Purled and Poisoned

A Knitty Kitties Mystery

Tracey Drew

Copyright © 2021 by Tracey Drew

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN (Mobi): 978-0-473-54044-9

ISBN (Epub): 978-0-473-54043-2

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Wanted: Cat mum to manage a yarn store, corral two curious cats, all the while being tangled up in murderous mayhem and mystery.

A smart woman would dump her cheating ex, move from the city, and give herself a chance for a well-deserved do-over. A smarter woman—smarter than me, anyway—wouldn’t jump out of that same frying pan and return to Cape Discovery, a seaside village where her family is the nuttiest of all the nut-ball residents.

I’m a former high school counsellor, middle-child peacemaker, and curator of lots of squishy/fuzzy goodness at my granddad’s little yarn store. The Serial Knitters and Happy Hookers in the store’s Craft for Calmness group have been busy creating booties and baby blankets for a christening fit for a prince. But when I stumble onto the little prince’s fatally poisoned mother, a right royal mess ensues. The kid’s paternity is in question and I’m tasked to sniff out the baby daddy as a favour for a frenemy—don’t ask. I did, and now the bodies are piling up and a killer just might use my cupcake addiction against me.

Tessa Wakefield has her hands full juggling a cozy craft store, her crazy family, and two men who’d rather poke out their eyes than describe themselves as cute. Which they totally are. Cute, charismatic, and occasionally on her mind when she’s not stumbling over dead bodies and using her newfound sleuthing skills to track down murderers. Lucky she’s an excellent multi-tasker because digging beneath Cape Discovery’s surface can unearth secrets that kill.

Also by Tracey Drew

Knitty Kitties Mysteries

Knitted & Knifed

Purled & Poisoned

Hanks & a Hitman

Striped & Strangled

Slip-Stitched & Slayed

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Sneak Peek of Hanks & a Hitman…

About the Author

One

A thirty-five-year-old former guidance counselor, an octogenarian reality-TV-show junkie, and a mischievous feline duo walk into a bar…

Hang on—that sounds like the opening line of a bad joke.

But in reality, that’s my reality—minus the felines—entering a bar every Friday night for happy hour with my granddad, Harry. And even then, it takes a spot of bribery to drag him away from his favorite show so he’ll join me down the road at the Stone’s Throw, where everybody knows your name.

Wait—now that sounds like the theme song from an eighties sitcom.

Let me back up a minute before you think you’ve fallen into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

For those who haven’t already met me, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Tessa Wakefield, the new owner of Cape Discovery’s premier yarn store, Unraveled. We’re a small but mighty business located in the heart of New Zealand’s sunshiny Hawke’s Bay. Let me share some of the spiel I’m writing for our work-in-progress website:

If you’re after merino, mohair, or help with moss stitch, we’ve got you covered.

If friendly conversation and Crafting for Calmness classes ring your bell, you’ve come to the right place.

But if mystery, madness, and murder make you quiver, then…

And I don’t quite know how to finish that last statement because the only mystery and madness I’d encountered, until a short time ago, was my well-meaning, albeit slightly loony family. My life recently took a sideways skid when I stumbled upon my first—and hopefully, last—crime scene. Complete with murder victim. Trust me when I say that the experience was nothing like the crime shows Harry enjoys binge-watching.

For starters, the central character’s two cats don’t usually accompany them, thereby contaminating the crime scene. Yes, that actually happened. Now the enigmatic and occasionally charismatic Detective Sergeant Eric Mana has likely stuck me on his watch list of ‘harmless but potentially criminal crackpots.’

So, in summary—or in a nutshell, running with the I’m a bit of a screwball analogy—from now on, I’ll stick with my knit one purl one, adding in the occasional crocheted granny square to keep things interesting. And I’ve hung up my one-time-only sleuth’s deerstalker hat.

The world can thank me later.

Tonight, I had matters more pressing than shady deals, sordid affairs, and cold-blooded homicide to attend to. Like preparing for the first Crafting for Calmness class since Unraveled reopened this past Monday. During the week, every one of our regulars had popped in to ooh and aah over my brother’s Michelangelo-worthy paint job and to reassure me that my Nana Dee-Dee, who passed away late last year, would’ve been proud of the store’s revamp.

Fortunately for business, the regulars had also been unable to resist the temptation of all the new deliciously squishy yarn choices. The flurry of sales had almost made me purr with pleasure.

What hadn’t made me purr was discovering an hour ago that one of my inherited fur babies had weaseled their way into the cupcakes I’d purchased for that evening’s class. Which fur baby, you ask? Kit, of course. ‘Bigger-boned’ than his litter sibling Pearl, Kit had an ongoing love affair with food. Preferably human food. And yet again, he’d sampled frosting off several cupcakes while indenting the remainder with his paw-print signature.

No longer naive in the ways of my late nana’s kitties, I’d leaped into action and defrosted a packet of sausage rolls from the freezer. The pastry now golden brown and smelling heavenly, I transferred the delicious morsels onto a plate, all the while attempting not to step on the eight black paws currently circling my ankles.

“Not for you,” I scolded Pearl as she streaked to the hallway door, behind which stood the flight of stairs leading from the two-bedroom apartment I shared with Harry to Unraveled below. She turned and sat up straight, curling her tail elegantly around her sleek body as she let out a solitary heart-breaking mew.

Kit trotted ahead of me, his furry belly swaying from side to side. He too plopped himself down by the door, eyeballing me and meowing at volume as if to say, “Pay no attention to her, human. I’m the one who’s starving!”

I hesitated. Harry should have fed them, but maybe he’d lost track of time…

The door to his bedroom swung open, and my granddad stepped out, holding two knitted beanies in front of his plaid button-down shirt. “Which one, Tess? The navy blue? Or the red-and-white striped one for a pop of color?”

He tugged the striped beanie over his mostly bald head and struck a pose. “Not too Where’s Wally?”

Without one of the numerous beanies Dee-Dee had knitted or crocheted for him, Harry just wasn’t Harry.

“Have you been watching reruns of What Not to Wear?” Narrowing my eyes, I shot him a sly smile. “Or is this because there’s a couple of new attendees joining us tonight?”

I’d swear on a stack of bibles a blush rose on my granddad’s wrinkled cheeks. “Anything wrong with a man trying to look presentable, so he doesn’t embarrass his granddaughter?”

With a chuckle, I shook my head. “Stick with the navy blue. That way, you’ll slip under Mum’s radar; Sean warned me she’s planning to make an appearance.”

“Lord save us from your mother’s meddling,” he grumbled before disappearing back into his room.

“I hear ya,” I muttered and headed downstairs, the cats hot on my tail.

After a quick stop for a kitty bribe from the container I kept near the store’s back door, I shooed the pair outside. They’d slink in again with the first attendees, hoping their cuteness would result in more treats from the regulars. Unlike his sister, Kit felt no shame in performing his meerkat routine or allowing a belly rub in exchange for a treat.

I hit the switch for the store’s main lights, and while pausing to admire the fresh coat of pale buttercup-yellow paint that never failed to lift my spirits, I spotted a lanky shape hovering outside. My little brother. Who, at age thirty-two and a string-beany six foot three, was not so little in either sense.

Once I’d set down the sausage rolls on the counter, I unlocked the front door and pulled it open. “Well done. You’re actually early for once…”

Before he could defend his usual tardiness, Mum stepped out from behind him, her face puckered into its mother-lion-defending-her-poor-defenseless-cub scowl. “Sean’s much more punctual now that he’s back home with us.”

“Hey,” my brother greeted me glumly. “Mum came with.” Sean gave me a please kill me now grimace and tromped over to the counter, where he readied himself to ring up any impulse purchases the class members made that evening.

Ten percent discount in-store for attendees plus a smiley-face stamp on a loyalty card for every twenty-five dollars spent—a couple of the new ideas I’d implemented. It helped that Sean, when motivated by cold, hard cash, could charm the knickers off even the oldest class members with his dimpled smile and inherited gift of the gab.

While my brother skulked behind the cash register, Mum scooped up the platter of sausage rolls with a disapproving sniff and sailed into the adjoining workroom, set up for the classes. She flicked on the lights, and I watched her not-so-subtle examination of the freshly painted room. Of course, she wouldn’t criticize the skill of application, not when it was Sean who’d donned the painter-for-hire hat. But would she approve of the sanded-back and restained large rectangular worktable, the new seat covers I’d run up on Dee-Dee’s sewing machine, and the watercolors by a couple of local artists that now adorned one wall?

Luckily for my sanity’s sake, she didn’t have time to voice her opinion before the first of our regulars appeared.

Mary and Gerald Hopkins arrived with Mary’s sister Edith, who’d come to stay for a few weeks. Mary was the founding member of the Crafting for Calmness’s subgroup of crocheters—cheekily known as the Happy Hookers. I’m certain she chose the name just to annoy another member of the group: Beth Chadwick, a sixty-something widow completely loyal to the craft of knitting. I was never quite sure what the wee bit tightly wound Beth thought of Dee-Dee’s Serial Knitters name, but the gentle rivalry between the groups kept Thursday evenings lively.

The moment Edith entered the store, Harry appeared as if by magic and gallantly offered to show her where the restroom was located. Not quite the debonair flirtation he might’ve been aiming for, but practical at least, and the shy-smiling Edith didn’t seem to mind.

Beth arrived next with one of her ‘church ladies,’ who was also new to the area. Her replacement false teeth nowhere to be seen, Beth frowned her way past Harry, who was busy chatting with the blushing Edith. Thanks to a goose named Reggie, Beth had flushed her bottom dentures down a church toilet while cleaning it.

Don’t ask.

Seriously. Don’t.

Get the woman started on the subject of the vicar’s pet goose, and you’ll want to flush your ears out via the nearest toilet bowl.

Over the next ten minutes, others arrived in small clusters. Mostly familiar faces, but there were also a few new ones. Slowly but surely, our group was growing, and with the chill of autumn looming, I hoped we would expand even further.

Pamela Martin, who owned the boutique clothing store two doors down, arrived fashionably late. Nothing unusual there: the woman liked to make an entrance. Smelling like she’d just crawled out of a vat of expensive perfume, Pamela flicked her immaculately

styled ash-blonde hair away from her face with one bejeweled hand. Tonight’s carefully selected outfit consisted of loose linen dungarees from her store—with a price tag higher than my annual clothing budget—a striped sailor shirt, and hot-pink felt sandals.

“Mutton dressed as lamb,” Harry muttered from where he sat sandwiched between Edith and Beth, who’d snagged the remaining chair beside him.

Pamela swung around, the lines on her face, so carefully smoothed out with foundation, wrinkling again as she frowned. “Did you say something, Harry?”

My granddad didn’t miss a beat. “I said, lambswool.” He pointed to her sandals. “Are your pretty pink shoes made of lambswool?”

She glowed under his compliment. “Actually, they are. One of my ex-sisters-in-law put me onto them; I’m planning to stock them in Chic Threads.”

After performing a catwalk strut down the room so everyone could admire her shoes, Pamela took a spot at the worktable. She pulled her needles and a super-soft duck-egg-blue merino yarn from her designer tote. “Now then,” she announced as if everyone had been waiting for the group’s VIP to arrive before they began. “I must get cracking, as I simply have to finish this matinee jacket for my darling Archie’s christening.”

As if she hadn’t already gone on about her three-month-old nephew’s christening for the past couple of months. She’d roped most of us into attendance, and while I didn’t generally have a problem saying no to Pamela, she was one of Unraveled’s best customers. And since she’d agreed to sell some of the other members’ beautiful hand-crafted garments in her store…spending a Sunday morning in church didn’t seem such a big ask.

Mum waited for a lull in the conversation and clicking of needles to pounce. “Speaking of keeping flexible”—though no was, and it was classic Maggie Wakefield to randomly change the topic to suit herself—“has anyone tried Shut Up and Stretch’s new yoga class, Move It and Lose It?”

As discussions erupted around the table, Mum set down her latest project—a jersey for one of my nieces, in a bulky yarn far too thick for the pattern. Not that she’d listen to my advice—and raised her voice. “Tessa’s trying it out tomorrow morning, so she can report back to the group.”

I gawked at my mother. Was I? “I am?”

“Yes, sweetie. I’ve signed you up.” Mum wore that expression I recognized from my childhood. All I’d wanted was to be left alone to read and craft outfits for my Barbies, but instead, she’d organized whichever after-school lessons made her feel like she was enriching her oddball daughter’s life. “I paid for five sessions up front.”

Yoga? She had to be kidding. “But I—”

“No excuses.” Mum wagged her finger at me. “You need to get out more. Meet people, make some new friends.” She mouthed at me, “Male friends.”

Oh, great hairy yarn balls.

“Just be grateful she didn’t enroll you in that Yoga Au Naturel class they run in summer,” Harry said, and everyone laughed.

While I had no qualms about saying no to most people, my assertiveness collapsed like a house of cards when it came to my mother. “I’ll give it a go.” I flashed her a smile as genuine as Pamela Martin’s blonde hair. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

* * *

When I was a kid, my dad used to say, “Ask a stupid question; get a stupid answer.” Last night, I’d tempted the universe with a stupid question, and this morning, I was about to find out if my dad’s old adage was right.

For starters, how does one even dress for a yoga class when one doesn’t possess a yoga body? And when I thought ‘yoga body,’ my brain conjured up the image of a woman in sleek leggings, a cropped top—which, because the woman had not an ounce of body fat, required no means of boob support—and long blonde hair artfully bundled into a messy-but-chic topknot. I didn’t check a single box of my imagined got-it-together yoga practitioner’s look.

But knowing Mum would insist on a detailed report, I pulled up my big girl control panties and wobble-reducing Lycra leggings and left the apartment twenty minutes before the class started.

One class, I told myself as I hurried along the sidewalk toward the center of town. One class, just to get the gist of what goes on, and then I can semi-confidently bluff about my attendance at the other four.

The recently opened Shut Up and Stretch studio was located on the floor above the real estate agency where my mother worked. I climbed the stairs to find the small foyer empty and the frosted double doors to the studio closed. Apparently, yoga people weren’t early birds. Stuffing one hand into the pocket of my zippered sweatshirt, I sucked on my water bottle and tried to appear as if I was a class regular, totally at home in her environment.

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.

From the polished hardwood floor and shelves of rolled white towels, topped with a cluster of fat candles and a squat golden Buddha, to a wall of cubbies filled with foam blocks and other equipment I couldn’t identify, this was so far from being my element that I might as well have been on Mars.

Keeping a safe distance away from the equipment—it’d be just my luck to cause an avalanche—I sidled toward a more normal-looking table with a clipboard and pen. After scribbling my details on the sign-in sheet, I perused the nearby glossy leaflets in holders. One was for Grass Roots Health, Cape Discovery’s supplier of vitamins, supplements, organic produce and groceries, and environmentally friendly household products. Another advertised natural beauty products that contained mineral-rich mud from Rotorua, New Zealand’s most active thermal area.

There were also some less-professional flyers: vegan cooking lessons, a sign-up sheet for regular field-to-table foraging walks, and information about boot-camp training sessions on the beach three mornings a week, starting at six.

Come rain or shine, WE WANT YOU! Snoozers are losers, so zero tolerance for excusers!!! it proclaimed. I assumed the additional exclamation points were to ensure you didn’t miss the importance of this statement.

I snorted.

“Something funny?”

I whirled around at the sound of a woman’s voice. Rosie Cooper’s voice, to be precise. I’d have recognized it anywhere, even in Auckland, where I’d spent much of my adult life.

But here in my old hometown, the haughty tones of my former high school nemesis took me straight back to those awkward early teenage years, when I’d been the new girl in town. Although Dad’s family had lived in the area for two generations, my parents had moved to Napier when I was two and hadn’t returned to the fold until ten years later. So by the time I started high school, the cliques were well and truly established.

And well and truly closed to the awkward girl with frizzy hair and braces, no small thanks to the popular girls’ pack leader, Rosie Stanton. As she’d been before snagging her husband and three perfect kids. Rosie was Pamela’s niece, and the apple hadn’t fallen far from that snob tree.

“Snoozers are losers,” I blurted out.

Rosie scrunched up her pixie face. “What?”

As she adjusted the rolled-up mat slung carelessly over one shoulder by a strap, I couldn’t help but check out her outfit—snug-but-not-tight-fitting T-shirt, stretch capri pants, and a thin microfleece jacket tied super-casually around her slim hips—and compare it to my own.

Ouch.

I plucked the wandering edge of my control panties from high on my butt cheek, then tightly folded my arms. “Boot camp. Snoozers are losers, so zero tolerance for excusers. That’s what’s funny.”

“Excusers? Do they think that’s a real word?” Rosie rolled her eyes so hard they nearly popped out of her skull. “The husband and wife team who run it have IQs only slightly higher than their BMIs.”

“Do you even have a filter?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Nope. I stopped caring what people think of me years ago.” She tilted her head to one side, looking ever so much like a curious blonde bird. One that would peck out your eyes if you got too close. “You should try it sometime.”

I couldn’t think of a response that didn’t end with ‘you’ and wouldn’t cost me a generous donation to Harry’s swear jar. Something in my expression must’ve communicated my middle-finger thoughts, and she chuckled.

“You think I’m a rude cow? Wait until you meet our instructor, my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth stepmother.” Rosie paused, her lips thinning. “My latest stepmother, any—”

The double doors flew open and out stalked a woman in her early twenties. Bar her hair color, a rich auburn that you instinctively knew was natural by her porcelain complexion, she was my imaginary yoga guru. Shimmering emerald-green leggings clung to her long, slender limbs like dragon scales, and a matching sports bra peeked out of the folds of her drapey, twisty over-top. And yes, she’d scooped up her eye-catching hair into a faux-messy topknot, complete with chopstick thrust through it.

I mean, how does that even work?

Cool, green eyes stabbed across the foyer and impaled me. “I’m Josephine, and you’re new. You must be Maggie Wakefield’s daughter.”

It wasn’t a question, and somehow, she made the statement sound like disdainful judgment.

Disdain for me? Water off a duck’s behind, baby.

But sneer at my mother?

My spine stiffened into a column of steel—probably counterproductive to the whole yoga philosophy—and I’ll admit to entertaining fantasies of snatching the chopstick from her hair and going all Egyptian mortician on her upturned nose. But since I didn’t want Detective Mana catching me with even a toe on the wrong side of the law again, I reined it in.

“That’s right,” I said.

She responded with a head-to-toe scan, from my ‘just out of bed frizz’ to my sparkly flip-flops, and twisted her cotton candy pink lips. “You look like her.”

“Thank you. What a nice thing to say.” I added a sweet but ‘go on, dis me and see what happens’ smile.

They would have crowned Josephine queen of the mean girls if we’d still been in high school. Once, she’d have intimidated the heck out of me. But having worked as a counselor, I’d developed a thick skin and strategies for dealing with their particular type of venom, and a now-adult mean girl didn’t present too much of a challenge.

Frown lines furrowed Josephine’s mannequin-smooth forehead. I could almost see the hamster wheel in her brain spin as she tried to figure out the subtext of my politeness until, with a slight shrug of her tanned shoulders, she dismissed me as too much effort. “I assume you’re aware that Move It and Lose It is an intermediate to advanced class? You have done Ashtanga yoga before?”

Ashta-what-a yoga? Um…that’d be a giant nope.

“Of course she has.” Rosie rested a companionable forearm on my shoulder. “Tess is as bendy as a pretzel, aren’t you, buddy?”

I slanted a look at my former nemesis, who was most definitely not my buddy. Rosie owned the Daily Grind, a café that unfortunately sold the most amazing array of delicious food and perfect lattes. Unfortunate, as I was trapped firmly between my sweet tooth and my desire to avoid any interaction with her. But now she stared at Josephine the way I imagined she’d stare at a cockroach who’d crawled out from under her coffee machine.

Huh. She must despise this woman if she’d sided with me.

Before I was forced to lie through my teeth about my flexibility, or lack thereof, footsteps echoed up the narrow stairway, and three more Lycra-clad women appeared. With a final cool glance in my direction, Josephine beckoned for the newcomers to enter the studio and disappeared inside with them.

“She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” Rosie murmured. “But she’s the best yoga instructor I’ve ever met.”

“And she’s your stepmother?”

“Yep. Go figure. My dad must have had a second midlife crisis.”

You couldn’t live in a town as small as Cape Discovery and not get tangled up in the local grapevine. I’d heard that Rosie’s twice-divorced dad had remarried a younger woman—but not that she was at least a decade younger than Rosie. However, I’d paid little attention as, until six months ago, Kurt Stanton and his new wife had resided in one of his Napier residences—roughly an hour’s drive away. Following my first and unpleasant impression of the new Mrs. Stanton, a few things clicked into place.

“She’s Archie’s mother?” I whispered. “Your baby half-brother?” And Pamela’s precious nephew.

Rosie’s mouth thinned, and I could’ve sworn her eyes grew shiny. “She gave birth to Archie, yeah. But she hasn’t done much mothering as far as we can see. Poor kid.”

Then, as if realizing she’d confided too much, she shook her head and headed toward the open studio doors. “C’mon. Stick with me down the back of the room and try to copy what I do.”

Ashta-whatsit yoga? How hard could it be?

Two

Two days later, I was still suffering the after-effects of Move It and Lose It. I’d moved it—oh, my goodness, how I’d moved it—but the only thing I’d lost was my dignity.

Picture every unnatural position a body can twist into. Add an instructor who criticizes, hectors, and belittles their sweating, red-faced pupils while telling them it’s ‘tough love.’ And worst of all, the revolt of one’s underwear as one attempts the aforementioned unnatural positions.

Okay—I admit that the underwear revolution wasn’t the worst thing to happen that Friday morning. The worst thing was my pride, which had caused my tongue to tell Josephine how much I’d enjoyed the class and how I looked forward to seeing her the same time next week.

Utterly. Insane.

I’d have kicked myself now as I limped into Saint Barnabas Church, Harry on one side and Mum on the other, but I suspected it would result in me collapsing on my butt.

Harry had crowbarred me out of bed this morning, using threats of calling in my mum, which would have ended in one of her ‘are you really wearing that outfit?’ lectures. Having met the mother of the baby about to be christened, I was in no hurry to bump into her again. Not even within the relative sanctuary of Saint Barney’s old brick walls.

But duty and avoiding my mum’s disapproval called. Attending the christening seemed somewhat less stressful than inventing an acceptable excuse for missing it. Like maybe being caught in the middle of a cattle stampede.

And even then, I wasn’t sure Mum would have let me off the hook.

So, attired in a Mother-would-deem-suitable navy dress, I eased my aching quadriceps, glutes, and hamstrings up the steps to the church. Everyone who was anyone in Cape Discovery had turned out today. Anyone, that is, who wanted to remain in Kurt Stanton’s good books. Rosie’s dad owned the most successful property investment company in the Napier area, and according to my granddad, he had the luck of the devil. He was also reputed to be generous to people he liked and ruthless to those who crossed him.

Right now, he stood at the entrance to Saint Barney’s, wearing a tailored suit that likely cost more than my first car. While he must have been in his late fifties, he had a younger man’s posture, and his fashionably styled salt-and-pepper hair only served to draw attention to his still-firm jawline and piercing blue eyes.

Not my cup of tea, as Nana Dee-Dee would have said, but I could understand his appeal to the opposite sex.

Josephine stood at his side, resplendent in white linen but throwing multiple glances at her phone as if bored brainless by standing around waiting to greet their guests. No sign of Archie, though heaven forbid that the baby should spit up on his mother’s shoulder.

I checked myself with the silent reminder I risked a smiting right on God’s doorstep. Judge not lest ye be judged and all that.

Kurt shook Harry’s and my mum’s hands like a politician, and I didn’t doubt for a moment that Mum would vote for him in any kind of election. Harry, on the other hand, had enough cop blood left in him to remain cynical when faced with a charming exterior.

Suspect I’d inherited some of that blue blood.

“Thank you for coming.” Kurt shook my hand in a well-practiced firm but not viselike grip, his direct eye contact suavely communicating that I had his undivided attention. For the full five seconds that it took me to mumble something inane in reply. At which point, Kurt dropped my hand, turned, and trotted out the same line to whoever stood behind me.

Josephine gave me the pinched smile of a woman who’d rather be anywhere else and forced out an insincere, “Nice to see you.”

Following Mum and Harry into the church foyer, I immediately spotted Pamela Martin in a powder-blue suit and a feather fascinator that made me wonder if Reggie the goose had finally got his comeuppance. Next to her, an unfamiliar woman who looked to be in her mid-forties cradled a blanket-wrapped baby I assumed was the star of the show: Archie Stanton.

Pamela waved us over, and Mum made a beeline for the boy, who stared solemnly up at the woman holding him.

“Oh, you’re a precious wee thing. Wes-woo-are,” Mum fussed in a voice geared to remind her daughter’s ovaries that time was running out for them to produce an egg-grandchild.

As Archie turned his face to my mother and gave her a gummy grin, Mum erupted in more baby-talk, which I tuned out.

“Look at that lady-killer smile,” the woman said over my mum as she played peekaboo with Archie. “He’s the sweetest, most placid lamb.” Based on the maternal pride in the woman’s voice, one could easily mistake the three-month-old for hers.

Then I twigged. “You must be Josephine’s mum.”

Next to the woman, Pamela choked out a laugh. “Oh dear, no. This is my ex-sister-in-law, Kurt’s second wife. Danielle, this is Tessa and her mum, Maggie. Tessa owns the yarn store two doors down from me.”

And I’d just insulted the former Mrs. Stanton by aging her into a grandma. Oops. “I’m so sorry.”

Instead of being offended, Danielle chuckled. “Understandable mistake. I’ve not been blessed with kids, but I’m as clucky over this adorable lovebug as a grandma would be.” She kissed the baby’s forehead, her curtain of dark hair falling across his pale skin.

“Or godmother,” she murmured before offering the baby bundle to Pamela with another chuckle. “And I think your godson’s just filled his nappy with a pre-christening gift.”

With that, Danielle gave us a cheery wave and headed into the church’s interior.

After a few more oohs and aahs over Archie, Mum and I followed, navigating our way down the aisle to where Harry sat only a few rows from the front. Whenever he and I made it to church on a Sunday morning, we skulked into the pew closest to the exit.

Last in, first out for refreshments was Harry’s motto.

And given that the delicious smell wafting over Saint Barney’s expansive lawn from the direction of the church hall would make even the hardiest tummy rumble, it was surprising Harry hadn’t bunked the christening service altogether and followed his nose. On the way here, Harry had mentioned that Rosie and her mum were catering this event. Double the weirdness of Harry not choosing a back pew for a quick getaway.

“Why aren’t you in our usual spot?” I whispered, easing down onto the wafer-thin cushion.

“What? And miss the show?” Harry gave a supervillain-worthy snicker and actually rubbed his hands together in his lap.

“Since when did a baby’s christening get you all revved up?”

He winked. “The baby’s not the show, sweet granddaughter of mine. It’s the performance the kid’s family is likely to put on. I don’t want to miss it. It’ll be better than an episode of Days of our Lives.”

“The baby’s family? You mean his parents?”

“Kurt and Ms. Gold Digger are just two of the cast.” He wriggled, attempting to get more comfortable on the cushion. Mission impossible. “I’m surprised she bothered to come when the christening’s all Kurt’s idea. From what I’ve heard, his latest missus is more of a new-age incense-burning type.”

“Mum made me go to one of her yoga classes,” I muttered out of the corner of my mouth, aware that even though Mum was engaged in animated discussion with the woman next to her, she was still my mother. Which meant her uncanny sense of hearing would pick up any subject of maternal interest, including, but not limited to, my love life—or rather lack thereof—health issues, and career prospects.

Harry snorted softly. “Wondered why you were walking funny these past couple of days. Thought you might’ve needed more All-Bran to keep you regular like.”

“Don’t start on bowel movements, for goodness’ sake. Just give me a quick overview of who the leads are in this drama. The vicar keeps checking his watch.”

“Well.” He leaned closer and ducked his head. “There’s Rosie, her hubby, Brad, and their three sons up the front. And you remember her mum, Wendy, from your school days?”

“She was a chef back then. Now she helps Rosie in the café?”

“That’s right. Did you notice how she’s right down the back, in our usual spot, not sitting with her daughter? Can’t stand to be within six feet of Kurt or his latest arm candy.”

“I remember their divorce was rather…difficult.” Somewhere between Kramer vs. Kramer and Fatal Attraction. This all taking place when Rosie was a teenager, which perhaps explained some of her behavior at high school. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.

“Who are the two women up the front with Pamela and the baby?”

“The older one is the lad’s nanny. The other’s a wannabe Instagram influencer from the city.” Harry clucked his tongue. “Ashley something. She’s the other godmother, can you believe?”

I couldn’t believe my granddad even knew what an Instagram influencer was. Maybe I should get him to take over Unraveled’s social media.

“And according to one of my informants”—he chuckled at his own former cop inside joke—“Josephine’s ruffled a few feathers with her choice of godmother. Kurt insisted on his sister, so she insisted on her bubblegum-chewing bestie up there. The girl looks all of seventeen. There’s more to being a godmother than choosing the right lipstick to wear in all those photos she’s been taking of herself with Archie since we arrived.”

“Where does the second wife fit into all of this?” I asked. “I met her on the way in.”

“Danielle?” Harry’s nose crinkled. “Dunno where she fits in, but she’s a good egg. Never has a bad word to say about her ex, just got on with it after they split up.”

“So, you’re expecting the drama from…?”

My granddad gave an exaggerated sigh. The kind one would give a kid who’s old enough to understand how the world works but lazy enough that they expect someone else to explain it to them.

“Kurt doesn’t get on well with his sister. And just between you and me, he’s also a little terrified of wife number one and her temper,” he said. “Pamela can’t stand her new sister-in-law and also doesn’t get on with wife number one. Wendy’s never seen eye to eye with Pamela, hates Kurt, and has nothing but contempt for the new baby mama. Rosie has a love-hate relationship with her dad, and she won’t be campaigning for president of the Wicked Stepmother fan club anytime soon. And as for Josephine”—he gave an even longer tongue cluck and added a head shake—“she’s one of those people with sandpaper skin. Rubs everyone up the wrong way.”

An amplified throat-clearing rumbled around the church, and I looked up to see the vicar adjusting his pop-star mic in front of his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please take your seats.”

As the rustles and murmurs of dozens of people shuffling around us provided a distraction, Harry elbowed me with a shark’s grin. “Let’s get this show on the road, eh?”

* * *

Forty-five minutes, four off-key hymns, and one grizzling baby later, Harry was disappointed.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” he muttered in my ear when he’d rejoined us after a quick trip to the church’s restroom. “Not a single ‘I object’ to be heard.”

“You’re thinking of a wedding ceremony.” I chuckled and led him away from the line of parishioners waiting to congratulate the couple and pose for photos with Archie in front of the church. “Maybe you’ll get lucky before lunch—someone’s bound to get hangry.”

“One can but hope.” He sniffed the air. “Something smells good. Rosie and Wendy sure know how to put on a nice spread; I’ll say that for ’em.”

I patted his arm and nudged him toward the path that led to the church hall. “You go find us a table. I’ll corral Mum and meet you in there.”

While Harry followed his nose, I hunted down my mother; Beth Chadwick had her cornered just outside the church entranceway.

“He might listen to you, Maggie,” I overheard Beth saying. “Tell him that blasted creature’s scaring people off from coming to church. That might make him listen because, apparently, goose poop everywhere won’t.”

I bit back a smile, momentarily tempted to leave Mum to her fate. Could I be so cruel? I snickered then paused as I caught a glimpse of movement in the church’s dim interior. Furtive movement? I leaned sideways to get a better look, but catching sight of me, Mum lunged in my direction like a drowning woman hurling herself at a floating log.

“There you are,” she said, her eyes wide and frantic. “It must be time for us to give Harry his pills before lunch, right?”

The only pills fit-as-a-stallion—his words, not mine—Harry took were his daily vitamins. And he certainly didn’t need the two of us cramming those down his throat. But I took pity on my mother since, as she often reminded me, she had suffered through pregnancy hemorrhoids, forty-eight hours of labor, and five stitches.

It seemed the least I could do.

“Right,” I said. “You know how he gets if he doesn’t have his anti-psychotics three times a day.” I gave Beth my best Mona Lisa smile. “Please excuse us, Beth. See you Tuesday night in class?”

She blinked, then nodded.

We escaped up the path and into the hall, which was set up with tables and chairs, and a buffet fit for royalty. According to Mum.

“If I were one for unkind speculation,” she said as we sat next to Harry, already well into his first heaped plate of food, “I would say Josephine’s aiming to be the Meghan Markle of Cape Discovery.”

Harry snorted as he dipped a sausage roll into a dollop of tomato sauce. “You missed Pamela’s spot-on impression of her boasting to everyone that Archie’s a tiny wee prince.”

I looked across the crowded room to where Josephine had just made an entrance. Using the brown and scarlet Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder as a soft battering ram, she plowed her way through people to the front of the room. Their nanny trailed in her wake, struggling to push Archie’s stroller with one hand while fighting to keep the stuffed-to-the-brim baby bag hooked over her shoulder with the other.

Behind them, Archie, carried by his father, wailed like an air-raid siren. Josephine spun around to glare at the baby’s red cheeks and clenched fists, her own face flushed with temper or embarrassment. Wincing, I glanced down at the beautiful blue-bootie-and-flower arrangement on our table, my appetite suddenly gone.

When Mum dragged me over to the buffet table, I stole another look in the Stantons’ direction. Archie had stopped crying and was peacefully sucking on a bottle in his nanny’s arms. At the same table, Kurt sat with his back to his current wife and was deep in conversation with Ashley Someone-or-Other’s chest.

Josephine sat in front of her empty, untouched plate, shoveling salad leaves into her mouth from a small plastic container instead. Carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone around her, she munched with concentration, not even pausing midchew to check on her baby son when he let out an enormous belch.

I’d never seen such dedication to leafy vegetables.

The buffet lunch provided by Rosie and the Daily Grind was good. Fine, fine—it surpassed good and headed well into the territory of great, though I wouldn’t go so far as to echo Pamela’s declaration that the potato salad was divinely sent. Biblical manna, she compared it to. Pure blasphemy judging by the vicar’s glare.

After lunch, Josephine and Archie, again in his father’s arms, moved to a table on which an elaborately decorated blue-and-white frosted cake sat. Kurt gave a long-winded speech that culminated in them ceremoniously cutting into the cake. Polite applause from around the room tailed off into awkward silence as Kurt offered his wife a slice.

She arched away as if he were offering her cockroach gateau. “Baby, you know I’m gluten free.”

Rosie held out a side plate with a blue-frosted cupcake. “Got you covered. We made this gluten-free cupcake so you wouldn’t miss out.”

“How thoughtful of you, sweetheart.” Kurt beamed at his daughter before gazing expectantly at Josephine.

With a smile tighter than the Spanx shapewear I’d been forced to don under my dress, Josephine accepted the plate and bit into her cake. I can guarantee I wasn’t the only one smugly amused when a dab of blue frosting transferred to her nose.

“Mmm,” she said. “Very nice. A bit on the dry side, but gluten-free baking is quite a difficult skill to master.”

Rosie’s smile snapped even tighter than her stepmother’s. “I’ll continue to work on sharpening my skills then.”

With an enormous knife, her gritted teeth told me.

Normal conversation resumed as Rosie took the cake away to the hall’s kitchen to cut up. Distracted by the many people who stopped by our table to chat with Harry and my mum, I soon lost track of Josephine. By the time we noticed the disgruntled mutterings around us, some of the other guests had already left.

“What’s the matter?” Mum asked the vicar’s wife, Eunice Salmon, as she hurried past.

She stopped and, with lips twisted into a puckered moue, bent down to speak close to Mum’s ear. “We can’t find Mrs. Stanton anywhere. Kurt says she probably felt one of her migraines coming on and went home. But without letting anyone know? Inexcusably rude.”

