Chapter Eight

~ Jenna ~

My phone rings as I’m en route to the Hemlock Golf and Country Club. I connect through Bluetooth.

“Hello?”

“Are you okay?”

It’s Mom. I have a sinking feeling she’s calling with an update on what transpired with Jackson after I left.

“I’m trying to be okay. Now that I’ve had a chance to slow down and everything is sinking in, it’s hitting me hard that Riley is dead. Is Jackson Bradley about to name me a suspect for a crime I didn’t commit?”

“You’re not a suspect,” she says. “You’re just a person who happened to be in touch with the victim shortly before…um…”

“Shortly before he was murdered. As Jackson said, I’m the last known person to have had contact with Riley before he died.”

“Well, we know you’re not the last person. I think we need to be proactive and start searching for Riley’s killer sooner rather than later.”

I’m intrigued by what she’s saying, but I’m pulling up to the guardhouse at the Hemlock Golf and Country Club.

“I have to go, Mom. I’m at the club. I agree that we need to be proactive. Let’s talk more about it when I get back to the office.” We say goodbye. I disconnect the call and roll down my window. It’s a different attendant from the one I’ve dealt with when I’ve come to the club to work on the reception logistics. “I’m Jenna Bell, the coordinator for the Taylor-Buxston wedding.”

The gate attendant, whose nametag says Timmy, leans out the window. “Sorry, ma’am, the reception has been canceled.”

“I know. I’m here to help the vendors wrap up things.”

Timmy scratches his head and looks at me like he doesn’t understand.

“You a member of the club?”

“No. I’m the wedding planner.”

“Sorry, the boss told me the reception has been canceled and I shouldn’t let anyone who isn’t a member pass through these gates.”

I take a deep breath and remind myself that Timmy is only doing his job. “Timmy, all I want to do is help pack up the food and flowers. Please call Walter Danforth. He will give you permission to let me in.”

He closes the window and picks up the phone. A moment later, he’s typing on the computer. Then he returns with a guest parking pass. “Here you go, Ms. Bell. You can park in the green lot behind the kitchen and enter through the doors marked staff only.” He points in the direction that I should take.

“Thank you. Has anyone showed up for the reception?”

“No guests, only vendors.”

“Okay, that’s good. Unfortunately, the wedding was canceled at the last minute. There will be no reception. If anyone does show up, please tell them that.”

“Yep. That’s what the boss said to do. I’m sorry to hear the wedding’s off.” Timmy shakes his head. “Riley’s a good kid. He’s always been nice to me. I hope she didn’t hurt him too bad.”

I give a noncommittal nod to Timmy, but I’m wincing inwardly. I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t mean hurt in the murderous sense of the word. Still, somebody hurt Riley. Timmy opens the gate so I can drive inside.

I follow the blacktop road through a canopy of live oaks. To my left, the meticulously manicured greens stretch out like a perfect emerald carpet, dotted by white sand traps, a pond, and a smattering of golf carts.

Hemlock Golf and Country Club is another Buxston-Fox development and the only golf course within twenty miles of Hemlock.

After Charles Buxston and Bobby Don Fox broke ground on the course, people had joked that Charles Buxston was tired of driving so far to play a round of golf, so he built his own course. I think that’s exactly why he built it.

Unlike the mid-rise where Riley lived, the golf club has been a moneymaker, with members from all over western North Carolina.

I park at the mission-revival style club house and decide when I talk to Walter Danforth I’ll treat it like any other canceled wedding. Of course, since he’s one of Charles Buxston’s employees, he’ll find out the truth soon enough, but I won’t be the one to tell him.

I’ll arrange for the caterer and the florist to hold on to the food and flowers, which the Buxstons can use for the funeral.

I doubt anyone has thought about funeral arrangements. It’s too soon. They’re still processing everything. Under normal cancellation procedures, I’d arrange for the reception food to be delivered to the home of whoever paid for it or donated if they don’t want it. The same with the flowers. I need to talk to the Buxstons and find out what they want to do. But first things first. I need to get inside and let everyone know there won’t be a reception today.

Before I enter the ballroom, I hear the thumping bass of a dance remix of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.” The deejay is giving his sound system a workout. It sounds…loud. I was surprised Patricia had acquiesced and let Riley have a deejay instead of the Western Carolina Symphony Orchestra, for which she’d lobbied, or a cover band, which Grace Marie wanted, if Patricia wouldn’t hire Maroon 5. Obviously, the bride-to-be has seen their “Sugar” video one too many times.

