," said Willa, disgusted. "This can't be happening to me."

"Not everything is about you. Geez, Willa. Think about someone else for once in your life. How do you think I feel? Everything was going so well. Serafin is almost dead. Just a few more days…ugh, this would have been fine except for Darlene. Trust a dachshund to ruin everything—horrible, yappy little monsters. I wonder if she would follow you off the cliff. She looks dumb enough. Who else knows she's a diabetes alert dog?"

"Everyone," Willa said, with more confidence than she felt.

Jenny studied her face.

"I don't think so," she said. "I'm going to risk it either way. No use putting it off anymore. C'mon. On your feet."

"What about the boys?"

Jenny snorted.

"I don't have time to wrangle them into the car. I'm just going to put them outside. They'll go home, or with any luck, they'll wander away and get eaten by coyotes."

The window lit up briefly with the flash of headlights, and Jenny ran back to peek through the curtains.

"You lied to me!" she said, incredulous and angry. "That's Jake's car again. You knew he was coming back, didn't you? Okay, this ends now. Get up. We're going to have to do it in the basement. No one ever goes down there."

What is it with this house? Willa wondered, flinching. There must have been some evil poured into the foundation. The original builder had been a monster, and its most recent owner was nearly as bad. Maybe the house attracted evil. Or maybe it went the other way; maybe living here made you crazy. She shuddered. The last time she went into the basement here, bad things had happened. She'd escaped by the skin of her teeth, and only with help from Mina, Jake, and the dachshunds. Well, Mina and Jake weren't here this time.

But she did have the dogs. And she'd pit four pure-hearted doxies against an evil house any day.

Willa looked down at them, hoping she could telepathically communicate some kind of plan. Kyle returned her gaze, and she thought she saw a flash of understanding in his deep brown eyes. Killer and Wags looked briefly up at her, and then stood at attention, tails up, hackles raised. Darlene followed suit.

"Get up," Jenny said, venomously.

Willa rose, keeping her un-cuffed hands hidden behind her back.

"Move over to the basement. And don't try yelling for Jake. These walls are thick. He won't hear you."

Willa took a few steps and then stopped. This is it, she thought. I'm about to die, and my last word is an over-optimistic command to a herd of dachshunds.

"Now!" she shouted to the dogs, feeling rather foolish.

At once, Killer and Wags sprinted behind Jenny's feet while Kyle and Darlene leaped at her, snarling. Willa charged at the smaller woman, shoving her as hard as she could. Shocked and off-balance, Jenny dropped the cane, tripped over Wags and Killer, and fell backward onto the sharp edge of a coffee table, hitting her head. The boys jumped on top of her, barking in her face and keeping her prone until Willa could flop down hard on her chest. Jenny tried to rise for a while and then stopped fighting, defeated.

"Get off me!" she wheezed.

"Not a chance. And don't bother struggling," said Willa, smugly. "I weigh a lot more than you do, remember?"

Mail

To Wendoline Lattner-Santini

Wendy,

Hey. Sorry for the endless game of phone tag. Foiled again by the time difference! If the world wasn't so darn ROUND, we wouldn't have these problems. The sun would rise and set in synchrony over us all. Maybe Duane Fripp was onto something with his flat-earth theories. It would certainly remove a lot of headaches and we could finally dump daylight savings! I suppose we would risk plummeting off the edges of the map or accidentally sailing too far west into "There Be Dragons" territories. So…it's a toss-up.

It's been a weird week, and I'm still recovering from all the goings-on. I know I must have sounded insane when we spoke that night. I'd been up for like twenty hours at that point, riding the adrenaline from a shooting, a knife attack, and my little handcuff adventure, and there's only so much I can take before I go slightly mad. Having a neighbor threaten to hurl me off a cliff was the straw that broke the camel's back, and I'm pretty sure Mina was thinking about having me committed.

I'm feeling better now, so you don't need to rush over here. You were contemplating a plane ticket at the time—I could hear it in your voice, Wendy. Stay put. Eat some pasta in my honor. I'm going to be okay. I've been indulging in multiple, lengthy naps with the dogs, and that seems to help.

Everyone else is mostly okay. Serafin had to be hospitalized to stabilize his blood sugar and improve his kidney function. We started giving him insulin again right away, and for the first few days after we caught Jenny, he swore he was feeling better. But he was still as thirsty as a fish and even he couldn't smooth-talk his way out of that many bathroom runs. Mina and Matt finally made him go to the doctor, and he was in bad shape. Ketoacidosis. Which explains why he smelled so strongly of Fruit Loops! And here I thought he was just raiding the cereal cabinet behind Jenny's back. Well, he bought himself a one-way ticket to the ER. Mina told him quite seriously that it was his comeuppance for crying wolf so often, and he accepted the criticism meekly. He may have felt too crummy to push back, but I think he came to the same realization. He has not enjoyed his stay at the hospital so far. It's much more fun to complain about ailments than to actually have them.