Eunice was, in Harry’s words, a bit of a pearl-clutcher. And ironically enough, a string of pearls did appear to be an integral part of her Sunday uniform, which otherwise consisted of pastel blouses, neutral-colored knee-length skirts, and coordinating flats. I knew that, like her husband, she was disappointed by the Wakefields’ sporadic church attendance, but the couple’s active dislike and suspicion of Josephine’s ‘Eastern mumbo jumbo’ yoga practice was no parish secret. Somewhat cynically, I suspected Kurt must have made a substantial donation to the church coffers in order to hold his son’s christening there.

But regardless of circumstance, the vicar’s wife had a point about Mrs. Stanton’s behavior. “Have you checked the bathrooms?” I asked.

“Of course, dear. And Peter’s had a quick look around the grounds in case she’d just popped outside to stretch her legs.”

The whole building would have been alerted to someone wandering the church grounds, thanks to the vicar’s guard goose.

“Try not to take her leaving early to heart.” Mum gave Eunice’s arm a reassuring pat. “It was a lovely christening; everyone said so.”

“You nailed the music this week, Mrs. Salmon,” I added, almost truthfully; she had blasted less than a dozen teeth-jarringly foul notes from her organ.

What can I say? I’m a peacemaker.

“Oh. Well, thank you, Tessa. I’m so pleased you enjoyed the service. Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, doesn’t it?”

“Definitely,” I said. My breast had felt quite savaged by the end of the fourth hymn.

The hall emptied in dribs and drabs after that, but Harry wouldn’t leave until he’d finished his second helping of dessert. Mum, who’d given up trying to hurry him along, had left to run an open house, and since my plans for this sunny Sunday afternoon comprised a book, a blanket, and the beach, I was happy to granddad-sit a while longer.

Finally, Harry scraped the last traces of whipped cream from his bowl and declared he was done. He stood, patted his hip pocket, and frowned. “Shoot. Must’ve left my beanie in the men’s room back in the church. I’ll just go fetch it, and then we’ll be off.” He turned toward the nearest exit, where folk gathered for takeout plates of christening cake stood between him and the door.

If Harry went that way, he’d be drawn into yet another discussion about politics, cricket, or the ‘Good Old Days.’ Meaning a further delay of at least half an hour while I attempted to extricate him.

“How about I run over and get your beanie?” I pointed him toward the second set of hall doors, which they’d pinned open to let in a cross breeze. “You go out that way; it’ll be faster.”

Keeping a wary eye out for Reggie, I ducked outside and quick-stepped back toward the main church building. The first time I encountered the goose, the pub owner from across the road had been forced to surrender his ham and cheese croissant to save me from being pecked to death.

I shot a glance over my shoulder toward the Stone’s Throw, but Oliver would be inside his pub—probably serving the wave of customers who’d come straight from this morning’s christening. Not that I’d require a ridiculously attractive savior for any future encounters with the feathered menace.

No, I’d learned my lesson.

Now whenever I stepped onto church property, there was a freshly made sandwich in my purse, and if I didn’t encounter the killer goose, I had a readymade snack. Win-win.

The church was still unlocked, but the lights were off and the foyer empty. Through the large foyer windows, I could see there was no one in the auditorium either. Is it just me, or is there something slightly creepy about a deserted church? Perhaps that was because I half expected a cheesed-off goose to hurl its honking self out of the shadows any minute.

In the dimness of the hallway off the foyer, my toe caught on something on the floor, and I tripped, my arms pinwheeling until I’d regained my footing. I twisted around and spotted what I’d stumbled over—a leather strap. A strap attached to Josephine Stanton’s distinctive Louis Vuitton bag. Various items spilled out of the bag’s wide-open mouth: keys, a lipstick, a travel pack of tissues, the lunch container—empty apart from a lone green leaf—and a wallet that had fallen open to expose numerous credit cards and the requisite photo sleeves, each containing photos of…Josephine.

No surprises there, I guess. But why had she dumped it on the floor?

I must confess, I didn’t strain any brain cells mulling it over; I merely scooped everything back into the bag, hefted it onto my arm, and continued down the hallway to the restrooms. Once I’d collected Harry’s beanie, I’d backtrack to the hall and hand the bag over to…

For a moment, I hesitated outside the door to the men’s room.

The last thing I wanted was to walk in on the vicar relieving himself, especially not when I was already in his bad books, thanks to my continual refusal to join his Aerobics for the Almighty classes. With a shuddering grimace at both thoughts, each distasteful in their own unique ways, I knocked loudly on the door. “Hellooo? Anybody in there?”

Silence. But that didn’t necessarily mean the restroom was empty.

The elderly Mr. Parsons, who’d been hectoring Harry earlier about joining his bridge group, was too stubborn to wear his hearing aids regularly. He was jokingly called Mr. Pardon, often to his face since he was deaf enough not to register the difference.

Not wanting to stumble in on him taking care of business either, I let loose a second volley of loud knocks. “Fair warning, I’m coming in.”

I cracked open the door, but when it wedged against something on the scuffed linoleum, it stopped halfway and would open no farther.

Big hairy yarn balls.

Beth, who volunteered as the church janitor, stored the cleaning supplies in this restroom. Maybe a mop or broom had fallen over and become jammed. With a frown, I squeezed through the gap. Popping out into the fake-pine scented bathroom like a cork, I spotted the reason for the stuck door.

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t a mop.

Not even close.

Three

The Louis Vuitton slipped from my arm and thudded to the floor, landing mere inches away from Cinderella’s abandoned slipper.

If Cinderella had worn scarlet pumps.

And if Cinderella had overindulged in the vino at the royal ball and then flaked out on the palace bathroom floor.

And if the Cinderella analogy was my brain’s attempt to shelter me from the reality of the woman sprawled out on the linoleum of the Saint Barnabas men’s room.

The unlikeable, and apparently now very much unalive, Josephine Stanton. Unalive, as in departed for the great yoga studio in the sky. Meanwhile, my own non-fairytale footwear held me glued to the floor, forcing my eyes to convey to my brain in frantic spurts what they witnessed.

Josephine lay crumpled on her side, her mouth slack open and blank eyes directed under a stall door, seemingly captivated by the base of a not-so-royal throne.

The pungent stench of vomit and other equally unpleasant odors assaulted my nose, and I clapped a hand over my lower face. As I did so, I caught sight of a phone beside her hip. A jagged crack zigzagged across the screen, but the different colored speech bubbles of a text message exchange were still visible. Josephine’s in bright green, the other person’s in gray.

Gray: Have you got the results yet? It’s been 3 months. I have a right to know.

Josephine: You have no rights after what you did. Stop contacting me.

Gray: You’re in no position to make demands.

Josephine: Neither are you. Just STOP.

There was a time gap between the last message and Gray’s final ones.

Gray: OK. I’ll just say it. I miss you vixen. Admit you miss me too.

Gray: Crickets? Really? After last night?

Gray: I know you’re at the little tyke’s christening but you can’t keep ignoring me. If you could we wouldn’t be in this mess. Message me back.

Gray: Hey? Are you okay?

I finished skim-reading, feeling as though I’d consumed an entire novel. Shivers drilled into my spine as icy sludge pooled low in my belly. Moving forward or backward seemed an insurmountable task, but I pushed aside the numbness.

Crouched beside Josephine, I pressed my fingers to the side of her throat, my eyes closed to concentrate on any sensation in my fingertips. Nothing. Only still-warm but motionless flesh. Even so, I counted to twenty in my head. Part of me expected her to jerk away from my touch and demand to know why I was prodding her.

She didn’t move.

Although not a doctor, I was ninety-nine percent certain Josephine wouldn’t be demanding anything ever again.

I took shallow breaths through my mouth, but the smell of vomit… For the second time in a matter of minutes, I froze. Vomiting could mean many things, but the first one that popped into my head like a flashing neon sign was POISON. And it appeared just like that—all in capitals. If something Josephine ate for lunch had killed her, did that mean anyone who ate with her might have ingested the same thing?

After a few seconds of navel-gazing—literally gawking at my stomach, trying to detect any suspicious sensations—I exhaled in a whoop. Other than the normal sympathetic retching when someone else tossed their cookies, I felt fine.

But what about my mum? And Harry?

The blood in my veins went from below zero to boiling point within seconds. As panicked heat flushed through my limbs, I swayed, gripped by terror.

Move, Tessa! Get outta here.

I stepped backward, and something crunched under my foot. My slitted eyes popped open, and I glanced down to see the heel of my slingback in the center of Josephine’s phone screen, spiderweb cracks radiating from it. Maybe I should’ve felt guilty about destroying evidence, but it barely registered as a blip on my Important Things to Worry About in Bed at 3:00 a.m. radar. However, I took care not to move Josephine’s leg, which still prevented the door from opening, as I squeezed back out into the hallway.

Harry waited outside on the sidewalk, sitting on the stone boundary wall and talking to Peter Salmon, who held Reggie tucked under his arm like a football. As I approached, he—the goose—gave me the side-eye and a warning honk.

My granddad took one look at me, and his jaw sagged. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, girlie. Are you all right?”

Swallowing back a way-to-soon comment of what an awful ghost Josephine would make, I concentrated on Harry’s sweet face.

“I’m okay,” I wheezed out, keeping a safe distance from Reggie’s beak. “Just had a bit of a shock in the men’s room.”

Understatement of the century. Oddly, but maybe because I felt like a kid who’d sworn in church whenever I encountered Saint Barnabas’s vicar, I didn’t want to blurt out the whole, ugly truth.

There’s a dead woman in your church restroom.

With a disgruntled huff, Peter turned himself and Reggie toward the church. “Is Stan Donaldson up to his tricks again? I’ll have another word with the old codger.” He headed back up the path.

I didn’t know who Stan Donaldson was or what sort of tricks he might get up to in a men’s toilet, but right now, I couldn’t in good conscience let the vicar stumble into a potential crime scene. Not while holding a goose, anyway.

“Vicar,” I called after him, “it’s not Mr. Donaldson in the bathroom.”

He turned with a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s Josephine, ah—Mrs. Stanton.”

His quirked eyebrow drooped as lines formed on his forehead. “Why is Mrs. Stanton in the men’s bathroom?”

Unsure if this was a rhetorical question, I shot a glance at Harry, who smoothed down flyaway strands of his wispy white hair, looking bemused. I swallowed hard. “I couldn’t say for certain why she’s there, Vicar, but the thing is…” Another swallow forced down my suddenly dry throat. “You’d better call the authorities because she’s…um.”

I tried again, attempting to turn the ugly truth into something more palatable for a man of God. “Mrs. Stanton appears to have unexpectedly met her maker.”

The vicar blinked uncomprehendingly at me. “She’s what?”

I heard the scuff of Harry’s shoes on the concrete before his wiry arm wrapped around my shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. “She said the woman’s dead, Pete. Now put down that goose and get on the phone.”

Peter gently set the bird on its webbed feet and duly dialed emergency services. Once the call connected, I tuned out his conversation, the briskly relayed details sounding much like goose honking to my shocked ears.

And I was almost certain I was in shock. If being in shock felt like one was viewing everything through a wonky kaleidoscope, where colors and sounds and smells and temperatures changed on a whim. Starting to shake, I pulled away from Harry in case my body did something embarrassing, like keel over in a dead faint, and took up the spot on the wall my granddad had vacated. He sat beside me, the warmth of his palm on my back providing comfort as I clung to his calm-in-the-storm voice telling me to lower my head and breathe.

Seconds, minutes—probably lots of minutes—zipped past as Technicolor images of Josephine on the bathroom floor filled every available space in my brain. There was shouting as Kurt Stanton became aware of the situation, and some of the men had to physically restrain him from entering the church. Rather effectively, the vicar and Reggie barred the front entrance, the goose honking threateningly whenever anyone got too close.

People came and went—don’t ask me who—talking in solemn tones and pressing hot cups of sugared tea into my hands. I usually loathe sweet tea, but today I slurped it down as if it were the remedy to all things. My mum, who hadn’t even waited for a colleague to take over before closing the door in potential buyers’ faces and racing back to Saint Barney’s, sat on my other side. Her hand clutching mine, the ferocity of her stare keeping the looky-loos at bay.

Mum—she and I were the proverbial chalk and cheese, but she was still a mama bear guarding one of her cubs if she caught even a whiff of a threat.

By the time an unfamiliar dark sedan parked in front of the church and a familiar long-limbed figure clad in a charcoal suit emerged, I was on a sugar high and had another tea-related pressing need.

“Mum.” I squeezed her hand. With the other, she still managed to rapid-fire compose and send numerous text messages. “I need to pee.”

“Hmm?” When she didn’t look up from her flying fingers, I ducked my head, trying to catch her gaze and communicate the urgency of the situation.

“The detective’s here, and I really need to pee.”

“Ms. Wakefield?”

My gaze swiveled to where the perfectly shined shoes had stopped on the sidewalk next to me.

Of course they had. I’d forgotten how fast the man could move.

I looked up—way up—into Eric Mana’s face, currently set in its default cop expression. In other words, all business, no pleasure. Although I could have sworn I detected a glint of humor in his startling pale eyes.

Please don’t let him have heard me say ‘pee.’ Please.

“Detective Sergeant,” I said, admittedly a teeny bit proud that I’d kept my voice level, as if I hadn’t just mentioned one of life’s private functions in public. With accidental volume.

My mother released my hand and rose to her full height. Mama bear stood considerably shorter than the detective, whose size put the brick in built like a brick outhouse. “Before you batter my daughter with questions, she needs the little girls’ room.”

“The what?” Eric asked, though I’d stake my reputation that he’d heard exactly what Mum said.

“The bathroom.” Mum huffed. “She needs to tinkle.”

Tinkle? I winced. Kill me. Kill me now.

“Please, don’t let me prevent you from tinkling, Tessa.” The corner of his mouth quirked in that adorably annoying way he had of smiling while not smiling. “My questions can wait until you’re done. You know the drill.”

Unfortunately, I did.

And the pleasure of seeing him again instantly evaporated as I remembered, once again, Josephine. Who, if she were still alive, no doubt would’ve hated the thought of dying in such an embarrassing manner.

If she were still alive.

All of a sudden, my need to tinkle didn’t seem such a bad thing after all.

* * *

We walked into the vicar’s office, cluttered with piles of dusty theology books and photographs of Peter and his family during their mission trip. It was, at least, quiet, private, and away from the organized chaos outside.

I had serious doubts about the vicar’s rickety chair coping with the bulk of the detective behind me—but hey, I could use some entertainment after this afternoon’s events. And a spacious office was preferable to sitting in close proximity to Eric in his car.

When I spotted a visitors’ seat next to the vicar’s messy desk, I made a beeline for it while Eric side-eyed the remaining chair. He eased into it, visibly stiffening as it let out a wheeze of protest. Under his weight, the seat sank to its lowest level, leaving his knees much closer to his chest than they had been a moment ago. As the detective rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned forward, no doubt aiming for a slightly more authoritarian position, the chair squeaked its indignation and shuddered. Eric froze. Swore under his breath.

“God doesn’t pay the man enough that he can afford decent office furniture?” he muttered.

I wasn’t sure if this was the first of the questions he expected me to answer, but given that a recording device hadn’t appeared, I assumed I could consider it rhetorical. Without moving his lower body, Eric eased upright and pulled a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Which had been tailored to fit his broad shoulders and muscular arms like the proverbial glove. Just saying.

Again, grateful for any distraction.

“A notebook?” I asked. “Isn’t that a tad old school?”

“I am old school.” He didn’t appear the least bit offended by my description. But he tapped the screen of his phone and set it on the desk between us. “I’m going to record this conversation…with your permission?” When his gray eyes lifted to mine, I nodded. “But I also like taking my own notes as we go along.”

“So you’ll be grading my performance?” One of my least favorite aspects of my old job—performance reviews.

“There’s no pass or fail. Just tell me in your own words what you observed.” The cordial sincerity in his voice told me I was dealing with an officer of the law.

Not Eric, the man I’d glimpsed a couple of times beneath that professional mask.

He tapped the red record button and rattled off an official introduction for whoever planned to listen to it later.

“Ms. Wakefield, what time did you arrive at Saint Barnabas this morning?”

So the questions began. I answered them truthfully and with what I hoped was the right amount of detail—neither too sparse and ‘just the facts ma’am’ nor babbling about the likely ingredients of the amazing spinach quiche served at lunch.

Remaining cucumber-cool, I recalled my movements and what I remembered of Josephine’s until I found her on the bathroom floor. Either Eric had some sort of sixth sense capable of detecting the thickening in my throat and the blood thudding against my eardrums, or the suddenly soft-spoken detective had years of experience with nervous and possibly still in shock witnesses.

“Take your time,” he said. “Deep breaths. From your diaphragm.”

“You sound like she did in her yoga class on Friday morning,” I grumbled but followed his advice. Can’t say it made me any calmer, but I did appreciate the spicy masculine scent of his cologne.

“She being Josephine Stanton?”

“Yeah.”

“You took regular yoga sessions with her?”

I shook my head. “My mother signed me up for her Move It and Lose It class. Her maternal way of telling me I’m too sedentary.” And too single.

“Ah, passive-aggressive warfare. I hear you. My ma could give Sun Tzu a run for his money.” A ghost smile drifted across his mouth, fading as his gaze flicked down to where his phone was recording. He cleared his throat. “You entered the bathroom and saw the deceased, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What else did you see?”

I described the scene as best I could, using the part of my brain capable of pretending I was in a virtual reality version of CSI.

“Did you see any signs that Mrs. Stanton was alive?”

“No. I’m pretty sure she’d, ah, passed before I entered the bathroom.”

His voice gentled. “Did you check?”

I sealed my lips together and swallowed hard. “I felt for a pulse in her throat but couldn’t find one.”

“You didn’t touch anything else in the room?”

I shook my head. “Just her bag, which I dropped when I saw her—but as I told you before, I’d picked it up outside in the hallway.”

“And once you’d established, to your satisfaction, that you could find no signs of life, you left the church building and alerted Mr. Salmon?”

“Yes.” I ran my tongue across dust-dry lips, wishing I’d brought another one of the church ladies’ cups of tea with me. “There was nothing else I could do to help her.”

Eric let that settle between us for a couple of beats. “You did the right thing.”

He sat up straighter and flipped over a page in his notebook. The chair beneath him squawked in protest, and he froze, pen hovering above the page. “The first officer on the scene informs me they found a phone with a cracked screen near the bod—I mean, Mrs. Stanton.”

Warmth seeped into my face. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Extending my foot in his direction, I gestured at the pointy heel of my shoe. “That was me stepping on it in my hurry to get out of the bathroom.” I whooshed out a breath. “Did I destroy vital evidence?”

He scribbled something on the page before pinning me with a stare that jellied the muscles in my legs. My foot dropped, the kitten heel clicking on the hardwood floor as if in apology.

“We’ll be able to retrieve all the information we need, so don’t worry. Do you remember if the phone was—”

There was a sharp rap on the office door and a uniformed officer poked her head inside. “Excuse me, Detective. You’re needed out here for a moment.” She slid a glance over at me then dismissed me with her eyes. “Mrs. Stanton’s husband is demanding to speak to you, sir. He’s rather adamant.”

Eric gave the woman a curt nod. “Tell Mr. Stanton I’ll be with him shortly.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment and shut the door again.

Eric turned back to me, but before he could speak, I blurted out, “Can I go home now?”

“Yes.” He tucked his notebook and pen back into his jacket pocket and picked up his phone. “That’s all for now; however, I’ll require you to come into the Napier station to give a formal statement.” He gingerly rose to his feet and smoothed down the creases of his pants.

I could have sworn the chair breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly desperate for my fluffy robe, well-worn Ugg boots, and some kitty kisses to help me return to my happy place, I also stood. “Sure. I’m familiar with the routine.”

With a grim chuckle, he folded his arms across his broad chest. “Yeah. Guess you are.”

“I promise you I’m not a serial killer even though I do seem to have a knack for stumbling over fresh corpses.”

Eric’s eyebrows glided toward his hairline.

“Too much too soon?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the headache making itself at home in my temples to hold off until I could scramble out from under the detective’s cool scrutiny. Shutting up seemed the best course of action at this point. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Blah, blah, blah.

So, of course, I shut up—if shutting up means opening your big mouth to say, “Do you think Josephine Stanton was poisoned?”

Four

Detective Mana didn’t even flinch when I burst out with what appeared to be an obvious question.

“What makes you think that?” he said.

“Uh, I don’t know. How about because she was young and in scarily good shape? That alone suggests a heart attack or stroke or some other sudden nasty illness wasn’t responsible. Plus, she can’t have been thinking straight, dumping her bag in the hallway and entering the first bathroom she came to—the men’s. Those are the actions of someone who urgently needs to worship at a porcelain throne.”

“We won’t know how she died until the coroner examines her.”

“Right. But unofficially?” I pressed. “Poisoning? Accidental or deliberate?”

Again, Eric’s raised eyebrows. “Unofficially? We won’t know how she died until the coroner examines her.”

I mentally threw up my hands. He wasn’t about to humor my curiosity. Fine. “You’re no fun.”

“Death isn’t fun,” he said. “And whether the third Mrs. Stanton died from natural or unnatural causes, you’re a civilian, so it doesn’t concern you.”

It did concern me because I’d been the one who’d found her. But it was pointless arguing with the detective, even if it was kind of fun sparring with the man.

“I’ve no intention of getting involved,” I said. “I’m just naturally curious, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric opened the office door and gestured for me to precede him into the hallway. “Don’t they say curiosity killed the cat?”

“Something like that.” And satisfaction brought it back. I stalked past him, nose in the air.

“Wait a sec.” He touched my elbow, and my stalk stuttered to a halt. There may have been some tingling running up and down my arm; I will neither confirm nor deny.

When I turned to face him, he held out a plain black-text-on-white business card. “My direct line at the station and my cell number. In case you think of anything else. Or are tempted to do something…rash.”

Rash, a.k.a stupid. Like the last time you stuck your nose in something that didn’t concern you, I deciphered from his lingering gaze. Yeah, yeah. Lesson learned.

Pocketing the card without comment, I resumed my march down the hallway and out the church’s rear door.

* * *

The next morning, it was business as usual in Unraveled. Well, nearly usual. Harry volunteered to mind the store today and field any questions from nosy locals, who’d want to grill me about Josephine’s untimely demise. A seemingly sweet gesture, unless you knew that my granddad was more cunning than sweet. No doubt, he’d string people along with outrageous variations of the tale, gaining Machiavellian enjoyment from doing so. He gruffly ordered that I get out from under his feet and find something else to do with my time.

I lasted all of five minutes talking to Sean, who was prepping our apartment for repainting. As Harry had bailed Sean out of the financial jam caused by his slight, ahem, gambling problem, and since he wasn’t currently gainfully employed, he’d become—as Harry put it—the Wakefield family gofer.

If someone needed a washer changed or a car washed, Sean was your guy. Need stinky compost shoveled from one spot to another? Again, Sean was your man. And if a store and the apartment above it needed sanding and repainting, Harry knew just the laborer to get it done. For free. My younger brother, however, thought he could sucker me into being his assistant for the day. Nuh-uh, bro.

After giving strict instructions that he lock Kit and Pearl outside before so much as opening a can of paint, I hustled back downstairs to check Harry had everything under control.

Seated in one of Unraveled’s armchairs next to a display of craft magazines, Harry held up a finger to indicate he was on the phone. As if I couldn’t tell by the volume of his voice. For some reason, my granddad believed that one must speak loudly and enunciate each word into a cell phone as if addressing someone with major hearing loss.

“Good-oh, then. Thanks for that,” he said. “Once a cop, always a cop, eh?” A pause, a dour chuckle, then, “Spot you later, Murray.”

My pulse gave a little skip. Murray was one of his former colleagues from Napier, which meant Harry had news. Probably not news intended for civilian ears, but…

“What did he say?” I asked the second my granddad ended the call.

“Nosy wee thing, aren’t you?” His grin matched the shark’s head beanie Dee-Dee once knitted him during Shark Week as a joke. “It’ll cost you.”

I dutifully handed over the unopened packet of gingernut biscuits that I’d been hiding behind my back. “I’d better not come home to find you’ve eaten them all,” I said faux sternly. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t leave them unattended, or Kit will help himself, the little chubster.”

“Heh. I’ll tell him you said so.” He tucked the biscuits beside him on the chair. “My mole at the station—”

“You’ve been watching crime dramas again, haven’t you?”

Ignoring me, Harry continued, “He reckons Josephine Stanton’s death might be ruled as accidental poisoning.”

“From what? A drug overdose?”

“He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say. Nothing’s official yet.” Harry stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but it’s probably more tragic for the motherless lad she left behind. Though I suppose the baby’s father won’t be too happy about losing his pretty wife.”

The baby’s father…

Lightbulb!

I swear—it wasn’t until that moment that I remembered the text messages I’d skim-read on Josephine’s phone. The ones I’d failed to mention to Detective Mana during our interview yesterday afternoon. Heat flamed my cheeks, which felt mere seconds from spontaneous combustion. Shock or no shock, what a giant oops.

“I thought I might head down to the city and call in on a few of our boutique dyers to see what color palettes they’re planning for winter,” I said. Then, in a flash of inspiration, as I knew my former-cop granddad wouldn’t be too impressed to find out I’d forgotten to tell the lead detective on a case a crucial piece of information, I added, “Guess I could give the police my full statement while I’m there.”

“Sensible. Get that out of the way and then have some fun.” Harry made shooing motions, most likely because he wanted to get stuck into his mid-morning cup of tea and biscuits.

I kissed him goodbye and hurried out to my car.

On the hour-long drive to Napier, I contemplated making an anonymous call to the police. Fairly confident I could pull off a convincing American accent to disguise my Kiwi one. That idea was a potential minefield. Maybe I could give my statement to one of Eric’s underlings, and they’d pass it on. Doable…but cowardly.

Pathetic that beneath the wild excuses spinning around in my head for why I’d failed to mention the texts on Josephine’s phone was a core desire not to look foolish in Detective Mana’s eyes. Or Eric’s, for that matter. But, as I’d constantly hammered into my high school kids as a counselor, you had to own both your successes and your shortcomings.

So, yeah, I had to front up to the detective with a ‘my bad.’ After all, whoever this other man of Josephine’s was, he might have a credible motive for wanting her silenced.

First stop in Napier was a bakery reputed to make the best doughnuts in the North Island. A little sugar-and-fat-laden bribery couldn’t go astray, right? I bought two, plus two coffees, remembering that Eric took his black. After securing a spot on a park bench in a shaded area beside the public library—neutral territory just across the road from the station—I composed a brief text to the cell number on Eric’s business card.

Me: Hi. It’s Tessa Wakefield. Are you free for a quick catch up? I’m in Napier and have information that might be important to the Stanton case.

I hit send, satisfied that I’d struck the right tone: professional yet not unfriendly. My stomach fluttered when, seconds later, three dancing dots appeared on my screen. He was typing a reply!

Giving my phone one hundred and ten percent of my focus, I watched the gray dots rise and fall…then stop. Second-guessing myself, I willed them to move again. Maybe I should’ve mentioned I’d brought food?

“Coffee and doughnuts, Tessa?” Eric’s deep voice came from beside me. “Are you trying to corrupt me?”

* * *

Detective Mana should consider himself the luckiest man in a suit. Lucky, because I almost added two powdered sugar and two cream-filled doughnuts to the tailored black fabric.

As it was, my butt jerked an inch off the bench and my hands clamped down on the box, partially squishing the poor, innocent goodies inside.

“Seriously?” I glared at him as he rounded the seat and sat beside me. “Are you part cat?”

“Sorry.”

He didn’t look sorry. Smug was more the word I’d have used.

“Please excuse my panther-like grace,” he added.

I rolled my eyes without bothering to turn my face away. When my eyes returned to an unrolled position, I found him watching me with an expression a notch less confident than his initial smirk. Specifically, he was studying my hands, still clasping the now-dented bakery box.

“I honestly didn’t mean to startle you.” Eric’s deep voice smoothed my ruffled feathers. “Not after the shock you had yesterday.” He grimaced sympathetically. “Many people never see a deceased person until they’re tidily presented in a casket. It’s not easy seeing death without its hair done and makeup on.”

I set the doughnuts on the bench between us, next to the two coffees, and silently passed him his cup.

“Thanks.” He made a move to peel open the takeout lid.

“It’s black. I remembered.” And before he thought to question why I remembered how he drank his coffee after only one previous occasion a few weeks ago, I continued, “I prefer death without its false glamour—at least if it’s someone you love. After the funeral director was done with my nana, she no longer looked like Nana.”

I closed my eyes, then reopened them with a soft sigh, expecting to see impatience in the detective’s gaze.

Instead, he nodded in agreement. “Same with my kuia—grandmother. My strongest memory from when they brought her home to the marae is my mother weeping as she wiped off the excessive makeup they’d used on her. I didn’t understand why Ma was so upset. Clearly, the woman lying there wasn’t my kuia, just someone who vaguely resembled her.”

“How old were you?”

“Five or six.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Funny what kids remember.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t find it funny. Not when I pictured a small, dark-haired boy sitting beside his grandmother’s casket, confused and sad without really knowing why.

Eric sipped from his coffee cup while resolutely staring straight ahead. When he lowered it, I offered him a doughnut, somewhat the worse for wear but edible nonetheless.

“You got here fast,” I said as he selected a powdered doughnut and took a paper napkin.

He slanted a glance at me. “I saw you from my office window. Figured it was more efficient just to come over.”

Efficient. Right—the detective was a busy man. Get to the reason you dragged him away from his work, Tessa. I sipped my now lukewarm coffee and debated how to begin. Open with a confession or ease my way into it? Ease my way.

“Can I ask now whether Josephine Stanton was poisoned?”

“You can.” He lifted the doughnut to his nose as if sniffing its bouquet. “But ‘poisoned’ suggests someone else’s involvement, and we’re unsure if that’s the case.”

Butt-covering in progress. Okay, then. “Let me rephrase that. Did Josephine die from ingesting something?”

“Yes.”

“Something she ate during the luncheon?”

“Piecing together initial eyewitnesses’ statements, it seems likely.”

My face folding into a frown, I flicked through my scarce recollections of that lunch. “I only noticed Josephine eating a salad from a plastic container and some christening cake. Oh. Wait. She didn’t have any cake; Rosie made her a gluten-free cupcake instead. I didn’t see how much Josephine…” I gulped back the last word as it occurred to me that I might have accidentally accused Rosie, and possibly her mother, of baking a deadly cupcake.

“We collected samples of all the food served and interviewed the caterers earlier this morning.” He gave a dismissive shake of his head. “At this stage, we don’t believe the cupcake was to blame.”

“That’s good, I suppose.” I offered him a crooked smile. “Wouldn’t want to put anyone off the deliciousness that is cupcakes. Or doughnuts,” I added as he bit into his.

Goodness knows how he did it, but Eric didn’t get a speck of powdered sugar on his spotless suit.

The man was Teflon-coated.

Assuming he had manners enough not to converse while eating, I randomly picked a doughnut and took what I expected to be a delicate bite. Not so delicate. Custardy cream squirted out one end and splattered on the toe of my shoe. Without missing a beat, I turned my face up to the overhanging branches. “Darn birds, that’s plain rude.”

Eric snorted, and a puff of sugar floated down to settle on his knee. Where it remained while the detective rumbled out a bona fide laugh. Nice to know he actually was human and not some style-conscious, Teflon-coated mannequin.

While I collected custard off my shoe with a napkin, his laughter downgraded to a chuckle before disappearing completely.

“Satisfy my curiosity, and tell me why you’re here with doughnuts, instead of over there”—he gestured across the road to the station with his chin—“giving an official statement.”

“I happen to like doughnuts.” I underlined the truth of that statement by taking another bite.

Eric watched without comment, but I suspected his tolerance of verbal sparring was at an end. I swallowed, sucked in a deep breath for courage, and looked him in the eye. “And I will give an official statement. But before I do, I wanted to tell you something I’d forgotten until this morning. Genuinely forgotten—promise I wasn’t trying to screw up your investigation.”

“Okay.” Given our past interactions, I couldn’t blame him for the hint of dubiousness in his tone.

“It’s about Josephine’s phone. I saw some text messages on it before I, ah, damaged it beyond repair.”

He continued to eat, washing down each mouthful with sips of coffee. Expectant. Waiting for me to say something stupid or incriminating.

I did feel slightly foolish as I returned my doughnut to the box. “I couldn’t see who they were from, but I suspect it was a man. It read like a conversation Josephine wouldn’t have wanted her husband to see.”

Nothing about Eric’s expression revealed whether my words were of any interest. Quickly looking away, I focused my gaze on the dappled shadows caused by the swaying trees in the park, trying to recall the words inside those green and gray bubbles. “I can’t remember exactly, but the gist of it was that the man asked Josephine if she knew the test results yet and said it’d been three months. Coincidentally, Archie’s age.”

“Which led you to conclude that her son’s paternity might be in question?” the detective next to me asked.

That’s right. Once again, his alter-ego, Detective Sergeant Mana, had replaced Eric. Formidable and serious, an officer of the law first and foremost.

“Yeah. I got the feeling Josephine didn’t want to engage with this guy; that if they’d had an affair, it’d gone sour. But also, that they had some sort of hold over each other.” My brow furrowed as I tried to recall what I’d read in a moment of stress and shock. “Blackmail? A stalemate?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry I can’t remember any more. Hopefully, you can retrieve the messages off her phone.”

Eric drained the last of his coffee and basketball-shot the cup into a nearby trash receptacle. “Tech guys already have.”

“Oh.” And yet he’d let me ramble on. Probably to check if I was being truthful. Fair enough, I guess. Especially if the messages on Josephine’s phone turned out to be important. “Do you know who sent them?”

“No. They traced them to a burner phone.” He dabbed a fleck of sugar off his mouth then stood, tossing the balled-up napkin in the same direction as the cup.

It missed—just—and landed beside another empty cup that hadn’t made it into the metal bin.

“You’re not in any trouble.” His gaze narrowed on mine, sending a shiver racing down my spine. “Yet. Please keep it that way.”

I showed him my empty palms. “I’ve no skin in this game, Detective.” When he nodded, I continued, “There’s a couple of things I need to do while I’m in town, then I’ll come to the station and complete any necessary paperwork.”

If he was going to be all business and no pleasure again, so was I. However, I didn’t miss the quirk at the corner of his mouth as he glanced down at my uneaten doughnut. “Thanks for the unexpected treat…Tessa.”

With the sound of my name in his deep, gruff voice clinging stickily to my eardrums, like the powdered sugar on my fingertips, Eric walked away—pausing only to pick up his crumpled napkin and the discarded coffee cup and drop them in the trash.

Five

No matter how much I might complain about my parents, they still raised their four kids to have manners and respect for others. Irrespective of whether a person was an utter numpty, as my dad was fond of saying, you did the right thing. And since I was in Napier and had to walk past a florist to get to my car, and Kurt Stanton’s office was only a two-minute walk…

I glanced down at the small bunch of irises in my hand and then over at the entrance to Level Up Properties. Through the glass doors to the reception desk beyond, I could see every florist in the city must have had an exceptionally busy Monday morning. Explosions of lilies, white roses, orchids, and irises covered every available surface; I figured the receptionist must be buried somewhere behind the wall of flowers. Heaven help them if they suffered from allergies.

As I stepped inside, I spied the receptionist through a small gap between an arrangement of snowy roses and another of chrysanthemums that must have required a forklift to raise it onto the desk. The woman, who was talking into a headset, glanced up at me with that look of delighted expectation many receptionists seem to assume when anyone enters their domain. She held up a finger to indicate she’d only be a moment, and I gave her a polite I won’t take offense at having to wait smile in return.

The office lobby was tastefully decorated and spotlessly clean—that type of eat off the floor clean I’d never obtain in my own surroundings without going nuts. While I waited, studying an enormous canvas mounted on the wall and wondering how much they’d paid the artist to paint half green and the other half yellow, two men entered the reception area from an adjoining hallway.

Both were attractive, in a corporate way, and wore their slim-fitting tailored suits well. With slicked-back hair and matching designer stubble, the men grasped environmentally friendly reusable tumblers filled with bright green liquid. They were close enough that I could read their names written in Sharpie on the sides.

Keith, with his nod-to-rebellion electric-blue suit and leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and Hunter of the discreet gold-studded ear and trendy wire-rimmed spectacles.

They came to a halt in the waiting area, deep in conversation, using property investment lingo I had no clue how to decipher.