Deejay Marco “Yolo” Gianetti is more expensive than the cover band that Grace Marie had suggested, and almost half the price of hauling in the entire Western Carolina Symphony Orchestra, which was outrageously expensive.

Apparently, Marco Yolo, whose business slogan is Party Like You Only Live Once, is a friend of Riley’s.

I’ve never worked with him before. In fact, I’ve never even had a chance to hear the guy in action because his business is new. I get that people have to start somewhere. I’m a new business owner, too. But Riley had insisted. So I told Riley and Patricia point-blank, under the circumstances, I couldn’t take responsibility for Marco since he wasn’t one of my vetted vendors.

The disclaimer hadn’t deterred them. Patricia had told me she just wanted Riley to be happy. In her opinion, a deejay was gauche, but since Riley had asked for so little for his wedding, she was delighted to grant his deejay wish.

Since Marco is a friend of Riley’s, I wonder if he knows. Todd or someone who had been attending the wedding could’ve texted a friend, who’d told other friends, until word had spread. But when I enter the room, Marco is standing behind his electronic setup, wearing headphones and dancing to a song that is more bass than substance.

He doesn’t look bereaved. I breathe a sigh of relief.

The ballroom looks like a regal winter wonderland decorated in tones of red, white, gold, and crystal. Red and white roses mingle with white snowball-sized peonies and ranunculus. The florist has crafted the centerpieces in tall, slender gilded vases that suspend the flowers well above eye level for seated guests and offer an elegant floral tableau when people are standing or dancing. The tables are set with gold chargers and flatware. Each place setting has four crystal glasses of various sizes for everything from water to wines and champagne. Patricia and I had debated whether we should go with the sleek minimalist look of gold Chevalier chairs or cover them with slip covers. When Grace Marie deferred to her mother-in-law-to-be, Patricia had chosen the slip covers.

Since the Buxstons own the country club, they won’t get stuck with a bill for the ballroom or the tables, chairs, and linens. Even though Patricia selected everything specifically for Riley and Grace Marie’s wedding, she had instructed me to purchase everything outright and it would go into the club’s inventory after the reception.

The one area in which she went rogue was in not using the club’s culinary staff. Instead, Patricia hired a caterer from the Asheville area. Now I’ll have to try to negotiate the bill. Not only will there be the cost of food, but also travel expenses.

It’s a shame because the food, which they’ve started setting out, looks delicious.

It would’ve been a plated lunch, but there are several hors d’oeuvres stations set up around the large ballroom. There are plentiful platters of fruit and cheese and charcuterie. There’s a separate station for bread and crackers. There is a chocolate fondue fountain with all the trimmings. Along with tables of other delicious-looking desserts—cupcakes, brownies, cookies, heart-shaped hand-crafted chocolates decorated with the bride and groom’s initials in gold leaf.

The chocolate hearts will be particularly difficult for the memorial guests to see. However, Patricia had paid a premium for them. I’ll have to ask what she wants to do with them.

The pièce de résistance is the towering wedding cake. Six tiers covered with satiny fondant and cascading flowers that match the arrangements in the ball room, it’s a masterpiece that commands attention.

What to do with it will be another difficult decision.

I take deep breath and mentally psych myself up. The longer I put off the conversations, the more difficult it will be.

I resist the urge to put my hands over my ears to muffle the loud music and take solace in the fact that now I won’t have to confront Marco about the noise level. Small consolation.

Marco sees me, takes off his headphones, and mutes the music.

He greets me with a big smile. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I was just testing out what my new system can do. Pretty sick, isn’t it?”

Marco is a short, barrel-chested guy with shining brown eyes and an animated face. He looks like he isn’t much past his teens, but I’m guessing he’s probably in his early to mid twenties since he and Riley are friends. His auburn hair is on the longish side, and judging by his overall bronze appearance, he looks like he probably spends a good deal of time outside.

My heart hurts as I prepare to tell him that there won’t be a party this afternoon.

With the music silenced, I call over the vendors.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” I say once everyone is assembled. “Unfortunately, there won’t be a wedding today. That means we have to cancel the reception, too.”

Faces go from shocked to curious.

“Is everything okay?” Fran Holmes, the florist, asks. She’s local and has a shop just down Main Street from Blissful Beginnings.

I shrug. “Obviously, it’s not a good day for the Buxstons and Grace Marie. The family hasn’t cleared me to give any details other than to tell you that the wedding is canceled.