Mr. Peanut has been unexpectedly sympathetic and visits Serafin nearly every day with Darlene to do Sudoku puzzles. He had a change of heart when he learned Darlene's caresses were more about Serafin's blood glucose levels than anything else. He's got no problem with Serafin receiving Darlene's professional attentions, so to speak. He has her heart, and that's all that matters. And if you ask me, he's feeling a little more certain about having Aunt Mina's heart, too. But don't tell her I said so.

Apparently, Serafin wants to buy Darlene. He's bidding in the five-figure region at the moment. Mina's eyes turned into dollar signs immediately and she's advising Pilky to take the money. In a rare show of spirit, he told her Serafin can get his own dang dog. "Sell Kyle if you're so keen on giving Serafin a dachshund," he added, and that shut her up pretty quick.

Jenny Ortiz was booked and formally charged with the murder of Duane Fripp and the attempted murder of Serafin Ortiz. Oh, and one count of kidnapping me, since she held me against my will. I tried explaining to Jake that she never actually hurt me, but he says we can charge her for intending to, and I wasn't about to argue. She is now languishing in a prison cell awaiting trial, and I know you won't think I'm petty when I say I hope she never gets out. I feel sorry for Matt and Serafin, but not sorry enough to want her loose on the streets.

She is NOT happy with me. You wouldn't believe the names she hurled my way when I was sitting on her, waiting for backup. How does a nice, normal woman even LEARN words like that? After a while, I had Kyle stand on her windpipe so Killer and Wags weren't corrupted by the filth coming out of her mouth. Kyle is a dog of the world, but the other boys are innocents and Darlene is a little angel from heaven. I want their sweet, flappy ears unsullied.

I'm totally fine sullying your ears, though. In addition to more profane insults, Jenny called me a MANATEE, Wendy. A cow of the sea. So moo, I guess.

Am I overweight? I mean, I put on a few extra pounds in Rome, but who cares? Is it possible to BE overweight? Doesn't everyone just…weigh what they weigh? How can that be over or under anything?

Also, Jenny said I eat too much cake, and made sure to repeat it when Jake could hear. I contend that "too much cake" is a nonsense phrase, and I know you will back me up on that. It hurt my feelings, though. She probably thinks I don't have feelings. But she also thought it was cool to knock off an elderly relative so she can suck eggs.

Mina and Mr. Peanut send their love, and so do Darlene and the boys. Talk to you soon.

Willa

P.S. I'm still going to use Jenny's adaptations of G's cake. Does that make me a bad person? And can you ask Guillermo if it's really okay to leave out the cinnamon and nutmeg? Jenny said it was, but obviously her judgment was a touch skewed…

Mail

To Wallace Schmidt and Candace Yamamoto

Dear Wallace and Candy,

I hope you guys have fully recovered from your convenient bout of COVID. If it WAS a spurious invention to get out of coming to the sticks, you have narrowly escaped a truly karmic comeuppance. I froze on national television, and nothing but the sheer grit of Danica Joliff pulled me through. She's worth signing, guys. Think about it.

You will have heard all about what happened on the news, I'm sure. A cleaned-up and much redacted version was on every station last time I checked. A full retelling with all the details is forthcoming, contingent on a very, VERY expensive steak dinner at which you, Wallace, will renegotiate our contract in my favor and you, Candy, will promise to share a slice of mile-high chocolate cake with me and then let me finish the entire thing. It's the least the both of you can do.

I can confirm a few things right off the bat. Duane wasn't killed because of me, thank God. PR crisis averted. Company saved.

We apprehended the real killer, but not before Danica Joliff, the dogs, and I were caught in the crossfire. Don't worry, I'm fine. Nothing a year of intense therapy and recurring nightmares can't cure. And the dogs have never been better. They trot around looking particularly sleek and self-satisfied. In a coordinated protest, all of them simultaneously rejected their bones, requiring us to invest in high-end rawhide as compensation for their bravery in the line of duty. And Kyle STILL gives me the side-eye, even when presented with the finest pig ears money can buy. Clearly, he thinks I should quarter an entire porker and serve it up for them.

As for Danica, she got a brutal concussion but is recovering nicely. The doctors say there will be no lasting damage. Mina and I talked about it, and we agreed we should invite her to come and stay a while with us. I'm reasonably excited to get to know her better. Though, darn her, when we stand together, she looks like a supermodel and I look like a bony twelve-year-old who wandered off the set of Annie.

Oh, and things might be initially awkward because she did thrust a kitchen knife in my face and scream at me the last time we spoke. Chew on that for a bit. I hope you both suffer agonies of unrelieved curiosity before I return, and think upon your sins. If you're truly repentant, I will tell you all about it later.

(By the by, I assume you saw Fiona Fudge was named the number one female detective by that cozy mystery tastemaker we've been trying to woo for a year. Miss Marple took second place, and Violet is all the way down at number eight, which just seems like adding insult to injury. Seriously, Wallace? Eight is the best you could do for me? I am pea green with envy. It's not a color that goes well with my hair.)

