“Is perfectly safe,” he said. “I expected something like this would happen. Which is why I took everything important home with me this afternoon.”
I stared at him. “Everything?”
“Tommy Wheeler’s files, George Pickering’s journal, all the original evidence, every copy we made, every photograph.” His smile was sharp as a blade. “Forty years in intelligence taught me to always assume the enemy is watching. Only thing in there was the murder board and the photocopies I made. If someone was desperate enough to attack Hank in broad daylight, they were certainly desperate enough to destroy evidence.”
Relief flooded through me so completely I had to lean against Dash’s SUV to stay upright.
Walt’s expression grew serious. “After this and Jane Sutherland’s murder, I think we can confirm that we’re not just investigating a cold case anymore. We’re hunting someone who’s still very much alive, very much threatened, and very much willing to kill to keep their secrets.”
The fire trucks were beginning to pack up, the immediate danger over. The Perfect Steep would need repairs, would smell like smoke for weeks, but it would survive. More importantly, our investigation would survive.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” Deidre said. “We’ll have this place cleaned up in no time. Once they let us in of course. And insurance should cover everything. I’ve done plenty of research into insurance companies. Let me handle it. I’ll make sure you get every penny you’re owed.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. The reality hadn’t quite sunk in yet. And I felt helpless.
“Tomorrow,” Dash said quietly, “We start pushing harder. No more gentle inquiries. Someone just showed us how desperate they are.”
I looked at the smoke still rising from my violated sanctuary, at the friends who’d rallied to my side, at the man whose presence had become as essential as breathing. Tomorrow we would indeed push harder.
“I guess we should go home,” I said. “Tomorrow is another day.”
Walt nodded. “Scarlett O’Hara would be quite proud of you. Chin up, sailor. Things are always more beautiful when they’re rebuilt from the ashes.”
We walked around back to the parking lot where my powder-blue Karmann Ghia waited alone beneath a streetlight, droplets of water beading on its hood like tears from the fire department’s hoses.
It was then Deidre grabbed hold of my arm and said, “Good grief. Tomorrow is Thursday. Where are we going to have book club?”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Thursday morning arrived wrapped in the kind of pristine coastal light that made tragedy feel impossible, as if the universe hadn’t gotten the memo about arson and murder and the general unraveling of civilized society. I’d been awake since 4, watching shadows retreat across my bedroom ceiling while Chowder snored beside me.
My house felt too quiet, too normal, as if yesterday hadn’t happened—Jane Sutherland murdered in cold blood, my tea shop’s back room reduced to char and memory. The insurance adjuster was scheduled to arrive at 7. The fire inspector at 8. My life parsed into appointments with people whose job was to catalog disaster with professional detachment.
“Time to face the day,” I told Chowder, who opened one eye with the kind of skepticism that suggested facing the day was optional and he was choosing to opt out.
I slipped out of bed and into my silk peignoir—a pale blue number with ivory lace I’d found at one of the boutiques in town. Even now, especially now, maintaining these small elegances felt like armor against chaos. If I was going to face insurance adjusters and fire inspectors, I was going to do it properly dressed, starting from the foundation.
“Oh no, you don’t get to stay in bed,” I told Chowder. “We have work to do. Justice to pursue. Criminals to catch.”
He yawned, displaying an impressive array of teeth and general disinterest in justice, but followed me downstairs with the resignation of someone who knew breakfast was contingent on cooperation.
I let him out into the back garden for his morning constitutional while I made coffee strong enough to wake the dead—which, given recent events, might have been useful. The morning light streaming through my kitchen windows had that peculiar quality of early summer, all golden promise and hidden threats, like honey laced with arsenic.
The melody came unbidden as I poured cream into my cup—“Black Coffee,” the Peggy Lee version that was all cigarette smoke and 3 a.m. regrets. I found myself singing softly while waiting for Chowder to finish his garden inspection.
“I’m feelin’ mighty lonesome, haven’t slept a wink…”
The song was supposedly about lost love but really it was about any kind of loss—the kind that kept you up at night, drinking coffee that had gone cold because even bitter comfort was better than none.
Chowder scratched at the door, ready for breakfast and fashion. I filled his bowl with the chicken and rice mixture that cost more than most people’s lunches, then studied the clothes in his closet.
I selected his navy blazer with brass buttons. If we were going to face insurance adjusters and fire inspectors and whatever fresh horror Thursday had planned, we were going to do it in style.
“Arms up,” I instructed after he’d finished eating and performed his post-breakfast face-cleaning ritual.
He lifted his paws with practiced ease, and I slipped the blazer onto him, adjusting the brass buttons until he looked ready to command a small yacht.
