But I can’t help but stare. She has her hair up off her neck, and she looks—well—I don’t think they have scenes like that in film noirs.
I make a strangled noise as she leans forward, turning slightly so I can see the curve of her—
“What the fuck?” Willow screams.
I jump away from the window, trip over my feet, and land in the snow.
The shed door bursts open. Willow’s there with a hatchet. She has her tights on but not much else.
“I wasn’t looking!” I clap my hands over my eyes. “I swear!”
“Pervert!”
“Don’t kill me!”
“Hey!” someone yells from the carriage house. “There are supposed to be quiet hours. And what time is breakfast? I’m going to leave you a bad review.”
“Coming right up with that!” Willow chirps.
“Oh my god.”
Willow drags me into the shed. It’s even smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside. The top of my head almost bangs against the roof. A guinea pig munches on leaves in the corner.
“What the hell? What are you even doing here?”
“I wanted to strategize for the funeral. Can you—” I take off my coat and drape it gingerly over her while she glares at me. “You, uh, that’s a, um—” I swallow. “That’s a nice funeral outfit.”
“That’s not what I’m wearing,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Go outside and get those boarders their breakfast while I change.”
Willow’s bootscrunch the ice as she and I walk to the funeral home. I’m carrying a platter of chocolate toffee cupcakes balanced on a warm casserole dish.
“Did you know Lenore well?” I ask.
“No, but you have to bring something to a funeral. We’re probably not the only ones using the casserole excuse to attend.”
“You weren’t lying,” I say when we cross the street to the church.
“Gotta love a small-town murder mystery!”
It’s bedlam—a sea of people all carrying flowers, cake boxes, and yes, casserole dishes.
“Do you even see Lenore?” Willow asks as we enter the church.
I peer over the crowd. She’s there in the back, near the oversized poster of Jonah, surrounded by flowers.
“She doesn’t look like a crushed widow,” Willow whispers.
“Everyone grieves in different ways, or something like that,” I whisper, tugging her over.
Lenore looks like a woman out with her girlfriends, gossiping over a glass of wine, not like someone at a beloved husband’s funeral.
“Ohhh, you’re the cute PI. This is the one I was telling you about!” Lenore giggles to her friends. “I love a man in a fedora.”
“See?” I tell Willow.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Willow says to Mrs. Merriweather.
“Don’t be!” She waves a hand. “We don’t have his body yet, but we have to do some sort of memorial service. It’s a requirement for the life insurance policy. You have to have the obituary, and for that, you have to have the memorial service,” Lenore explains to a group of sympathetic women. “Set what you brought on that table over there. My friend’s daughter is helping take care of the food.”