Danica is arriving tomorrow, and we're putting her on the top floor. I have promised her there are no ghosts, and I hope I'm right. I'm still convinced there's one in the servant's quarters upstairs, though Mina swears it's just a faulty vent in our central heating system.

What else?

Oh! Wallace, you'll be happy to hear that my friend in the Sheriff's department let your pal Steve go as soon as he got the real killer's statement. That little worm slithered away as fast as his legless body would take him. I hope you have finally learned your lesson, and will cut him dead (SOCIALLY) as a punishment. Cuz listen up, buddy. It's him or me, now. Drop your college roommate or drop your client. He was up to his neck in this Duane business, and barely escaped without a jail sentence.

You want to know WHY he was arrested? Well, buckle up, old friend. Let this really sink in. Swim around in it, and get all pruney.

Ready? (Candy, make sure he's ready. Pull his eyelids open.)

For the last three months, Steve has been ruthlessly pestering Duane Fripp for my address. Offered a lot of money. Mucho dinero. We're talking thousands of bucks.

He should have tried his hand with that little dirtbag Brad Neidermeyer. Brad would have sold me down the river in a heartbeat. Little Duane couldn't be bought, though. Can you believe that? He was making near minimum wage as a medical assistant and he turned down five thousand dollars. He really didn't like Steve—proof of good taste. Granted, he did think Steve was a lizard-like alien in cahoots with Roy Blenkensop to kill Violet Valentine. (Yes, THAT Roy Blenkensop, the fictional chocolate salesman in Browned Butter Bloodshed.) So his reasons for hating Steve were a trifle unfounded. But if you ask me, Duane had a fine-tuned sense of evil. He may have been a little fuzzy on reality, but he knew a villain when he met one.

Obviously, Steve found me anyway, without Duane's help. My aunt, bless her thorough soul, put me on the business license for The Three Hounds.

When he heard Duane was dead, the pea-brain assumed I had finally snapped and killed my stalker! Can you believe that? And on the strength of that, he thought he could remain here with another woman and STILL win me back. Because all great love stories are built on blackmail, right?

Danica told him to get lost, I presume. This might actually be the last of Steven Joyce, guys. Can you imagine? What if I never have to talk to, look at, or think about that creep ever again? It's almost too much to hope for, but I am allowing myself to be optimistic.

Ooh…ACTUALLY…maybe I'll put him in my next book as a tribute to Duane! Settle down, Wallace. He won't be the killer. Or the body. No libel laws will be violated. He'll just be a blond day trader with no brains, no backbone, and no friends. I'll call him Stan Royce and make him as repulsive as possible.

Tad McNulty, who we have taken to calling Ribbets McGee, was also arrested during the course of the week. And I'm not even going to hint at why right now. You guys and your made-up fevers…for shame. No stories for you. You can wait 'til I get there to hear all. I WILL say that he vanished from Northern California the minute the Sheriff opened the cell doors. Aunt Mina says he probably got eaten by a snake, as toads often do.

This is your moment to snatch Danica Joliff up, Wallace. I'm dead serious about that. Let's create a cozy mystery empire—a rising tide lifts all ships.

Love you both. Book that steak dinner now, because I'm coming up next weekend to see my folks.

Willa

P.S. Don't you dare try to palm me off with Ruth's Chris. No chains.

The Toasts

"Three cheers for Darlene!" cried Mina Lattner.

"Yes, yes! Everyone must lift their glass to my little Darlene," Serafin echoed, beaming across the table at Mina.

They had all gathered at Fat Oscar's for a celebration in honor of Serafin's release from the hospital—Mina, Willa, Jake, Mr. Pilkington, Serafin, and Danica. Matt Ortiz excused himself, understandably. Willa snuck a look to see how Mr. Pilkington felt about the toast and was relieved to see him smiling happily and holding up his glass.

"To Darlene!" said Willa, raising her own glass. She peeked under the table, where three tails were wagging. "And to the boys! I wouldn't be here today without a little assistance from Killer, Kyle, and Wags."

"In that case, we should also toast Violet Valentine," Mina insisted. "Because without that insufferably plucky little heroine, you never would have taught yourself how to pick handcuff locks."

"To Violet," Willa agreed, wondering at what point she could stop toasting and actually drink her strawberry margarita.

Jake smiled down the table at her.

"Let's not forget Duane Fripp. He saved a life after all, even if it wasn't the one he intended."

"That's plenty," said Mina, hastily downing her drink. "We've toasted four dachshunds, one fictional character, and a heroic weirdo. Enough, already. My tacos are getting cold!"

They all drank, and there was a thoughtful lull in the conversation. Danica was the first to break the silence.

"If I'm honest, I still don't understand what happened," she said. "And that's not just the concussion talking. None of this makes sense to me."

"It has been a rough couple of weeks," said Jake sympathetically. "This is one of the muddier cases I've ever worked, and it's taken us a while to untangle all the threads."

"What was the point of any of it? Between Willa's stalker, Steve's arrest, the shooting, and this splitting headache, I'm all mixed up."

"Again, I extend my apologies," said Serafin, remorsefully. "I very much regret that I hit you so hard."