“I’ll be in touch to talk about what to do with the food and flowers. Fran, since you’re local, can you take everything back to your shop for a couple of days? I think Patricia will repurpose the flowers very soon.”

“I don’t know. It’s a lot of flowers, Jenna. I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep them refrigerated. My shop isn’t that big. But let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Becky, we realize you and your crew will travel back to Asheville today. I’m sure the club manager will let you store the food in the refrigerators in the kitchen. We can work with him to get everything situated.”

Becky nods.

“Of course, you will be paid the contracted fee. No worries there. I’m sorry there won’t be a party.”

It’s difficult to act so nonchalant when I know the real reason for the cancellation. I hope it doesn’t show on my face.

Marco has pulled out his phone and is texting. I wonder if he’s trying to reach Riley.

About a half hour later, Becky is working with the kitchen manager and some of the club workers are helping Fran dismantle the centerpieces and other flower arrangements and are beginning to load them into her van. I return to the ballroom to see if Marco needs help as he breaks down his sound system. It’s an impressive setup with four turntables—or maybe they’re speakers, I don’t know. Altogether, there’s five stations, each with what looks like a computer screen and a panel in the center with a bunch of knobs and slide bars. I’m glad I don’t have to make sense of it.

“So, uh, Jenna, is it?” Marco asks.

“Yes. Jenna Bell.”

“So, yeah, I gotta say, I can’t in good conscience charge the Buxstons for a service I didn’t perform.”

I blink. “Marco, you have a contract. You’re entitled to your fee since booking you for today may have cost you another job.”

He shakes his head. “Appreciate that, but I wouldn’t have had another job today. I’m just getting started in the business. I spin tunes a couple of nights a week at the Hideaway, but usually I don’t work during the day. Now that I’m branching out and doing weddings and other party gigs, I hope you’ll keep me in mind if future clients need a deejay. That would be compensation enough.”

Wow. That’s decent of him. More than decent, actually.

“Marco, that’s so nice of you. I know the Buxstons will appreciate the gesture.”

“Riley’s a good guy. I was stoked when he gave me the job. You know, it was a cool way to help a friend who’s just starting out, but—”

He glances around the room before his gaze lands back on me. “There was a lot of speculation that he wouldn’t make it down the aisle today.”

My heart lurches. He wouldn’t make it? “What do you mean?”

“Some of us might have been wagering.” His words have an upswing at the end, making his sentences sound more like questions than statements. “There might have been a pool going on where people bet on how many days before the wedding he’d bail. I mean, gawd, you know Grace Marie.”

He rolls his eyes and laughs. “She’s a…a piece of work.”

“You don’t like Grace Marie?”

He blows out a breath. It makes an audible ppwww.

“She’s a trip. You know…high maintenance. When I talked to Riley a few days ago, he was kind of freaked out about things. He said he was having second thoughts about going through with the wedding. So, he did it? He backed out?”

I stare at him for several seconds before I ask, “Marco, how well do you know Riley?”

He shrugs and squats down to open a large box that’s lined with gray foam. He picks up a thin, rectangular piece of electronic equipment and places it securely in the box so that the foam cradles the machine.

The guy pops up. “I dunno. I’ve known him a couple of years. We’re good enough friends for him to trust me to spin some sweet tunes at his wedding reception.”

He dances, bending his arms at the elbows and turning his palms toward the ceiling, moving them up and down like he’s raising and lowering the roof.

I can see how Marco and Riley would’ve clicked.

“Do you mind sharing what he said that made you think he’d back out of the wedding?”

Marco stops dancing, but he continues to bob his head as if he’s listening to a tune that only he can hear. “So, he was the one who bailed? I knew it.”

In a sense, it’s not a lie. It’s because of Riley that there’s not a wedding today. The Buxstons specifically asked me not to discuss the details—and who wants to deliver the devastating news that a friend is dead? But if Marco knows Riley was having second thoughts about getting married, he might be able to fill in some of the missing pieces.

“I saw it coming,” he says.

I give a noncommittal shrug. “You didn’t answer my question. What made you think he wouldn’t make it down the aisle?”

He answers by raising and lowering one shoulder and pushing his bottom lip out.

“What are you not telling me, Marco? Why was Riley second-guessing marriage? What was going on with him?”

Marco frowns and holds up his hands. “Chill out, dude. I think he just wasn’t cut out for marriage. And ya know, I kind of get that. Marriage is like a huge effing deal.” He lifts his hands to his head and throws out his fingers, like the thought blows his mind. “It’s like…basically turning in the keys to the candy store. Ya know what I mean? It’s like voluntarily eating one kind of candy for the rest of your life.”