“Good afternoon! How may I assist you?” the receptionist asked, reclaiming my attention.

“Oh. Um…” A sudden brain burp froze my tongue as I realized the obvious: Kurt wouldn’t be at his office today or probably any other day this week.

Her gaze dropped to the flowers clutched to my chest. My teeny-weeny display of floral sympathy. “Are those for Mr. Stanton?”

I nodded.

“You just missed him, sorry.” She leaned back in her chair and angled herself toward the two men. “Hunter? Do you have any idea when Kurt’s back in?”

He turned with a slight grimace of impatience, but his expression melted into polished politeness when his gaze landed on me. “He’s ducked out for a couple of urgent meetings. He shouldn’t be too long if you’d like to wait?”

Urgent meetings? The day after becoming a widower and single dad in one fell swoop?

I guess my poker face was worse than I’d thought because the receptionist—whose name was Becca if the name plaque nestled among the flowers was correct—rushed to explain, “The poor man’s still in shock. Burying himself in his work’s the only way he knows how to cope with his loss.”

“Yeah, right.”

Although my bluffing apparently sucked, there was nothing wrong with my hearing. Even though one of them had muttered it under his breath. A quick glance in their direction revealed identical blank expressions, which remained in place until another suit-wearing man—this one pretty enough to strut down a catwalk—came up behind them and clapped them on their shoulders. Hunter jumped like he’d been goosed and swung around, knocking the latecomer’s hand away.

“Mike, you idiot. You nearly wore Hunter’s snot juice.” Keith laughed, and the three men returned to shoptalk, likely forgetting I was there.

“You’re welcome to wait,” Becca said. “I can make you a coffee if you’d like?”

And what would I say to the man when he returned? Sorry to interrupt your busy workday with my condolences for the loss of your wife.

I set the flowers on the desk and mustered another smile. “No, thanks. I’ll leave these with you and get in touch with Kurt another time.”

Before she could object, I hurried outside and gratefully sucked in a breath of fresh air.

Overpowering floweriness, that’s what I blamed for my shortness of breath as I hurried back to my car. Not the uncomfortable twinge in my gut at Kurt Stanton’s behavior and the three undeniably good-looking men he employed.

Could one of them be Josephine’s mystery texter?

* * *

Rosie Cooper was the last person I expected to see waiting outside when I opened Unraveled the next morning. But there she stood, looking nothing like her usual self, in sweatpants and a T-shirt with a suspiciously puke-like stain on the shoulder.

Her blonde ponytail drooped without perkiness, strands escaping the scrunchie and sticking to her flushed and devoid-of-makeup cheeks. Under her icy blue eyes, purple shadows bagged like her stepmother’s oversized designer purse. An unfortunate comparison, but my mind went there as I tried to reconcile the woman before me with the has-it-all-together woman who owned and ran a successful business.

I swung the door open. “Rosie?”

My gaze dropped to her white-knuckled fingers on the handle of a baby stroller, which she pushed back and forth in jiggly movements. She glanced around as if concerned that someone might see us talking, though there was currently little foot traffic on the sidewalk. “Can we come in?”

Wasn’t as if I had a restraining order, so I propped the door wider and gestured for her to enter. Archie’s face peeked out from under a fluffy blanket as the stroller rolled past, his cheeks flushed as he enthusiastically sucked on a teddy-bear patterned pacifier.

“Hi there, cutie pie.”

The baby’s rosebud lips parted in a gummy smile around the silicone nipple.

“You must have a way with small mammals.” Rosie parked the stroller next to one of the store’s comfy armchairs and sank into it. “Because he’s been howling since I left the Grind.”

“You’re working?”

She reached into the fabric tray beneath the stroller and withdrew a go-cup of coffee. “No. But I needed something to get me through the next few hours. I’ve been keeping Archie with me for the night shift after Caterina, his nanny, finishes for the day. Kurt needs some space to deal with…things.” A long sip later, she finally met my gaze. “I promised I’d go with him to the funeral directors this morning.”

“I’m sorry.”

What else could I say?

Sorry you have the kind of relationship with your father where you call him by his first name? Sorry the young woman he married is dead? Sorry that your family tops Cape Discovery’s gossip list? So sorry that your half-brother has to grow up without his mum?

I took a seat in the second armchair beside hers. As soon as I moved out of Archie’s line of sight, he began to grizzle.

Rosie’s eye’s squeezed shut for a couple of beats, the muscles in her jaw taut.

The sheer exhaustion on her face tweaked my conscience. “Could I hold him while you drink your coffee?”

Her eyes popped open, and for the first time in, well, forever, she gave me a genuine smile. “Are you sure? He’s pretty cranky.”

“Can’t be crankier than the other small mammals I look after.” I tipped my head toward the service counter, where both cats lay curled up in their plush beds. Snoozing black commas. “At least he doesn’t have sharp claws.”

Rosie rolled her eyes and sipped her drink.

Once I’d settled Archie on my chest, I began the age-old pat-on-the-rump boogie. I shuffle-swayed over to the counter and turned on the sound system, selecting Nana Dee-Dee’s favorite ‘mixtape’ of nature noises, Buddhist chanting, and whale song. Guaranteed to make Harry melancholy, I only played it when he wasn’t around. My grandparents used to banter about her taste, or lack thereof, in background music—one of their many marital inside jokes. It was, however, boring enough to soothe anything with a heartbeat to sleep.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” Rosie watched me as I sashay-bounced my way back to her.

“It had crossed my mind.” I kept my tone neutral. “If you need me to babysit Archie while you’re with your dad, I’m happy to help.”

“Nice of you to offer, but no, that’s not why I’m here.”

A silence rose between us, extending beyond awkward and into the realms of painful, festering until Rosie finally spoke. “The police told us they found a high concentration of a toxic alkaloid in Josephine’s system.”

“Alkaloid?” I skimmed through my basic high school science knowledge. “As in a plant-based chemical?” My brain whirring, I reviewed the few snippets of information Detective Mana had given me.

Not a poisoned cupcake, but a poisoned…

“Something in her salad?”

Rosie’s lips thinned. “The green salad she took to every occasion, regardless of the effort people made to cater to her finicky tastes? Yeah, there was something in her salad. Hemlock.”

Thanks to my dad’s green thumb and hours spent pottering in the garden with him, I knew how deadly that plant was. Leaves or any other part of it were not something you wanted to toss in with your edible greens.

“And she ate every last bite.” It wasn’t a question, as I’d seen the empty container in her bag.

“Uh-huh. The police don’t know whether she mixed in the leaves herself, either deliberately or accidentally, or if someone else did it for her.” Rosie grimaced. “They have to investigate all possibilities. Starting with the obvious. Did the husband do it?”

The husband who’d gone into work yesterday as if it were business as usual. “Surely you don’t think your dad…”

“No. Of course not.”

But a pause between her two statements left enough wiggle room for doubt. Nobody wanted to think a family member was capable of murder. Speaking from experience.

“It’s not just Kurt the police will be looking at.” Rosie tipped her face toward the ceiling and did that blinking thing I was familiar with as an attempt to hold tears at bay. “It’s our whole family. None of us liked her. And a few of us might’ve had stronger feelings than mere dislike.”

“And were you one of them?” Seemed she didn’t have a monopoly on the unfiltered approach to conversation.

Rosie tore her gaze from the ceiling to stare steadily at me. “I mightn’t have shared my mascara brush with Josephine, but I wouldn’t have stabbed her in the eye with it either. For my dad’s sake, I kept it civil whenever I was around her. Which was only once a week for yoga.”

“He was aware the family didn’t like his new wife?”

“The feeling was mutual, you know. She didn’t like us either. Right from the start, we were too cliquey, too loud, too unsympathetic to her lifestyle choices, and too judgmental of her attempts to convert my dad to them.”

“That must have made for some uncomfortable family dinners.”

“You have no idea.” She blew out her cheeks in a forceful sigh. “Josephine could be a cow, but she gave Kurt the son he’s always wanted, and he’s probably the sweetest baby boy in the world.”

I kissed Archie’s downy head, breathing in that wonderful if-only-they-could-bottle-it baby smell. Soft sucking sounds came from his limp weight in my arms. Guess my stellar dance moves must have made him doze off.

“You’re good with him.”

That almost sounded like a simple compliment and not a dig at my single status or egg-producing capabilities. I didn’t know how to respond to such niceness, so I quipped back, “You’re only saying that because I got him to sleep.”

“I owe you a cupcake for that.” She chuckled, then her expression turned serious. “And I’ll owe you a lifetime supply of baked goods if you help us find out who Josephine was cheating with.”

Fairly sure my jaw hit the floor. “You want me to what? I got distracted by the ‘lifetime supply of baked goods’ part.”

I’d heard every single word, but my brain was struggling to make a lick of sense of them.

“It’s actually quite simple.” I suspected her tone was the same one she used to explain to her five-year-old why attending school every day wasn’t optional. “If Kurt isn’t Archie’s biological father, then his real father could take him away from us now that Josephine’s…not around.”

“You make it sound like she’s on a yoga retreat instead of being a”—I lowered my voice even though Archie couldn’t possibly understand what was being said about his dearly departed mummy—“potentially poisoned, potentially murdered person.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “All the more reason to find this man because he could potentially be her killer. Maybe he wanted Archie for himself and killing Josephine was the only way he could get his hands on the baby without kidnapping him.”

A viable theory. If one also believed that extinct moa still roamed New Zealand’s bush-clad hills and the government had secret plans for an army of giant emu-like birds to take over the world.

A more plausible theory was the mystery man killed Josephine when she threatened to reveal his identity. Why? That wasn’t for me to ponder. Though I did…

“So you’re saying you want me to track down the guy who was shagging your stepmother? Then demand he submits to a paternity test. All while hoping he doesn’t kill me before Detective Mana does for interfering in a police investigation?”

“In a nutshell.” Rosie folded her arms and stared down her nose at me. Quite a feat in itself given that she was sitting while I was still standing, rocking Archie to keep him in dreamland.

“Why on earth would I do something as insane as wave a red flag under a killer’s nose?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

True that. But hardly the point. “That was for my baby brother.”

“Well, this is for mine. If he is my brother—darn it.” Her icy blue eyes filled with tears. “People talk to you; you know they do. You have a go on, spill your guts to me sort of face.”

“Thanks… I think.”

A tear rolled over Rosie’s lashes, and I was a goner. “Please, Tessa.”

I didn’t reply, but she could tell that I’d mentally conceded defeat.

“Thank you.” She gave me a watery smile. “Maybe you could start with Josephine’s friend Ashley, who’s staying at the Sea Grass Apartments. She’s more likely to reveal things to you than she is to one of those big, scary cops.”

I had to agree; Detective Mana was scary, in a ‘burrow under your skin and dig out all your secrets’ kind of way.

And Cape Discovery was a town where folks weren’t always happy to have those secrets unearthed.

Six

Now that we’d bonded, Rosie admitted having a baby whisperer—a.k.a me—was a desirable alternative to Archie screaming his lungs out while she and Kurt picked a casket. She left him and all his paraphernalia with me in the store, along with a promise to return in an hour or so. The way Harry was cooing into the stroller, along with the first customer of the day, Rosie would be lucky to get her half-brother back before lunch.

But I still insisted on Archie accompanying me to the Sea Grass Apartments, counting on his cuteness factor to get me into Ashley’s room.

The apartments were one of two places to stay in Cape Discovery. Built on prime real estate, directly across from the beach, the ten two-story townhouses were marketed as a retreat for the discerning. Three years ago, the investor, purported to be a client of Kurt Stanton’s, purchased a beautiful old villa that’d housed three generations. He’d also snapped up a ramshackle holiday home on a substantial plot of land next door and bulldozed them both to build the apartments. Technically, he was well within his rights to do so. But his decision hadn’t made him popular with the locals, most of whom encouraged friends and family to take their business to the dated but comfortable Starfish Motel.

Ashley had an ocean-side room, and I found the newly minted godmother outside on the patio, sunning herself in a bikini. A yellow polka-dot bikini.

I kid you not.

She held a bottle of mineral water in one hand, and in the other, her phone. Arm extended and raised in the unmistakable selfie position, she appeared to be getting her flirt on with the camera lens. And trust me, you had to have talent to capture the perfect sultry smirk. Whenever I took a selfie, the resulting image usually caused people to think I’d either had one too many rum and colas or suffered a minor stroke.

Archie’s stroller wheels scraped the edge of the manicured path leading to her patio, dragging her fish pout in my direction. Gaze shuttered behind sunglasses, Ashley lowered the phone and lost her flirty expression. “Do I know you?”

“I was at Archie’s christening.” I wasn’t sure how else to introduce myself. Stating that I was a friend of the Stantons would be stretching the truth like bubblegum, but I couldn’t outright admit that I was here to poke my nose into her dead friend’s business. “I’m looking after him while Kurt and Rosie meet with the funeral director.”

Ashley swung her legs off the lounger and sat up. “You’re the woman who found Josie?”

“Yes.” I gentled my voice. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Her pouty lips puckered. She shoved the sunglasses onto her head, long blonde waves cascading over her shoulders. Under the dark lenses, not even the sacred trio of concealer, liner, and mascara could disguise her red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Even with makeup, Ashley looked younger than her twenty-something years.

“Josie was my best friend. She didn’t deserve to die on a bathroom floor. On a men’s bathroom floor.” As if Josephine would have found dying in the women’s restroom somehow less outrageous.

Archie chose that moment to wake and let out a plaintive whimper. Rosie had warned me he was due for a bottle, so I had one almost ready to go. I slipped the pacifier between his cherub lips to buy a few minutes of grace. He latched onto it, sucking like mad.

“Do you mind if I use your microwave to heat his bottle?”

“Help yourself.” She slanted a glance at Archie and then up at me with a surprisingly shy smile. “Do you think I could feed him?”

“Sure. Make yourself comfortable with him while I fix his milk.”

I left Ashley bending over the stroller and slipped inside to the room’s tiny kitchenette. When I returned, warmed bottle in hand, I found Ashley cradling the baby snugly against her yellow polka-dotted bosom.

“He’s such a good baby.” Smiling down at him, she took the bottle from me and confidently shook a few drops onto her wrist. “Aren’t you, bubba?”

While she swapped pacifier for bottle, I slid onto the patio’s other chair. “Looks like you’ve done this before.”

“As the eldest of five siblings, I’ve had loads of practice.” She clucked her tongue at Archie, who’d reached up to pull the bottle closer. “And I can change a nappy in less than forty seconds. Guess that qualifies me to be a fairly decent godparent, regardless of what Kurt’s family thinks.”

“I think if they could see you with him now, they’d agree.”

My heart twisted in my chest as a tear slid down her cheek. It wasn’t only Kurt’s family who’d prejudged this young woman based on her age and appearance.

“What’s going to happen to him? Growing up without a mum sucks—I should know.” Ashley swiped a hand across her cheek and turned her shiny eyes toward me. “The cops asked me who Josie was having an affair with. If I knew that Archie might not be Kurt’s. Can you imagine? With Josie not able to defend herself against their accusations. Jerks.”

I immediately felt like the worst type of jerk for being there for exactly the same purpose. Choosing my words carefully, I passed her a soft cloth from the baby bag. “It’s awful that the police have to ask people who were closest to her those kinds of questions, but I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

She dabbed a trickle of milk from Archie’s chin with the cloth and sent me a resigned look. “They’re searching for a motive, aren’t they? Trying to work out if someone hated Josie enough to kill her.” Her glossy lips thinned. “I’m not stupid. I know she wasn’t the easiest person to like, and if this little guy isn’t Kurt’s…” She shrugged and bent over to kiss the baby’s forehead.

“If he isn’t?” I prompted.

“Then,” Ashley said, straightening, “there’s at least two people who might be angry enough to kill her.”

“Her husband and Archie’s biological father,” I muttered.

“Uh-huh.”

Archie’s manic sucking had slowed to a more leisurely tempo now he was almost sated.

“Do you think he looks like Kurt?” I asked. Personally, I couldn’t see any resemblance to either parent. All three-month-old babies were, in my opinion, cookie-cutter duplicates: chubby-cheeked, Bambi eyed, button cute.

Her nose crinkled. “Too soon to tell. He needs time to grow into his features.” With deft movements, Ashley winded the baby, stood, and settled him back into his stroller. “And I honestly don’t know who Josie hooked up with; I’m guessing that’s the real reason for your visit.”

My cheeks burned. “Rosie’s worried he could be taken away from the family if a paternity test shows he isn’t Kurt’s. She’s asked me to discreetly try to find out who the father could be.”

“Before the cops catch up with him.” A sigh. “You realize whoever Josie was seeing has made a powerful enemy of Kurt. He might not want to be found. And would he come forward to claim Archie now Josie’s gone?” She screwed up her face. “Seems unlikely.”

Ashley made a valid point. I tried a different tack. “How did you know her?”

“We were a year apart in high school but belonged to the same school drama club. We became friends during a production of Grease. I was Sandy; she played Rizzo.” She laughed. “The part she was born for. A mean girl who, underneath her tough exterior, wasn’t as bad as most people thought.”

I wondered how many people other than Ashley—and Kurt, I guess—had seen that side of her.

“Did Josephine have a type of guy she was normally attracted to?”

Her nose scrunched as she appeared to comb through her memories. “In high school, she didn’t go for the good-looking sporty guys or the ones with a bad-boy attitude. It was the quiet, ambitious guys she crushed on. Prefects. Group leaders. The head boy.” She raised an eyebrow. “The guys who’d end up as judges or brain surgeons. Men with small business empires who’d pursue her with single-minded determination.”

“Kurt Stanton,” I said. “She got him—or he got her, depending on how you look at it. Why do you think that wasn’t enough?”

She fixed me with an incredulous stare. “You really didn’t know her, did you?”

“No. I only moved back to Cape Discovery at the end of last year.”

“Josie needed a man to put her above all others. But judges, brain surgeons, or men like Kurt put their work, their careers, first. She would’ve felt neglected and rejected, craved someone to obsessively adore her again.”

“And she never mentioned a man who paid her extra attention? A student in one of her classes, maybe?” There were at least two dozen ways a woman as beautiful as Josephine could attract a man’s eye, whether or not he was bending into pretzel shapes during her yoga instruction. There had been two men in the class I’d taken. One had appeared to be in his mid-sixties, and the other dragged along by his wife.

Ashley shook her head. “She became more distant once she and Kurt married. I don’t know who she confided in, but it wasn’t me. The last time we’d spoken to each other was at her baby shower, so I was thrilled when she called to ask if I’d be one of Archie’s godmothers. I thought for sure it meant she wanted to jump-start our friendship.” Her face crumpled. “But I barely saw her before the christening. She didn’t even invite me to lunch on Saturday, even though I’d driven all the up from Wellington to spend some time with her.”

“So, you didn’t see her at all on Saturday evening or earlier Sunday morning?”

“No. I didn’t see Josie until she arrived at the church.” Another sideways glance, this one filled with pure calculation. “Are you sure you’re only trying to find a possible baby daddy and not Josie’s killer?”

Was I? I had to admit, my curiosity had been tweaked. “Do you think she might’ve been a victim of foul play?”

“For all Josie’s flaws, she wasn’t dumb enough to make a salad from some plants she found at the side of the road without checking they were edible first.” Ashley stretched out on the lounger again and signaled that our conversation was almost over by dropping her sunglasses back over her eyes. “And the whole Stanton family will have a bigger problem than paternity to deal with if the police do suspect my friend was murdered.”

* * *

“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but…”

The next customer to utter that hackneyed phrase would have a hank of bulky yarn stuffed in their mouth. I’d heard it many, many times since Rosie collected her half-brother and I’d taken over from Harry. While I didn’t object to the flurry of sales resulting from the locals’ need to gossip, the growing list of people who thought Josephine had been the devil in yoga pants made my head spin.

For reasons unknown to anyone but themselves, Kit and Pearl had stuck close to me all day. Both cats lay curled up together in a bed on the service counter, when most often only one at a time would grace customers with their presence. Kit, usually the more people-friendly of my two kitties, actually hissed at a woman who’d wanted a photo of ‘the lady who fell on top of a corpse displayed on the church altar.’

Yeah. The stories circulating kept getting wilder and wilder, with little respect for the facts. Or the dead woman and her family.

By thirty minutes to normal closing time, even an extroverted people-person such as myself wanted to crawl into a straitjacket and silently rock in the corner. So, as the new owner of Unraveled—thanks to Harry and my beloved Nana Dee-Dee—I made an executive decision to flip the door sign to closed a half hour early.

With Pearl draped around my neck like a fur stole and purring in my ear, I locked up the store. Cue relieved sighs at the peace and quiet. At least until the Tuesday evening beginners class started later.

I strolled out into the back yard, Kit trotting at my heels, and stooped to allow Pearl to jump gracefully from my shoulders to one of Harry’s raised planter boxes. My dad inherited his love of ‘grubbing around in the dirt’—Mum’s description—from his father. Although Harry had downsized his garden when he and Nana Dee-Dee bought the store, he still grew some vegetables.

As if conjured by my thoughts, the gate creaked, and I looked up to my dad’s cheery wave. I plucked a ripe tomato from the planter and popped it into my mouth.

“Hello, love. Calling it a day?” He still wore his work coveralls and carried a large bag of compost in his arms.

The sweet, tangy tomato burst in my mouth, and I savored its taste while Dad dropped the bag beside an empty planter he’d been building. I was so proud of him and how hard he’d worked to turn a plot of land into a thriving green business. Before my family moved back to Cape Discovery, Dad had been a go-getting advertising exec—according to Mum. Or a brainwashed corporate drone—if you listened to Dad. He’d been quietly miserable, so my mum, as much as she drove us all nuts at times, insisted we leave the stress of the city and return to a simpler life.

“It’s been crazy,” I admitted as he came to sit beside me on the planter’s wooden edge. “And I’ve had more than my share of crazy this week.”

Leaning into him, I soaked up his earthy-planty smell. It was even better than thirty minutes of guided meditation. Not that I often meditated—guided or otherwise. Who needed to when you could get the same effect by spending ten minutes in the presence of Alan Wakefield’s calming aura?

Even my cats responded to Dad’s serene vibe, with Pearl butting against his other side and Kit stretching himself out across his feet to soak up the late afternoon sunshine.

“You have,” he said. “So sit and breathe awhile, love.”

I did. And he did too, keeping me company in his sweetly undemanding way. As minutes trickled past, the weight of the past couple of days lifted from me like fog rising from the sea. Sitting up straight again, I shot Dad a glance and found him stroking Pearl with one rough palm, a dreamy smile on his face as he watched the bees buzzing around the nearby potted lavender.

Much as I hated to break this precious bubble…

“It was hemlock that killed Josephine.”

“Hemlock, you say?” Frown lines appeared beneath the brim of his legionnaire cap. “Dreadful stuff. Wonder how she got hold of that.”

“Nobody seems to know. Does it grow around here?” I had a vague idea what it looked like, and I’d found myself staring into people’s gardens on the walk back from the Sea Grass Apartments.

“Here and there,” he said. “Some people might unknowingly have it their gardens, but mostly you find it on wasteland or beside streams or growing at the side of the road. Some might mistake it for wild carrot, though most folk who eat off the land have experience in distinguishing palatable from poisonous.”

“Who in Discovery eats off the land?”

“Oh. There’s a group of ’em in town that meet up once or twice a month, I believe. Bunch of hippies in gumboots gallivanting around the countryside with buckets, if you ask me.” He chuckled, but there was no malice in his laughter. “I joined them on one of their walks a year or so ago, but slimy slippery jacks picked under pine trees and watercress yanked out of ditches aren’t much of a delicacy to my way of thinking.”

“What are slippery jacks?”

“Mushrooms. There’s a surprising number of wild fungi you can eat if you’re so inclined.” The crinkling of his nose told me he wasn’t.

“And people in this group teach newcomers what they can and can’t eat?”

“That’s right. Some of them are quite knowledgeable. Nice enough group—for hippies. Can’t see any of the folk I went with providing Mrs. Stanton with hemlock. If that’s the tree you’re barking up.”

I reassured him with a gentle shoulder check. “I’m not barking up any trees.”

After my last run-in with killers, who’d added me to their murder-list, my parents had been more overprotective than usual.

“Good.” He carefully extracted his work boots from under Kit’s sagging belly and stood. “Help me dig in that compost, and I’ll tell you a funny story about a farmer who found a giant puffball mushroom in a field and was convinced it was alien spawn.”

Seven

As fate would have it, Pamela Martin was one of the volunteers rostered on to help with the beginners class tonight. I’d messaged her earlier to say I’d understand if she couldn’t make it, but, in typical Pamela fashion, she’d replied that she’d be there with bells on.

Whatever that meant. With her, you never knew.

Twelve beginners had registered for tuition in the knit-and-purl basics, most of them repeat students who’d discovered they enjoyed the group’s camaraderie and the one-on-one instruction. They filtered into the store just before seven and were greeted by Harry sporting that evening’s beanie—a jaunty Fair Isle in shades of brown and green. The same homespun wool as his cabled jersey, which he pointed out to each student while ringing up their various purchases in preparation for the class. His cheeky charm even sold one beginner a jersey’s worth of the same expensive yarn, with an assurance that I’d personally guide her through the process of knitting it.

Thanks a bunch, Harry.

Still, it was lovely to see him engaging with people again and emerging from the dark place Nana Dee-Dee’s death had left him stranded in.

Flamboyant entrances also being Pamela’s style, she swept in a solid fifteen minutes late. “Darlings, you must forgive my tardiness. I got caught up at the florists. Aren’t funerals such a beast to organize?”

Murmurs of sympathy rippled around the large worktable, and Pamela lapped it up like a greedy cat. Ignoring Beth Chadwick’s theatrical eye-roll—Beth was tonight’s second volunteer—she found a spare seat and pulled out the baby cap she was demonstrating to a few of the students. The sight of the partially knitted bonnet elicited another wave of sympathy from the group.

Predictably, everyone was desperate for a good old gossip-fest about the young Mrs. Stanton’s death while also pretending to be above listening to the local grapevine. The only reason I excluded myself from this morbid fascination was that I’d seen way too much of death’s ugly face lately. True, I too pondered the many whys surrounding Josephine’s untimely demise. But there was something distasteful about the muttered snippets of speculation as I moved around the room, picking up dropped stitches and instructing the eight women and two men to go ‘In through the front door, once around the back, peek through the window, and off jumps Jack!’

“…pretty young thing like that; of course she was a gold digger.”

“Did you hear what she did to her last nanny? Disgraceful. But you know what they say about karma…”

“…cheated on wife number one and number two. Who’s to say he hadn’t tired of wife number three?”

Halfway through the class, we stopped for a hot drink and a selection of baked goodies. I noted who wanted tea, coffee, or hot chocolate and enlisted Pamela’s help. While the electric kettle boiled, we stacked cups onto a tray in the workroom’s kitchenette.

“Rosie tells me you’re helping the family hunt down Josephine’s…indiscretion.” Pamela’s voice dropped on the last word, each syllable dripping with hushed distaste.

“Her lover, you mean?” I kept my voice pitched low, so the rest of the group wasn’t privy to our conversation, but failed to keep the bite from my tone. “I wouldn’t say I’m hunting him as such, but I am asking around. For the baby’s sake.”

She sniffed and fetched the milk carton from the small refrigerator. “Well, we appreciate your assistance in this delicate matter. Archie needs to stay with his family.”

“And if Kurt isn’t his father?” I said as kindly as I could. “With the child’s mother unable to speak for her son, the biological father has some rights.”

“We’ll cross that particular bridge when it appears in front of us.”

“Fair enough.” I measured ground coffee beans into the French press. “Do you have any idea who the man could be?”

Pamela’s wrinkled lips puckered. “I paid scarce attention to Josephine’s comings and goings. She and I moved in different circles.”

“How would you describe her circle?”

“Space cadets would be the politest description.” She poured milk into a small serving jug. “Into chakras and crystals and becoming one with nature.”

“Josephine was interested in that too?”

“She taught yoga and preached not eating anything with a face. Of course she was interested in all that mumbo jumbo.”

Kind of a generalization, but okay. “Isn’t one of her instructors male?”

“Timothy? Darling, he’s gay.”

I suppose that made him less likely baby-daddy material. “Who else would she have had regular contact with? Did you ever see anyone at the house?”

“She was certainly arrogant enough to dangle a paramour under my brother’s nose.”

I hadn’t given that much thought until now. “Do you think Kurt knew Josephine was seeing someone else?”

“No. I believe he rather naively trusted her.”

Despite Kurt being unfaithful to his two previous wives, was it naivety that he’d failed to notice what Josephine had been up to? Shouldn’t a cheater instinctively recognize another?

“I don’t want to sound insensitive,” I said, “and I know pregnancy and a new baby can put a strain on a relationship, but what can you tell me about your brother and Josephine’s marriage?”

“It was a whirlwind affair. As our late father would’ve said, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ Kurt was smitten with Josephine from the moment he met her.”

“And where was that?”

“In Napier. After Kurt experienced a minor back strain, his physio suggested Pilates to help strengthen his core muscles. Josephine was his instructor, and within the month, she’d moved in with him. He proposed a month later, and less than six months after he first stepped foot in the studio, they were married.”

“Wow. That must’ve been a shock for your family. What about hers?”

“Mother died of breast cancer when Josephine was fourteen, and her father of colon cancer not long after she turned nineteen.” Pamela’s gaze softened. “I suppose that explains her obsession with a healthy lifestyle.”

“And she fell pregnant early on in their marriage?”

“A wonderful, unexpected surprise, according to Kurt. I wouldn’t say Josephine seemed thrilled about it, but nor was there the slightest hint that Archie was unwanted. At that time, they seemed happy enough with each other. It wasn’t until just before Archie was born, when they took up residence in their current home in Discovery, that I noticed a coolness between them.”

“Whose idea was it to move here?”

“Kurt’s.” Pamela crinkled her nose. “I’m sure it was a major point of contention at first—we were far too ‘country bumpkin’ for her sensibilities—but a brand-new house and her own yoga studio sweetened the deal.”

“He bought her a house and the studio in town?”

“You’d think that’d satisfy anyone, wouldn’t you?” She gave a soft scoffing snort. “But not Princess Josephine. She had her eye on bigger and better things.”

“Such as?”

Pamela’s mouth pinched shut, and she glanced down at the tray of mugs. “Sugar,” she announced. “We’ve forgotten the sugar bowl.”

“What did Josephine have her eye on?” I located the sugar bowl next to the container of tea bags and placed it on the tray.

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just being a miserable old bag.” She laughed: a fake, brittle sound. “Josephine was young and beautiful, and as I’m sure you’ve already surmised, I wasn’t fond of her.” She tapped the side of her nose. “A touch of the green-eyed monster there, I’ll admit.”

I’d never known Pamela to admit envy of anything or anyone. She projected an unshakable confidence in both her age and appearance.

“But Josephine and Kurt’s marriage must’ve been in some sort of trouble if she was unhappy enough to look elsewhere. Do you know what that could’ve been?”

“You’d have to ask Kurt,” Pamela said archly. “There’s only two people in a marriage—oh.” She cocked her head to one side as if she’d remembered something. “If anyone has insight into being married to my brother, it’s Wendy. Nobody knows a man like his high school sweetheart and the mother of his three daughters.”

“Yes, I’m planning to talk to her.” I poured the boiled water into the French press. The heady scent of brewing coffee wafted to my nose, a welcome respite from Pamela’s perfume.

“Well”—leaning in, Pamela lowered her voice again, this time to an almost whisper—“you might want to ask her about the argument she and Kurt had in the church hall before Archie’s christening. Not that I was eavesdropping,” she insisted, “but I couldn’t help but hear her yelling at him about a trust fund he’d set up for Archie. Honestly, I don’t blame her for being furious, not one bit. He never did anything like that for his girls.”

“That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, no. My brother will never receive a ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ mug on Father’s Day,” she said. “Cutting-edge business deals interest him far more than child-rearing.” She offered me a deadpan stare. “Though I’m sure Kurt will provide a more luxurious lifestyle for the son he’s always wanted.”

If the child was Kurt’s, her tone implied. Perhaps I was imagining things, but a part of me couldn’t help but speculate on how sincere Pamela was in wanting to find out who was biologically responsible for her nephew.

“Just to line my ducks in a tidy row,” I said, “may I ask what you were doing on Saturday night and Sunday morning before the christening.”

“Are you asking for my alibi?” Ice chips sharpened each word, stabbing into my eardrums.

“Not at all,” I said. “But Josephine exchanged texts with this mystery man, and they possibly met up recently. If I know the movements of those closest to Josephine during her last couple of days, one of you might’ve noticed something that could reveal his identity.”

Technically, this was true. But I also couldn’t deny that a tickle of curiosity was making my sleuthing nose itch.

And I couldn’t help but scratch it.

* * *

Pamela harrumphed, cheeks puckering in as if she’d just sucked on one of the lemon slices I’d set out on a small dish.

“Sunday morning, I went to my usual Pilates class from seven to eight. Sherry normally teaches the class, but she was in bed with a cold, so Josephine covered for her.” She sent me an arch look. “I was with my friend Linda the whole class, and we left together immediately afterward. I had to rush home to shower and change for Archie’s christening, and that was an absolute nightmare. We’re renovating our upstairs bathroom, so I had to use the downstairs one. The water pressure’s dreadful.”

Pamela and her husband, Des, lived in her parents’ old house—a rambling, rundown villa at the far end of the beach. Despite being rundown, the property’s prime location meant it had one of the best, unobstructed views of Cape Discovery. Any real estate agent would drool at the prospect of getting their hot little hands on it.

“And Saturday night?” I pressed.

No point in asking about the christening itself. I’d noticed the small glittery purse draped over her arm on Sunday morning. Far too small to hold more than a phone and lipstick, there’s no way it could have concealed an identical container to swap with Josephine’s. As the baby’s other godmother, she’d also been surrounded by people watching her, and in front of the cameras or close to the couple during the photos taken after the service.

“Up to my elbows in undercoat. Desmond, in his infinite wisdom, decided we could save a few dollars by doing the prep work ourselves. I’d have preferred to let your brother do the whole paint job, start to finish, but…men.” She threw up her hands dramatically and flicked her blonde bob over her shoulders. “I had a terrible time shampooing the paint out of my hair in that stupid downstairs shower.”

“You didn’t go out at all?”

“With blotchy red skin after scrubbing paint freckles off my face? I have a reputation to uphold. How would it look if the owner of Chic Threads was seen out in public, looking like a slob in jeans and paint splashes?”

“Jeans and paint splatter would probably make you look twenty years younger, Pamela. You and Des might even be mistaken for newlyweds redecorating your first home.”

She laughed, her sharp features softening with nostalgia. “Desmond and I have been married nearly forty years, but I suppose I must still love him given that I haven’t drowned him in paint yet.”

Forty years? I guess part of me had always known my ex and I wouldn’t reach that milestone. The burn of my own nostalgia and not yet healed heart seared my throat closed. But I summoned a polite smile and picked up the drinks tray, mumbling something about people waiting and the water going cold.

* * *

I’d set my morning alarm for an hour earlier than usual, and with a groan, I snatched my phone from the nightstand. The crack in my bedroom drapes revealed that the sun hadn’t yet risen. Which meant it was early, real early. Baker early—the reason for this non-morning person torturing herself.

If I wanted to speak with Wendy Cook in private, then close to the ungodly hour of five, when she started her workday, seemed the best time to catch her.

I divided a small can of fancy wet food between the cats, who seemed more than happy with their earlier breakfast time. A treat would keep them busy licking their chops long after I’d slipped out the back door. The duo had a habit of following me, and trouble had a habit of following them. Kit and Pearl were already in Detective Mana’s bad books after gate-crashing a crime scene earlier this summer. And while Wendy wasn’t as scary as the detective, she certainly wouldn’t appreciate stray black hairs in her cinnamon scrolls.

Thankful for the light jacket I’d snagged on my way out of the apartment, I hurried along Cape Street toward the waterfront. Lights were on in the Daily Grind’s kitchen, situated at the rear of the café and accessible via a narrow path that ran down the side of the building. The café itself didn’t open for a couple of hours, when the first customers would arrive for their coffee and pastries at seven thirty. As I drew closer, the sweet, yeasty smell of baking dough drifting through the cracked-open kitchen windows made my stomach rumble. Maybe I should’ve eaten breakfast before I left home.