"It's alright," Danica said, smiling kindly at him. "Thanks for not killing me."

"Don't mention it, my darling."

"So what was it all about, in the end?" she demanded of Jake. "Talk softly and use small words. My brain is still recovering. There's a low-level buzzing noise all the time and everyone sounds like they're dialed up to eleven."

Jake shrugged at her.

"It's the same old sordid story. Murder for gain. Jenny Ortiz wanted more money than she had and thought it was okay to take it. Duane caught her in the act, so she killed him. Then she ran merrily about, strewing red herrings in our path and framing you in the process."

"Why me?"

"I wouldn't take it personally. She's not a nice woman."

"No indeed," said Serafin, his forehead crinkling until he had one long, terrifying unibrow. "I never took to her, truth be told. There was always something—an expression in her eyes I did not like. But Matthew is my favorite grandchild, and she seemed to make him happy. He is filing for divorce, now, and I don't think even the Pope himself would blame him. I will find him another wife, in due time, with much better character. Thank God they had no children yet!"

"Matt's perfectly capable of finding his own wife," Mina said severely. "Be content with giving him your money and let him manage his love life."

"Perhaps you are right," Serafin sighed. "I have already signed the Seawind over to him, as a gift. He will need every penny if he is to continue running the business without help."

Mina punched him playfully on the arm.

"Maybe you should stay and lend a hand, then. Put down some roots for once in your life. Stop roaming around and stay with us in Humboldt Cove for a while."

Serafin's face brightened, and Willa saw that Mr. Pilkington's case of the sulks was swiftly returning.

"I'd have that house exorcised first, though," Mina suggested. "Evil's baked in there, somewhere. Get your priest in there pronto with a gallon of holy water. And maybe check it for asbestos, while you're at it."

"We should do the same for the bakery," said Willa. "One rotten pastry chef is whatever—that could happen to anyone. But two in a row? We need to do something, Mina."

"I'll call some ghostbusters. And get Pastor Green in to say a prayer or two. And the new decorator can use Feng Shui or something and chase out the bad vibes. We're going to keep selling donuts to this town no matter what. The next pastry chef will be better."

"They'd have to be! We can't keep filling the prison system here with our awful hires!"

"So no one was ever trying to kill Willa?" broke in Danica, plaintively.

Willa suspected her headache was even worse than she admitted. Serafin's cane packed quite a punch.

"Nope," Jake said. "That was all in Duane's imagination. Willa was right. He was a conspiracy theorist, and this was just another conspiracy. Unfortunately for him, he saw Jenny planning a real-life murder and didn't have enough common sense to deal with it. He was a nice guy. Too nice."

Willa set down her burrito. Thinking about Duane was still too hard.

"That's exactly what Jenny said," she began. "That he was nice. Nice enough to want to help her, even."

"This explains his conversation with me," said Serafin, enlightened. "His dilemma. I thought he was wondering whether to approach you, but he was really debating about whether to tell me what Jenny had done. He knew it would break my heart…"

"You told him you don't like bad news," said Mr. Pilkington, more bluntly than was necessary. "You told him you don't pay attention to negativity, and don't want to know the worst. Well, he took you at your word."

Serafin's eyes filled with tears.

"He was a good friend."

Willa smiled at him, sadly.

"He certainly meant to be a good friend. To both of us! But for all his theories, Duane didn't have a bit of savvy or any real protective mechanisms. He was a kind, lonely man who liked to pretend, and he wasn't equipped to deal with real evil. Lizard People he could handle; cold-blooded killing was beyond his scope. I feel…completely responsible for his death."

"It wasn't your fault," said Jake.

"Yeah, it was. He would never have come here if he wasn't worried about Violet Valentine's health and safety."

"And if he had never come here, Serafin would have died," Mina said curtly. "And maybe Jenny would have gone after Matt next. You're not God, Willa. You don't bear responsibility for all the things that happen in your vicinity. Frankly, you're not that important, my love. You write fun mystery stories that make people smile and help them pass the time. They are silly as heck, which is your only crime."

"But if I hadn't put Violet in danger for once, he never would have—"

"Did you leak your book to Duane?"

"No, but—"

"Did you ask Duane to follow you from here to Timbuctoo, playing spy games?"

"Of course not. All I'm saying is—"

"Did you tell Jenny to stop giving Serafin insulin, or lure Duane into the bakery, or shoot out our window?"

Willa smiled weakly at her aunt.

"No."

"You're not responsible for any of it, kiddo. Talk about delusions of grandeur! Take it down about a hundred notches."

"What I do not yet understand," interrupted Mr. Pilkington, who could see that Willa was near tears, "is how Mr. Joyce fits into any of it."

"The short answer is that he never got over Willa and wanted to wriggle back into her life," Jake explained. "Sorry, Danica. I know that must be hard to hear."

Danica groaned good-naturedly.

"Don't mention that man's name."

"Everyone makes mistakes," Mina told her. "Even me. At times."

"I knew better, though," Danica said. "I was well aware he was Willa's ex, and I went out with him anyway."