He arches his brows and his eyes are large, as if even contemplating the thought is more than he can process. Then he makes a gagging sound.

“Marriage definitely isn’t for everyone,” I say.

Marco laughs. “Says the wedding planner.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” Marco says, an edge to his voice.

“I care about Riley. He was my high school boyfriend. I want to help if I can.”

“Ooh, I get it. You wanna get reacquainted with the ol’ Bux-meister, do you?” He claps his hands together and points at me. “You see an opening and you want to slide right in—”

“Wrong.” I cut him off. “He’s an old friend. But I can’t help him if I don’t know what’s going on.”

This seems to sober up Marco.

“I don’t know, man.” He does the silent-music head bob again.

“Okay, whatever,” I say. “I have work to do.”

I start to walk away, and Marco says, “You can’t tell him I told you this. You can’t tell anyone. Deal?”

I turn around. He’s holding out his hand. I shake it.

“And you have to get me lots of deejay jobs.”

I pull my hand away. “I can’t guarantee anything, but if you help me out, I might be more inclined to help you.” I smile.

“I heard he’s having financial issues.” Marco’s voice is low. “I mean I’ve heard things. Ya know? People talk. I get the impression that’s the only reason he’s working for his dad. I know he hates his job, but he said some dudes have been breathing down his neck. Working for his old man was the fastest way to get cash to feed them.”

I recall Riley’s words from last night, that he’d done some bad things and he didn’t want to drag Grace Marie into it. Was he talking about being in debt?

“Who does he owe and how much?”

“I dunno, man.” Marco holds up both hands, palms out. “We didn’t get into that.”

I’m not buying it. I have a gut feeling he knows more than he’s saying.

“Hey, Jenna, I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Becky calls. “I need your help over here.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”

“Uh, yeah, go ahead.” Marco seems eager to disengage. “I’ve gotta bounce.” He makes double guns with the thumb and forefinger on both hands and mimes shooting at me. “Keep me in mind for future gigs, Jennifer.”

“It’s Jenna.” I enunciate the word, breaking it into two distinct syllables.

“Cool, Jen-na.”

As I walk away, I’m trying to process everything. It sounds like Riley might have been in some deep financial doodoo. Did the person or people he owed kill him? That wouldn’t make any sense. Then they’d never get the money back.

I’m up to my elbows helping Becky haul food back to the kitchen when I see Marco butt open the door, hauling out the last of his equipment.

It strikes me that Marco’s sound system looks state of the art. And expensive.

I pull out my phone and search Pioneer DJ Tour System 4X, the name that is emblazoned on his equipment.

I nearly drop my phone. The first picture that comes up is his system. It sells for nearly $30,000.

Where does a guy who is just starting out in the delaying business get that kind of money?

Maybe he worked hard and saved?

Or he could’ve taken out a loan.

I wish I would’ve pressed him for more information on the source of Riley’s loans.

It dawns on me that I didn’t have Mr. Marco Yolo sign off on the invoice, documenting that he volunteered to forgo his fee. That gives me a good reason to get in touch with him again.

On the way back to the shop, I do my best to gather my thoughts. As I drive, I make a mental list of the things I need to share with the chief.

The minute I get back to the office and sit down at my desk, my phone rings. The caller ID shows a number I don’t recognize. I hesitate for a moment, but then I pick up.

“Champagne Wedding and Event Designs. This is Jenna Bell.”

“Jenna, it’s Jackson Bradley. Are you at the office or would it be more convenient to meet me at the station?”

My heart lurches at the sound of Jackson’s voice. I glance at the clock on my desk. It’s 2:43. I’d agreed to talk to him at 4:00. He seems pretty eager to talk to me, but I’m even more eager to fill him in on the bizarre incidents of the last twenty-four hours.

I didn’t kill Riley. I need to help point Jackson in the direction of the person who did.

My gut is telling me that Marco knows more than he’s saying. “I just got back to the office, Jackson. Could you meet me here?”

“Sounds good. I’m on my way.”

I go out onto the shop floor to wait for him so Alicia won’t have to show him back. She’s helping a bride-to-be try on dresses. I’m not sure where my mother is and I don’t want to interrupt Alicia to ask. More than that, I don’t want the customer to worry if she spies the police trudging through our shop.

Despite everything that’s happened, I take comfort in the familiarity of the boutique that my mother worked so hard to make into what it is today.