Wendy wrenched the door open at my knock, her cheeks flushed from the warmth inside. Not appearing particularly surprised to see me, she beckoned me into the kitchen with a flour-dusted finger.

“You look in need of a strong coffee and a scroll,” she said by way of greeting. “Coffee’s over there”—she flung a hand toward a thermos flask and mugs on a nearby stainless steel counter—“and I’m about to pull a batch of scrolls from the oven.”

I thanked her and poured dark, delicious-smelling coffee into a mug before adding milk from a small carton beside it.

“Rosie usually gets here around seven to warm up the espresso machine, so until then, I have to make do with a brew from home.” She slipped on a pair of oven mitts. “It’s not as fancy as what my girl makes, but it’s hot and strong, just the way I like it in the morning.” With a snicker, she crossed to the oven. “My men too, for that matter. But don’t tell Terry I said so; it’ll give him the wrong idea, and I get up way too early as it is.”

I grinned into the mug’s rim. My memories of Rosie’s mum from the school and community events of my youth were vague, but two things stood out: The quality of anything that came out of her kitchen and the quantity of anything that came out of her mouth.

Wendy Cook wasn’t a person you wanted to bump into on your way to an appointment—by the time you extricated yourself from her chitchat, you’d be running fifteen minutes late.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” I sipped, and it was. Heavenly, in fact.

“My Rosie prefers her lattes and cappuccinos, but like I said, she won’t be in for a while yet. That’s assuming she makes it in at all, what with her life being turned upside down by taking on the care of her half-brother. Such a terrible, terrible shame.”

I couldn’t tell by her tone whether her last statement referred to Archie losing his mother or Rosie choosing to rearrange her days to care for him.

Wendy opened the oven door, and the smell of cinnamony-sugary-yeasty deliciousness exploded through the small room. My mouth watered. I’d kill for one of her fresh-baked scrolls; anyone would.

Though under the circumstances, maybe not literally.

She pulled the tray out of the oven and dropped it on the counter with a sharp bang.

“Raised by nannies, he will be,” she said. As if I’d asked. “No way will Kurt cut back his hours to be an actual father to the boy. Lord knows, he wasn’t a hands-on parent with our daughters.” She must have misinterpreted my expression as disbelief, as she gave a derisive snort. “Never changed a dirty nappy in his life. And his idea of spending quality time with the girls when they were older was opening his wallet and sending them on their way.”

“An absentee dad.” Hardly a shocking revelation. I couldn’t recall seeing Kurt at any of our high school sports days or fundraising events. He had attended our graduation—to schmooze with the other kids’ parents.

“If there was an award for it, he’d win it every year.”

“Yet he’s setting up a trust fund for Archie,” I said.

Her clear blue gaze clashed with mine. “You’ve been talking to Pamela?”

I saw no point in denying it. “Yes.”

“I’m not happy about the trust fund, and yes, we had a heated discussion about it before the christening. But we’ll eventually come to a polite agreement. My daughters are strong, independent adults, and they neither need nor want their father’s money.” She cocked her head. “Why were you talking to Pamela?”

“Rosie asked me to find Josephine’s boyfriend if I could. I’ve been asking around.”

“You’ve wasted a trip, then. Couldn’t tell you who she was sleeping with, but about time Kurt got a taste of his own medicine.”

Kurt’s infidelities. Also, old news.

Wendy folded her arms, the movement drawing my attention to the wiry strength lurking beneath her snug-fitting Daily Grind T-shirt. Lifting heavy bags of flour and sugar was obviously an effective workout, and I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of those arms. Nor the heavy wooden rolling pin on the counter.

“Before you ask, Tessa, no. I loathed the woman, but I didn’t wish her dead.”

Eight

I almost, but not entirely, believed Wendy.

“Other than her being your ex’s new wife”—his much younger new wife, I stopped myself from adding—“why didn’t you like her?”

“Have you met her?” She pulled a face with a dour chuckle. “I suppose it’s natural not to click with the younger, prettier woman your ex replaces you with. Though I didn’t have a problem with his second wife; once I grew tired of hating her guts.” She clicked her tongue and picked up a metal bowl filled with cream cheese frosting. “Hating Dani’s like trying to hate an attention-starved puppy that just wants to be friends with everyone.”

As Wendy drizzled the frosting over the scrolls, my taste buds strained forward like said overexuberant puppy.

“Tell me something,” she said. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“Nope. None at all.” I leered at the baking pan, mentally noting which scroll was the biggest, in case she offered me a choice.

“If you did, and you were invited to a dinner party where you didn’t know the hostess, would you let her know about any allergies beforehand?”

“Sure. My eldest sister swells up if any kind of shellfish even glances in her direction. I’m often the one who calls ahead to remind our more forgetful extended family. It saves embarrassment on both sides. And a trip to the emergency department.”

“The first time Kurt brought Josephine to a family meal to introduce her to his daughters, Rosie asked me to cater it since she had her hands full with the boys. I made a beef and a vegetarian lasagna because who doesn’t like lasagna?” She shook her head as she coaxed the frosting into perfection with a metal spatula. As if it were incomprehensible that someone might find pasta offensive. “Just in case, because I’m such a foodie and can’t help myself, I also roasted a chicken, set out three different types of salads, and made a chocolate gateau for dessert.”

“Sounds amazing, Wendy. Please adopt me.” I attempted to lighten the mood.

That raised a small smile, but the warmth didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wasn’t planning to stay for Josephine and Kurt’s dinner-party debut, not on your life. But they turned up twenty minutes early.”

Thunderclouds swirled in Wendy’s eyes. Uh-oh.

“The woman glides into Rosie’s home like a swan slumming it with a bunch of seagulls, takes one look at the loaded dining table, and turns up her nose. Out of that ridiculously fancy bag of hers, she pulls a container of what looks like lettuce leaves, grass clippings, and chopped flowers. ‘Kurt and I only eat raw, organic, plant-based meals. I messaged Rosie about it. But not to worry, we brought our own.’”

Wendy made a sound of disgust, much like a cat preparing to cough up a hairball. “It was all some kind of power play; designed, I imagine, to make our family feel awful. And to let us know, in no uncertain terms, that she had Kurt under her thumb. Rosie swore to me later that Josephine hadn’t said a word about any special dietary requirements.”

But that meant Wendy had known how fussy Josephine was when she catered the christening.

How it was likely she’d bring her own food.

“Things never improved between you two?”

“Not after I told her what I thought of her for upsetting my Rosie.” Wendy pried a cinnamon scroll out of the pan, slid it into a brown paper bag, and offered it to me. “I’m a pushover for some things, such as feeding strays.” She cut me a sharp grin. “But not when it comes to my kids and grandkids.”

“But you agreed to cater Archie’s christening?” I swiped a dab of cream cheese frosting off the scroll and popped it into my mouth. My eyes near rolled back in my head at the taste. Sheer ambrosia.

“Rosie asked me to, and it could’ve been good for business. We were planning to expand into a little catering for local functions.” Her mouth twisted. “Who’s going to hire us now?”

Hmm. If that had been their plan, I doubted Wendy would have sabotaged the christening in such an over-the-top way. “Is it possible Josephine picked and ate the hemlock without realizing it was poisonous?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Wendy said. “She saw herself as a walking Wikipedia on everything health-food related—probably why she and Dani got on—but I saw it more as know-it-all-ism than actual experience. Wouldn’t surprise me if she picked the hemlock while distracted by husband and boyfriend issues. That and baby brain. With my first, I lived in a constant fog for the first six months.”

I tuned out the next few minutes of her training babies to sleep through the night monologue and sipped my coffee, then drilled down on her comment about husband issues.

When she paused for a breath, I jumped in, “So, your ex and his new wife were having issues?”

“Anyone married to Kurt will end up having issues.” Wendy began arranging the scrolls on a metal tray for the front counter. “Especially if they’re under the delusion that they’ll remain the center of his universe once the novelty wears off. As I found out, a need to be first in his affections will only lead to bitter disappointment.” The last scroll in place, she looked over at me, a sad weariness in her gaze. “I was that woman once. But in my defense, I was stupidly young and in love when we married. However, I eventually grew up and made a life for myself. I didn’t need to be first with him, because my daughters were first for me. And now he’s a solo dad, maybe he’ll be forced to reevaluate his priorities.’

“If Archie is Kurt’s.”

Wendy’s eyes narrowed in calculation before she returned to her default setting of pleasant mother-of-three. “If you want to know who Josephine was seeing behind her husband’s back, your first stop should have been Kurt. The spouse always has an idea who it is once suspicion is raised. I know I did.”

“I didn’t want to intrude on his grief.”

Her nose crinkled. “Grief? Bet you fifty bucks he went to work Monday morning as usual.” She huffed out a sigh at my attempt to affix a shocked expression to my face instead of one agreeing with her accurate assessment. “The only thing you’ll be intruding on is Kurt avoiding his parental responsibilities by hiding in a bottle.”

“A bar would be a good place to find him, then?”

“Try the Stone’s Throw at happy hour. Everyone’ll be buying him sympathy drinks; he’ll enjoy that.” She moved the tray of scrolls to one side and dragged her enormous mixing bowl closer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Taking the hint, I collected my paper bag and prepared to leave the steamy, sweet-smelling kitchen.

“Good luck getting the truth out of him,” she said. “Because if anyone had a reason to get rid of an unfaithful wife, it’s that arrogant, vindictive old fool she married.”

* * *

I left Wendy muttering insults under her breath and raced back to Unraveled to enjoy my cinnamon scroll in peace. Peace being a relative term, as Kit and Pearl begged until they received a few licks of cream cheese frosting.

By mid-afternoon, my sugar high from the cinnamon scroll was well and truly spent, thanks to a steady flow of customers. Not that I was complaining, but when Sean wandered downstairs on a break, a coffee mug in his paint-splattered hand, I left him and Harry in charge of the store while I ducked outside for some fresh air.

Shutting out everything but the music playing in my AirPods and the afternoon sunshine on my skin, I sat on the back step, the scent of Nana Dee-Dee’s potted lavender calming my buzzing brain. Until the bing of an incoming text interrupted the chilled sounds piping into my ears.

Unknown number: Can you come over to the pub? It’s Oliver.

I scrunched up my face at the message while I typed a reply.

Tessa: How did you get my number?

After I tapped send, I reread my blunt reply. What if the handsome owner of the Stone’s Throw had been flirting? I’d bought him breakfast once as a replacement and thank you for his generous sacrifice to the demon fowl. We’d chatted over coffee and croissants in the park opposite Disco’s Bakery while Maki, the Japanese Spitz—Oliver walked the fluffball for his elderly neighbor—snuffled around our feet. Once breakfast was gone, so were Oliver and Maki. It was a friendly meeting, totally without flirtation.

Not that I was great at recognizing when I was being hit on. Thanks to my cheating ex, Jared, and years of feeling invisible. But since Oliver hadn’t asked for my phone number or suggested we schedule a coffee and croissant breakfast number two, I’d assumed…

What if I was wrong? I hurriedly sent another text.

Tessa: And do you have a potato chip emergency you need help with at the pub? ;)

A reminder of the first time we met, when I’d surprised him in his pub—I’d caught him mid-air-guitar solo and knocked over a box of potato chips. An almost perfect meet-cute, right? I thought adding the winking emoji was a subtle maybe I’m flirting; maybe I’m being funny touch. Holding my breath, I watched as the three dancing dots appeared. Forget about relaxing in the sunshine; now my heart pattered in time to the bouncing gray dots. While waiting for Oliver’s reply, I added him to my contacts.

Stone’s Throw Stud: Harry gave me your number. In case he needed a lift home after happy hour sometime.

Ahh. Although my nickname for him provided a feel-good bubble of amusement, my ego landed in my stomach with a hollow splash.

Stone’s Throw Stud: I have something of yours. And it’s not potato chips. Can you come grab it? Now?

Judging by his earlier message, I was ready to bet Harry had left his jacket or one of his ubiquitous beanies at the pub when he met up with his mates last night. With a sigh, I fired off another message to tell him I’d be right over.

When I stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the Stone’s Throw, only a handful of people sat nursing their drinks. One of them immediately caught my eye—Kurt Stanton. Seated in the corner with a glass tumbler of amber liquid, he didn’t look up as I entered. Unlike two other customers, who gave me the once-over before returning to their drinks, Kurt continued to stare morosely at the tabletop, his fingertip circling the rim of his glass.

Behind the bar, one of the staff worked a broom. Spotting me, he hollered over his shoulder for his boss, and Oliver appeared in the hallway behind the bar a few seconds later. His mouth was set in a grim frown, and as he moved out of the shadows, I noticed four blood-red scratches running down his arm, starting just below the sleeve of his T-shirt and finishing up at the thin leather cords looped around his wrist.

I’m no Sherlock, but I quickly deduced what the ‘something of mine’ was that he wanted me to collect. A darting movement in my peripheral vision before a black shape leaped gracefully from floor to bar top. I didn’t dare move my gaze from Oliver’s to confirm which of my cats was sashaying, tail aloft, along the bar to greet me. Until the cat in question—that swaying belly could only be Kit’s—stopped in front of me, turned, and presented a lovely view of his rear end.

“Purrrpt?” Kit chirped at Oliver as he approached, his tail still raised as if awaiting a congratulatory high five.

Oliver didn’t appear to be in the mood for a feline high five or puns about how one kitty could cause such a catastrophe. Luckily, I managed to swallow that in the nick of time.

Instead, I inhaled a lungful of beer-scented oxygen. Regardless of the frown and bloodied arm, the guy filled out his blue jeans in a most delectable way. And, wow, I had to take another deep breath before I started to hyperventilate.

Giving Kit the stink eye, Oliver kept a wary distance from him as he stepped out from behind the bar.

“I think I can see your problem,” I said. “Kit’s not underage in cat years, but he lacks the pockets to carry his ID.”

Oliver’s scowl lifted, his greeny-blue eyes twinkling with a glimmer of humor. He swept fingers through his due-for-a-haircut sandy-blond hair, then glanced at his arm with a grimace.

“Kit’s the fat one?” He sent the now purring cat another cautious glance.

Sure, I could’ve bantered; told him Kit preferred ‘big-boned’ or ‘solid,’ but I decided not to test his patience. “Yeah. Sorry he scratched you up.”

He lifted his arm to give me a closer look at the scratches. “What, these? No, these aren’t Kit’s doing. He just squeezed in through my office window and wolfed down the remains of a roast beef sandwich I’d tossed in the trash.”

“He is pretty fond of beef.”

Kit chirruped again as if politely inquiring whether there might be any more roasted meat on offer.

“Then I spent ten minutes chasing him around the pub, attempting to collar him. For a fat cat, he moves like greased lightning.”

“He is pretty fast.”

“And while racing around manically, Kit managed to knock over bottles of top-shelf vodka, bourbon, and gin, then trip Lucinda, so she dropped a tray of glasses. To top it all off, he peed on my jacket, which had fallen off the back of my office chair.”

“He is pretty clumsy.” Meekly agreeing seemed my best course of action if I wanted to avoid a damages bill over three digits. “And a bit incontinent when he’s frightened.”

“I wasn’t trying to terrorize him. Just catch and release.” Oliver sighed, then shook his head and chuckled ruefully. “Wish I’d known about the nervous peeing before I wore my leather jacket today.”

“Sorry.” I glanced at his shredded arm again, remembering what he’d said about it not being Kit’s handiwork. Great hairy yarn balls! “Um. If it wasn’t Kit who attacked you…?”

Oliver’s mouth—his pretty mouth since that appeared to be my word of the day, albeit ‘pretty’ in a totally different context—twisted back into a scowl. “The other one. She must’ve followed him inside and hidden when her brother got sprung first. Mac found her in the men’s bathroom. He sent me in to grab her because of his…allergies.”

“That’s right,” a smirking Mac said from behind the bar as he dumped a dustpan of glass shards in the trash. “Also, like, mate, that she-devil’s wicked mean.”

“Sounded like a feline battle to the death in there. Ultimately, boss, you got a beat up by a girl.” Lucinda, the other bartender, elbowed her co-worker. They snickered.

Oliver shrugged, appearing not at all offended by his staff’s ribbing, and then laughed. “Pearl won this round fair and square.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “She’s still in there, hissing from the top of a toilet stall if we dare open the bathroom door. After my last attempt”—another grimace at his damaged arm—“I said game over and sent for reinforcements.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Let’s just get them out of here, okay?” He dipped his head toward Kit, who’d stretched out his neck and was attempting to bunt against Oliver’s arm. Maybe because his better-than-human nose could smell roast beef on Oliver’s breath. Or maybe because Oliver just smelled…yummy.

I flicked that thought out of my suddenly hormonal brain and scooped up my wayward kitty. “Be right back.”

One black cat scolded and securely deposited in the service alley behind the pub, and it was time to nab his sister. A slightly scarier prospect. With Oliver maintaining a safe distance, I entered the men’s room—thinking that this week had been entirely too focused on male restrooms.

As it turned out, Pearl was only too happy to see me, and after a few kissy sounds and some gentle coaxing, she jumped down from her high perch and snuggled into my arms.

I carried her out of the bathroom to applause from Mac and Lucinda, who’d paused in their cleanup to watch. Oliver slipped behind me and shut the bathroom door, so Pearl couldn’t change her mind and flee back in there.

“Need an escort?” he asked.

I shook my head, fur tickling the underside of my chin as Pearl nestled closer. “You should get the first aid kit.”

“And count myself lucky I don’t need stitches.”

Either brave or a sucker for punishment, Oliver reached over my shoulder to tickle Pearl’s ear. “Thought we had a connection, missy.”

A better flirt than I’d ever be, Pearl arched away from my neck so Oliver’s big palm could cup her head.

My phone buzzed with an incoming call, and without thinking, I dug it out of my pocket. ‘Stone’s Throw Stud’ was prominently displayed as the caller.

Yikes!

But before I could decline, Oliver said, “Stone’s Throw what now?” His tone bemused. “Hang on, am I butt-dialing you?”

In a smooth move—well, as smooth as one could manage while juggling a cat—I rejected Oliver’s call and shoved my phone back into my pocket.

“Stupid autocorrect.” My cheeks flamed like an emergency flare had gone off inside them. “See you later.”

Nine

A woman with more sense would’ve hightailed it out of the Stone’s Throw and raced to join the closest order of nuns. I didn’t dare check over my shoulder to see whether Oliver was watching me bolt toward the exit or had noticed my hesitation as I noticed Kurt Stanton still staring at his table. I might not get a better opportunity to catch him alone.

Risking the wrath of Pearl, likely in the form of a dead mouse waiting on my pillow tonight, I set her down on the sidewalk and nipped back inside the pub. I closed the door firmly behind me so she couldn’t follow.

Kurt hadn’t moved, except for his shoulders; they appeared to have sagged at least another inch. I crossed to his table, keeping an eye on the bar in case Oliver should reappear. “Mr. Stanton?”

For a couple of beats, he continued to stare down at the table. Had he heard me? He looked up with dull, bloodshot eyes. “What?” He flinched, as if recognizing my face had delivered a cattle prod of electricity. “Tessa.”

“Could I join you for a moment, Mr. Stanton?”

“Kurt. And yeah, knock yourself out.” He lifted a finger off his glass and flicked it at the empty chair opposite.

I sat. Studied him across the table. He bore only a passing resemblance to the man I’d known since my early teens. Not that I’d known him as such. To me, he’d been Rosie’s father, an imposing figure driving around town in his electric-blue convertible. He’d seemed as unapproachable and unreachable as a movie star. A VIP, conspicuously absent at community events—gala days, church fetes, block parties—unless there was good reason for him to attend; a business-savvy reason. People didn’t call him Schmoozer Stanton behind his back for nothing.

But Schmoozer Stanton wasn’t slumped in front of me this afternoon. Dressed in ill-fitting denim jeans, a rock band T-shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been worn since his university days, and running shoes well past their prime, Schmoozer was out, and Boozer was in. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him less than impeccably dressed and groomed and smelling like he’d been trapped in a department store’s cologne section for an hour.

“You wanna drink?” He gazed blearily around for a passing staff member.

“No, thanks.” I twisted my hands in my lap. “I won’t stay long. But I wanted to pass on my condolences.”

Such a dumb expression, isn’t it? Pass on your condolences. Like you’re transferring a baton in a race. Or passing on germs, like the common cold. Here, have some more sadness, run with it, person I don’t actually care about but to whom I have to say something appropriate.

“Thanks,” he said.

Because that’s what polite society conditions you to say in response. Not to express the depths of your unmined grief and confusion. But was Kurt Stanton grieving and in shock over the loss of his young wife? With the solitary drinking, he certainly projected the image of a freshly minted widower.

“I didn’t know Josephine—”

“But you were the one who found her.” His eyes met mine. “You got to see her. They wouldn’t let me see her. I should’ve been allowed to see her; she was my wife. The mother of my son.” Kurt’s voice, which had risen steadily in volume, dropped when he mentioned his child.

“That must’ve been hard for you.”

“Yeah. Well.” Kurt lifted his drink and sipped, ice cubes rattling around in the glass. He gazed at me over the rim. “Not as hard as finding out my boy might not be mine. Archibald William Stanton. He was gonna be the son part of Stanton and Son. Now? Pffffft.” He slurped his drink.

Interesting that Kurt seemed more fixated on Archie than his accidentally dead wife. That Josephine had committed adultery didn’t seem to warrant a mention.

“If Archie isn’t yours,” I said as gently as I could, “do you have any idea who the father could be?”

He set his glass down on the table with a sharp clink. “Not a clue.”

I tried another tack. “As I said, I didn’t know Josephine, so tell me about her. What did she enjoy doing in her spare time?”

One bloodshot eye squinted balefully at me. “Don’t ask me. I was too busy working myself to the bone to tell you what she did all day, other than tire out her fingers shopping online. Or meet up with this guy she was carrying on with.”

At my reaction—I couldn’t help recoiling at the harsh edge to his tone—he waved a dismissive hand and then propped his chin on it. “Sorry. I’m still coming to terms with the fact I wasn’t as good a husband as I thought I was. I don’t blame Josephine for looking elsewhere.”

And yet, I didn’t believe him, not for a second. However, I rearranged my features into a sympathetic expression and prompted him again: “What was Josephine like?”

He grunted, pulling a face. “Before or after we got married and had a baby?”

“She was different before you got married?”

“‘Before Josephine’ was spontaneous and fun—I could barely keep up with her. She made me feel like I was twenty-five, not fifty-five.” He chuckled and shook his head. “‘After Josephine’ showed up soon after we got home from our honeymoon. She’d throw a fit about my long hours at the office but also throw a fit if I asked about the thousands of dollars of charges on our credit cards. She’d complain about giving up her job and say she was bored, even though quitting teaching Pilates and yoga was her choice. One minute she’d be crying that I didn’t pay her enough attention, and the next, she’d be screaming at me that I was smothering her.”

He gripped his glass so tightly; I hoped it didn’t shatter in his hand. “Next thing I knew, she was pregnant. And suddenly, we were eating bean sprouts and drinking disgusting herbal concoctions because caffeine and alcohol were joint public enemy number one.”

“Was she worried about the baby?”

He shrugged. “That’s what she said. I offered to buy her a yoga studio and a nice house in Cape Discovery if we moved. I thought she’d feel more comfortable in a small town. That she might settle a bit and return to the happy-go-lucky woman I fell for.”

Another bloodshot direct stare in my direction. “Didn’t happen. And after Archie was born, she was even worse. Hah!” he barked, making me jump. “Third time’s a charm they reckon—what a joke.”

So Pamela and Wendy were right… It wasn’t all happy families behind the Stantons’ closed mansion doors.

I tried a different approach. “Who were her friends? Did she go out with them much?”

“Josephine didn’t have any friends in Discovery.” He scrubbed a hand down his unshaven cheek and frowned. “She and Melanie went to a coffee group for mums and babies once a week, but I don’t think she clicked with any of the other women.”

“Who’s Melanie?” I prompted.

“Our nanny for a short time. Josephine was intense in her opinions, and some people found that intimidating and off-putting. With a little more age and experience, she might’ve come to realize that most of us don’t enjoy having someone else’s views shoved down our throats.”

“Like her views on a healthy lifestyle?”

“Exactly like that. She started with yoga and Pilates because she loved how toned they kept her body. But from there, her worldview narrowed and narrowed until everything was about organic raw foods, vitamin supplements, and a whole bunch of other faddish diets. And if that wasn’t bad enough, then she got into the more woo-woo stuff. Mindfulness and meditation, foraging off the land, Reiki, sound healing. It was her idea to provide my staff with daily pick-me-up juices and smoothies instead of caffeine.”

I remembered the three young men and their reusable cups. “Did Josephine deliver the juices to your office after you moved here?”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “What? All the way to the city? No. I picked them up from Rosie’s café on my way to work.”

“What about before you moved to Discovery?”

The frown lines smoothed. “Oh, yeah, she did back then. Made the drinks herself and hand-delivered them. Much to the lads’ disgust.” He gave a rough chuckle and leaned back in his chair. “They tasted revolting, but because she often stayed to chat with Becca, we were forced to drink some of the awful stuff, so we didn’t offend her. As soon as she left the building, there was a mass exodus to the staff kitchen to dump the foulness down the drain. Now that they come from Rosie’s, the staff love ’em.”

“Were Mike, Hunter, and Keith all working for you back then?” Three attractive guys that Josephine would’ve come into contact with.

“Yep. Keith had just started with us, but Michael and Hunter have been with me for years.” His gaze clouded and narrowed on mine. “Are you suggesting one of my employees could be…?”

He didn’t finish the thought because, even in his heading-toward-a-hangover state, the answer was obvious.

“I think you have to consider the possibility,” I said as diplomatically as I could. “They were men Josephine had regular contact with when you lived in Napier.”

The chair legs that Kurt had rocked back on slammed to the floor. “There’s no way any of them would dare make a move on my wife. They’re loyal to me. They owe me their careers.”

Loyal, or fearful of the consequences of making an enemy of Kurt Stanton?

“Besides”—his fierce expression smoothed—“Michael and Hunter are both married, and Keith has had the same girlfriend for years.”

My stomach flip-flopped painfully. That hadn’t stopped my ex-boyfriend from cheating. For some men, a ring on their finger didn’t prevent them from pursuing another woman. I’d warmed to the possibility of one of Kurt’s three male employees playing more than pass-the-smoothie with Josephine. But if he refused to examine the theory, and Josephine had no other close female friends to ask, only one person remained who could shed some light. Someone who’d spent time in the Stanton home and might have seen or heard something.

Something that may well have led to her becoming the Stantons’ former nanny.

“You said Melanie only worked for you a short time. Where’s she working now?”

Kurt gave me a blank look, pausing mid-raise of his glass. “My ex-wife got her a job at Grass Roots Health. Dani’s the manager there, and Melanie’s still working for her as far as I know.”

Although tempted to ask why Melanie-the-nanny was now Melanie-the-salesclerk, I decided I’d rather hear her story without bias.

As I got to my feet, I offered Kurt what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “It was nice talk—” I swallowed the rest of the cliché. Tried again. But all I could come up with was a muttered, “A nice talk. Gotta get back to the store.”

“You’ll be at the funeral on Friday.” While it didn’t sound like a question in his stress-roughened and probably sleep-deprived voice, for politeness’ sake, I pretended it was.

“Yes, of course.”

Kurt returned his attention to the remaining sips of his drink, and I took the opportunity to make a swift exit.

Around the corner from the Stone’s Throw, Pearl sat on the roof of a parked car, furiously licking her front paw then rubbing it behind her ear.

“Rain coming, huh?” I asked her. Not deigning to reply, she switched to the other ear.

Both ears? Was that an omen of a major storm about to descend on Cape Discovery?

* * *

Something about Grass Roots Health made me feel judged; in desperate need of a meditation session to reevaluate my life choices. Which explained why the loyalty card they’d given me when I picked out a shea butter gift set for my mum’s birthday still had only one of the ten smiley faces clipped. And when I slipped into the store the next morning, I could almost sense the products—displayed on plain wooden shelves in minimal, recyclable packaging—gasp in sarcastic surprise.

I’d left Harry in charge of Unraveled, armed with a cup of tea, a ration of gingernuts, and a crossword puzzle book to keep him occupied. He’d grumbled as I handed him the book, muttering that ‘only old fogies did crosswords, and he had Words With Friends on his phone if he wanted to use some brain cells, thank-you-very-much.’ But I noticed he’d started on a puzzle by the time I was ready to leave.

“Morning! How are you today?” A perky voice came from behind a shelf at the end of the aisle, and a woman in her early twenties popped up from where she must’ve been crouching. She wore her long brown hair in a French braid, and her deep brown eyes reminded me of the darkest chocolate—the type sneakily marketed as healthy. But there was nothing sneaky in the young woman’s smile, and even based on her tone, I’d assume she genuinely wanted an answer to the ritual retail greeting.

My gaze skipped to the hand-written name badge pinned to the top of her green apron: Hi! I’m Melanie! Ask me about this week’s special deals!

Aw. Melanie thought dotting her i’s with a cute smiley face made her appear more approachable. How adorable.

But I was in luck; she was just the woman I wanted to talk to.

“Couldn’t be better.” I stepped closer and smiled in return, aiming for ‘friendly new customer,’ but judging by the wide-eyed double blink Melanie gave me, possibly landing closer to The Joker.

She darted a glance to the top of the aisle, where another green-aproned staff member rang up a customer’s overflowing basket. Perhaps checking that she wasn’t alone in the store with a potential psycho.

“Great.” She took a sidestep toward the open sack of dried beans and the scoop she’d been using to transfer them into a large glass jar. “Can I help you?”

There seemed little point in beating around the bush. Once her co-worker finished at the checkout, any degree of privacy would be gone. “Possibly. I’m trying to find out who your former employer was sleeping with.”

Melanie flinched away from me, her ankle bumping into the sack beside her. Beans spilled in a legume waterfall and pattered across the floor. With a frantic glance my way, she crouched to straighten the sack. Then she bounced upright again. “I’m so sorry! I’ll grab a broom.” In a quieter voice, she added, “I’m on a break in ten minutes. I’ll meet you around the back of the store.”

“Thanks.”

As Melanie scurried away, I reversed direction, away from the spilled beans and into the next aisle.

Ooh—the confectionary section. That was more like it. And since I was already here… I selected a vegan rocky road treat for myself and browsed along the shelf toward the checkout, picking up a packet of fifty percent less sugar gingernut biscuits for Harry. Let’s see if he could tell the difference!

While the cashier rang up my purchases, I surreptitiously glanced around. Another aproned staff member was stacking shelves on the other side of the store, but it wasn’t Kurt’s second ex-wife. “Danielle’s not working today?”

“Nope.” The young man—Thomas, according to his name badge—glared at the biscuit’s barcode, which was refusing to scan. “Not in until next week.”

“Is she unwell?”

Thomas’s bored expression morphed into exasperation with the slow-wittedness of the elderly. “I dunno.” Then as an afterthought, perhaps worried one of his co-workers might nark on him to their manager when she returned, he added, “Ma’am.” He waved the packet over the scanner again, his gaze darting either side of me to check if anyone stood close enough to overhear. “Danielle’s taking a few personal days cos she’s cut up about that yoga lady who died.”

“Were they friends?”

His bony shoulders jerked upward. “Dunno if that’s how you’d describe it. The yoga lady was in here all the time, though.”

The scanner finally beeped; mission accomplished. Thomas told me the total, and I put it on my card.

“Did she come to see Danielle or to shop?” I asked as he handed me my receipt.

“Both, I reckon. They spent ages gasbagging about product ingredients and the health benefits of such-and-such. The lady always ended up buying loads of stuff.”

“Good for business then?”

He shrugged, his bored expression returning. “Yep. Can I help you with anything else today, ma’am?”

“No, thanks.” I picked up my purchases and headed outside.

Melanie waited for me at the back of the store, one hand buried inside a paper bag as she leaned against the wall. When she saw me coming, she quickly crammed a handful of whatever was in the bag into her mouth. Roasted organic peanuts according to the stamp on the brown paper.

“Those smell good.” I drew up alongside her. “And I bet they taste even better.”

She gave me a weak smile around her chewing and then swallowed. “I always eat when I’m nervous.” She scrunched up her nose and glanced down at herself, self-consciously tugging her Grass Roots Health T-shirt over her hips. “As you can tell, I’m nervous a lot.”

I frowned, having not paid much attention to her body shape earlier. I mean, why would I? But Melanie was what I would describe as ‘curvy,’ polite folk as ‘big-boned,’ and people who should know when to keep their opinions to themselves no would undoubtedly have said, ‘a pretty girl if she’d just lose some weight.’ Having felt ashamed of my own curves at times, I immediately empathized.

“My go-to is salt and vinegar potato chips, closely followed by chocolate—any flavor, I’m not picky.” Claiming a spot next to her on the wall, I dug the chocolate bar from my purse and peeled open the wrapping.

“Those are a staff favorite,” she said. “The chocolate’s amazing.”

Nibbling into a gooey marshmallow, I slanted her another look. She caught me staring and lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t want to talk to me about snack food.”

“No,” I admitted. “Josephine Stanton.”

“Uh-huh.” Her rosebud lips puckered as if the peanuts had a nasty aftertaste. “Can’t say I was a fan.”

“Doesn’t seem like she had many.” I sampled a mouthful of chocolate, savoring the sweetness as it melted on my tongue. The Grass Roots Health staff were right; it was good.

“Why do you want to know who she was sleeping with?”

I waited a couple of beats, running my tongue across my chocolatey teeth before opening my mouth. But before I could speak, Melanie got in first, her eyes widening. “Archie! Mr. Stanton wants to know if the baby’s his.”

It didn’t seem my place to enlighten her about who else other than Kurt was interested in Archie’s parentage. “It’d help put his mind at ease, one way or the other.”

A shiny film of tears developed over Melanie’s eyes, and she blinked rapidly, glancing down at the paper bag in her hands. “That poor, sweet little babe. The odds of him growing up into a well-adjusted kid were against him from the start. His dad’s rarely home, and his mum treated him like some trophy to be displayed in public. What’s going to happen to him now?”

Although it sounded like a rhetorical question, I answered anyway, as truthfully as I could, “I don’t know. But he has extended family who’re concerned about his welfare, and hopefully, Kurt might step up now he’s a single dad.”

“Hopefully.” But her tone conveyed more doubt than hope. “But if the baby isn’t Mr. Stanton’s, then he won’t want Archie anymore.”

“Surely he wouldn’t just abandon the boy? He’s not that cold-bloodedly ruthless.”

Melanie gave me another raised eyebrow in response. “You haven’t spent any time under Kurt Stanton’s roof. Even if it turns out Archie is his kid, he’ll be cared for by nannies until he’s old enough to be shipped off to boarding school.” Her lip curled. “And heaven help the boy if thirteen years of schooling doesn’t spit out a carbon-copy stand-in for his father, so he can take over the family business.”

Ouch. Much as I hated to admit it, I could see the truth in Melanie’s observation. And I was beginning to hope Josephine’s lover would turn out to be the biological father. Maybe he’d have the boy’s best interests at heart. Whoever he was.

One way to find out…

I opened my mouth to ask, but Melanie spoke before I could. “You want to find Archie’s baby daddy? Well, so do I. I loved working as a nanny—loved it. But Josephine and that man cost me my first real job. And probably my career.” Melanie teared up again.

But this time, there wasn’t a glimmer of sympathy in her melted chocolate gaze, just uncensored fury.

Not sure about you, but that certainly sounded like a hemlock-salad-swapping motive to me.

Ten

My mind gamboled through many murderous possibilities, but I herded those errant stray thoughts into a locked vault to deal with later. Right now, I needed more details before Melanie’s break was over.

“How did Josephine and her lover cause you to lose your job?”