"There's no law against that," Willa replied, feeling uncomfortable.

"Maybe not," Danica said, "but it felt icky to me, even then. Plus, we kept it quiet from you, and that was just plain sneaky. This is my punishment—a big old slice of humble pie, and I've got to eat every crumb of it. My granny says I deserve everything I got. I could tell he wasn't over you, and even then I didn't pull back. Now, I didn't know he was actively looking to get back together with you. I have more self-respect than to stay with someone who cheats."

"I'm afraid he only started dating you as an excuse to follow Willa around on tour," Jake said.

Danica winced and rubbed her temples.

"Yeah, man. You don't need to add shame sauce to my humble pie. I figured that out already. He was a little too interested in mystery fan conventions. I let myself believe he was just into me."

"Who wouldn't be?" said Mina. "Have you looked at yourself? You're drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent, tall, successful. Any man in his right mind would be into you."

"Steve wasn't," Danica said, bluntly. "I didn't understand at the time why he didn't openly attend the conferences with me. He always had some excuse for not coming to the dinners and the get-to-know-you nights. Now I get it. He wanted to spy on Willa at a distance."

"It backfired on him. Because while he was spying on Willa, Duane was spying on him."

"Is that why they were emailing? Because Steve knew Duane caught him spying?"

"No," said Jake. "Believe it or not, that was just a coincidence."

"There are no coincidences," said Serafin. "Only God."

"God has better things to do than orchestrate chance meetings between weirdos," Mina said, rolling her eyes.

"You are wrong," Serafin replied firmly.

"Anyway," Jake broke in, not anxious for a theological debate over tacos, "Steve never spotted Duane on the conference circuit. Duane had a lifetime's experience fading into the background, and he was very good at keeping a low profile."

"How did they get in contact, then?"

"Steve spilled the whole story when he was under arrest. He remembered hearing about a super-stalker from you, Willa. A few months ago, he joined your Facebook fan club and got Duane's contact info—thought the man would jump at the chance to earn a few thousand bucks. Duane's been keeping tabs on you for years, so of course he knew who Steve was and what he looked like. And thanks to our happy coincidence—"

"God's providential care," Serafin interjected.

"Luck," said Mina.

"Whatever," said Jake, neutrally. "Thanks to whatever it was, Duane was in San Francisco for the conference when he got the email. He recognized Steve's name and the next day he saw Steve there in person with Danica. He knew you were staying at the same hotel, so he knew Steve could talk to you openly if he wanted to. We think the fact that Steve did not want to approach you in public made him nervous, and he got scared for you. Sneaky people, in Duane's worldview, are often lizard overlords."

"Obviously," snorted Mina.

"Well, it seemed obvious to Duane. That's when he decided to follow you—so he could keep tabs on you and make sure Steve didn't get too close with his lizard-y claws. After you and Danica got sick, he became extremely worried. He got desperate enough to search your laptop, read your emails, and figure out where you live."

"How did he manage it?" Danica said, curiously.

"I don't know. Maybe he bribed a chambermaid at one of the hotels. Or maybe you left the rental car unlocked when you were in the hospital," Jake replied, raising his eyebrow. "You have a habit of leaving your car unlocked…"

"I did, as a matter of fact," said Danica. "We were kind of in a hurry. But point taken. Now that I know people might steal my computer info or plant incriminating evidence in my trunk, I'll be triple locking everything!"

"Well, there you go."

"Why not just talk to me?" said Willa.

"I don't know for sure. He was painfully shy. But I don't think that's it. My best guess is that Duane Fripp was a divided man, with—"

"That's what I said!" Mr. Pilkington interrupted. "A divided man, with two separate personas at play! One Duane was a rational, normal, functional adult male who could hold down a job, pay taxes, and generally understood how the world works. The other Duane was living a separate fantasy life in his head."

Jake grimaced.

"People who lead full imaginary lives don't love it when reality creeps in. Part of him knew you were real and Violet wasn't. But that was way too difficult to fully accept. If he spoke to you about Steve—really connected with you as a human being—his dream Violet would die, and all he would have left is…you."

"Ouch!"

"Well, I think you're great," said Jake, seriously. "But you're not Violet Valentine."

"Thankfully," muttered Mina.

"It was easier for Duane to turn it into a kind of game. To insert himself into a mystery story—to pretend Steve was a monster in league with a fictional villain, and conflate Danica with Fiona Fudge. He was already worried about Violet after reading those preliminary chapters of Browned Butter Bloodshed. And now he was worried about the real you. It got mushed around in his head until I genuinely don't think he knew what was real and what wasn't. He set himself up here so he could protect you once you came back from Europe. And then he ran into Steve in town and was truly terrified for you. That's when he decided to make the cake. He'd read that chapter, remember? He knew you'd understand what it meant."

Willa shook her head, ruefully.

"He was giving me way too much credit. I don't go through life expecting people to bake me warning messages! If Duane hadn't died—if I simply found that cake in the bakery—I would have thought someone was trolling me and left it at that. I wonder what Duane would have done once he realized I didn't get the message."