Alicia has made even more progress with the shop’s Christmas decorations. She’s created another holiday motif in the store with large branches that are painted white and covered with chunky, reflective pearlescent glitter that looks like snow.

She’s changed out some of the gowns that are showcased on mannequins. The new ones are sample gowns that an up-and-coming local bridal gown designer has lent us for the holiday season. The last time we displayed her work, it generated at least ten orders. She’ll probably get even more sales since the holiday gowns are stunning.

I grew up in this boutique. Soon, we’ll celebrate the shop’s fifteen-year anniversary. My mom started the business not only as a way to bring in extra money, but also to fill the void after my dad shipped off on his first Navy mission. The two of us have this place and each other. Those are the only constants in our life.

Sometimes I get so caught up in life’s minutiae that I forget what’s important. That it can all be taken away in the blink of an eye.

The realization makes my heart race. I’m suddenly short of breath.

I brace my hands on the wrap stand and take a few deep breaths, trying to ground myself and gather my thoughts before Jackson arrives.

I shouldn’t be nervous. But I am.

I just need to tell Jackson the truth.

To distract myself, I go to the office, pull out Marco Yolo’s contract, and call the number listed on it. He doesn’t answer. I leave a message and ask him to come in and sign off on waiving his fee.

I’ve no sooner disconnected the call and walked back onto the sales floor when Jackson arrives. It took him five minutes to get here. Of course, the police station is right around the corner. So, he could’ve walked to the shop in that amount of time.

“Hi, Chief. Let’s go back to the office.”

I slant a glance toward the fitting room. The bride-to-be and her friends are tucked safely behind the dressing room curtains. I catch Alicia’s eye and she smiles as if to let me know she has everything under control.

After I close the office door, I ask, “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”

“Sure. Coffee. Thanks.”

That makes me feel better. If he was here to arrest me, he wouldn’t take time for a coffee break. Would he? It would just seem cruel if he traded me coffee for a pair of handcuffs.

I return with two cups and a plate of Danish butter cookies and crispy tuile rolls filled with chocolate hazelnut ganache. Something to sweeten him up. He’s sitting at my mother’s desk. He’s turned her chair to face me.

I glance at the empty seat across from my desk where Riley sat when he and Grace Marie were here yesterday. Was that just yesterday? It seems like weeks ago.

After I settle into my desk chair, Jackson grabs a cookie and says, “I need you to tell me everything that happened last night. Just start from the beginning. I need to know what you touched, which rooms in his condo you entered. Don’t leave anything out.”

Okay, I’m nervous again because he sounds gruff.

Maybe I don’t want my mother to go out with him after all.

You had a chance, buddy. You blew it.

I start with the moment Riley staggered onto my porch and knocked on my door and continue through how I went straight upstairs the moment I’d gotten home and had a cup of tea with my mom and discussed whether I should’ve called Charles and Patricia Buxston.

“Why didn’t you?” Jackson asks.

“Because it was after midnight. I’d already called Ben and Todd, but they didn’t pick up. I left them messages. You can ask them and check my phone records. By that time, I had convinced myself since Riley was home sleeping it off he would be fine the next morning and there was no sense in upsetting his parents at that hour.”

I stare at my hands before looking back up at Jackson.

“Full disclosure?” I ask.

“Please.”

“Last night, I really thought he was experiencing a case of drunken last-minute jitters, but this morning, when I thought he was a no-show, I thought maybe he really was having doubts about getting married. I thought if that was the case, then he shouldn’t do it.”

Jackson looks up from his paper and raises his brows at me. For a moment, I regret saying it, even if it was the truth.

“I’ve known Riley for a long time. Even after we broke up we remained cordial. We didn’t hang out, but I cared about him. That’s why, I thought if he was having second thoughts about getting married, it would’ve been best for him and Grace Marie both if they called it off. I think Charles and Patricia might have been forcing him down the aisle because they thought it would make him grow up.”

“Are you saying they might have been angry if he’d backed out?”

“Of course, they would’ve been angry. They spent a lot of money on this wedding.”

“Angry enough to kill him?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

Jackson holds up his hands. “That was unintentional. I was just trying to help you sort this out.”

“I’m fairly certain that Charles and Patricia Buxston never would’ve harmed their son. But Riley was twenty-five years old. Everyone knows they were beyond ready for him to stand on his own two feet. Grace Marie—” I start to say she loved him, but I can’t. Because I don’t think she did. Not after the way she acted.

“Grace Marie wanted to marry him. I believe Charles and Patricia would’ve strongly encouraged him to suck it up and marry her.”