Her gaze skipped past me to the sidewalk, then she checked the store’s back door. “I’ve never told anyone the real reason I lost the Stanton job.” She’d lowered her voice to a conspirator’s volume. “Suppose I’ve no reason not to now. Josephine asked me to stay on one evening when Mr. Stanton was working late. I’d just settled Archie in his cot and urgently needed the bathroom, so I ducked into the upstairs one. I heard muffled voices and, erm, other nonverbal sounds coming through the cracked-open window from below.” Blotches of scarlet bloomed on her cheekbones. “I didn’t realize who it was at first. Then I heard Josephine saying he had to go before anyone saw them, and the deeper, male voice arguing with her.”

“She didn’t use his name at any point?”

Melanie shook her head. “I don’t know how long she’d been outside with him, but she would’ve known I could come downstairs at any moment. I got a sense the man had turned up unexpectedly, and she wasn’t too thrilled about it. But there was also a smugness to her tone, like she was pleased he couldn’t keep away.”

“Could you see them from the bathroom?”

“It was a small window, and they must have been directly underneath it, so no, I couldn’t.”

She remained silent, and I assumed that was the end of it, but the blush deepened on her cheeks. “I should’ve walked away then and there and minded my own business. Instead, I ran into the Stantons’ bedroom next door and peeped through their drapes. The man was already walking away from the house, so I couldn’t see his face, but I noticed he was wearing a suit.” Her smooth brow furrowed. “That doesn’t help much, does it?”

“Well, a suit rules out the pizza delivery guy and the neighborhood lawn-mowing service.”

She snorted, a sound without a trace of humor. “Josephine wouldn’t have risked her cushy lifestyle to hook up with a tradesman. Anyway, I knew she’d be coming inside any second, so I ran to use the downstairs bathroom—because by then, I was desperate to go. When I came out, she was waiting for me in the kitchen, and she looked mad enough to spit.”

“She suspected you’d seen them outside?”

“Uh-huh. I hadn’t completely closed the drapes in their bedroom, and she’d noticed. She demanded I tell her what I saw, so I lied, saying I’d heard voices and was worried she might be in trouble. I told her I hadn’t seen anyone but her.”

“But she didn’t believe you?”

“Unfortunately, I suck at lying.” Melanie sighed. “If I’d been a better liar, I might’ve kept my job. But I guess she couldn’t risk keeping me around in case I accidentally let something slip in front of Mr. Stanton.”

Or deliberately let something slip?

I wondered why Melanie had allowed Josephine to railroad her out of a job she so clearly wanted. It seemed to me she must have had the upper hand.

“You don’t think her husband suspected anything when she suddenly got rid of you?”

“Oh, no. Josephine was too clever to fire me herself. You see, when she confronted me about what I overheard, or thought I overheard, she made it clear it would be in my best interests to keep my mouth shut. My word against hers that it hadn’t just been a friend who’d dropped by to say hi and stayed outside so as not to wake the new baby. I didn’t find out until later, but over the next few days, she started a sly campaign of complaints against me to Mr. Stanton. Until it became his idea to let me go. They called me into his home office, and with Josephine watching me like a hawk, he told me my services were no longer required; I was to finish up in two weeks’ time. While I was trying to work up the courage to tell Mr. Stanton the real reason his wife wanted me gone, she gave me an evil smile and said she’d write me a glowing reference to help me secure a position with another family. In the end, I decided to cut my losses and leave without a fuss.”

In her fist, the empty paper bag crumpled into a ball. She slanted me a guarded look from under her lashes. “Will you tell him what I said about his wife?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. There’s enough of their dirty laundry already on display for local speculation.” I grimaced. “The Discovery rumor mill’s already running hot.”

“Well, they’d better hope Mr. Stanton doesn’t catch them. People wouldn’t dare say anything to his face.” She tilted her head to one side. “You’ll go to her funeral tomorrow?”

I’d have preferred to keep a low profile, but Harry and my mother had insisted we pay our final respects. “Yeah.”

Melanie nodded, as if she knew something I didn’t. “You’ll see then. It’ll be a circus. All the brown-nosers will crawl out of the woodwork.” She pushed away from the wall. “Anyway, better get back to work. At least I still have a job.”

“But not as a nanny?”

“I needed a break, and this came up, so…” She pulled a whatever face and shrugged. “I’m keeping my options open. See ya.”

Polishing off the last of the rocky road, I watched Melanie disappear back into the store. For someone so passionate about being a nanny, why hadn’t she fought harder to keep her job? I suspected a reference letter wasn’t the only thing Josephine used to gain Melanie’s compliance.

* * *

As I passed the florists on my way back to Unraveled, I spotted Danielle through the cheerful window display of dahlias and hydrangeas. When she glanced up and caught me gawking, she beckoned me into the store. I couldn’t very well refuse. Besides, it was about time I spoke to the second ex-Mrs. Stanton.

Bloomin’ Great Discovery offered a soothingly cool oasis in the heat of the day, the earthy smell of soil and freshly snipped greenery as familiar and comforting as cookies straight from the oven. Danielle stood among the rustic wooden crates stacked with tubs of blooms and ceramic pots, clutching a large tablet.

Dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a plain loose shirt with rolled-up sleeves, she wore an animal caught in a hunter’s flashlight expression as her finger swiped the screen over and over. She repeatedly sucked on her lower lip, and when her gaze lifted to mine, I couldn’t help but notice the dark shadows under her eyes.

“It’s Tessa, isn’t it? I do apologize—I’m terrible with names.”

“That’s all right.” I gave her a reassuring smile.

“Please tell me you know something about flowers. Aroha’s flat out with the funeral tomorrow, and honestly, I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

I moved to stand beside her and glanced down at the current arrangement on the screen. A bouquet of mini yellow gerberas, spray stock, yellow roses, and berzelia berries wrapped in gauzy fabric.

“The occasion?” As soon as the words left my lips, I wanted to face-palm myself.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the tablet. “They’re for Josephine. From me.”

“Of course—sorry. I didn’t realize you were such close friends.”

“I wouldn’t say we were close friends.” She swiped again, and another bouquet appeared. “But I’d still like to get her something nice. Something appropriate.”

“Those white lilies and cream roses are lovely. And the brown flax is an elegant touch.”

“Josephine was elegant,” Danielle said with a sigh. “And as prickly as a cactus until you got to know her.” She gave me a lopsided smile. “Guess a potted cactus wouldn’t be considered an appropriate floral tribute?”

“I think you’re right. The lilies and roses might be a safer bet. Or”—I swiped the screen, returning to another bouquet that had caught my eye—“this one of soft pink roses and proteas is a nice pop of color without being too over the top.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I wouldn’t know a protea if I fell over it.” She set the tablet back on the counter with a soft chuckle. “I don’t want anything too showy. Nothing that’ll upstage Pamela, who has her image as Archie’s fairy godmother to maintain.”

I let out an indelicate snort, and we shared an eye-roll. Remembering how besotted she’d seemed with the baby at the christening, I asked, “Were you upset when Josephine asked Ashley to be Archie’s second godmother?”

Her eyes widened. “Why would I be? Ashley’s an amazing young woman—don’t let appearances fool you. She’s wonderful with little Archie.”

I got the feeling there was more to the whole godmother situation than met the eye. “You and Josephine were friends, and from all accounts, she didn’t have many in town. Weren’t you a little disappointed she didn’t ask you?”

She shrugged and pulled an easy come, easy go grimace. “Yeah, for a minute or two. Then I said to myself, ‘imagine how people would talk if Josephine asked one of Kurt’s exes to be their child’s godmother.’ What a scandal, and I hate the thought of people talking about me behind my back.”

“The scandal couldn’t be as bad as everyone wondering who Archie’s real father is.”

She sucked at her lower lip again and shook her head. “That will dog the poor boy for the rest of his life. Small-town minds never forget the juiciest tidbits of gossip.”

“Do you know who Josephine was seeing?”

Danielle bristled, her gaze filling with suspicion as she folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t gossip about my friends, and I still count Kurt as one. What’s the point in speculating on who she was sleeping with now?”

It appeared she wasn’t privy to that sort of information since she and Josephine hadn’t been close friends. I lowered my voice. “The point is, if Archie isn’t Kurt’s child, there could be issues with the biological father claiming him now that Josephine’s dead.”

Danielle’s mouth fell open. “Oh, gosh. I never thought of that. But how awful—surely something can be done? The man can’t just wrench a baby away from the only family he knows.”

“That’s why Rosie asked me to find out who this man might be, so the family can discuss options once the paternity test results come back.”

Her arms went from defensive to wrapped around her torso, and she blinked rapidly as if fighting back tears. “Honestly, I’ve no idea who Josephine was seeing. She and Kurt seemed so happy together, once he finally got the son he’d always wanted.”

Channeling my mother’s tactlessness while keeping the wince I wanted to make in check, I asked her as gently as I could, “You and Kurt didn’t have kids?”

“It wasn’t in the cards for us. You don’t have children either?”

I shook my head. “I’m happy being the cool auntie who doesn’t have to deal with toddler tantrums or teenage woes and just shows up with the perfect birthday present.”

“Oh, me too. I’m looking forward to buying Archie a kid-sized drum kit when he’s old enough.”

“That’s pure evil.” I grinned at her. “But why wait until he’s older? Buy him one of those really annoying electronic beeping and whistling toys.”

“Yes! Now you’re talking.” Danielle laughed. She had a bubbly laugh that was infectious, and I found myself giggling with her.

Aroha stepped out of the back room, a pair of scissors in one hand and a sheet of florist paper in the other. “What’s going on out here?”

“Tessa’s just helping me pick out some flowers. I think I’ll go with the roses and proteins.”

The florist’s eyebrows shot up. “The what?”

I touched Danielle’s arm and stage whispered, “It’s proteas.”

“Oops,” she said, and Aroha’s booming laugh joined ours.

Danielle thanked me for my help, and I left her with Aroha to complete her order.

Pearl sat outside the florists, beside a display of pre-cut grab-and-go flowers, her tail tucked tidily around her paws. And I suspected she knew exactly how beautiful she looked in contrast to the bouquets of white carnations. When I scooped her up and cradled her like a baby, she responded to my attempt to kiss her furry forehead by bracing her front paws on my cheek and nonchalantly arching away.

Cats. Bless their snooty wee hearts.

* * *

Melanie wasn’t wrong about Josephine’s funeral being a circus.

If, by definition, a circus was Saint Barney’s packed with attendees all vying for the best view of either the unusual casket (eco-friendly organic cardboard) or the grim-faced ringleader (Kurt Stanton) and his troupe of performers (his family, all doing their best to appear suitably solemn).

There was barely room to sneeze when my parents, Harry, and I slid into a pew. However, Harry did sneeze, explosively, thanks to the cloying perfume of a black-garbed Beth, who’d considerately—or maybe deviously—saved us a seat.

“Gracious,” she whispered to us once Harry finished honking into a tissue. “Just look at this turnout. The woman’s more popular dead than she ever was alive.”

The four of us murmured our agreement, with Harry adding that the vicar looked exuberant at the prospect of playing to a full house. While Beth gave a blow-by-blow description of the after-funeral refreshments the church ladies were providing, I tuned out and glanced around.

Closest to the altar and casket sat Kurt, stiff-upper-lipped and formal in his precision tailored black suit. Next to him, the middle-aged woman I recognized from the christening as the Stantons’ current nanny. She looked a little lost and ill-at-ease, perhaps because on the other side of Kurt sat Pamela Martin, cradling her godson.

Next to Pamela and her husband, Desmond, who looked as if he was making a pit stop on his way to a round of golf, was a blonde head of hair I recognized as Rosie’s. But not the shorter, tousled cut. She turned sideways to talk to one of her three sons, lined up according to height and sandwiched between her and her husband. Yep, it was Rosie, not one of her sisters. She’d had the cheerleader ponytail lopped off, and I had to admit, it suited her.

On the other side of the aisle were a bunch of people I didn’t recognize—distant Stanton relatives, perhaps—and a trio I did: Danielle, Melanie, and Ashley. The young godmother looked beautiful yet struck by tragedy at the same time.

A few rows behind them, I spied the fence-post-straight back of Wendy, and one row behind sat Kurt’s receptionist and his three male employees. The Three Stooges, my mind supplied, in an attempt to distract me from the cardboard casket and the humongous spray of white and pale pink flowers on top. Before I could inadvertently start chuckling to myself, I turned in my seat to check out the last few rows—and came eyeball to eyeball with Eric Mana, who’d chosen to sit directly behind me. I jumped about half an inch off the wooden pew.

When I’d edged into my seat earlier, I’d noticed a couple of women sitting behind me that I remembered from my first and—please save me from interfering mothers—hopefully, last Move It and Lose It session. Those same women now fanned themselves with the funeral program while slanting supernova glances at the big, brooding detective squeezed next to them.

Were the swooning duo even aware Eric was with the police? Given that he wore a plain dove gray—but oh-so-perfect—suit that made his lighter gray eyes even more appealing. If that were even possible. More glare than glance, I met and held his gaze. Challenged, if you will. I had more right to be at this funeral than he did. Wait just a wooly moment, what was he doing at Josephine’s funeral?

But I didn’t have time to ask, as the vicar cleared his throat into the microphone before tapping it with a fingernail and asking if everyone could hear him. Everyone could, and I turned to face forward as the service began.

Kurt must have spoken to Peter about keeping the service short and sweet because, after thirty minutes of stuffiness and the obligatory larger-than-life carousel of Josephine photos projected onto the church wall, he released us into the sunshine.

As I stood in line behind the Three Stooges, waiting to offer Kurt and baby Archie condolences at the hearse, I observed each man’s interaction with their boss.

The first to shake his employer’s hand was the catwalk model wannabe: Michael, who was married as I recalled. Michael murmured something to Kurt, most likely scripted lines read off his phone, as the moment he moved away from his boss, he was staring at the screen again.

Next, with a handshake and awkward one-armed guy hug, was Keith of the long-term girlfriend. I was close enough to overhear Keith laying it on thick about how they’d all miss his beautiful wife and her kindness. I wondered if his surname was Brown, as he couldn’t get his metaphorical nose any closer to his boss’s rear end if he tried. Kurt finally extracted himself from the man’s grip and extended his hand toward his final employee.

Hunter—also married and the lucky last—stepped forward and performed the old shake while lightly gripping the other man’s elbow maneuver. I couldn’t see the younger man’s face, but the way Kurt looked at him told me that this guy met Kurt’s stringent standards. Maybe even surpassed them.

Hunter rearranged his politician’s handshake into a gentle ruffle of Archie’s wispy blond hair. “Anything I can do for you and the little tyke, you let me know, all right?”

If anyone had been watching me instead of the dashing but tragic widower, they would’ve caught my eyes bulging open as my jaw hit my sensible black ballet flats. Little tyke? As in the ‘I know you’re at the little tyke’s christening but you can’t keep ignoring me’ message on Josephine’s phone?

Over the course of the morning, I’d heard people refer to Archie as little fella, brave wee man, sweetheart, rug rat, and other common terms of endearment. Little tyke wasn’t so unusual, but…

After one final, what I might have imagined as, lingering glance at the cardboard casket, Hunter moved aside, leaving Kurt staring at my expression with a bemused frown.

Oh, right.

Rearranging my lax mouth and lowering my eyelids so my eyeballs wouldn’t dry out, I plastered on my best consoling-the-bereaved smile. And then…um. Handshake? Hug? Upper-arm sympathetic rub? Kiss on the cheek? How were you meant to conduct yourself when greeting the husband of a woman whose body you found and the father of your high school nemesis who was no longer as awful as you remembered?

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, going in for an arm-rub-half-hug combo at the same instant Kurt went for a handshake. Blame my brain’s blathering for short-circuiting my natural poise.

Shut up. I do to have poise.

The end result? A fingertip jab to my stomach and muttered apologies from both parties. I dutifully touched Archie’s cheek and told him he was a sweet boy before sidestepping over to the hearse to add a couple of thoughtfully provided rose petals to Josephine’s casket.

Beside the XXXXL shoebox she was to be buried in sat a basket of petals and a second one for little farewell notes to the deceased. During the service, mourners had been encouraged to write messages—pink notepaper also thoughtfully provided—and drop them into the basket. Which they would then, I assumed, toss into the grave with Josephine. Comforting for some to spill their guts and have the final word.

Speaking of spilling… In my hurry to collect some rose petals, I somehow managed to knock over the second basket. Notes fluttered out of the hearse like pink butterflies soaring majestically in the sea breeze, which just happened to pick up at that point.

Shivering sheep sherbet. Universe—enough already.

My cheeks were already flaming from the awkward failed hug, but now my blush went nuclear, and I dropped into a crouch as if sniper shots had rung out. Reenacting my youthful mastery of Twister, I gamely used my hands and feet to pin a half dozen or so whirling notes.

See, I told you. Poise.

I’d trapped a few more when the scent of law-abiding-but-sinful cologne wafted into my nostrils. Enunciating perfectly but silently a word that Harry would disapprove of, I risked a glance to where Eric crouched by my side, snatching up other errant notes. He looked up, caught me mid-stare, and grinned. A rarity in itself, as I was beginning to learn, but totally inappropriate given what was at nose level right beside us. A glare at him earned a wink in response.

Cops and their black sense of humor.

I turned my head before Eric could see the battle my lips were having to remain in a straight line and lifted my toe a quarter inch to retrieve a note. While in flight, the paper had unfolded, and I couldn’t avoid reading the scribbled message: You got what you deserved Josephine.

Dotted above the ‘i’ was a cute little smiley face.

Eleven

I caught every last one of those dratted pieces of paper—with Eric’s assistance—and returned them to the basket. Even the not-so-nice one. I’d learned my lesson about tampering with evidence. Of course, Melanie’s message was evidence only in the sense that it proved she bore a grudge against the deceased.

The crowd shuffled aimlessly around the hearse, waiting for it to drive off for the private cremation, but Melanie was nowhere to be seen. Some people made their way to the refreshments, including my dad. He herded Eric along the path toward the church hall, gesticulating wildly and tossing around terms like innings, runs, jaffas, and yorkers like they were cricket balls. Give Dad the opportunity to talk about his favorite summer sport, and non-cricket fans needed to run, not walk, in the opposite direction.

Which I did.

Fortunate that, as I spotted Hunter heading down the other side of Saint Barnabas, clueless about the danger he faced when entering the old graveyard and Reggie’s stomping (pecking) ground. Being the thoughtful person that I am—and because I had an important question to ask—I followed.

“Hunter. Hold up,” I called as he stepped off the path, no doubt planning to take a shortcut to the street running behind the church grounds.

Bad move. Again, speaking from experience.

He turned with an impatient arrowing in of his eyebrows above trendy spectacle rims. But almost immediately, his brow smoothed, and a deferential expression returned to his face. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a business negotiation that hadn’t gone as planned: unsettled and irritated but unwilling to let a potential client suspect he was anything but at the top of his game.

“Can I help you?” Hunter pushed up the sleeve of his suit jacket to expose his fancy watch, letting me know he could spend only a few precious time-is-money minutes on me.

“If you cut through the graveyard, you’re heading for an unpleasant encounter with a goose.”

His head jerked back as if I’d hurled a snotty tissue at him. “A what?”

“I’m just giving you a heads-up. Don’t go that way. That bird is a nasty piece of work.” When he continued to stare at me as if I were about to cluck like a chicken, I rolled my eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“Ah…thanks?”

Hunter altered course, and I headed him off between the corner of Saint Barnabas and the goose’s domain. The man gave no indication that he remembered me from our brief encounter at Kurt’s office in Napier.

“Quick question about your relationship with Josephine…” I could see no point in beating around the proverbial bush when, at any moment, a cantankerous goose could pop out from beneath it. “Were you two having an affair?”

The professional mask vanished in a finger-snap, replaced by the look of someone caught between a rock and a hard place. Or a goose and a woman he really didn’t want to talk to.

His gaze danced either side of me, searching for an escape route. Since I was blocking one, Reggie another, and the third option led to the dribs and drabs making their way to the church hall, I had him trapped.

Suck it up, buttercup.

Like most people dropped unexpectedly into the hot seat by a complete stranger, he opted for an unoriginal response. “None of your business. And who are you, anyway?”

“A concerned citizen.” That information was on a need-to-know basis, and Hunter-of-the-ear-stud didn’t need to know about my complicated relationship with the Stantons.

“How does being a ‘concerned citizen’”—oh, cringe, he actually punctuated this snarky repetition with exaggerated air quotes—“give you the balls to ask me about my private life?”

Balls, schmalls. When an innocent babe was caught between two potential fathers, I wasn’t afraid to be blunt if it led to a good outcome for the family. But what was a good outcome for Archie? An emotionally distant, workaholic father, or this man in front of me, who, according to Kurt, was already married.

“Josephine’s little boy gives me the balls. Are you his father?”

His nostrils flared. “Mr. Stanton is Archie’s father.”

“Sure about that? Because your last text messages to Josephine indicated there might be some doubt.”

“Those text messages weren’t from me.” Hunter yanked on his earlobe, the gold stud glittering in the sun. “Josephine was my mentor’s wife, and we socialized together when she and Kurt lived in Napier; we were friendly but not friends.”

Bald-faced lies weren’t exactly my cup of tea, which was why Sean was the poker player in our family. Not that this was a good thing. I relied more on little white ones to prevent hurt feelings or excuse myself from a Maternal Inquisition. But just because I didn’t enjoy lying didn’t mean I wasn’t any good at it.

I’m a Wakefield, after all.

“Then, can you explain why you were seen entering the Stantons’ residence on Saturday evening?” It was a lucky guess, but watching shock smack smugness off the man’s designer-stubbled face was better than eating a double-chocolate frosted cupcake.

Hunter’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened. Shut.

His gaze darted left. Right. Left. Right.

A little like watching a not very bright goldfish navigate the confines of its bowl in an attempt to find an escape route.

He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bounced as if he’d inhaled a yo-yo. “I, ah. Was just. Well.” Shifting the yo-yo with a strangled cough, he tried again: “That must’ve been when I…” His goldfish brain latched onto an idea, and a lie-bulb lit up his eyes. “Yes! That must’ve been when I dropped off some important papers Kurt left behind at the office.”

“Important papers?” I cocked my head theatrically and in what I hoped was a cynical manner.

“Yes, important papers.” Hunter’s tone was scathing. “An independent evaluation of his parents’ place on the foreshore.”

“Don’t you mean his and his sister’s property? Why did he have it evaluated? He can’t just sell it.”

The smirk returned to his face. “You’ll have to ask Pamela about that.” He rocked forward on his toes as if about to confide in me. “Josie was convinced Kurt’s sister was using Melanie, their ex-nanny, to spy on her.”

Josie, huh? While I debated throwing the use of an overfamiliar pet name in his face, Hunter dodged around me. A side-to-side shuffle might have stopped him, but I didn’t bother. He power walked back the same way he’d come. Most likely to slither back under the rock he’d crawled out from.

A thorny knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Part of me had hoped that whoever Josephine was conducting an affair with would turn out to have a shred of decency. Maybe he hadn’t realized she was married at first. Maybe they’d been star-crossed lovers, and he wanted to know if the boy was his, so they could run away together and live happily ever after.

Devastating both Kurt and Hunter’s wife in the process.

No matter which direction I twisted in, nothing indicated that Hunter was a decent human being. In fact, the arrow of my internal compass pointed to a rather dark possibility.

If Josephine hadn’t accidentally prepared a lethal salad, could her married lover have made it to prevent his wife from finding out? After all, divorce was expensive. Murder was the more budget-conscious option.

* * *

Praying that one of Beth’s cheese and chive scones had survived the first wave of hungry mourners, I hotfooted it to the opposite corner of the church. Apparently, in stealth mode, as I almost collided with Ashley, who was leaning against the bricks, smoking a cigarette.

And blatantly eavesdropping.

The smoldering butt slipped from her fingers, and she ground it out beneath the toe of a black stiletto pump. “Disgusting habit. But I can’t seem to quit.”

“Smoking or eavesdropping?” I softened my accusation with a half-smile. One that communicated she’d been busted, but I wasn’t mad about it. Yet.

Ashley had the good grace to drop her eyes, her cheeks reddening beneath her artfully applied cosmetics. Then she thrust back her shoulders and met my gaze. “That was Hunter Fitzpatrick? The guy from Kurt’s work that Josie was sleeping with?”

“Thought you didn’t know who she was seeing?”

She twitched up the shoulder currently not occupied with leaning. “I lied. Well, I wasn’t entirely truthful. Josie mentioned about there being someone else after she’d broken it off with him, but she wouldn’t tell me his name to begin with.”

“How did you find out who it was?”

“Took me all of two minutes.” She dug around in her purse until she’d located her phone. A few taps later, she turned the screen to show me.

It was a selfie of Hunter, whose username was Hunt.the.best.deal, posted on a popular social media site. With his arm slung around another man’s shoulders, the pristine green of a golf course lay behind them. I recognized the local clubrooms in the background.

“Because he plays golf in Cape Discovery?”

With an epic eye-roll, she thrust her phone closer to my nose. “This was posted over a year ago, but look who liked it and commented with a row of emojis.”

I peered at the screen. “Hunt.the.best.deal says, ‘I go green every Saturday morning.’ And Yoga.guru.girl—that’s Josephine, I’m guessing—liked the photo and added a couple of smiley faces with hearts, interspersed with…peaches? Josephine thinks he’s a peach?”

Ashley snorted and stuffed her phone back into her bag. “Honestly. Even a ten-year-old knows more than you. Think about what part of the human anatomy a peach looks like. Go on, I’ll wait.”

Ignoring her snarky tone, I thought…and, oh. Kinda proud it took me no more than two seconds. Once I’d remembered my first glimpse of Oliver in his snug-fitting jeans.

“Got it,” I said without naming the body part. “So, your friend leaves a flirty comment on a guy’s photo, but you don’t recognize him? Wait—what if Kurt saw it?”

She screwed up her nose. “Kurt still thinks all the cool kids hang out on Facebook. Josie only shared yoga memes and G-rated stuff on there—when she remembered to use it—and had brains enough not to add Hunter as a friend.”

I recalled what she’d told me last time we spoke, about the type of man Josephine was attracted to. As her friend, it wouldn’t have been difficult for Ashley to narrow down the options in a small city like Napier. “You went to Level Up Properties’ website to look for a young professional.”

“Yep. And found the staff profiles of Keith, Michael, and Hunter. I double-checked the list of accounts Josie followed, and Keith’s and Michael’s weren’t there. Only Hunter’s. As I said, it wasn’t hard.”

“You also said you didn’t find this out until after Josephine broke it off with him. Do you know what happened?”

“Apart from an unplanned pregnancy?”

My surprise must’ve shown on my face because she gave a sad laugh. “You really didn’t know her, did you? Josie didn’t like kids, and she certainly didn’t want one of her own.”

“So why did she…?” I couldn’t finish my question.

“Kurt,” she snapped. “She wanted to be the center of his world again. And she was, for a while. Especially when they found out she was carrying a boy. She knew having his son would mean he’d be financially tied to her and the kid for life.”

“Which meant she couldn’t risk him finding out about her affair.”

Ashley flicked her fingers open wide. “Boom. The good life would’ve been over.” She shook her head. “You’d have thought Hunter would be happy to be let off the hook as the potential baby daddy when he had a wifey tucked away at home. But nope. He went into full-on stalker mode.”

“And how did Josephine cope with that?” Not by asking for her husband’s help, I’d bet Unraveled’s new delivery of satiny-soft cotton-bamboo blend on that.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “She played it down at first, then the next thing I knew, she was telling me she’d found out something about him, and he’d be leaving her alone now.”

I recalled her text message: You have no rights after what you did. Stop contacting me.

There remained little doubt in my mind that I’d stumbled onto the right guy.

“Josephine didn’t say what she’d found out to make him back off?”

“No. She refused to tell me. But she sounded upset and angry about it.” Ashley pursed her lips. “Frustrated too. Like she wanted to lash out but couldn’t because she had her own secrets to protect.”

And maybe those secrets got her killed. But I didn’t want to remind Ashley of that. “Who do you think your friend would want to raise her son?”

At my question, Ashley’s eyes grew shiny. “I’d take him in a heartbeat, but a boy needs his father. Even if it’s not his biological father.” She slanted me an indecipherable glance. “And yes, another thing Josie refused to tell me: who she thought that was. She said she’d rather not know.”

Hunter wanted to know. As did Kurt.

“They’ll have the DNA results soon enough.”

“May the best man win.” Her expression soured. “Best of two duds, if you ask me.”

Ashley straightened and tucked her purse tightly under her arm. “I’m driving home this morning, and when I get there, I’ll open a bottle of bubbles and raise a glass to my friend.” Her face crumpled. “Since no one else seems to care that she’s gone. Or believe someone might’ve killed her.”

That darned empathy of mine stabbed me right in the heart, reminding me of Ashley’s description of a teenage Josephine, who’d once played a mean girl but hadn’t been entirely mean on the inside. “I care, Ashley. And if someone did kill her, the detective in charge will find them.”

And if Detective Mana couldn’t, I would.

Twelve

There once was a time when being summoned by Rosie would’ve thrilled me. Yay, the most popular girl at Cape Discovery High School has accepted me into her clique!

But now, her text message requesting an update filled me with dread. Though for a different reason than the one that wounded me as a teenager, when I’d discovered that Rosie’s invitation to her fourteenth birthday party had been at her mother’s insistence.

I swallowed my discomfort along with a snack of carrot sticks and hummus because after the church ladies’ refreshments earlier, one more cookie or scone and I’d pop. A brisk walk across town to the Stantons’ house seemed sensible. So that’s what I did, armed with a knitted gift for Archie in my purse, as I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed.

Kurt and Josephine’s split-level house looked like the result of an architect, a glazier, and a super-villain collaborating over a few beers. Given that Kurt had the house built to his specifications, I had to wonder which of the three he’d be. Joking aside, the house certainly made a bold statement. What that statement was though…

I strolled past Kurt’s shiny convertible, which sat precisely centered in front of a triple-doored garage, and up to the entranceway. The huge double doors swung open before I’d figured out how to navigate the complicated looking doorbell-intercom-keypad-locking system.

Rosie offered me a weary smile. “Thanks for coming.” She tucked a strand of her newly cropped hair behind her ear and gestured for me to come inside.

As I stepped onto the polished concrete flooring, the temperature inside the house caused goose bumps to lift on my skin. There was air-conditioning to keep comfortably cool in summer, and then there was this—Antarctic chill. Shivering, I followed Rosie along the hallway, past a sculpture that likely cost more than a decade’s worth of my tax bills, and into the kitchen. I’d never seen so much stainless steel and glossy white; one almost required sunglasses to avoid snow-blindness.

If a stormtrooper and a refrigerator had a baby…

Speaking of babies, you wouldn’t have known the Stantons had one. As far as kitchens go, this one was preternaturally neat. The island countertop lay almost bare apart from a bowl of fruit so perfect they looked fake, a small stack of mail, sorted by size, and one used drinking glass that I’d bet was Rosie’s. The slob.

“I like your hair,” I said. Something to break the silence, as shading my eyes and staggering over to one of the space-age looking barstools at the island counter would be rude. “It suits you.”

“Oh.” Rosie’s gaze slid sideways, perhaps checking if my expression matched the lack of snark in my voice. “Thanks.” She fluffed her hair somewhat self-consciously. “I always kept it short when my boys were little. Saves a lot of pain when babies enter that grabby stage.”

“I’ll bet.” I’d no idea what the grabby stage was, nor was I likely to find out anytime soon. Much to my mother’s disappointment.

“Can I get you a coffee? Or tea?” She moved behind the island counter and into the maw of the white-on-white kitchen, her mouth twitching into a half-smile. “Or a rum and Coke? It’s been a long day.”

A rum and Coke sounded perfect. But sharing a late afternoon cocktail seemed like something you’d do with a friend. An actual friend, not someone who tolerated you to be diplomatic—and because they needed something from you.

Before I could respond, footsteps sounded from a hallway off the kitchen, and Kurt appeared in a doorway opposite the one we’d used to enter the room. “Rosie? C’mere a second.” His gaze flicked to me. “Oh. You have company. Hello, Tessa. I didn’t realize you and Rosie were still friends.”

I suddenly felt like my awkward fourteen-year-old self again. The one whose grandparents were her best friends. Whose idea of a party still included balloons and birthday cake, not tight groups of giggling girls and pimple-faced boys who tried to impress them with cannonballs into the swimming pool. Rosie hadn’t been my friend then, and she certainly wasn’t now.

Even though I kind of wished she might be. I sure could use one.

Rosie shot me an apologetic glance and followed her dad into the hallway. For lack of anything else to do, I trailed after them to the doorway. Kurt pointed into a closet. Tucked between two pairs of rubber boots—one man-sized, the other smaller—was a silver-colored gift bag.

“It’s silly, but I don’t want to touch it.” Kurt dragged his palm down his face, and for the first time since Josephine’s death, I got a peek at the man behind the mask. That man was hurting, and my heart went out to him. “It might be a surprise birthday gift Josephine hid for me.”

Rosie squeezed her dad’s arm before moving past him to pick the bag up off the floor. She opened it, and her brow crinkled then smoothed again as she pulled out an object. From where I stood, hovering in the doorway, I could make out it was small and silver. Rosie offered it to her dad, affording me a better view. Something shaped like a…

“Is it a dog?” Kurt turned it over in his hands; touched a slot in the creature’s head. “A dog money box. Why would she get me a piggy bank? As a joke?”

Nope. It wasn’t for him. And the money box wasn’t a dog. It was a fox.

I didn’t need the brains or the charm of Miss Fisher to figure out who this gift was from.

“It must be a christening gift for Archie,” Rosie said. “Someone must’ve dropped it off, and it got shoved in there by mistake. I’ll see if there’s a card.” She drew out a couple of paper sheets stapled together. “No card, but…”

Rosie fell silent as she read, her fingers tightening so hard on the papers that they crumpled. “What the heck, Kurt? This is an evaluation of Aunt Pamela’s house!”

As she held it up to her father, I caught a glimpse of a property valuer’s logo in the header. Hunter hadn’t been lying about dropping off documents on Saturday night.

“It’s not Pamela’s house.” Kurt made a grab for the paper, but she whipped it out of his reach. “I’m the executor of your grandparents’ estate, and it’s completely aboveboard for me to have the property valued.”

“To sell?” Rosie demanded. “What does Aunt Pamela think of you wanting to sell the house from under her?” At his expression, she barked out a bitter laugh. “You haven’t told her, have you?”

Kurt folded his arms and glared down his nose at his daughter. “It was an idea we were considering. Nothing’s formalized.”

“We?” Rosie—you go, girl—went toe-to-toe with him. “You and Josephine? Or just Josephine?”

I’d been thinking the exact same thing—and wondering how furious Pamela Martin would have been at her newest sister-in-law if she’d found out about it.

“It hardly matters whose idea it was now,” Kurt said stiffly, holding out his hand for the evaluation. “Our family has more pressing issues to deal with at the moment.”

“Like waiting on a test result to decide whether you’ll man up and be a father to that baby upstairs?” Rosie released the papers, and they swooped gracefully to the floor. “It’s sad you think we’re still a family, Dad.”

She spun and marched down the hallway to where I stood, eavesdropping and a hypocrite to boot. With a grunt of disgust, Kurt stomped away, heading for a flight of stairs at the end of the hallway.

Her mouth set in a grim line, Rosie tipped her head toward the kitchen. “Come on. You can tell me about Hunter Fitzpatrick.”

“You saw me talking to him after the funeral?” I claimed a bar stool at the island counter. It was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked.

“Mum did. She said it didn’t look like you were discussing property portfolios.” She pulled two glasses from a cabinet and set them on the countertop between us. “Is he the one?”

I thought of vixens and little tykes and peaches. “Yeah. I’m almost certain he is, though he said they were just ‘friendly.’”

Rosie snorted. “Friendly? Some friend he’d be; he betrayed the man who gave him a job when he was a newbie graduate. Ambitious toad that he is.” She collected a tray of ice cubes from the freezer and cracked some into one of the glasses. “I can’t believe Hunter would have anything to do with Archie if it turns out Kurt isn’t the father. Nobody wants to be on my dad’s blacklist. It’s career suicide.”

Hunter had a lot at stake if Kurt ever found out about him and Josephine. Enough to risk slipping a deadly poisonous plant into his former lover’s tossed salad?