"Who knows?" Jake shrugged. "Continued playing spy, and probably having a grand old time. I suspect he enjoyed himself tremendously this year, even though he was genuinely concerned about you. But he did die, and here we are. We could play the what-if game forever, Willa. If he hadn't bribed Brad Neidermeyer, he never would have read those early chapters and gotten spooked. If he hadn't surveilled Steve at the B&B, he wouldn't have seen Jenny dump Serafin's insulin."

"And he'd still be alive," said Willa, sadly.

"And Serafin would have died," Mina responded for the second time that night. "And Danica might have married a spineless creep. And Matt might have had children with a cold-blooded murderer! It's poisonous to think through what-ifs, my love. What we get is reality, and that's the only thing we get. There's no world in which Duane doesn't see Jenny plan a murder and no world in which Jenny doesn't kill him for it. What's that thing your grandma used to say when you kids were fighting over candy or toys?"

Willa smiled.

"You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit. Man, I hated that."

"Reality bites. That's what the kids say, right?"

"Thirty years ago," Jake murmured.

"What's true is what's true. You can't make it otherwise by wishing for something else or regretting the past."

"We must accept the will of the Lord," said Serafin. "He sees more than we do. And little Duane is in his arms now."

"Call it the Lord if you want," Mina replied kindly. "I call it Truth. Maybe it boils down to the same thing."

"Amen," said Jake.

The End

There was a long silence, as everyone wolfed down chips and guacamole and considered the nature of reality. Philosophy and Mexican food made a good combination. When things got a little too metaphysical, you could always go for the spicy salsa and bring yourself hurtling back toward earth. Jalapeños were undisputed facts.

Mr. Pilkington was the first to speak again. He had already fed most of his dinner to Darlene.

"This has all been most interesting. But—if I might ask—how did Ms. Joliff end up hiding in the laundry room? No one has explained that piece to me. Would you be so kind? I am quite curious."

He turned courteously to Danica, who smiled at him and threw back the rest of her drink.

"Sure, I can tell you all about it. The whole story makes me look and feel pretty dumb, but I'm beyond all that. I left my ego on the end of Serafin's cane."

"Again, a thousand apologies," twittered Serafin, distressed.

"All is forgiven. I was already pretty shaken up that morning. Steve had been arrested, as you know. And the day before, he was moody and weird. He basically threw me under the bus with y'all—acting like it was my idea to come to Humboldt Cove."

"He literally told us it was your idea," said Jake. "I was fairly certain at that point he was lying. But even so—it's not a good look to sacrifice your girlfriend on the altar of self-preservation."

"That little twerp! Anyway, it had been a rough couple of days. And then Willa and I did that horrible gotcha interview."

"You saved me!" said Willa, thankfully.

"Your interview game needs work, girl. I've never seen anyone worse. It was a bloodbath."

"Sorry."

"Aw, don't worry about it. I wasn't feeling so hot myself when it wrapped up. So after that bit of total carnage, I left The Three Hounds and wandered down the street, hoping to get a little caffeine before the next interview. Tad tagged along, but he didn't want anything to drink, and he knew I was mad at him anyway. He stayed outside—didn't want to risk ticking me off any more than he already had. I left the grocery store with my Coke, and I was just turning onto G Street and 2nd to see where Tad might have gone when I heard gunfire and screaming. I froze, and that's when I saw Jenny Ortiz climbing down the fire escape fifty feet away from me. She was in the alley between that abandoned building that faces The Hounds and the little Irish woolens shop, and she had a rifle."

"That must have been shocking!" said Mr. Pilkington, with sympathy.

"Uh, yeah. It was not my favorite. I ducked behind a car so she couldn't see me and hid for a long time. Sirens were going by, and there was all this screaming, and I was freaked the heck out. I was too scared to go back to the bakery, because—well, I don't like the police," she told Jake, frankly. "I don't talk to cops unless I have to. And you already thought I might want to kill Willa. I wasn't going to risk getting thrown in hick jail. Anyway, I stayed behind that car for a long time, in panic mode, and then I got scared someone would see me. A couple of people walked by, and I heard them talking. I knew no one had gotten killed, at least, but I didn't want to risk openly going back to my car by just strolling up Sequoia. For all I knew, you guys were out looking for me. So I ran up the hill, cutting through a few people's back gardens. Fell on my face in the mud, once or twice…"

"Ohhh," said Willa, who had been wondering why Danica looked so wild and disheveled that day but was too polite to ask.

"I ended up in the backyard of the Seawind, and I was just opening the gate to make a run for my car when I saw Jenny stuffing her rifle in my trunk. I about threw up! Now I was really screwed! I didn't want to confront an armed woman, and I didn't want to go inside that crazy lady's house either. I slipped in through the laundry room window in your place instead. No one was home, so I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, just in case Jenny had seen me. I guess she hadn't, because she didn't follow me in, but she just kept lurking outside—waiting for you guys to return. I was never able to get to my car. And then I saw the squad car pull up, and I knew I'd have to make a break for it or hide. The thought of stumbling through everyone's muddy yards again was too hard to stomach, so I stayed in the laundry room. I thought I'd be able to sneak out again once y'all were asleep."