Jackson nodded. “Is that all?”

“Actually, no. There are two more things. Not about me. About other people.” I take a deep breath and continue. “First, yesterday morning, Grace Marie dragged Riley into the shop. She was furious.”

Jackson looks up from his notes. “Was she mad at Riley?”

I’m sure Mom has already told him, but he’s acting like it’s fresh news.

“Yes, and she was mad at me. Actually, she seemed mad at the world. I don’t blame her. She was upset because certain people in the community have been pretty vocal that Riley should’ve married me instead of her. It’s none of their business, but for some reason the community consensus is that they don’t like Grace Marie. Apparently, word got back to her.”

“Did you feel that way?”

“I don’t know Grace Marie well enough to form a personal opinion. She’s my client and I appreciated the business. It wasn’t my place to decide whether or not she and Riley were right for each other.”

“Were you upset that Riley wasn’t marrying you?”

I grit my teeth to keep from screaming. “For the billionth time, I had no desire to marry Riley Buxston. He proposed once. I turned him down. So, if you’re finished barking up that tree, you might be interested in knowing what Grace Marie said.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“She said, ‘as much as I want to be your wife, Riley Buxston, sometimes I want to kill you.’”

“Okay.” Jackson doesn’t even look up.

Okay? Okay?

“That’s your reaction? Okay?”

He finally looks at me. “Did anyone else hear her say this? Like your mom or Alicia?”

“No. It was just Riley, Grace Marie, and me in the office. But my mother and Alicia saw how angry Grace Marie was when she entered the shop. They can attest to that. And Grace Marie said something similar today when Reverend Flannery and I broke the news about Riley’s death.”

The door opens and Mom walks in. She looks like an avenging angel.

“Absolutely.” She closes the door behind her.

“Hi, Maddie,” he says. “Is this your desk?”

“It is, but no problem.”

Jackson gets up and moves to the chair where Riley sat yesterday.

I suppress a shiver. It feels like Riley is haunting my office. Every time I look at that chair, I’ll think of him sitting there with only hours left to live.

“Maddie, you saw Riley and Grace Marie yesterday morning?”

My mother nods.

“Tell me what you saw,” Jackson says.

Mom backs up what I said about Grace Marie angrily dragging Riley into the store to confront me.

“I just remembered something else you need to know,” I say. “Riley has a friend. He calls himself Marco Yolo.”

“Marco Yolo?” Jackson asks. “Is that his real name?”

“No. Wait—” I pull out the contract he signed when we hired him to deejay. “It says here his name is Marco Gianetti. He was going to deejay at the reception.”

I hand the paper to Jackson and tell him what Marco said about Riley being in debt.

“May I keep this?” he asks.

“No, that’s my original, but I’ll make you a copy.”

I get up and do so in short order, grimacing at the message that flashes on the copy machine indicating that the current toner cartridge is on its last leg. No one likes to change it because it’s not an easy task and we always leave it until we run out.

I’m relieved when the machine spits out a light, but acceptably readable copy of the contract. As I walk back, I notice the way Jackson is looking at my mother, who seems oblivious as she talks to him about case.

I’ve always sensed a spark between Mom and the chief. He seems extra happy to serve as her expert source when she has questions about police procedurals or crime scenes for her books, but today, I notice something about the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not such a stretch that he would have a thing for Mom. She’s only forty-four years old. She’s fit and pretty with her dark brown hair and blue eyes.

She doesn’t talk about my dad much anymore, except on the anniversary of his plane going down. She’s usually sad on the day that marks another year passing without word of his whereabouts, but, if anything, each year she seems to double her resolve that one day he’ll walk through the front door of our house or this shop with one heck of an adventure to share.

However, the way the chief is looking at her, and the chemistry that’s palpable, makes me wonder if more than friendship is brewing. I hate to break the spell by handing him his copy of the Marco Yolo contract.

“I understand that you can’t discuss the particulars of an active investigation,” Mom says, “but, hypothetically speaking, if I were writing a book and the victim was…say…a guy in his mid twenties who was getting married, and his ex-girlfriend—his very sweet ex-girlfriend who everyone knew was incapable of murder—was the last known person to see him, would that make her a suspect?”

“Maddie, I’m still gathering information.”

“Jackson, I’m speaking hypothetically.”

“Okay, I believe anyone is capable of murder. Even the sweetest, most seemingly incapable person can be pushed too far. So, yes, your hypothetical person could end up being named a suspect.”