Dead women tell no tales.

I decided then and there to ask him.

“You know,” I said, eyeing the second glass. “I think I will have that rum and Coke after all.”

* * *

I was waiting outside Grass Roots Health the next morning when Danielle opened the store to the first customers of the day. Me and one of the retirement-aged guys who routinely hung around the hardware store, offering unsolicited DIY advice to anyone unfortunate enough to look helpless. That’d been me a few weeks back, on a mission to pick up my brother’s list of painting supplies.

Danielle had barely flicked the lock before the man was squeezing through the door. He was all, “What can you suggest for gas? The missus is gettin’ tired of me blamin’ the dog.”

When I offered Kurt’s ex a sympathetic grimace, she grinned cheerfully as if to say, ‘what can you do?’ While the man followed her down an aisle, trumpeting loudly about the stench, depth, volume, and duration of his gas problems, I made a beeline for Melanie at the service counter. Surprise, surprise—she didn’t look too thrilled to see me. Sadly, that seemed to be the effect I had on some people.

Melanie must have learned from our last encounter not to ask me if I needed any help. “What do you want now?” she asked. In a tone low enough that her boss, who was showing a product to Mr. Flatulence on the other side of the store, couldn’t overhear.

“The reason you showed up at Josephine’s funeral and wrote her a note saying she got what she deserved.”

Melanie went bug-eyed. “They were meant to be confidential.”

“I saw it by accident.”

“Oh, so you’re the klutz who knocked over the basket?”

“Yep. Not one of my finest moments, I admit.”

Melanie’s face continued to pale by degrees, and she darted her gaze behind me as if desperate for the interruption of a new customer. I tried again before I lost her: “It wasn’t, for example, as embarrassing as the time I walked into the high school principal’s office with my skirt tucked into my panties after a bathroom break. Of course”—I added a self-deprecating smile—“it could’ve been much worse, considering I was on my way to the school assembly.”

A groove appeared between her eyebrows. “I hated high school.”

“At times, I did too. However, this potential humiliation was at my first school counseling job straight out of university. Imagine going out on stage in front of the whole school with your skirt hiked up. Ugh.”

Bewilderment softened her expression. She wasn’t sure where I was going with my story, but I could tell I’d wheedled an empathetic reaction out of her.

“Another example—and this happened only a few days ago—was when a cute guy saw that I’d entered his name into my phone as ‘Hottie.’ That kind of thing happens to me way too frequently, and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.”

Melanie’s mouth twisted, and blotchy spots of pink returned to her cheeks. “I know how that feels, believe me.” She looked down at her hands, clenched into fists, and sighed. “A couple of times while I was working for the Stantons, Josephine asked me to take Archie to the Mummy and Me Pilates class at her studio. She said he was good for business.” Melanie rolled her eyes.

“When I caught her with that guy, she showed me some photos she’d taken of me during the class. Horrible, unflattering photos.” The spots of color in her cheeks had spread into an angry red flush. “She laughed and said she wondered if a zoological group would appreciate having pictures of an elephant seal in an unusual habitat posted on their social media pages.”

I felt my own face grow warm in response, my heart throbbing in solidarity. “That was extraordinarily cruel.”

“Not for Josephine. And it was an effective threat that ensured my cooperation. I never said a word about that man until I told you.” She leaned closer. “Did you find out who it was? One of the men ahead of you in line at the funeral? The cute one with glasses?”

“Hunter Fitzpatrick?” His name slipped out before my brain-to-tongue editor could activate. I snapped my mouth shut, but it was too late.

Her eyes lit up like glowing Halloween pumpkins. “He’s the baby daddy?”

Fortunately, she whisper-hissed the question across the counter, and a quick side-eye toward Danielle and Mr. Farty revealed they were still deep in discussion.

“Possibly,” I replied. “But you can’t breathe a word of it until the family’s had time to talk to him—for Archie’s sake.” I felt awful about letting Hunter’s name slip, but I could only hope Melanie would understand.

The spark in her eyes snuffed out. “For that sweet little boy, I’ll keep my mouth shut. He deserves better than to have everyone in town gossiping about him, despite what a vicious cow his mother was.”

A vicious enough cow that plenty of people in Cape Discovery might’ve wished to hurry her along the path to a higher state of consciousness.

“Thank you.” And thanks to that dysfunctional internal editor of mine, I tacked on another question: “Just out of curiosity, where were you on Saturday evening last week?”

Melanie barked out a laugh. Completely without mirth. “Are you for reals? You’re flat-out asking for my alibi?”

“Yep.” Figuring she either would or wouldn’t tell me, and there was nothing I could do to influence her one way or the other, I zipped it.

She continued to stare at me a few beats longer, then shook her head. “I was in Napier, at my parents. Nowhere near the Stantons’.” Straightening, she crossed her arms. “And FYI, I couldn’t have snuck into the Stantons’ house to stuff her salad with poison leaves without the new entry code. Which I don’t have. Josephine told me Kurt was changing it on my last day with them.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, as Harry often said. “Who does have the entry code?”

She arched an eyebrow. “The new nanny. His daughter who’s been looking after Archie. Pamela Martin, probably.”

Pamela? Why would she want access to her brother’s house? Melanie must’ve seen the question on my face, as her lip curled. “Josephine wasn’t the only woman in town who knew a thing or two about blackmail. Who do you think got me the job with them?”

Thanks to the lack of a second cup of coffee this morning, it took me a few seconds to answer my own unspoken question. Kurt was investigating options to sell his parents’ property, the property that Pamela and her husband lived in. She would’ve been desperate to know what her brother was doing; ergo, she’d sent in a spy. A nanny spy.

“Pamela was blackmailing you too? For intel on Kurt?”

When her second eyebrow rose to join the first in silent agreement, I continued, “What was she blackmailing you with?”

“The queen giveth,” she said. “And the queen taketh away. She knew how badly I wanted the job.”

A nearby scuff of shoes shot our gazes sideways. Thomas, rolling a hand truck stacked with cardboard boxes, ambled past, wireless headphones pumping out tinny music. My pulse fired up and then subsided when he didn’t even glance our way. As he reached an empty section of shelving, the store door opened, and three more customers stepped inside.

“I hope you find out who killed Josephine Stanton. If someone killed her,” Melanie said as one of the customers headed straight up the center aisle toward us. “I’d like to send that person a gift basket.”

Her bitter expression slid from her face, replaced by a plastic salesclerk smile. “Hi,” she said to the woman puffing in exertion directly behind me as a miasma of garlic swamped my nose. “Can I help you with anything today?”

How about finding a possible murderer?

I backed away from the counter and left the store. Melanie had helped me get one step closer to tracking down a killer and given me another reason to have a little chat with Pamela.

But first, there was someone else I wanted to talk to. And I knew just where I’d find him on a sunny Saturday morning.

Thirteen

Locating a solitary golfer among eighteen holes spread over many miles of undulating greenery under the mid-morning sun was not my idea of a picnic. However, an actual picnic on the pristinely kept green would have been great. I could have murdered some cucumber sandwiches and a flask of chilled sweet tea.

Of course, murder probably wasn’t the best word to use. Not while hiking over hill and dale, searching for a potential homicide suspect. Technically, he wasn’t a suspect in the eyes of the law. At least, not as far as I knew. And I was hoping to skim under Detective Mana’s radar for a while longer. Just until, say, I extracted a confession from Hunter Fitzpatrick. Who, thus far, was proving to be an extremely hard guy to track down.

Hot-cheeked and sweaty, I finally spotted a lone golfer striding along the crest of the hill toward what was, according to a hastily Googled map of the course, the seventh hole. I doggedly followed, wishing I hadn’t stopped for that ham and cheese croissant from Disco’s. Although I was almost certain that I’d worked off the buttery goodness during the thirty minutes spent traipsing around the Cape Discovery Golf Course.

While the lone golfer rummaged around in his golf bag, searching, I assumed, for the perfect tool for the job—a club? Iron? Thingy-whatsit?—I caught up to him. It was indeed Hunter, clad in a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and natty golf shoes, and wearing a golfing glove on one hand. He glanced over at me, did a double take, and released whatever club-iron-thingy-whatsit he’d been about to pull from his bag.

Not ashamed to admit I felt better about him not having something heavy and metal in his hands.

“You again,” he said.

“Yep, me again,” I wheezed.

Really should’ve thought this confrontation through. Maybe considered collapsing on a nearby wooden bench to catch my breath first. Hard to sound intimidating and authoritative when you’re puffing like a steam train. “Just had. Some. Follow up. Questions.”

I dug my water bottle out of an over the shoulder knitted holder: a project Harry planned to teach the beginners class. Unfortunately, it resembled an oversized deflated condom when not in use—I just knew it’d be an instant hilarious hit with the class. I drank heartily.

Underneath his pretentious old-style plaid cap, Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions. You’re not a cop.”

“True.” I held up a wait-for-it finger and gulped more water before capping the bottle and wedging it back into its knitted condom. “But there’s nothing to stop me accompanying you around the course on this beautiful day.” Hands on hips, I took an exaggerated breath of fresh air.

“Y-you can’t do that. This is private property.”

I gave him my best innocent smile. Which, having studied it in the mirror, I realized leaned more toward nefarious than innocent. “My granddad and the owner are good mates. I’m welcome here anytime I choose to come, and for however long I choose to stay.”

He glowered at me.

“Off you go.” I punctuated my instruction with shooing motions. “And I’m more than happy to commentate too if you like. Gives me a chance to practice some golfing lingo.”

Hunter pushed up the brim of his cap with his middle finger and turned his back on me. He yanked out a club-iron-thingy-whatsit—now officially shortened to a ‘whatsit’ in my brain—dropped his golf ball, and swung.

Cue commentary.

“Fore!” I hollered, muffling a snicker when his ball shot off toward a sand trap. Ooh. I knew a term for that one too. “And it’s headed for the cat box, folks. What a shame.”

When he turned, fists clenched on his whatsit, I froze. Until I spotted a group of golfers strolling up the hill toward us. Safety in numbers and all that.

“Don’t worry; I know plenty more,” I said. “Some are extremely fun to shout. Like bogey. Or lumberjack. Or even a juicy lie. You know something about juicy lies, don’t you, Hunter?”

He tugged on his ear so hard that it was a testimony to his lobe-toughness he didn’t rip out his gold stud. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah you do. Y’know, the whopper you told me about not sleeping with the boss’s wife.”

Hunter stuffed his whatsit back in his bag. Still hoisting it onto his shoulder, he strode off after his errant ball. Stalking him at a brisk walk that was almost a skip, I channeled my inner ‘irritating big sister.’ Which I’d perfected over the years by practicing on Sean.

“Wanna know how I figured it out?” I swung my arms and hummed today’s earworm melody—Survivor’s ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ Did I mention I’m completely tone-deaf? Hence humming being one of my favorite tactics.

Silence from the man stomping across the grass.

“First, there was the text message I accidentally read on Josephine’s phone. The sender—let’s call him Hugh for now—called her baby a little tyke, and after the funeral, I heard you refer to Archie as one.”

He shot me a side-eye chock-full of is that the best you can do? But the bunching of his designer-stubbled jaw told a different story.

“Then there’s the photo you posted of you golfing—nice hat, by the way—that Josephine responded to with a none too cryptic appreciation of your nether regions.”

A hiccup in his stride, which he quickly recovered. “Josephine had a sense of humor. She was teasing.”

“Uh-huh. Because publicly appreciating your husband’s employee’s buttocks could never be construed as anything but.”

His long legs picked up speed again, the whatsits now rattling like machine-gun fire inside his bag. “Haven’t you got anything better to do? Just go away.”

“No can do.” Forced to either let him go or pick up my pace, I opted for raising my voice; I assumed Hunter wouldn’t want the group behind us overhearing. “Hugh also called Josephine a vixen.”

Sensibly, Hunter slowed and allowed me to catch up. That’s right, mate. I may be a cat person, but I have all the tenacity of a dog with a rope toy in its mouth. Just try to take away my plaything before I was done.

“So?” he said, the annoyance in his tone leveling up.

“So. Picture me in your mind’s eye with an unsurprised face when Rosie and Kurt discover a silver fox money box in with the property valuation. The gift you delivered on that Saturday night.”

“I already told you I dropped off some paperwork to Kurt.”

“You did. Kind of a cheesy and inappropriate gift for your ex-lover’s baby, doncha think?”

When I switched from humming Survivor to singing the chorus of the Eagles’ ‘Lyin’ Eyes,’ Hunter winced. Actually, it was more of a full-body shudder. Not that I could blame the man; even my ears hurt from my off-key cover of the seventies hit.

Hunter stopped so fast I overshot him by a few steps and had to whirl around to make sure he wasn’t about to club me. He sure looked mad enough.

“Fine,” he spat. “Josephine and I were in a relationship. I loved her, but she loved the power and prestige of being married to Kurt Stanton more.”

“Um, more than what? You were hardly in a position to offer her anything other than an affair.” I angled my head back in an attempt to look down my nose at him. “Unless you planned to remove your wife from the equation? Until, that is, Josephine found out she was pregnant, and suddenly a simple affair got complicated.”

“It didn’t need to be complicated,” Hunter said. “Not if she’d done what I asked her to. It wasn’t like Josie had a maternal bone in her body. She didn’t want a kid any more than I did.” His lip curled. “But she chose the easy way out. Stick with the boring old man and convince him the kid was his.”

“Archie could be his.” I tried not to let my distaste for Hunter show on my face. “And you’d better believe he’ll connect the sordid little dots that lead to you sooner or later. Then he’s going to question just how badly you didn’t want Josephine to tell him whatever it was she had on you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Again with the denial. “She had something on you, Hugh. Was that something worth killing her for?”

“I-I didn’t kill her,” he spluttered. “I was trying to win her back. That’s why I gave her the money box—as a sign that I’d put up with the kid if it meant we could get back together.”

Be still my beating heart; the romance of the gesture! I think I threw up in my mouth a little.

But before I could vomit on his natty golf shoes, he continued, “I had no reason to kill her. If—and I’m only saying if—she had something on me, well, I had something on her too. We were on an even footing. Unlike you and me. You’re on very dangerous ground. Quicksand, even.” He smirked.

It was a particularly unpleasant smirk, and as Hunter leaned in toward me, I had to steel my spine not to take a step backward. In that instant, it didn’t matter that I was in a public place or that there were other golfers around. Or that Sean had let me use him as a crash test dummy for basic self-defense moves that had required him to apply a bag of frozen peas to his groin afterward.

The man leering at me looked ruthless enough to beat me bloody with one of his whatsits if I made one more wrong move.

Would a man like that bother with picking hemlock and smuggling it into Josephine’s fridge? Or was he brutish enough to respond to rejection with more obvious violence?

I slid my water bottle out and took another drink—calculating it was heavy enough to swing at Hunter’s head (or groin) if necessary. “What about Kurt’s sister? Did Josephine ever mention anything about him wanting to sell the family home?”

Hunter eased out of my personal space, shifting the golf bag to make it more comfortable on his shoulder. He walked toward the sand trap and his golf ball, which had rolled to a stop only a dozen feet away. This time, his steps were shorter, measured, so I could easily keep up. I could tell he was relieved the spotlight had shifted.

“She moaned about Kurt’s family all the time,” he said. “Especially Pamela. Josie told me she’d tried to sabotage their wedding by showing up the night before and dishing the dirt on his previous marriages.” He dumped his golf bag on the ground near his stray ball. “Didn’t work. Josie knew she wasn’t marrying a saint, but a rich and powerful man, who’d keep her in the manner to which she wanted to become accustomed.”

“Pamela must’ve been furious when the wedding went ahead anyway.”

He grunted in the affirmative as he selected a whatsit. “She got her petty revenge by swapping out Josie’s gluten-free dessert. Josie said she spent most of their wedding reception in the bathroom.” He gave me a c’mon, you must see the connection double eyebrow raise. “Sound familiar?”

“You think Pamela might’ve slipped her the hemlock?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? I can’t imagine she wants to give up their parents’ property and move into that poky apartment above her boutique.”

“Wouldn’t she be angrier at her brother for wanting to sell up?”

Hunter snorted with amusement. “Lady, you’ve got it all wrong. It was Josie’s plan to sell the property and use that money to set up a trust fund for the kid. Not that I reckon the kid would’ve ever seen a penny of it.”

And, as Melanie had been spying on the Stantons for Pamela, she would’ve passed on that damning information.

Taking up an exaggerated golfer’s stance next to the ball, Hunter rolled his eyes. “Are we done yet?”

Before he could react, I scooped up the dimpled white ball and fired it into the sand. It landed dead center. Better than a hole in one in my book.

“Yeah, we’re done,” I said.

I wasn’t, however, done with Pamela Martin.

* * *

It was with great trepidation that I pulled up my big girl panties—along with my stretchy pants and oversized T-shirt—and climbed the stairs to Shut Up and Stretch on Sunday morning.

Plan A had been to stop by Pamela’s house yesterday afternoon, under the guise of dropping off some yarn she’d ordered last week. Plan A failed because no one was home except for Pamela’s yappy terrier going berserk somewhere inside.

Plan B was stalking Pamela at the first Pilates class of the day.

I preferred plan A, but as that old song goes, you can’t always get what you want. Which is why I slunk into the studio with my stomach in knots and everything between my eyebrows and bare toes clenched. Cue some reaffirming self-talk.

You’ve got this. Pilates is nowhere near as strenuous as, say, Aerobics for the Almighty or Boot Camp on the beach. You’re gonna smash this, girlfriend.

But at the sight of a dozen or more Lycra-clad women rolling out their mats, I nearly did a one-eighty turn and fled.

“Tessa, darling. Come join me.”

Too late. Pamela’s eagle-eyed gaze had picked me out of the crowd. I offered a weak smile and, girding my stretchy-pant-covered loins, walked over to spread out my mat beside hers.

“I’ve heard such good things about this class,” I said. “Timothy’s supposed to be exceptional.”

“Oh, yes.” Pamela gracefully folded into a cross-legged position on her mat. “Have you taken one of his classes before?”

Um, that would be a no.

“A while back in Auckland. I just need a bit of a refresher, I’m sure.”

You’re a Pilates goddess, Tessa Wakefield.

Pamela gave me a disbelieving look. Had I said that out loud?

“But you do realize, darling, that this is an advanced class?”

Advanced-schemanced. From what I knew about Pilates, it was all about the core and making strange little movements. Piece of cake. “Of course.”

Timothy swept into the room, and a cluster of women near the front giggled and clapped. As he began his welcome spiel, I not-so-gracefully got down on my mat.

“Desmond saw you at the golf course yesterday morning,” Pamela murmured. “He said you were traipsing around after Hunter Fitzpatrick and acting a little…peculiar.”

“Peculiar’s my specialty. But in my defense, there’s not much else to do for entertainment on a golf course if you’re not a golfer.”

“Don’t I know it.” She rolled her eyes. “If you ever see me on the green, call the police and tell them my husband’s holding me hostage.” She slanted me a sideways glance. “When Desmond mentioned who you were talking to, I couldn’t help but think Hunter might have been Josephine’s bit on the side. God rest her soul, poor darling.”

Poor darling? I guess Pamela could be gracious now that her brother’s money-grabbing wife was permanently out of the picture.

Timothy was on his small stage, barking out instructions for the first warm-up position. I lay on my back as directed, followed his order to find my neutral spine—whatever that was—and pointed my fingertips toward the ceiling.

I rolled my head to one side and whispered, “It’s still speculation at this stage. We wouldn’t want unsubstantiated gossip getting back to Kurt, would we?”

“Goodness, no. My brother has enough on his plate.”

“Ladies in the back?” Timothy called. “Focus on the breath, not chatter, please.”

Oops. As I turned my skyward-facing fingers into an apologetic double thumbs-up, Pamela shushed out a professional-sounding breath, then inhaled just as deeply. Breathing too—I mean, it was hardly rocket science—I zipped my lips and continued the remaining warm-up poses.

“Now, let’s move into our one hundreds,” Timothy said, provoking a round of groans from his fan base.

One hundred whats? Push-ups? Star jumps? Downward dogs? Surely not.

After mimicking the gray-haired woman on the opposite side of me—lie on back, legs extended and raised, chin to chest, arms reaching forward with palms facing down—I got it. Modified crunches. I liked the odds of me nailing this exercise, especially when I observed my neighbor making only teeny up and down motions with her palms.

The instructor began counting. “Inhale and beat for one, two, three, four, five. Now exhale, one, two, three, four, five. And again…”

Puh-lease. This I could do this in my sleep and often did when wriggling out from under Pearl, who liked to snooze on my belly.

I rolled my head toward Pamela again. “I saw the evaluation Kurt had done on the old homestead.” There was enough huffing and puffing going on around me that my whispering should go unnoticed by the Pilates party-pooper up the front. “But thanks to your spy, you knew he wanted to sell it, didn’t you?”

Pamela exhaled noisily, keeping her gaze locked on the ceiling. “My brother’s marriage to Josephine called his judgment in such matters into question.”

I mini-pumped my arms up and down, starting to feel like I actually did have some abdominal muscles under there somewhere, and those muscles were now waking up with an irritated what is going on? Ignoring their complaints, I moved on to my next question: “The right buyer would spend a fortune to get their hands on the homestead. Maybe he was short on cash?”

“Preposterous. Josephine and the baby might’ve caused him to be off his game for the past eighteen months, but he’s a successful businessman.”

Okay. By now, I was feeling the burn, as they say, and was forced to concentrate on not being shown up by the super-fit granny beside me. Pamela must’ve interpreted my silence as disbelief.

“Not only is he a successful businessman,” she continued, “but he has also, on the whole, been a wonderful brother. He wouldn’t have considered selling the homestead if a certain someone hadn’t applied emotional pressure.”

And did she believe that if Josephine was no longer around to apply pressure, Kurt would drop the idea of selling?

“Was it Josephine’s intention that Kurt’s share of the house sale go into Archie’s trust fund?”

“Who knows what she intended, but I doubt her son figured much in her plans. She must’ve known they’d both be out on their ears if Kurt ever found out about her affair.” Another inhale and exhale. “Might’ve gotten away with fooling him too if not for her untimely demise.”

I tried not to whimper as my abdominals started to shriek operatically.

“It’s a moot point, anyway.” Pamela didn’t even appear to have broken a sweat during this torturous one hundred—or was it one thousand? It sure felt like it. “Kurt and I agreed that, as the older sibling, I’d remain in the house for as long as I wished. If I shuffled off this mortal coil before him, then he’d receive my share of our parents’ estate. I’d be dead, so I wouldn’t care what he did. But until I’m ready for a mahogany box, I’m not budging. That woman could’ve nagged my brother to the ends of the earth, but I still would’ve done everything in my power to make sure she didn’t get her greedy hands on it.”

“Like swapping out Josephine’s gluten-free dessert on her wedding day?”

“Oh, you heard about that, did you?” Pamela didn’t seem at all upset by the accusation. “It was petty of me, I confess. Waste of revenge when you think about it, given that my brother already had a gold ring on his finger and his head in a noose.”

When the instructor finally finished counting, I collapsed into a jellified heap on my mat.

“Choose a side to lie on, ladies,” he barked. “We’ll begin with some basic leg lifts and scale up from there.”

I officially hated Pilates. But I obediently rolled over. Woof-woof-whine. And came face-to-face with Pamela. Her eyes—cold, hard slits—drilled into me.

She waited until Timothy began counting off lifts before she whispered, “If I switched Josephine’s food once, you’re assuming that I might’ve switched it twice, this time with deadly consequences. Aren’t you?”

“It had crossed my mind. Poison is considered a female’s choice of murder weapon.”

“That’s what they say.” She shrugged a shoulder—impressive flexibility, considering I was rapidly seizing up like a wizened rubber band. “But what on earth would I have to gain from causing my sister-in-law’s death? Yes, I despised her, but she was no threat to me. And yes, I’d hoped Melanie might discover something I could use to pry her out of my brother’s life, but I didn’t wish her dead. Humiliated and flat broke would’ve suited me fine.”

“Plus, you don’t know the code to their house,” I tested to see her reaction. “Josephine told Melanie that Kurt was changing it the day she left.”

Pamela’s nose crinkled. “Anyone close to Kurt could figure out the code. He switches from his birth date to his current wife’s, to one of his kids’. The man is painfully predictable—look at his track record with the bimbos he dated after Wendy.”

“Switch sides,” the instructor hollered.

With great difficulty, I shuffled onto my other side and, with much silent cursing of Timothy the whole time, completed another set of leg lifts.

“Switch again,” he yelled. “Give me thirty more.”

I’d give him something…

Pamela tapped a fingernail on the floor between us to get my attention. “Wendy’s the one who had the most to lose if Josephine continued to manipulate Kurt.”

“You’re referring to the trust fund you overheard her and Kurt arguing about?”

Pamela’s eyes glittered like chips of ice. “The trust fund was chump change compared to what Josephine was up to. Didn’t Wendy tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That Kurt was drawing up a new will at Josephine’s suggestion.”

“How do you know this?” I registered the smirk on Pamela’s face. “Ah. Your nanny spy. Was he going to leave everything to his new wife?”

“Oh, goodness, no. She was far too smart to request that. While my nieces would receive a generous dividend, Josephine insisted Kurt’s only son be named heir to the real Stanton fortune. You want motive”—Pamela tapped a fingernail on the floor again, and it sounded, to my ear, like nails hammered into a coffin—“there’s your motive.”

Fourteen

Since mine and Rosie’s non-verbal declaration of a temporary truce, I’d gotten into the habit of a mid-morning Daily Grind coffee run. Face it, after my Pilates torture session yesterday, I deserved a caramel latte with extra whipped cream! And let’s not forget Harry’s new obsession: Discover Our Muffin of the Day. Slick marketing move, Rosie. Real slick.

But I had a smile on my face as I approached the waterfront. Harry so enjoyed guessing each day’s muffin flavor—sweet or savory? Chocolate chips? Stone fruit or berries?—that I knew we’d continue the game after I figured out who’d murdered Josephine Stanton…

Wait up. That wasn’t what I was doing.

Was it?

I came to the end of Cape Street and turned the corner. And instantly forgot I wasn’t sticking my nose into other people’s business. Instantly forgot I wasn’t on speaking terms with my stomach, butt, and thigh muscles.

In front of the Daily Grind was a marked police car, and a small gathering of people milled around outside. With zero instructions issued by my brain, my feet picked up the pace until my sandals slapped like gunshots on the sidewalk. Rosie’s name punctuated every panicked heartbeat as I drew closer.

Granted, she wasn’t exactly my favorite person. And one (or two) shared cocktails and some inappropriate giggling over Jason Momoa’s physique didn’t make us friends. However…

I reached the Daily Grind and Constable Austin’s grim-faced expression. Thumbs hooked into the edges of his stab-proof vest, he blocked the entranceway. Needing a moment to complete a quick internal check to ensure that my attempt at limp-running hadn’t ruptured anything further, I waited until I could speak without wheezing.

“What’s going on? Is Rosie okay?”

This particular officer of Cape Discovery’s finest wasn’t my number one fan, likely because, on our first, er, professional encounter, I’d contaminated the crime scene with two cats. His expression remained bland, but I bet he was rolling his eyes at me behind his wraparound shades. “She’s fine. Please move along.”

When a hand gripped my elbow, I yelped and spun around to see Wendy standing directly behind me. “She’s all right, Tessa.” She angled her head away from the customers, who continued to stare through the Daily Grind’s windows, maybe pondering how long it’d take to get their caffeine fix. “Let’s have a seat over there.”

I followed her, noting as an aside that there were no unfamiliar faces among the group outside the café. Any non-locals had headed off—either to Disco’s or the coffee caravan that often parked at the opposite end of the beach. We ‘Capers’ were far too nosy to pass up an opportunity to be the first in on the latest gossip.

Wendy and I crossed the road and sat on a bench seat overlooking the rippling line of waves washing ashore. But we weren’t there to admire the ocean view; in silent agreement, we turned our backs on it and watched the café instead. I’d scarcely had time to stretch out my pinging calf muscles and wave at the flamboyant Dougie pedaling past on his pink bicycle before she spoke. “Hunter Fitzpatrick’s dead.”

Despite having heard her perfectly well, I blurted out, “He’s what now?”

“Dead.” She lifted her sunglasses to dab a tissue along her lower eyelids. With a sniff, she pressed the tissue to her nose and honked into it. “As in, dead-as-a-doornail dead.”

I gaped at her, but she closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun, a small smile curving her mouth. A hundred different questions stampeded through my brain. I chose one at random: “Please tell me he got hit by a bus? Or choked on a chunk of overcooked rump steak?”

“Nope. Guess again.”

I wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions with Rosie’s mum, but I had the sneaking suspicion it would take only one more to figure out how Hunter met his maker.

“Death by hemlock.” Administered by…? I remembered my visit to Level Up Properties. “In a green smoothie.” And Kurt’s comment about picking them up from his daughter’s café each morning. “Made by you.”

Wendy snorted out a laugh and shoved the sunglasses on top of her head. “Two outta three ain’t bad. Do I look like I’ve been working this morning?”

I studied her swollen, bloodshot eyes and reddened nose, the T-shirt that had seen better days, and the checked pants that looked suspiciously like pajama bottoms.

“Oh. You’re sick. Allergies?”

“Bingo,” Wendy said dourly. “Plus that summer head cold that’s doing the rounds. I called Sandra in to take over the baking last night when I realized I’d need to stay home, tucked up in bed. She and Rosie are still in there being interviewed. They were the only ones there this morning when Kurt arrived to collect the smoothies.”

“This changes everything,” I said. “Two hemlock poisonings can’t be a coincidence.”

And if it wasn’t a coincidence, then Josephine’s death wasn’t accidental. It was a deliberately planned and executed murder.

“Not when the two victims knew each other.” She gave me a cunning smile. “Knew each other in the biblical sense. One could almost feel sorry for Kurt, having his nose rubbed in his young wife’s infidelity. If one didn’t believe in karma, that is.” She crossed her legs and bounced her raised foot up and down—an oddly cheerful reaction to finding out that a second person had died in a little over a week, and by the same means.

And that her ex-husband had likely become the police’s prime suspect in the murder of his wife and her lover.

But Kurt wasn’t the only one with a motive. Not if Wendy knew Josephine was responsible for her daughters being shortchanged by their father’s will. Get the gold digger out of the way, and Kurt wouldn’t need to change his will anytime soon. Especially if he found out that Archie might not be his.

Then it occurred to me.

Wendy didn’t need Hunter dead. She needed him to be Archie’s father. Mother deceased, baby not Kurt’s biological child and thereby out of the will, the issue of Wendy’s daughters’ inheritance sorted. So, while I could almost believe Rosie’s mum capable of hemlocking Josephine out of the picture, her killing Hunter made no sense.

In that case, who knew about Kurt’s habit of picking up drinks each morning and had a key to the Daily Grind? Out of the café staff, I thought it likely only Wendy, Sandra, and Rosie. “Do the police think someone broke into the café?”

Wendy shook her head. “No signs of forced entry, I heard one of the cops say. Plus, there’s an alarm—not that Rosie always remembers to activate it at night. It is Cape Discovery, after all. Safe as houses.”

Not for some it would seem.

“Could someone slip into the kitchen without you or Sandra noticing?”

“If that someone had basketball-sized cojones, for sure. I’m in and out of the front, setting up the cabinet—that takes me out of the kitchen for a few minutes at a time. When Sandra’s working, she takes at least a couple of cigarette breaks and doesn’t bother locking up because she’s only sitting in the yard.”

“At the staff picnic table?” The one facing away from the back door.

“Yep.”

“Does Sandra listen to music during her shift, like you do?”

“Uh-huh. Dreadful heavy metal stuff. The woman will be deaf before she hits forty, mark my words… Aha”—she stabbed a finger at me—“I see where you’re going with this.”

I nodded. “Someone could have been watching the café, and knows your routines. Then taken advantage of that to switch out one of Kurt’s smoothies.”

“You’re quite good at this amateur detective stuff, aren’t you?” Wendy patted my hand then shaded her eyes against the glare of sunlight reflecting off the café’s front windows. “But it looks like the real detective’s finished talking to my Rosie.”

My gaze flicked across from where I’d been studying the path that led to the rear of the building. Constable Austin held the front door pinned open while the suit-clad man almost filling the doorframe glowered at us.

Correction. Because Detective Sergeant Mana hadn’t yet put on his wraparound shades, I could tell he was glowering at me.

* * *

“We need to stop meeting like this, Detective,” I said as Eric stepped up from the road to the sidewalk. “People will talk.”

Wendy had passed by him to return to the café, but I’d decided making a run for it in the opposite direction would only result in embarrassment. My embarrassment. Because even if Eric had been a cannibalistic clown dressed in a pom-pom jumpsuit and holding sharpened silverware in each hand, I wasn’t running anywhere.

I couldn’t even touch my toes.

First thing I planned to do after sending a strongly worded email to the sadist masquerading as a Pilates instructor was tear up my five-session card.

Eric stopped in front of me—hands jammed into the pockets of his immaculately creased suit pants. His dark shades now hid what I knew were spookily gray eyes, and he’d pressed his sensual lips into a could be a member of the prime minister’s close protection team stoic line.

“People are already talking.” He tipped his head to indicate the remaining locals, who were looking our way. “You’re getting a bit of a reputation as a harbinger of death.”

“Huh. No one’s ever called me a harbinger of anything before. It sounds kind of exotic.”

“Don’t think it’s intended as a compliment.”

Yet somehow, his deep, gravelly voice made it sound like one.

Hence the mad flutter of belly butterflies. “Well, as I had absolutely nothing to do with Hunter Fitzpatrick’s death-by-green-smoothie—Harry and my brother can vouch for me being at the store all morning—I’ll be on my way.”

I made it one half step around him before his palm came up in a stop gesture. “Take a seat.”

While the bench seat was certainly long enough for us to sit side by side, as Wendy and I had, Eric’s size wouldn’t allow for a respectable keep your distance gap. Especially if he was like a lot of big men and did that whole manspreading thing with his legs.

“I can stand. In fact”—in a blaze of brilliant avoidance technique, I hiked up my right heel to rest it on the bench—“I might just stretch out some kinks in my calves.” When his eyebrows shot up, I added, “If you ever run out of hardened criminals to chase, stop by Shut Up and Stretch. Timothy, one of the instructors there, gets his kicks from torturing people.”

I’m not sure whether it was my raised leg or my slandering someone in the teaching profession, but Eric proceeded to give me a pained expression as he pointed at the bench. “Sit, Tessa. Please.”

Who could resist a man with manners? Or a cop who could arrest me for disobeying a direct order? Was that even a thing? I imagined my mother’s pained expression at having to explain to friends that her youngest daughter had been charged with a DDO. A DaDO if you wanted a clever acronym.

“Tessa.” Muttered between clenched teeth as Detective Mana parked it at one end of the bench.

“Right! Sitting.” I slid my heel over the wood, intending to straddle the bench, sit, then swing my other leg over. Except my A-line skirt wasn’t wide enough—and riiiiiiip—I now had a thigh-high split. Plus, to add insult to injury, I was stuck. Unless I leaned on the detective’s shoulder for balance and maneuvered my remaining leg, ballerina-like, over the bench.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

Although I appreciated that he wasn’t busting a gut laughing as he continued to stare straight ahead, I would’ve been secretly flattered if he had been eyeballing my now half-exposed thigh. Why, oh why must I always behave like a complete moron in front of this man?

“Just a shoulder.” I performed an ungainly lean-kick-sit combo that left my cheeks as pink as the little girl’s beach towel spread out on the sand below us.

The owner of the towel knelt on it, chatting away to her mum, who nursed an infant. The baby wore tiny blue socks, one appearing in imminent danger of sliding off. Big sister to the rescue; she tugged it on again and said something to her mum that made the woman chuckle. I envied that happy little scene—not for my own sake—but for Archie Stanton’s. He deserved all the love in the world. But he no longer had a mother, and if Hunter Fitzpatrick was the bio-dad, he no longer had him either.

I couldn’t remain silent a moment longer. “You saw me talking to Wendy. I know Hunter Fitzpatrick’s dead and what killed him.”