"Okay, fair enough. But why did you accuse me of hurting Steve?" Willa said. "Why did you threaten me?"

She thought she might as well clear the air. It was a little awkward to host a houseguest who had once waved a butcher's knife in your face.

"I didn't threaten you! And I didn't say a word about Steve. Who cares about Steve?"

"Yes, you did! You said, how could you do that to him? and shoved your knife at me," said Willa, who had been willing to let the whole thing go but now felt her blood pressure rising a little.

It was one thing that Danica had held a weapon at her. People lost their tempers. Knives made their way out of blocks, and hasty words slipped out. Things happened when you were scared and muddy. But it was another thing to lie about it after everything was over and everyone was calm again!

"I was talking to Jenny," said Danica, as though Willa had said something completely bonkers. "About Duane. I was trying to protect you!"

"Wait, what?"

"I told you to get back, remember? So you wouldn't get hurt! I had figured out by then that Jenny must have killed Duane, though I had no idea why. I was threatening her, not you. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I was frightened to death and hoping that crazy woman wasn't going to shoot me."

"So that's why the dogs were so nonchalant," said Willa, enlightened. "They knew you wouldn't hurt me!"

She realized she had been nursing a slight grudge against all three of them since that day. But, as usual, the boys knew best.

"I thought I had just gotten lucky, and they didn't sniff me out," said Danica, lifting the tablecloth to address Kyle, Killer, and Wags. "But you guys knew I was there the whole time, didn't you? Didn't bother you a bit. I wish you had told Serafin I wasn't anything to worry about."

"Again, I must formally apologize for hitting you," said Serafin, bowing slightly in Danica's direction. "I was misguided. I attacked the wrong person."

"Oh my gosh, let it go! All is forgiven," she said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Willa thought, wryly, that Serafin would never be able to let it go if Danica kept bringing it up.

"I can deal with the headache," said Danica, graciously. "And you've given me excellent material for the next Fiona Fudge book. This kind of first-hand experience is priceless!"

"You two should team up and write a crossover book," suggested Mina eagerly. "Fiona Fudge meets Violet Valentine!"

"No way," said Danica and Willa, in one voice.

"It would sell millions!"

"Not a chance, Aunt Mina. I work alone."

"Me too," said Danica. "Fiona Fudge is a solo act. But you better believe I'm going to ride this wave all the way to the top. Maybe I'll sell the movie rights to my story. Or maybe I'll go on every talk show from now until the end of the year plugging the next Fiona Fudge. Violet Valentine better stay out of my way."

She eyed Willa severely.

"Not a chance," Willa said. "We're going to do PR appearances together, Danica. Fair is fair. Wallace will kill me if I don't make the most of this."

"Fine. But I talk first—and I call dibs on the first five questions of every interview. Got it?"

"I'm amenable to that. I'm not talking to Tad, though. Make sure he doesn't get within five feet of me."

"Can do. I'm planning to fire his butt, anyway. What a piece of work."

"He sold you out to us pretty quick," Jake admitted, laughing. "The minute they caught up with him in Fortuna, he decided that between you and him, it was always going to be him."

"Did he really? I'll bring that up during our exit interview," said Danica, her eyes snapping. "I'm looking forward to firing that little toad."

"Why was he so unwilling to tell us where he was that Friday?" Mina asked curiously. "What was he hiding?"

"He was in San Francisco that whole day. Chatting up another cozy mystery writer," Jake laughed. "He didn't tell us at first because he didn't want to admit to being within four hundred miles of Humboldt Cove. But more than that, he didn't want Danica to hear that he was taking on a competitor. He thought you would kick up a fuss."

"He thought wrong. Like all toads, he has a narrow mind. I welcome a little competition. So what about it, Willa? How do you feel about amping up the stakes? Think your agent Wallace would give me a fair shake? Do you like that firm?"

"Love it," Willa replied. "And frankly, I'd be happier working with you than against you."

"Likewise. Okay, let's give the press a one-two punch. How about we each pitch one old book and one new book?"

"Deal."

"And we tell the Duane story together, or not at all."

"Fine."

"I want all four dogs there, in their sweaters," Danica warned. "Fluffy, pink ones. And Darlene had better wear a big ol' bow again."

"I'll have my people call your people," said Willa, grandly.

They shook hands.

"You're going to make the boys dress up in pink again?" said Jake, shaking his head. "I thought once was plenty. And look how that ended!"

"What's wrong with pink?" Mina retorted.

Willa grinned at them both.

"The dogs won't like it, but they'll do it."

She reached under the table to hand Killer, Kyle, and Wags a tortilla chip each.

"You'd do pretty much anything for me, wouldn't you, boys?"

Ruff, said Killer, adoringly.

Arf, said Wags.

Woof, said Kyle, in total agreement.

