I shrug. “Valencia says they all died in their sleep. Didn’t think it was suspicious.”
“Could be poison. Do you trust her?”
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I really do. That doesn’t mean she’s right. She couldthinkthey died in their sleep. “She said Marcus hated them.”
“That bodes well for my Marcus suspect murder wall.” He points to the side of his skull. “In my brain, I mean. I don’t want to look like a lunatic myself.”
“Nate!” Gramma Sharon calls out from the deck. “Bring your friend over and play cards with me.”
“Hope you’re ready to get your ass handed to you.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
His innuendo makes me look at his butt and my cheeks heat—the face ones, I mean. We walk up to the deck, and I pull out a chair and sit across from Gramma Sharon. Miles takes one to my left at the head of the table.
“Miles.” Valencia comes out from the kitchen with Gramma Sharon’s drink—bourbon. “Can I get you a drink?”
Miles tells her a seltzer is fine, and Valencia walks over with one of each flavor. Miles takes the lemon.
Gramma Sharon lifts up her heart-shaped sunglasses with a smile. “I saw the Watergate salad. It looks great, kid.”
I grimace. “If you say so.”
“Don’t wimp out on me now!” she says with a laugh.
Easton leans against the railing behind me. “At least now you have a friend who can help you finish it.”
“What is Watergate salad?” Miles asks nervously.
Gramma Sharon turns to Marcus. “Go bring out the salad.”
Marcus shakes his head but goes inside and several minutes later reemerges with the giant bowl of Watergate salad in one hand and a red plastic tray of raw burgers and hot dogs in the other. He sets the bowl on the table in front of us.
“Bon appétit,” he says with a grin. Gramma Sharon reaches out for three paper plates on the other side of the table.
“Oh!” Miles gives a wide, fake, but polite smile. “That looks like alotof sugar.”
“Sure is!” Gramma Sharon says.
“I’m diabetic and that will probably kill me. So unfortunately, I’m gonna have to pass.”
Gramma Sharon gives a sad tsk and turns back to me. “Guess we’ll have to share his portion.”
Yay.
I grab two spoons—because spoons are probably going to be best for this mess—and pass one across the table to Gramma Sharon.
Gramma Sharon scoops up a massive dollop of the marshmallow salad and plops it heavily on each plate, handing one over to me.
Miles watches as I scoop up some salad, giving me a look that says even if it wouldn’t put him in a diabetic coma, he’d skip it. Gramma Sharon isn’t turned off at all and takes a massive spoonful, smiling at me as she does.
“It’s a Beaumont Bee-Bee-Cue!”
Miles and I turn to see JT coming around the corner with a Super Soaker in hand. He shoots it right at Easton’s chest. Easton flinches, then touches the liquid spot on his shirt and brings it up to his nose.
“Dude, is this tequila?”
“John Thomas!” Valencia scolds.