“It hasn’t been officially confirmed, but yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick appears to have ingested something toxic while at his workplace this morning. It’s probable that the smoothie he was seen drinking was the culprit, but tests will establish what that toxic substance is.”

“It was hemlock, wasn’t it?” I asked. “The same plant that killed Josephine Stanton. Come on, Eric. One poisoning you could claim as accidental, but two? That sounds like clear-cut cases of homicide to me.”

“Nothing’s ever clear-cut in homicide,” he said. “Everybody has secrets and their own agendas.”

“What do you think’s the agenda of the person who killed Josephine and Hunter?”

“You’re assuming it’s the same person?”

“Seems unlikely it was a murder-suicide, doesn’t it? You could argue Hunter had motive and opportunity to slip hemlock into Josephine’s salad when he stopped by the night before she died…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Eric’s mouth turning down as if he hadn’t known that, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But death by poisoned leaves?” My nose crinkled. “Doesn’t seem to fit with a man obsessed with a lover who discarded him. There’s no passion. And I also can’t believe Hunter would kill himself in such a weirdly Shakespearean way.”

“Maybe the man had the soul of a romantic?” He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “But I agree. I think there’s a third player in this unfolding drama.”

“And you’re wondering if that’s Kurt Stanton.” I didn’t frame it as a question because the husband in this scenario was the obvious choice. It made perfect sense—in as much as Rosie’s father was calculating and ruthless enough to get rid of an unfaithful spouse. But to murder his business protégé? I hated to think it, but it seemed to me that losing his wife wouldn’t be as hard on him as losing a vital member of his team.

“I’m wondering a lot of things,” he said finally. “As will Organised Crime, who’re looking into some discrepancies within Kurt’s company that make Hunter’s death all the more suspicious.”

Discrepancies? Discrepancies that Josephine might have found out about? “Was Hunter stealing from the company?”

Eric pushed his glasses down his nose and gave me a warning stare over the top. “Level Up Properties and Hunter Fitzpatrick have been on the police’s radar for quite some time. That’s all I can tell you.”

“And I should back off and let you do your job.” The eye-roll was in my tone, if not my actual eyeballs, which I used to follow a loved-up couple frolicking in the waves. “On the topic of romance, have you made any plans for Valentine’s Day? It’s the day after tomorrow, remember?” Fair turnabout that I should ask him something to knock him off balance, the way I seemed in his presence.

“I’m working.”

“Your girlfriend won’t be happy.” At his raised eyebrow, I quickly added, “Or boyfriend.”

That earned me a razor-sharp grin. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter.”

“You could celebrate the holiday solo after your shift—you know, a glass of wine, stream a romantic comedy, eat an entire box of Valentine’s cupcakes.”

“Valentine’s Day isn’t a holiday. It’s a commercial free-for-all for florists, supermarkets, and greeting card manufacturers.”

“Cynical, much?”

“When you do what I do, witness what I witness, you see Valentine’s Day as a trigger for some unpleasant and unromantic things.”

“Great. If this detecting gig doesn’t work out, you could always write copy for those greeting cards.”

As he barked out a gruff laugh, I stood, awkwardly holding the split in my skirt closed. “If there’s nothing else? I need to pick up some coffee and muffins. I can’t return to Unraveled empty-handed; my granddad would never forgive me.”

“There’s nothing else,” he said smoothly. “Unless you have more questions about my personal life?”

There was a bite to his words that I couldn’t quite decipher.

I affixed a neutral giving nothing away smile to my lips. “No more questions. Go catch some bad guys, Detective.”

Fifteen

By closing time the next evening, I couldn’t bear to wait any longer. I needed to talk to Kurt about Hunter Fitzpatrick.

Needed to, as in I suffered from a raging fever of curiosity, and only one thing would tamp it down.

Tuesday night was the beginners knitting group night, but I had a decent gap between closing Unraveled’s doors in the evening and opening them again for the class. However, the last time I’d paid a potential suspect in a murder case a visit without telling anyone, it had almost turned into a fatal disaster.

I’d learned my lesson. Tonight, Harry was accompanying me, complete with Hi-Vis orange beanie and a walking cane—just in case ‘that Stanton fellow gets a bit antsy.’

“I’m sticking to you like glue,” he grumbled as we walked up the Stantons’ driveway. “Do my bit to keep you outta trouble, anyways.”

I snorted.

He gave me the two-fingered ‘I’m watching you’ gesture. Have to admit, I felt better with Harry at my side.

The front entranceway was every bit as ostentatious as I remembered; even the doorbell sounded snooty, its ding-dong echoing through the cavernous interior. To no response. I tapped the doorbell button a second time a good sixty seconds later.

“Could be they’re not home yet,” Harry suggested. “Might’ve taken the wee one on an outing. It’s been a beaut day.”

“True.” Though I found it hard to picture Kurt investing the time required to take his kid on a day trip.

A high-pitched wail emerged from behind the closed double doors.

“That’s Archie,” I said. Maybe the nanny had her hands full with him and couldn’t come to the door.

In typical impatient Harry fashion, my granddad rapped on the door with the handle of his cane. “Hellooo? Anybody home?”

The wailing from inside grew more intense.

“Harry,” I hissed. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“What?” He waggled his eyebrows. “He was already awake. You heard ’im.”

Huffing out a sigh, I pressed my ear to the door. Archie didn’t seem to be calming down any, and the sound was definitely coming from the left-hand side of the house, where the kitchen was located.

“I might pop around to the kitchen windows; see if I can get Kurt’s or the nanny’s attention.”

Harry grunted. “I think we both know who’ll be minding the kid.”

Acknowledging my granddad was probably right, I made my way along the side of the house and across the large deck leading to the kitchen’s trifold doors. I cupped my hands either side of my eyes to peer into the blinding white interior.

There—on the floor! A red-cheeked Archie thrashed his little arms and legs, making his bouncer seat jiggle wildly. His nanny was nowhere to be seen. I knocked on the door, and without thinking, tried the handle. As it swung open, I stumbled back a step, surprised to find it unlocked. Cape Discovery was safe—but not the kind of safe where you’d leave your baby alone in an unlocked house while you made a bathroom stop.

Ignoring the bullhorn in my brain telling me I was trespassing, I hurried inside to crouch beside Archie’s bouncer. “Hey, hey, little man.” I swiped a palm lightly over the baby’s forehead. Hot, but not excessively so.

His pacifier had become jammed between his teddy-bear print onesie and his seat, so I plucked it out and offered it to him. Archie latched on and sucked like there was no tomorrow, his big blue eyes, shiny with tears, staring up at me as if I was his hero. I must confess, I went all gooey at the knees. Where on earth was a responsible adult when you needed one?

No, I didn’t count.

“Don’t you move, sweetheart,” I instructed before hurrying back to the deck, hollering for my granddad.

Harry appeared around the corner of the house quick smart, brandishing his cane and with an expression on his face that would’ve made even the most hardened criminal think twice before tackling him. I loved him even more in that instant, knowing he’d always have my back no matter what I got myself into. Yep, I totally planned to buy my granddad two surprise muffins tomorrow morning.

He simmered down once I explained there didn’t appear to be any threat to my person, just an absent caregiver. Or two. He offered to keep an eye on Archie while I found either Kurt or the nanny.

As I passed through the kitchen on my way to the hallway, something on the island counter snagged my attention. Not the fruit bowl, which was as perfect as the last time I saw it, and the mail pile I’d noticed on Friday had contained different envelopes and document bags…

But.

Now the mail wasn’t stacked neatly according to size. The envelopes weren’t stacked at all. There were at least half a dozen bills and so forth, and they were knocked askew.

Huh.

I’d lived with a man who was borderline OCD with his cleaning and organizational methods. Askew would’ve given him conniptions. And while scattered envelopes could be the result of an overworked, flustered nanny dumping the day’s mail on the counter, a growing sense of unease crept over me as I approached the open door to the hallway.

“Caterina?” I called softly, poking my head around the corner.

The hallway was empty and dim. As if someone had forgotten to switch on the lights in this windowless area as the day wore on. I frowned, then jumped at the sound of footsteps behind me. I whirled around, but it was only Harry pottering into the kitchen.

He caught my bug-eyed alarm and sent me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, love. Just wanted to grab a drink of water, I’m parched. Ah, here’s a cup.” He reached into the sink and pulled out a reusable plastic tumbler. “I’ll give it a quick rinse.”

As Harry held it up, the kitchen lights caught the dregs of green liquid clinging to the inside of the clear plastic.

“Wait,” I blurted out before my brain could catch up with what my gut was telling me. “Granddad, put that down!”

He frowned at my use of Granddad—he was Harry unless I was angry or upset—but he returned the tumbler to the sink. “Tess? What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing, but…” I went over to the cabinet where Rosie found glasses and took out a fresh one. “Humor me and use this, okay?”

Harry gave the tumbler a side-eye. “You reckon there’s something nasty in that green goop?”

The old man didn’t miss a thing. “I don’t think even your cast-iron constitution could handle it if there was.”

“I’m not that thirsty anymore,” he said. “Go look around but keep your eyes open.”

I forced a cheeky grin, so he wouldn’t worry. “Like I could look around with my eyes closed. Duh.”

Before I could chicken out, I slipped into the hallway, once again calling the nanny’s name. The silence made the pulse throbbing in my ears thud even louder. I checked the sparse living room, with its planet-sized TV screen. Checked a home office—Kurt’s, I assumed. Checked a room empty aside from a yoga mat and some weird contraption that looked like a medieval torture rack.

One door remained unopened off the hallway. Since I’d needed to use what lay behind it after a second rum and Coke, I knew it was a guest bathroom. An opulent half bath in the real estate-ese Mum would use to describe it. Luxurious fixtures and wall-to-wall granite, mirrors and tiles imported from Italy—according to Rosie, who’d been almost chatty after her first rum and Coke—and fluffy towels I’d wanted to steal and live in forever.

“Caterina?” I knocked on the bathroom door.

It silently swung inward on its hinges, passing over glossy white tiles. Until it came to rest against a sturdy-looking woman’s shoe. In which there was an equally sturdy-looking woman’s ankle.

The thudding in my ears reached a crescendo as I peeked around the door. Sprawled on those expensive Italian tiles was the Stantons’ nanny, dead as Caesar himself.

* * *

It’s strange to wake up in the morning with the realization you’ve stumbled onto not only one but two dead women on bathroom floors in the past couple of weeks. It’s also strange when bumping into Detective Sergeant Mana no longer qualifies as a red-letter day in the weird world of Tessa Wakefield.

Poor Nanny Caterina was dead, and one of the detective’s underlings let it slip that Kurt had a rock-solid alibi. During the timeframe revealed by the initial examination of the body, Kurt had been at the Napier Police Station, helping with their inquiries into the death of Hunter Fitzpatrick. Which might let him off the hook for the nanny, but not necessarily for Hunter or Josephine.

My brain still sifting through possible means, motives, and opportunity, I served customer after customer in Unraveled. By mid-morning coffee run time, I needed caffeine and sugar, stat. Leaving Harry to hold the fort, I hurried out of Unraveled and nearly stumbled over Aroha, who was busy re-stocking her display of red roses.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Aroha beamed at me while sliding a dozen more pre-wrapped long-stemmed roses into a heart-decorated bucket.

Oh, yeah. Today was that day—the day people like me pretend we’re cool with being a singleton in a coupled-up world. I managed a cheery smile in return. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too. Say hi to Pete for me; he’s a lucky man.”

She giggled in delight and swatted a hand in my direction. “Go on, an old girl like me? How about you? Got any plans for tonight?”

“Just Thai takeout and a rom-com with my handsome roomie.” And I was looking forward to it. “Which reminds me, I must hide the popcorn and snacks I bought in the back of the pantry before Harry finds them.”

“Knowing your granddad, if you leave him unsupervised, he’ll forage them out in no time,” Aroha said. “Cheeky beggar. Give him my love, though.”

After agreeing that I would, I continued along Cape Street. Past the bookstore, its windows decorated with paper hearts and paperbacks—predominantly featuring bare-chested hunks in their cover art—and past the gourmet chocolatiers, with a buy one, get one free boxed chocolate special. My brow wrinkled at that one. I mean, who was the second box for? Another Valentine? Perhaps for the person, not unlike myself, who’d be tempted to eat all the gooey-centered ones before presenting them to the giftee?

While I pondered this, my feet chose to stop outside the building that housed Josephine’s studio. Why here, feet? I wasn’t a sucker for punishment, and I’d no intention of taking another class, and… Whoa! As my synapses fired in all directions, a word Aroha used bulleted to the forefront of my brain.

F.O.R.A.G.E.

Despite Detective Mana’s refusal to play speculate the manner of death with me yesterday evening, it seemed pretty clear-cut to me. Hemlock. And how did one find hemlock?

By F.O.R.A.G.I.N.G.

Maybe the someone who hemlocked Josephine’s salad and Hunter’s and Caterina’s smoothies grew hemlock in their garden. Or, maybe, that someone foraged for those fern-like leaves in the wild, along with other like-minded individuals. My feet had remembered what my mind skipped over—the flyer tacked to Shut Up and Stretch’s noticeboard. In my defense, my overtaxed brain had been focused on yoga at the time, not tracking down an adulterer or a killer.

I flew up the stairs and into the studio’s foyer. From behind the closed doors, I could hear Timothy barking out orders like a drill sergeant, but ignoring his voice, I crossed to the board. The number printed on the flyer was local, but I didn’t recognize the name of the group’s organizer: April Bradford.

Tapping out the number on the keypad, my fingers shook.

After a couple of rings, she picked up. “April speaking.”

“Hi.” My voice held all the authority of a five-year-old on their first day of school, wobbly and unsure. “I’m calling about the foraging group?”

“Oh, hi! Thanks for calling. The group meets at the community drop-in center, ten sharp on the last Saturday of every month. We ask that you’re punctual, because we hold a brief introduction for newbies before getting right out into the fresh air—quarter past ten at the latest.”

I tried twice to cut her off, but April was a perky steamroller, rolling straight over my “Excuse me’s.”

“Your first walk with us is free, and after that, there’s a ten-dollar donation per walk, which is split between two local charities: Cape Discovery Food Bank, and Birdie’s Animal Rescue—”

“That’s fine, but I just want—”

“We’re a friendly bunch with regular members from all walks of life—”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” My words came out sounding snappier than I’d intended, and April inhaled sharply. “I was wondering if you keep a record of people who are regulars on your walks.”

“Of course I do.” Her tone indicated insult that I dared question her administrative abilities. “I email out a quarterly newsletter to members who sign up, with news and recipes and—”

“Great. Sounds perfect. Most helpful. Listen, could you send me a list of your regulars?”

“You want their email addresses? Are you some kind of marketing spammer?”

“No, no. I’m Tessa Wakefield. The new owner of Unraveled.” It still felt weird saying that. But weird in a wonderful way.

“Oh.” Relief and friendliness replaced suspicion in her tone. “You’re Dee-Dee’s granddaughter. It was Dee-Dee who suggested Birdie’s Animal Rescue as a second charity for us to support. I’m so sorry for your loss. You must miss her terribly.”

“I do,” I admitted. However, I couldn’t dwell on how much I missed my amazing nana every single day, or I’d soon become a blubbering mess. “And I promise I’m not a spammer. I don’t want any email addresses, just names.” In a burst of inspiration, I added, “I’d like to check there’s no one in the group I’d object to spending my spare time with; if you know what I mean.”

“Ah,” April said. “I know exactly what you mean. One time, I went along to a cheese-making workshop at the community center and got paired up with a guy who, when he found out I was a vegetarian, described every possible way there was to cook ground beef. Jerk.”

“It can be awkward joining a new group, can’t it? Better safe than sorry.”

“Absolutely. Well, in that case, I’m about forty minutes away from my laptop, but I can text you the names when I get home.”

“Works for me—and thanks.”

After we’d said our goodbyes, I hurried downstairs before Timothy spotted me and dragged me into the studio.

Sixteen

It wasn’t until I arrived back at Unraveled that I realized I’d picked up neither coffee nor muffins. Darn it, I’d been counting on that sugar energy to help me sort through all the bits and pieces of information darting around my head.

Harry spotted me standing at the door, dithering. “You got distracted, didn’t you?” He chuckled. “And you reckon my memory’s bad.”

“Sorry.” I crinkled my nose. My gaze dropped to the service counter and a Disco’s Bakery box tied up with a red satin ribbon. “What’s that?”

“Dunno,” Harry said. “But your name’s on the card. Sean found it at the back door when he went out for more paint. I swear he must be slapping it on too thick to get through so much. It’s costing me a fortune.”

While my granddad fussed about paint piracy, I glanced down at the small card slipped underneath the ribbon. My name was indeed printed on the card, which was also signed ‘from a secret admirer.’

How original.

An eye-roll later, I’d tugged on the ribbon and opened the bakery box to find four deliciously decadent red velvet cupcakes nestled inside. Set upon a scattering of red rose petals, each was frosted to perfection, the creamy swirls dotted with tiny love-heart candies.

“Ooh,” cooed Harry, his complaints about Sean’s wasteful tendencies temporarily forgotten. “Cupcakes. I wonder who they’re from? Someone who knows you have a sweet tooth.” He winked at me, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him my sweet tooth was hardly a secret.

And thanks to my earlier conversation with a certain handsome detective about movies and cupcakes, I had a fair idea who’d left them. Information I guarded closely and with an excited squee of fluttery, feminine delight. Eric listened. And how cute was he to pretend he hated Valentine’s Day when he was actually a big softie at heart? “How about I make us a cup of tea, and we have a cupcake each?”

“I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite granddaughter.”

With a chuckle, I walked around the counter to kiss his cheek before carrying the cupcakes upstairs.

They were, I decided as I switched on the kettle, worthy of Nana Dee-Dee’s finest china. Once I’d found the perfect plate, I set two of the cupcakes on it. Now all I needed was a couple of skeins of the new alpaca yarn we’d gotten in, which was the same creamy color as the frosting, and a few balls of merino in different shades of red, and it’d make a perfect photo for a social media post.

Managing a yarn store in the digital age? Nailing it.

Pleased with my plan, I ran downstairs to the tiny storeroom, where we stored our excess stock. I opened a box and pulled out two skeins of the squishy, soft alpaca. Yummo. Such a brilliant idea, if I said so myself. Next, red, red, red. Finding the shelf I wanted, I paused at Harry’s hand-written note taped to a package of scarlet merino: Hold for Pamela Martin to collect.

As Pamela’s name shoved aside all thoughts of cupcakes and marketing opportunities, I sank onto the step stool we kept in the storeroom. Could Pamela be the Cape Discovery poisoner? What about Kurt? Were they working together in some sort of ghastly sibling murder co-op? Kurt kills Josephine, who’d been cheating on him. Pamela gets rid of Hunter Fitzpatrick, then Caterina. But why Archie’s nanny? Or even Hunter, for that matter. As far as I knew, Pamela had no problem with him. In fact, she would’ve been hoping Hunter was Archie’s father. One less complication in her brother’s estate.

It was feasible that Kurt might have murdered his wife and her lover out of revenge, and possibly Hunter when he’d found out about his betrayal. But Caterina?

Again, it made no sense. By all accounts, Kurt wasn’t the greatest of dads. Why on earth would he poison the woman caring for his own flesh and blood?

If that child was his flesh and blood.

The envelopes on his kitchen counter. What if one of those envelopes had contained the results of Archie’s DNA test? If the results had been there and were now missing, did that mean whoever took them killed Caterina? Had that person broken into the Stantons’ to rifle through the morning’s mail, been caught by the nanny, then somehow forced her to drink a poisoned smoothie?

Who else cared about Archie’s parentage?

Wendy. If Archie wasn’t Kurt’s, it would benefit her daughters, as Kurt would remove the baby boy from his will.

I was missing something important. It ferociously itched the depths of my mind, but I couldn’t…quite…reach it. Maybe I was looking at the motives all wrong. What if it wasn’t about greed, or revenge, or even about the baby’s DNA matching Kurt’s or Hunter’s.

What if it was just about Archie? Sweet, innocent Archie.

With no mother and two fathers who didn’t appear to want him or to fight for the right to call him their own, who did want that poor baby?

Someone who’d made sure the little boy was fed, changed, and safe while his nanny lay dead in the guest bathroom. That person wasn’t trying to hand off Archie to someone else, and that person hadn’t wanted to hurt him…

A crash followed by the sound of shattering china from upstairs had me jumping to my feet. The unattended, unprotected cupcakes!

“Kit! Pearl!” I hollered as I burst into the kitchen. “You diabolical…” My darting gaze took in Nana Dee-Dee’s plate, broken into three pieces on the floor, and the squished remains of the two cupcakes. And in the midst of it all, Kit and Pearl played, batting red velvet chunks across smeared frosting and a scattering of rose petals.

“What’s going on up there?” Harry yelled from downstairs.

“Don’t worry,” I hollered in return. “The cats just knocked a plate off the table.”

“Brats. I’ll drop ’em off at Birdie’s for good one of these days.”

Harry made the same empty threat every time the cats did something naughty. Unfortunately for him, Kit and Pearl had loved staying at Birdie’s Clowder Motel whenever he and Nana Dee-Dee went away on vacation.

Hands on hips, I surveyed the damage. Nana Dee-Dee’s china plate was toast. It was one I’d particularly liked, but not a favorite of hers, so that was okay.

“What’s gotten into you two?” I asked the cats, who continued to pad over cupcake remains.

The counter surfing and thievery didn’t surprise me—neither cat could pass up the opportunity to investigate human food—but the sheer carnage did. I bent to push Kit away from a chunk of maybe salvageable cupcake, and he hissed.

Kit never hissed at me. Never.

Not even when I accidentally stepped on his tail. He was my fuzzy-wuzzy gentle giant.

Pearl slunk between her brother and me, growling low in her throat. She sniffed at some crumbs before making litter box scratching motions beside them. Something in the deep-red spongy texture of the destroyed cupcakes caught my eye. A green something. Like flecks of fresh herbs, which you’d expect to see in a savory muffin, not a sweet one.

Wait a minute. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Had my cats just saved us from eating hemlock-laced cupcakes?

* * *

Kit and Pearl remained remarkably docile as I wiped the stickiness off their paws. I’d no idea if there was something nasty in the frosting, but I wasn’t taking any chances that the cats would start grooming themselves and find out the hard way. After a kiss on each furry head of my guardian angels, I shut them in my bedroom while I cleaned up the kitchen.

One dustpan-and-broom cleaning effort later, I’d scooped up all the chunks and crumbs and dumped them into the box with the remaining two cupcakes. If my observation was correct, and they’d been baked not with love but with hemlock, I intended to keep them for the police.

I let the cats out and collected my purse before heading downstairs to the store. A couple of customers browsed through pattern books while Harry showed another our new range of mohair. While I had my suspicions about who’d left the doctored cupcakes on my doorstep, I knew I wasn’t in any imminent danger. But someone I was beginning to like might be.

After scribbling a quick note, which I left on the register for Harry to find, I hurried out the back door. I rang and left a trying-not-to-overreact message on her voicemail and jumped into my car. Although reversing wasn’t my forte, I managed to zip backward without adding to the paintwork’s scratches but slammed on the brakes when I caught a glimpse of fluffy white fur in the rearview mirror.

The ball of white fluff barked in admonishment, and an instant later was scooped up into the arms of the man at the other end of the leash.

Oliver came around to the driver’s window and bent down, tongue lolling from his handsome face.

Oh, scratch that, Maki’s handsome face.

“What’s the emergency?” asked the man behind Maki’s fluff.

I lowered my window, gripping the steering wheel with one white-knuckled hand. “Cupcakes.”

Maki’s cute ears, eyes, and nose disappeared below window level, replaced by a frowning Oliver’s. “What’re you talking about?”

“Someone left Valentine’s cupcakes on my doorstep this morning. A secret admirer, according to the card. Luckily, my cats trashed them before Harry and I took a bite because I suspect the key ingredient was hemlock.”

Dark brows shot up. “You have a secret admirer?”

I glared at him. “That’s your takeaway from my statement? What about the fact the cupcakes were hemlock flavored?”

“Maybe you should’ve led with that.” His lopsided grin lasted a mere nanosecond before he gripped the car’s windowsill. “Please tell me you’re on the way to the station.”

“It’s on my to-do list. I just have to check in on someone on the way.”

Oliver’s greeny-blue eyes narrowed to slits. “You know who left those cupcakes, and you’re about to do something crazy, aren’t you?”

I opened my mouth to object, but he was already on the move around the front of my car. The passenger door opened, and man and fluffball squeezed onto the seat. “We’re coming with you.”

Maki woofed his agreement then resumed panting, pausing only to swipe a wet tongue up Oliver’s jaw when he bent to clip in his seatbelt.

Shivering sheep sherbet. I was jealous of a dog.

A black blur streaked through my open window, paws-with-claws digging briefly into my shoulder as Pearl jumped onto the back seat.

“Hey…” I squawked. Followed by scrabbling claws on metal as Kit copycatted his sister, but with much less grace.

Both cats gave me what’s your problem, human? indifferent stares but flattened themselves behind Oliver, where I couldn’t reach. Sadly, as I knew from experience, if I tried to catch and release them, I’d waste the next five minutes chasing them around the car.

“This is crazy,” I grumbled. “Two cats, one dog who’ll shed all over my upholstery, and an uninvited, annoying passenger just to make a quick stop on my way to the police station.”

“Japanese Spitz don’t shed much,” Oliver said amicably. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about your backseat drivers puking up furballs.”

Ugh. He was probably right. And voluntarily traveling by car was one giant step for kitty-kind: a step in the wrong direction. But I could chase, or I could drive the short distance to Rosie Cooper’s house and trust they’d find their way home.

I drove.

Rosie’s car was in her driveway, but her husband’s wasn’t. With any luck, he’d taken their boys out fishing for the day like Rosie said he would. Kurt’s convertible also sat in the driveway, but not center-aligned or parallel to the row of shrubs, the way I’d seen it positioned at his house. In fact, it was parked how a nervous sixteen-year-old on their learner’s permit would park.

Odd.

I found a spot in the street and left the windows down as a feline escape route. Maki was coming with us. I didn’t like the way he’d been poking his snout through a gap in the passenger seat headrest to sniff the two cats. As if they were about to become his mid-morning snack. While Oliver tied up Maki in the shade of a tree, I tried Rosie’s phone again. Straight to voicemail.

Oddness turned into unease.

“Front door?” Oliver said in a lowered voice, his gaze fixed on the randomly parked convertible. “Or around the back?”

Glad I wasn’t the only one who sensed something amiss.

“Back,” I said. “Rosie mentioned how Archie loves watching the butterflies in the garden from his stroller.”

My steps quickened, a sick feeling rising from my churning stomach.

As I rounded the corner of the house, the first thing I noticed was Archie’s stroller. Archie’s empty stroller. A close second was Kurt and Rosie, huddled together beside it, their identical terrified faces directed to the third thing my gaze landed on.

The woman clutching Archie, suspending his little body over Rosie’s concrete garden path.

“I don’t want to drop this precious, precious boy,” she said to them, her voice quavering. “So don’t force me to by moving any closer.”

My phone, tucked into my purse, vibrated silently with an incoming message. Call me a late millennial bloomer, but I couldn’t resist a quick peek. The text message was from April, and I only had to skim-read five names on her list of regular walkers before one leaped out and punched me in the solar plexus.

Danielle Barnes.

The woman holding the baby.

Sometimes, I hate being right.

Seventeen

I sensed, rather than saw, Oliver behind me.

Big hands squeezed my upper arms as his breath brushed my neck. “Start talking,” he whispered.

Then his reassuring hands, along with the rest of him, disappeared. And once again, it was me on my own, facing a killer.

Yeah, yeah, that sounds a tad melodramatic when Rosie and Kurt were also present. But I knew, gut-level deep, that if either of them stepped toward Danielle and the baby, things would turn tragic.

There was no way I was about to let that happen.

So I donned my former high school counselor hat and cleared my throat, forcing my mouth into a friendly smile. “How lovely to see you with your little one. What a beautiful picture you make together.”

Talking to her was a calculated risk, but bottom-line, she did love the baby in her arms. In an obsessive, stalkerish, murder-ish kind of way. I gambled on her having no desire to hurt him, not if I didn’t make any threatening moves.

Danielle twisted toward me. “Oh. Why, thank you, Tessa.” Her look of startled surprise morphed into a shy smile. “How sweet of you to say so.” She ducked her head and made kissy sounds at Archie, tucking him in close to her body again.

I finally took a breath.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kurt shift his weight as if preparing to charge. I flashed him a vicious warning look at the same time as Rosie clutched his elbow and pulled him back. I prayed Oliver had called the police, and they’d arrive before Kurt failed to control himself and tried again. My gaze slid to Rosie. Her chin dipped in acknowledgment, her eyes, which never left mine, filled with unspoken confidence. She trusted me to save her baby brother, and please, Universe, I couldn’t screw this up.

If I wanted to gain Danielle’s trust, I had to establish a connection. Which would be hard to do with Kurt glowering as if this were a business deal that’d gone terribly wrong.

“Kurt, how about you go put the kettle on for a nice cuppa while us girls talk boring baby stuff,” I said.

He turned his scowl on me, but Rosie gave him a none-too-gentle shove in the direction of the house. “Good idea. And there’s some Anzac biscuits in the pantry to go with the tea.”

Kurt slouched toward the house, casting wary sideways glances at Danielle and the baby.

The smile she gave her ex-husband made the hairs on my scalp tingle. “Don’t eat the special cupcakes on the counter, honey,” Danielle said. “Archie needs a mummy and a daddy.”

“He had a mummy.” Kurt’s voice could’ve sliced and diced those cupcakes. “Until you killed her.”

“Pfft.” Danielle blew a raspberry, and Archie cooed in response. “She was a terrible mother to Archie—oh yes she was, wasn’t she, precious boy? She didn’t deserve or appreciate such a blessing. Not like I do.” Her arms tightened around the baby as she glared at Kurt. “It’s not fair. It isn’t right that someone like Josephine got to be a mother, and I didn’t. You never let me have a baby.”

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a spot on his forehead. When he opened them again, I saw panicked despair. This accusation came as no surprise to him, and even in desperation, he knew there was no way to resolve it. “You couldn’t have a baby. And at the time, you told me you were okay with that.”

“I thought I was,” she said. “And I was okay when you told me you’d fallen in love with someone else and wanted a divorce, because I wasn’t in love with you either.” She shrugged. “But then Josephine fell pregnant, and suddenly she had everything I’d been promised. Everything that should have been mine.”

She shook her head, as if to clear it of negative thoughts. The creepy smile returned. “Go make the tea, honey. And heat up a bottle for our baby; he’ll be getting hungry.”

“Dani, please…” Kurt tried again, but Danielle’s expression had closed off to any further discussion.

“Go now,” she snapped. “Before we both get upset. Believe me, you don’t want to see me upset.”

None of us wanted to upset Danielle, not while she was holding Archie. Fortunately, Kurt kept his lips zipped and went through the sliding doors into Rosie’s kitchen.

“There now, my little prince,” Danielle crooned in a sing-song voice as she rocked him. The baby wore only a T-shirt and a disposable nappy; a blanket lay discarded on the lawn next to the path, alongside a discarded onesie, a couple of spare nappies, and some baby toys.

Danielle noticed where my gaze had landed. “I changed Archie when I got here and offered to watch him while Rosie had a cupcake break, but she said she wasn’t hungry. And then, the minute I turned my back, she had the audacity to call her father and ask him to come over.” She glared at Rosie accusingly. “We wouldn’t even be in this predicament if you’d just eaten what was put in front of you like a good girl.”

Rosie’s lips had almost disappeared; she was pressing them together so firmly. But she kept her gaze downcast, non-confrontational.

“Stepchildren, huh?” I feigned sympathy. “Always challenging your authority.”

“Yes,” Danielle said. “And I can’t have that. Her dad and I need to raise Archie in peace.”

I eased farther into the yard and took a seat on the edge of a patio chair, facing the garden. A paperback novel lay on the small patio table, beside a glass of water, its ice cubes melting in the sun. Nothing we could use to subdue Danielle.

“You, Kurt, and Archie will be a family,” I said with as much warmth as I could fake without descending into theatrics. Don’t oversell your support, Tess.

“We will,” Danielle agreed. “There’s nothing to stop us from being together now.” The look she slanted Rosie dared her to object.

As smart as I’d hoped she’d be, Rosie played along. She raised her palms. “Hey, I’ve got my hands full with three boys already. I don’t have the time or the patience to give Archie the kind of loving home you will.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Danielle said. “Definitely don’t eat the cupcakes.”

“Red velvet and hemlock?” I asked.

She giggled. “My own special recipe. I would’ve given them to Josephine too, but she was such a food snob, it seemed easier to make her a special salad instead.”

“How did you do it? Did you somehow manage to swap the containers at the christening?” Rosie asked.

“She didn’t need to. Danielle knew the security code to your dad’s house. Pamela said that anyone who knew Kurt well knows he’s a creature of habit and uses family birthdates as codes.”

And who sat in the center of the Venn diagram of ‘People Who Know Kurt Stanton Well’ and ‘People Who Want Josephine, Hunter, and Caterina the Nanny Dead’?

Second wife, Danielle.

Which I’d finally figured out when the last jigsaw puzzle pieces slotted into place in my brain.

* * *

I addressed Danielle: “Sometime during Saturday night, when everyone was asleep, you let yourself in and mixed hemlock leaves you’d picked into her already prepared salad.”

“I figured out the code after three attempts—Kurt’s birthdate, Josephine’s birthdate, then finally Archie’s birthdate, which was the right one.” Danielle rolled her eyes. “Silly man needs to up his game when it comes to security. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Hunter Fitzpatrick was also robbing him blind as well as sleeping with his wife. Rumor has it the cops were investigating him.” She gave a nasty little chuckle. “By the way, thanks for tracking him down for me, Tessa.”

“Seems that Pamela wasn’t the only one using a spy. She had Melanie; you’ve got Thomas.”

She clicked her tongue. “Thomas overheard everything. What Josephine threatened that poor girl with was disgusting. It went against everything she was meant to uphold as a yoga practitioner. But, unlike my sister-in-law, I didn’t secure Melanie a job so she’d spy.” A disdainful sniff. “I gave her a job out of the goodness of my heart. But when Thomas told me he’d overheard you two talking about Hunter, I realized Kurt’s employee was a terrible person, one who couldn’t be allowed to influence an innocent child.”

“Speaking of Hunter”—I leaned forward in fake fascination—“did you take the DNA test results from Kurt’s counter after you gave Caterina one of your special green smoothies?”

“I did.” There was only pride in her voice, not a trace of remorse. “But I didn’t open it. I adore my little lovebug regardless of who his real daddy is.” She kissed Archie’s forehead, and he swatted at her face, gripping a lock of her hair. While untangling his fingers, she looked over at me. “I had to take it because I don’t trust that my husband feels the same way. If he found out Archie was Hunter’s, Kurt would sent this precious boy away, and I’d never get to be his mummy.”

“And that’s why you snuck into the Daily Grind and swapped out one of the smoothies Kurt picked up for his staff.”

“He’s a creature of habit, as you said.”

“And Caterina?” Rosie said. “She was just doing her job.”

For the first time, I caught a glimpse of remorse on Danielle’s face, then it vanished. Lost in her delusion. “Poor Caterina. She picked the wrong rich man to work for. If Kurt had a nanny to take care of Archie every day, he wouldn’t need to reconcile with me.”

Based on Kurt’s expression earlier, I doubted reconciliation was high on his list of things he wanted to do with Danielle.

“Nothing beats the care of a loving mother,” I said instead.

Danielle beamed at me. “You get it, don’t you? I thought you didn’t and just wanted to throw a monkey wrench in my plans—that’s why I left a batch of special cupcakes for you. My little prince and I are sorry.”

Being apologized to by an unhinged poisoner? That had to be a first for me. “No harm, no foul.”

But the prince reference reminded me of what I had in my purse, and I forced another exaggerated smile. “I forgot last time, but I’ve brought Archie a gift.”

From my purse, I withdrew a pair of knitted booties and a matching hat, both constructed of the softest fingering yarn. The booties were golden yellow, and the hat, which was the same color, was knitted in the shape of a little crown.