Mail

To Wallace Schmidt & Candace Yamamoto

Hey again,

Real quick.

I may have accidentally-on-purpose omitted the fact that, during recent events, I ESCAPED FROM HANDCUFFS USING A BOBBY PIN TO PICK THE LOCK.

Here's the best part! That's all I'm going to say about it until filet mignon and potatoes au gratin sit before me! Meanwhile, suck it! I hope you both die of curiosity!

Love and kisses,

Willa

P.S. This is 100% true, and it was awesome. We can spin it into PR gold for the next book tour. Think live demonstrations on stage.

P.P.S. If you ask nicely, I'll throw in a few dachshunds in sweaters.

Guillermo's Pumpkin Butterscotch Cake

For the cake

2 cups flour

2 TSP baking powder

1 TSP baking soda

1 TSP salt

1 cup vegetable oil

4 eggs

1 cup brown sugar

1/2 cup white sugar

1 15-ounce can pumpkin puree

1 TBSP vanilla extract

2 cups butterscotch chips

For the filling

1 8 oz brick cream cheese softened to room temperature

1/2 cup butter

3 cups confectioners' sugar

1 TSP vanilla extract

For the caramel drizzle

1 10-ounce package of soft caramels, unwrapped

2 TBSP water

1/3 cup heavy whipping cream

Preheat the oven to 350 F

1) Grease and prepare two 9-inch cake tins.

2) Whisk the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together in a large bowl. Set aside.

3) Whisk the oil, eggs, brown sugar, white sugar, pumpkin, and vanilla together until combined.

4) Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix until completely combined.

5) Fold in the butterscotch chips.

6) Divide the batter between two prepared pans.

7) Bake for 25-30 minutes. Baking time will vary by oven. The cake is done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

8) Remove cakes from oven and cool completely.

9) Make the filling. Begin by browning 1/2 cup of butter. Melt the butter in a heavy saucepan until foamy and bubbly. Stir rapidly for four to eight minutes until you smell a nutty aroma and the butter has turned a deep golden brown. Watch carefully, so you do not burn the butter. Once the butter is a deep brown, remove from the heat. Cool the browned butter completely.

10) Using a mixer with a paddle attachment, beat the softened cream cheese and cooled brown butter together until smooth.

11) Add 3 cups confectioners' sugar and 1 TSP vanilla to the cream cheese and butter mixture and beat for 2 minutes.

13) Place one cooled cake layer on a cake plate or stand. Spread the filling evenly across the top of the first layer. Do not ice the sides. We're making a naked cake!

14) Place the second layer on top of the filling.

15) Chill the cake for 1 hour.

16) Prepare the caramel drizzle. Place unwrapped caramels in a saucepan and add 2 TBSPs water. Heat over low heat until melted and smooth, with no remaining lumps. Remove from heat, and stir in 1/3 cup heavy whipping cream. Cool for 30 minutes.

17) Remove chilled cake from fridge. Pour the caramel drizzle so that it completely covers the top layer and begins to "drizzle" down the sides of the naked cake.

18) Slice, eat, and enjoy!

Jenny's Cherry-Vanilla Scones

1 3/4 cup flour

2 TSP baking powder

1/4 TSP salt

2 TBSP white sugar

1/3 cup cold unsalted butter, cubed

1/2 cup buttermilk

1 egg

1 TSP vanilla

2/3 cup dried cherries

2 TBSP whipping cream

Coarse sugar for the tops

Preheat the oven to 400 F

1) Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Set aside.

2) Mix flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar together in a large bowl.

3) Using a pastry cutter, cut butter into flour mixture to form fine crumbs.

4) In a separate bowl, whisk buttermilk, the egg, and the vanilla.

5) Add the wet ingredients and the dried cherries to the flour mixture. Using a fork, combine the ingredients until a ragged dough forms.

6) Pour mixture onto a lightly-floured work surface. Knead gently to fully combine the dough, being careful not to overmix.

7) Pat and shape the dough into a circle that is one inch thick.

8) Using a sharp knife, cut the circle into eight triangles. Place each triangle on the prepared baking sheet approximately two inches apart.

9) Brush the scones with whipping cream and sprinkle with coarse sugar.

10) Place the baking sheet and scones into the freezer for 10 minutes. If you cannot fit it into the freezer, you can use the fridge.

11) Remove chilled scones and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until bottoms are lightly browned.

12) Serve with lemon curd or jam.

13) Enjoy!

Also By Julie Titterington

The Dog Ladies Mystery Series

The Dog Ladies

The Doxies & Donuts Mystery Series

Trouble Afoot At The Three Hounds Bakery

Danger Lurks In The Three Hounds Bakery

The Desert Pines Mystery Series

Death By Association

Rapid Death

Death Benefit

About the Author

Julie Titterington lives in the beautiful Willamette Valley with her husband and three children. When she's not writing or editing, Julie spends her time baking, eating, and reading mystery novels from the Golden Age, in that order.

For a free, exclusive Three Hounds short story featuring Willa and the dogs, join the mailing list at https://authorjulietitterington.com/signup