Danielle’s face lit up. “They’re adorable.” She took a few steps toward me, then halted, suspicion narrowing her features again. Clutching Archie tighter, she backed up.

Holding the garments up in a placating gesture, I angled my head toward the lawn. “I’ll put them on the blanket, shall I?”

When she nodded, I slowly walked over to the blanket, keeping a wide swath of grass between us, and set down the booties and hat. I returned to the patio seat, my heart pounding an energetic polka around my chest as I watched her eyes repeatedly dart to my gift.

Everything now hinged on Danielle’s susceptibility to squee-hysteria—the same squee-hysteria that always seemed to spread through a group of women at a baby shower.

“Are you getting chilly, little prince?” she murmured. “How about we put on your adorable wee booties and crown, hmm?”

Yes-yes-yes! Because, as anyone who’s ever put anything on a squirming target like a baby knows, you can’t easily do it while holding them.

She crossed to the blanket, knelt, and gently set Archie on his back. Gurgling at Danielle, the boy flung out his arms and pedaled his legs, reveling in his newfound freedom. She lapped it up, bending over him to croon more insane mutterings in his ear. While forcing myself not to move, I sent Rosie a warning ‘not yet’ look.

Danielle was still too close to the baby.

She picked up the first bootie and tugged the drawstring to loosen the opening, so she could slide it over Archie’s kicking foot.

With my pulse shooting into the stratosphere, I braced every sinew and muscle, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to—

A black arrow streaked past my ankles, flew across the lawn, and launched itself in a graceful arc over the baby and blanket. I hadn’t even had time to squawk in shock before a barreling cotton ball exploded past me, letting out a volley of high-pitched yips.

In a movie, this would’ve been the part where the director switched to a mixture of high-speed action and slow motion. The screen would fill with the high-speed chaos of a barking dog giving chase to a can’t catch me smug cat. Which, in turn, would morph into a middle-aged woman rearing away from the baby, frame by frame, her mouth forming a comic-book ‘O’ of surprise. Also in slow motion would be the drawn-out war cry of the frizzy-haired woman as she launched herself in a tackle that would’ve earned her a spot on the national rugby team if a selector had been present.

But this wasn’t a movie.

And nothing occurred in slow motion. It was a full-on blink-and-you-miss-it, adrenaline-soaked dash-and-slam. I hit Danielle hard—I had to in order to push her away from the baby. But if you’re not a six-foot-something spent hours on the field, learning how to do it without serious injury rugby player, the problem with a rugby tackle is that it hurts.

Later, I’d have a greater appreciation for both professional athletes and movie stuntmen. But in the moments that followed the Tessa vs. Danielle struggle for dominance on the lawn, all I felt was shock and pain.

Eighteen

I’d like to say I had the upper hand in my altercation with Danielle—thanks to a slight, ahem, weight advantage—but I must admit that my eventual triumph was due to Oliver appearing like the vengeful hero who saves the outmatched heroine.

I’m a knitter, not a fighter.

As Oliver, closely followed by Kurt, hauled Danielle off me and onto her feet, a siren blip came from the front of the house. The police must’ve arrived in silence after Oliver warned them of Danielle’s instability. She continued to shriek and struggle as the two men dragged her out of Rosie’s yard.

I rolled my head toward the sound of Archie’s cries and saw Rosie standing inside her kitchen, holding her baby brother snug against her shoulder. She must’ve snatched him up like a rugby ball and sprinted to the house and safety. When she noticed me staring, although she hadn’t asked, I gave her a thumbs-up. After pointing a finger at Archie, she returned the gesture. Thankfully, it appeared the little prince had survived the ordeal unscathed.

Sprawled in the sweet-smelling grass, I blinked up at the clouds scudding across the summer-blue sky and decided to stay there a few minutes longer to gather my strength and wits.

Huh, that cloud kinda looked like a dog… Wait, nope, it was a dog. A fluffy white one with a black nose stood over me, his tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth. Doggie drool dripped onto my cheek, but the strength required to push Maki away was beyond the capabilities of my left wrist. The one that felt like fire ants were attacking it.

Beside Maki, another face appeared: Pearl’s. When Maki went to lick her ear, she swatted his head, and the fluffball retreated. Her enemy vanquished, Pearl assumed her rightful position as Queen of the World on top of my chest, tucking her paws tidily under herself. I closed my eyes against the light and, with my non-achy-breaky hand, stroked her sleek fur from the tips of ears to her tail curled around her feet. Her purrs were the best first aid I knew of.

“Where’s Kit?” I asked her after a moment.

“Here,” a voice answered from above, but it wasn’t feline in nature.

It was very, very masculine.

And very, very exasperated.

I squinted open just the one eye because the other felt as if I’d gone a few rounds with a punch-happy, angry octopus. Scarily accurate, come to think of it. I suspected a textbook example of a black eye was headed my way in the next twenty-four hours.

Eric filled my half-vision, holding my black furry chubster, who was currently shedding all over his pin-striped suit jacket. He looked pretty darn happy about it—the cat, that is, not Detective Mana.

“I found him standing guard on the driveway,” Eric said.

“So you figured I must be somewhere close by?”

“Got it in one.”

Once Eric lowered him to the ground, Kit strolled around my head, leaning over to sniff at my lips—in case I’d eaten something tasty in the past few minutes that he might score too if he plied his cute-kitty act. As his face hovered over mine, he let out a sudden sneeze, and, whoopee! Now I had both dog and cat slobber on my face. And, pathetically, it was likely the closest I’d come to swapping spit with anyone this Valentine’s Day.

As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, Eric chuckled. “That’s disgusting.” The weight resting on my chest lifted. “Don’t run off, Pearl. You need to give a statement to one of the constables.”

Pearl sauntered a few feet away and, keeping her back to us, assumed the butt-licking position. A tingly, warm buzz zipped through my veins that Eric remembered the name of my cats. I noticed his gaze traveling up and down my length. Checking for injuries or checking me out?

“Shall I send the paramedics around?” he asked.

Checking for injuries, then. Thank goodness I’d chosen to wear pants this morning instead of a summery dress; otherwise, I’d be lying there with the fabric bunched up around my waist and everything below collecting grass stains.

“No need, Detective. I’m fine.” Pushing up onto my elbows, I emitted an almost feline yowl of distress when placing weight on my wrist.

Eric moved fast to cradle my left arm under the elbow and help me into a sitting position. He studied my wrist as if there’d be a test later, then frowned. “It’s starting to swell, but the paramedics will determine whether you’ve broken or sprained it.”

His long fingers remained curled around my elbow, the combined warmth and touch of them causing a delightful shiver to run down my spine.

“Fingers crossed for a sprain,” I mumbled.

All too soon, he gently shifted my arm into my lap and removed his touch from my skin. Come baaaaack, I wanted to say. But instead, I remained zip-lipped as he peeled off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders.

“I suspect you’re in shock,” he said.

Couldn’t fault that logic because it would certainly explain why I had my nose pressed against the lapel.

“Are you sniffing my jacket?” Humor and concern fought for dominance in his voice.

“Shut up, I’m in shock.” I continued to inhale the delicious cologne-and-man scent from the fabric.

“Excuse me! Mister police guy? Tessa needs to see a medic or someone before you start grilling her.” The strident voice drew closer as Rosie marched into view. Looking so much like a homicidal pixie that I couldn’t stop myself from grinning at the image.

“I was merely ascertaining the extent of Ms. Wakefield’s injury.” Eric rose to his full height. He towered over Rosie, which didn’t help the pixie comparison any. I choked back a giggle at Rosie’s expression. Pixie vs. huge-but-hot troll.

I really must be in shock.

“The paramedics will be here soon to give her and the baby a thorough check.”

“Okay then.” Rosie dialed back the ferocious glare to an I’ll let you off the hook this time one. “My friend has obviously taken a knock to the head. I mean, look at her—grinning like the village idiot.”

As two steely-eyed stares turned in my direction, my grin collapsed into a sulky frown. “I’m not an idiot, and I’m fine. Hey”—my good eye bugged open at Rosie—“did you just call me your friend?”

“Clearly, you’re delusional,” Rosie said to me. Then out of the side of her mouth to the detective, “Is that a side-effect of concussion?”

“Possibly.” A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “How about we help her to stand?”

Between them, they got me to my feet without jolting my wrist too badly in the process. Eric ordered me to sit and stay on the patio chair while he met the arriving ambulance. Rosie moved the second chair to sit beside me, and after a scouting glance around, threw an arm across my shoulders and gripped me in a fierce hug.

“You saved my baby brother,” she whispered, emotion thickening her voice. “Thank you.”

I leaned my head against hers. “You’re welcome.”

We sat in silence a while longer.

“Does this mean we’re BFFs now?” I asked. “Can we braid each other’s hair and have sleepovers and sneak wine coolers out of your mum’s fridge?”

“You’re still such a dork, Tessa,” Rosie said without loosening her grip.

“I know you are, but what am I?”

Rosie snorted. “How about I buy you a drink at the Stone’s Throw tonight?”

I leaned away and gave her the stink eye. “How do you know I don’t have Valentine’s Day plans?”

“With the cute detective?” She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. I could see the two of you sending smoke signals to each other from the kitchen.”

“It’s not like that.” But a blush was creeping its way up my cheeks.

“And then there’s Oliver Novak, who’s talking to the cops but keeps looking up the driveway like he’s trying to spot you.”

“It’s not like that with him either. He’s probably worried about Maki.”

“Some neighborhood kids are keeping an eye on the dog. He’s lapping up all the attention—and someone’s cheese and Vegemite sandwich last time I looked.”

My cheeks were now flaming hot. “Anyway, back to our celebratory drink,” I said. “Goodness knows I could use one, but don’t you have your own Valentine’s Day plans?”

She shook her head. “Brad won’t be back with the kids until late. And after today, I could use a friend to unwind with.”

Aha! Rosie was starting to consider us friends. How weird was that? And how weird was it that it didn’t feel that strange to me either?

“So we’re friends then?”

“I guess you could say we’re probationary friends.”

I rolled my eyes. “Always with the hesitation, huh? You wanna be a hero like me, you’ve got to jump into the fray, boots and all.”

Her bright blue eyes narrowed, but her faux glare held no sting. “Yeah? Well, that’s how you end up stuck in an ugly white cast for six weeks.”

From somewhere inside the house, Archie let out a cry. Rosie got to her feet and half turned toward the sound. “My neighbor offered to finish giving him a bottle while I checked on you, but I’d better head back in.”

“He’s okay? Not too traumatized?” I got that same shivery-sinking feeling in my belly I’d had moments before lunging at Danielle.

Please let the little guy be all right.

“Not in the slightest,” Rosie said gently. “Thanks to you, Auntie Tessa.”

“So I’m an honorary auntie?” A huge grin spread across my face. “Yes! Knew you liked me.”

After giving me a whatever eye-roll, Rosie hurried back inside. And while I followed Detective Mana’s orders to sit and stay, I allowed myself the simple pleasure of watching Kit and Pearl stalk butterflies in the sunshine.

* * *

Getting ready to go out that evening required longer than my usual two-second glance in my bedroom mirror. After wrangling my curly hair, so I didn’t look as if I’d literally been dragged through a hedge backward, I selected a lipstick to complement the red scarf that covered the sling my sprained wrist rested in.

Harry poked his head around the door. “Ready to paint the town, girlie?” He wore a well-loved gray beanie I knew Nana Dee-Dee had knitted him for their second date, all those years ago.

“You know it, handsome.” One last check to ensure I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth, and Harry and I were out the door.

I linked arms with my granddad as we strolled to the Stone’s Throw, the end-of-summer day demanding that the sun remain in the clear blue sky for at least a few more hours. Plenty of time for a quick drink with Rosie before all the loved-up Valentines arrived.

Since happy hour was over and it was too early for Date Night to begin, the pub was only a quarter filled with customers. As usual, my gaze was drawn to the bar, but Oliver didn’t appear to be working it tonight. A flutter of disappointment spiraled in my belly. In the aftermath of all the police, medics, parental histrionics, and a trip to Napier Hospital for an X-ray, I hadn’t had a chance to speak to him. I would admit—but not to Rosie, who waved me over to a table she’d saved—that seeing Oliver had played an important part in my agreement to come out tonight.

Harry and I made our way to the table. Sharing it with Rosie was her mum and stepdad, plus Sean and my parents. My dad smiling proudly as if I truly was a superhero.

When I eased into the free seat next to Dad, he patted my knee and winked. “Did you see tonight’s special cocktail on the blackboard?”

I craned around to read the sign at the bar. Beside a chalked picture of a cocktail glass and a list of ingredients too small for me to read was the name: Sleuth Saves the Day. Some smart aleck had scribbled ‘Sexy’ beside it. For the second time that day, I felt my cheeks redden.

“Haven’t tried one of those before.” I aimed for nonchalance.

“Well, I’ve ordered you one, so you’d better hope you like it.” Rosie waggled her eyebrows. “Ollie created it just for you—so even if it tastes like sweaty socks mixed with rotten tomato juice, fake it.”

“Will do.” Everyone laughed while I pinned a look at how amusing I find this smile on my lips. “What have we missed?”

Other than the latest gossip, which had already completed a full circuit around town, of Danielle’s arrest for all three murders.

“Well.” Wendy leaned back in her seat and shot an equally proud smile at her daughter. “Rosie has some news about her half-brother, don’t you?”

Rosie side-eyed her mum. “Brother, Mum. Archie’s my brother.”

“Kurt got the DNA results?” my mother blurted out. “How wonderful.”

Rosie shook her head. “There’ll be no test results,” she said. “I’ve told him he either loves and accepts Archie as his son, or he can forget about me being the daughter who helps raise him.”

My mother’s forehead furrowed. “You mean Kurt still doesn’t know who fathered the child?”

As an honorary auntie, defensiveness punched into my gut. “It doesn’t matter which man fathered him.” My fingers clenched into a fist inside my sling. “What’s important is who becomes Archie’s dad.”

“Hear, hear,” my father said. “Kurt’ll rise to the challenge—with a helpful boot up the bum from his friends and family.”

While more laughter rolled around the table, I glanced over at the bar again—and froze. Crossing the room toward me, an inscrutable expression on his face was Oliver. The stiff buttoned-up collar of his shirt covered the ink I knew lay underneath, and his sandy-colored hair looked like it’d become acquainted with a comb in the past few minutes. Plus, gone was the prickly-looking stubble that usually covered his jaw. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was emulating a certain put-together Detective.

In one hand, he carried a cocktail glass, complete with a cut-out black cat shape stuck to a toothpick, which was jabbed through a lime wedge. And tucked under his other arm was an actual black cat.

Kit.

Oh, no. Not again.

I sank into my seat, trying to blend in with the red Valentine’s Day shirt my dad wore every year. Chameleon-like stealth seemed the only way I could avoid being evicted from the pub, with Kit tossed out after me.

As one would expect when the owner walks across his pub while holding a chubby feline who had no business being there, the tables around us fell eerily silent. I continued to examine the fingernails of the hand not clasped to my chest, even when the purring ratcheted up a notch as Oliver came to a halt behind me.

Goose bumps rose on my bare arms as someone—Oliver—leaned down to set the cocktail in front of me.

“Purrrt?” Kit chirped and batted my curls.

Guess I couldn’t deny ownership. I shifted in my chair and looked up at Oliver, my heart jittering in anticipation of his—justified—annoyance. “Um. Where did you find him this time?”

There was no trace of irritation on his face, just a smile as potent to the muscles in my knees as I suspected the cocktail he’d delivered would be.

“In my office again.” Now that Oliver had a free hand, he scratched Kit between his ears. “Looks like he’s planning to make it a regular stop on his neighborhood rounds.”

“Is that so, Mr. Novak?” Pamela Martin moved into view behind him as she sauntered over to our table. She helped herself to an empty chair. “I was just outside, and I could swear I saw you carry that cat in from the loading area not one minute ago.”

In a pleasant role reversal, this time it wasn’t my cheeks that mirrored the red cocktail on the table. Oliver chuckled and held up a palm—which Kit immediately butted with his head since he hadn’t finished being petted. “Guilty as charged.”

Harry stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hoisted with your own petard, son. How about you hand over my granddaughter’s cat, then ask her out on a proper date?”

“Harry,” I hissed, too embarrassed now to meet anyone’s gaze, especially Oliver’s.

“That is why you catnapped Kit and made him your wingman, right?” Sean snickered at his own joke. “Mate, you’ve got even less game than I gave you credit for.”

Although the shut up or die glare I sent across the table didn’t work, the kick I delivered under the table did. “Ow! What was that for?” Sean grumbled.

“Was the cocktail your invention, Oliver?” Wendy asked with a smirk.

“Give the man a break,” my mum said. “He obviously hasn’t a clue how to approach a woman as beautiful and mysterious as my very single daughter.”

“That’s me,” Oliver said. “Clueless.”

“The only mystery is why you haven’t asked her out yet,” Harry muttered. “Get on with it, would ya? Then go fetch me a beer.”

“Tessa?”

I stared up into Oliver’s eyes, creased as they were with humor.

“Can I ask you out to dinner sometime when half the pub isn’t eavesdropping?”

I smiled at him. “I’d like that.”

Disappointed groans ran around our table as Oliver gave me one last knee-weakening smile, passed Kit to my granddad, and disappeared behind the bar to a smattering of applause.

“In my day, a man didn’t need to hide behind a girl’s cat to get a date,” Harry said.

“Yep. He struck out big-time,” Sean said.

“We were this close,” Mum moaned to my dad, her thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart.

“You can count on me if you ever need a romantic gourmet dinner for two,” Wendy said.

“Even probationary friends give updates when the town heart-throb eventually asks them out.” Rosie toasted me with her glass.

“Is someone planning to take that cat outside before I’m forced to call the health department?” Pamela leaned away from Kit, who’d wriggled out from under Harry’s arm and was now strolling along the table toward an open packet of potato chips.

As my dad scooped up Kit and headed outside, I relaxed back in my seat and took a sip of my cocktail. It was fizzy and lively with just a little tartness that tingled on my tongue.

Kind of like me.

Sexy Sleuth Saves the Day. Yep, I’d own that.

Grab your copy of the next Knitty Kitties Mystery Hanks and a Hitman!

Wanted: Cat mum to manage a yarn store, corral two curious cats, all the while being tangled up in murderous mayhem and mystery.

A smart woman would dump her cheating ex, move from the city, and give herself a chance for a well-deserved do-over. A smarter woman—smarter than me, anyway—wouldn’t jump out of that same frying pan and return to Cape Discovery, a seaside village where her family is the nuttiest of all the nut-ball residents.

I’m a high school counsellor turned new owner of Unraveled, my granddad’s yarn store in town. More exciting than a delivery of rainbow colored wool is the news of movie location scouts in the area, though not everyone believes all publicity is good publicity. Game on between landowners to secure such a lucrative deal.

I can’t help being caught up in movie fever, until I stumble onto one of those landowners, face down in a kitty litter tray. Deader than dead thanks to an unknown assailant. With dating disasters aplenty both online and in-real-life and a hitman on the loose, things couldn’t get much more murderously crazy in Cape Discovery. If only that were true…

Tessa Wakefield has her hands full juggling a cozy craft store, her crazy family, and two men who’d rather poke out their eyes than describe themselves as cute. Which they totally are. Cute, charismatic, and occasionally on her mind when she’s not stumbling over dead bodies and using her newfound sleuthing skills to track down murderers. Lucky she’s an excellent multi-tasker because digging beneath Cape Discovery’s surface can unearth secrets that kill.

Sneak Peek of Hanks & a Hitman…

Chapter One

If there’s one thing I’m better at than sniffing out clues and murderers, it’s sniffing out chocolate. More precisely, chocolate Easter eggs at my family’s annual camping trip and Easter egg hunt. You think my seven-year-old niece is competitive? She’s got nothing on her thirty-five-year-old aunt: the ‘Sexy Sleuth Saves the Day’ extraordinaire.

Not my words, of course, but the name of a cocktail invented in my honor by a local, not so bad himself, bartender after I solved my last—ahem—homicide case.

In case you’re one of the few unfamiliar with my notoriety, let me introduce myself. Tessa Wakefield’s my name. Owning a yarn store in the deceptively quaint-looking seaside town of Cape Discovery is my game. Not quite as catchy as, say, catching killers is my game—but I suspect handing out business cards with that slogan might be inadvisable. I’m already on a certain police detective’s watch list.

But the truth is, when this former high school guidance counselor isn’t wrangling her family or two pesky cats, she has an unfortunate habit of stumbling over the recently deceased. And no, I don’t moonlight as a morgue assistant. It’s not my fault if I’m proving, one body at a time, that I have a nose for murder.

Still, there’s only so much excitement a girl can take before she requires some R&R. Though in this instance—a family Easter camping trip—there’s not as much resting-and-recreationing as there is a raucous, rambunctious, ruthless dedication to drive the more senior Wakefields up the wall. With a New Zealand autumn in full swing, it might seem an odd time to take a family camping vacation. But that’s my family in a nutshell.

Odd. But odd in a—mostly—nice way.

Except when it comes to finding foil-wrapped delights hidden beneath shrubs or tucked behind tent pegs.

Then all bets are off.

To ensure the Great War of the Creme Eggs and accusations of nepotism that occurred this time last year didn’t erupt again, Granddad Harry had paid a couple of teenagers to hide the eggs while we prepared breakfast in the communal kitchen. Harry’s our family’s patriarch, and everyone, including my dad, refers to him by his first name. A retired cop, he’s still formidable at eighty-mumble, despite our beloved Nana Dee-Dee having done her best to keep his ego in check.

Craftily, my two older sisters and their spouses volunteered for cleanup duties while our younger brother, Sean, and I, along with our parents and Harry, watched the kids run wild through the campground in search of a sugar rush.

While Harry—who’d traded in his usual knitted beanie for a floppy sunhat—stood at attention and hollered suggestions to his great-grandchildren, the rest of us positioned our camping chairs in the shade overlooking the wide swath of sandy beach. Yeah, we live by the ocean and go camping by it too. Go figure. We Wakefields have this ‘odd’ thing down pat.

Of course, New Zealand’s Hawke’s Bay has some of the country’s most stunning and pristine beaches, so it’s small wonder we can’t get enough of them. Golden sand, wall-to-wall sunshine sparkling on cerulean waters, and birdsong from the abundance of native bush surrounding the campsite the only disturbance. A peaceful haven—or at least, it would be but for, you know…family.

“I had the most interesting conversation with Jessica the other day,” Mum said, referring to a fellow real estate agent.

Sean stretched out his long legs and dedicated himself to the task of unwrapping a chocolate egg he’d pilfered from one of the kids. “Let me guess. Your multi-talented co-worker’s offering another of her watercolors to the mid-winter gala for auction?”

Mum chuckled and swatted his arm. If I’d uttered even the tiniest hint of snark regarding Jessica’s talent with a paintbrush, I’d have earned a maternal behave yourself glare. But Sean, the baby of our family, could do no wrong in his mummy’s eyes.

“No, silly. She heard through the grapevine that location scouts for Pavlova Productions are poking around Cape Discovery properties this long weekend.”

Pavlova Productions? While not quite in the same league as New Zealand’s biggest claim to fame—Peter Jackson’s WingNut Films—Pavlova was rapidly gaining ground in the booming national film industry. There were even online rumors that they’d scored a lucrative deal for a movie trilogy based on a series of books by an acclaimed Kiwi writer.

“Didn’t those guys make the Hobbit movies?” Sean licked chocolate off his fingers with more interest than his voice contained.

“No, that’s Peter Jackson. Pavlova Productions did that dreadful horror movie where aliens that look like overweight octopi turn commuters into zombies. This time, they’re doing a small town overrun by zombies.”

Sean brightened. “Did she say whether they’re gonna make the movie in town? Maybe they’ll hold auditions for extras. I could totally do a zombie stagger.” He leaped out of his seat and proceeded to demonstrate.

Mum smiled indulgently at my brother. “I’m sure if they hold an audition for zombies, you’ll nail it, sweetie.” She angled her head and winked at me as Sean grew bored of pitching about and wandered off in search of more Easter eggs.

I grinned back at her. “Did Jessica mention which properties they’re looking at?”

“Wilsons’ dairy farm, the MacKenzies’, and Marcus Hall’s.”

“The MacKenzies? As in, Bridget MacKenzie?” Bridget MacKenzie, or Birdie as most knew her by, ran an animal rescue charity from her ten-acre block of land. She also owned Birdie’s Clowder Motel, where cats were spoiled rotten in the way they felt they deserved while their owners were away on vacation. “Birdie wouldn’t give a production company free rein on her land, would she? The noise alone would terrify her animals.”

Mum popped the cap on her bottle of sunscreen and squirted a line along her shin. Even in autumn, the New Zealand sun could be harsh, and given that we both had the same mousy blonde hair and light skin, it seemed better to be safe than a lobster.

“I’ve no idea,” she said, passing me the bottle. “Your nana—God rest her soul—would have extracted every last detail from her friend by now, and no doubt they’d have cooked up some sort of plot between the two of them.”

A painfully true statement. Our family had lost a huge chunk of its soul when Nana Dee-Dee unexpectedly passed last year. She’d left behind her pride and joy—Unraveled—a yarn and craft store she’d built from the ground up and which Harry had since entrusted to me. A move I know she’d have approved of.

I also appeared to have inherited the two apples of my nana’s eye, jet-black kitty siblings: Kit, the chubby, food-focused boy, and Pearl, the haughty Queen of the Known Universe, prone to kleptomania. Believe me when I say they’re both a joy and a pain in my rear end, but either way, I was crazy-stupid in love with them.

The pair was currently boarding at Birdie’s while Harry and I were away camping. No doubt they’d have taken over the whole motel by now.

“Guess I’ll find out more when I pick up the dastardly duo on Tuesday,” I said.

“Found one!” my brother’s voice hollered beside my ear as he thrust a foil-wrapped egg under my nose.

I jumped, my heart pounding.

Skittish? Me?

Just because I’d now twice escaped unhinged killers didn’t mean I woke at every house creak late at night or leaped out of my skin each time an idiot like my baby brother thought it funny to sneak up on me.

Quick as a striking snake, I snatched the egg from his hand.

“Hey!” he grumbled as I deftly peeled off the foil and popped the chocolate into my mouth. “That was mine.”

“You snooze, you lose. Loser,” I said around a mouthful of sugar as I tucked the crumpled ball of foil into the pocket of his T-shirt and smacked it flat.

Oops, my bad. He had another Easter egg in there.

I felt a satisfying crunch before caramel filling oozed out all over his shirt.

Revenge, as they say, is sweet. Especially when it’s a spotless white T-shirt, and you remember the time your sibling added his new red shorts to the washing machine containing your white school blouses. Accidental, my fuzzy woolen socks.

Just goes to prove, a Wakefield never forgets…

* * *

The cats’ dreaded pet carriers sitting on the back seat of my car, I drove the short distance out of town to where pavement turned to pastures of lush green. Cape Discovery was located in an area renowned for its orchards and vineyards. The MacKenzies had once utilized their land as an apple orchard, supplying both international and local markets. But since Birdie lost her husband, Samuel, three years ago, the orchard had become more of a liability than a viable business.

Once I’d driven through the gateway and latched it behind me—while she kept the cats in a secured enclosure, some of Birdie’s rescue animals lived free range—I continued up the long driveway to the farmhouse. Birdie stood in her front yard, and I could hear her scolding someone, or something, lurking in the shrubbery. I parked in one of the designated visitors’ spots and climbed out, spotting the scoldee among the rhododendrons. A bored-looking ginger tom.

One hand planted on the hip of her apple-green dungarees, Birdie used the other to wag a finger at the animal, who yawned in response. “You can deny it until the cows come home, Cheddar, but I know it was you who dug up my seedlings.”

Here’s a fun fact about Nana Dee-Dee’s friend: she understands cats.

Now you’re most likely thinking, ‘of course the woman understands cats; she owns a cattery.’ Nope, not what I mean. Birdie understands what cats are saying…or meowing, chirping, yowling, as the case may be. Sometimes, she once confided to my nana, they didn’t even have to open their furry little mouths for her to know exactly what’s going on inside their heads.

Some kind of feline mind meld? Goodness knows.

But the seventy-something widow doted on her ‘guests,’ and I’d no hesitation in leaving my two in Birdie’s care. If nothing else, at least the duo wasn’t rampaging the town’s streets in my absence. Which, given the slightest encouragement, they were prone to do.

By the time I’d removed both carriers from my car, Birdie had scooped Cheddar into her arms, where he lay on his back, legs salaciously akimbo while she scratched his belly. Between his orange striped fur and Birdie’s fluorescent green dungarees and matching gumboots—not to mention the bright streaks of lime coloring her otherwise gray hair—the pair were so bright that I was thankful I’d worn sunglasses.

“Hi, Birdie.” I walked toward her and the blissed-out, purring cat. “Cheddar up to his old tricks?”

“That he is.” Birdie kissed the tip of one ginger ear and set him down on his paws. He let out a short, chirping mew and sauntered off in the direction of the barn-like structure a short distance from the farmhouse. “Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” she said to his sashaying rear. “You’re lucky to get any sort of belly rub after what you did to my poor seedlings.”

“I hope Kit and Pearl behaved themselves,” I said as we walked toward the cattery, our feet crunching over the gravel driveway.

“Perfect little darlings, as always.” She offered to carry one of the carriers for me and swung it with an ease that demonstrated how strong she still was despite her small, wiry frame. Then again, the day-to-day work involved in caring for all her various animals would keep her fit regardless of her age.

Birdie’s Clowder Motel was, in fact, a converted barn that had once stored the heavy machinery Samuel used to maintain their apple orchards. However, after experiencing a number of lucrative years, Samuel had built a bigger and better structure closer to the actual orchards. According to Nana Dee-Dee, Birdie had always surrounded herself with an abundance of cats, either her own or strays or those belonging to friends who asked if she could feed their pets while they were away. When Samuel made the decision to build a new barn, he’d surprised her with plans to turn the old one into a cat boardinghouse.

Now the airy space was an indoor area with separated cupboard-sized suites, suitable for a solitary cat to bunk down in for the night, and larger, closet-sized enclosures for cats belonging to the same family. As Kit and Pearl fitted this description, they had their own spot they returned to each night.

The interior also contained a large exercise area with high places to sit and observe, staged tree branches to climb, tunnels and hiding places, and windows to look out of. It was basically the feline equivalent of Disneyland, and when the weather was fine, the cats had a completely fenced-in yard to explore.

It was a beautiful autumnal morning, the sun filtering through the russet leaves of the gracious old oak trees lining the driveway, so I expected the cats would be outside. Sure enough, Pearl sat on one of the perches mounted on the barn wall, staring intently down at me. She nimbly jumped from shelf to shelf until reaching ground-level, where she disappeared into a patch of grass Birdie allowed to grow long for the cats’ hiding pleasure. Kit, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. Since the plumper of the two kitties would’ve already devoured his morning kibble, I could almost guarantee he’d be off having a nap attack in a nice sunny spot. At least he’d be glad to see me.

“What’s the bet Pearl will snub me for at least half a day?” I asked.

“She says you should have taken her camping as your secret weapon on the Easter egg hunt. She’s quite talented at finding things, you know.”

“Oh, I do know. A few weeks ago, she found a new ‘toy’ inside someone’s handbag during the Crafting for Calmness class.” I paused for dramatic effect, watching Birdie’s eyes twinkle as she tried to guess what the mischievous Pearl might have discovered. “She dragged it out and proceeded to chase it across the floor. It was a tampon. Poor Harry claims he’s scarred for life.”

“Oh my word.” Birdie clapped a hand across her mouth but failed to stop the giggles from escaping. “The naughty minx didn’t share that story.”

I grinned at her. “Please don’t tease her about it. I think she’s embarrassed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As soon as Birdie opened the barn door, bangs and crashes assaulted my ears. I glanced around, trying to locate the source of the racket. Birdie’s nephew, Dominic MacKenzie, stomped around the open enclosures, dumping used kitty litter into a wheelbarrow and tossing the plastic trays onto the floor to rinse. With his forehead creased into deep furrows that laddered up to his hairline, his scowl would have soured a saucer of milk. He wore coveralls and gumboots, and a swimmer’s nose clip pinched his nostrils shut, even though I could detect no smell of cat pee. He didn’t notice us at first, likely because of the headphones clamped to his ears. His every movement shouted how much he disliked doing this particular job.

Birdie obviously caught my expression. “We lost a couple of our volunteers once the high school and university kids went back, so Dominic’s kindly picked up some of the slack.”

Kindness didn’t appear to be one of her nephew’s traits. Not that I’d met the man, except for his grunt of a greeting when I dropped the cats off five days ago. Barely making eye contact as I filled out the paperwork, he hadn’t even offered any assistance as I trudged back and forth from the car, lugging one cat at a time in their carriers.

Dominic was the son of Samuel’s brother, and five years ago, he’d moved from Australia to help his aunt and uncle on the property. I wasn’t sure of much more than that because saying Bridget’s nephew wasn’t chatty was an understatement.

“He doesn’t look to be in a very good mood,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

“Don’t mind him,” she said. “He’s just grumpy in the hours between me making him coffee at breakfast and bringing him a beer after dinner.” With a chuckle, she set the carrier beside the closed door that led into the fenced yard.

Sounded like the worst housemate ever if you asked me. But I kept this opinion to myself as he was, after all, Birdie’s only family.

I set the second carrier beside the first and swung open its latch. On the snuggly fleece blanket lining the inside, I strategically placed a few kitty treats. This was, as you might’ve guessed, Kit’s. One merely had to leave its door open with food inside for Kit to enter like a lamb.

“While I go fetch him,” Birdie said, “you come up with a plan as to how we’re going to catch his feisty sister.”

“Maybe if you sweet-talk her, she’ll be more amenable to me transporting her home.”

“I shall promise her you’ll give her extra treats and a can of tuna for tea.”

Pearl was definitely the trickier prospect. With her, it involved getting all five flailing appendages—four of them tipped with razor-sharp claws—into a carrier without becoming a human scratching post. Birdie slipped through the door into the yard while I fussed with Pearl’s carrier, arranging her soft blanket just so.

As I crouched on the floor, a shadow fell over me. A shadow that blocked the light streaming through the high windows and filled my nostrils with a toxic combination of cologne and body odor.

I squinted up at Dominic, headphones hooked around his neck and lips curled in a sneer. “My aunt’s losing her marbles. You shouldn’t be encouraging her to live in some Dr. Doolittle fantasy world.”

“I didn’t think I was.” I frowned. “And saying she’s losing her marbles is kind of harsh, isn’t it? She’s just a tad eccentric.”

“Eccentric? Is that what they’re calling the elderlies’ mental decline nowadays?”

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut, having no idea how to respond. After all, I’d only seen Birdie once or twice since returning to Cape Discovery last year—Dominic saw her every day. Guess he’d have a better idea of his aunt’s mental capabilities.

“Sorry,” I said.

He gave me a curt nod before stalking back to the wheelbarrow, snapping the headphones over his ears as he went.

Birdie reappeared, Kit purring against her shoulder, his eyes sitting half-mast in feline bliss. My conscience twinged as it hit me that I should have made more of an effort to reconnect with one of Nana Dee-Dee’s special friends. “Birdie, we’ve missed you in the Crafting for Calmness group. Would you like to join us this Thursday evening?”

Her smile faltering, she glanced past my shoulder to where her nephew was pushing the wheelbarrow out of the barn. “Oh. I don’t know, honeybunch. Dominic doesn’t approve of me driving at night.”

Birdie set Kit on his feet. Straight away, he sniffed the air and made a beeline for his carrier.

“No problem. I’ll pick you up and drop you off again afterward.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” I said as crunching sounds came from inside the carrier. I latched the door behind Kit and prepared to tackle the little madam that was his sister.

Good deed done for the day?

Check.

* * *

About the Author

Tracey Drew lives Down Under with her husband—who’s given up complaining about her yarn addiction—and two madcap tabby cats called Kevin and Alfie. The feline brothers constantly battle with her while she’s trying to write her books by demanding lap-time, but they also provide constant inspiration for her fun & quirky cozy mysteries.

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