“Agreed,” Noah adds, practically diving onto his clothes with relief.
“These are perfect!” Muffin reviews her photos, looking downright gleeful, as if she’s just documented a once-in-a-lifetime barnyard miracle. “Absolutely perfect! You two are going to be the most popular law enforcement officers in Vermont history!”
As both men get dressed with that annoyingly sexy ease—as if even putting on clothes is somehow a flex—I know it’s my moment. Muffin is still high on adrenaline and thirst-trapping glory, buried in her camera gear, and I’m pretty sure she’s grateful to pivot to a topic that doesn’t involve wrangling any more shirtless public servants. Or maybe not.
“Muffin,” I say, heading her way while Noah and Everett restore their self-respect one stitch at a time. “If you don’t mind, could I ask you a few questions?”
Because shirtless men are the perfect smokescreen for amateur detective work.
LOTTIE
The barn at the Whitmore Estate is laced with the scent of expensive cologne warmed by hay, with a faint trace of masculine confidence knitting itself back together one article of clothing at a time.
I’m standing next to Muffin, about ready to shake any info I can out of her, and behind us, Noah and Everett pull their shirts on with the slow, controlled movements of men who know exactly how good they look doing it, the soft clink of belt buckles and low murmurs creating a soundtrack that should honestly come with a warning label.
Muffin reviews her photos with a smug grin as if she just captured photographic proof that handsome men roam freely in the wild. Her camera gear gleams in the evening light streaming through the barn’s overly picturesque windows. The whole place still looks like a romance novel cover in progress.
“Muffin,” I say, seizing the moment while she’s riding high on artistic success. “If you don’t mind, could I ask you a few questions?”
She looks up from her camera with the kind of dreamy expression that suggests she’s still mentally editing her photos into calendar gold. “Of course! Though I have to say, this shoot exceeded all my expectations.Those two are absolutely magnificent specimens of Vermont masculinity.”
“I can testify to that.”
Before I can launch into my carefully plotted interrogation, Carlotta trots over with the stealth of a busybody who’s never met a conversation she couldn’t crash.
“Honey,” she announces to Muffin, “you look way too good to be grieving properly. Either you’ve got excellent concealer or you’re handling widowhood better than most people handle a head cold.”
I want to stuff her in a hay bale and use her as agricultural decoration for the rest of the evening. She’d make a terrifying scarecrow. If they only knew how effective she’d be, farmers everywhere would dole out the big bucks for her.
“Carlotta,” I warn through gritted teeth, “maybe you could?—”
“What? I’m just saying she’s got that glow,” Carlotta continues with the subtlety of a yodeler. “It’s that my-problems-just-solved-themselves kind of radiance. It’s very becoming. I’ve had it a few times myself, usually after a good divorce or after making one of my exes disappear without a trace. But I think you one-upped me in that department, didn’t you, sis? I’ve yet to send a man toes up in the morgue myself.”
My mouth falls open. Where is a pitchfork when you really need it?
Muffin blinks at Carlotta, as if she’s caught somewhere between flattered and offended and clearly unsure of which way to lean.
Lenny appears by the vintage tractor, looking like he’s settling in for premium entertainment. “This should be illuminating. Cray Cray here has a talent for extracting information through sheer inappropriate observation.”
“How are you holding up, really?” I ask Muffin, hoping to shift us back to the investigation and not whatever psychological demolition Carlotta just performed.
“Oh, you know,” Muffin sighs, her cheerful facade slipping slightly. “Some days are harder than others. Duncan and I... well, let’s just say our marriage had been challenging for quite some time.”
“Challenging how?” I press gently.
She makes a face. “He was very controlling,” she admits, her voice dropping to something more genuine. “About money, about my writing, about who I could see and where I could go. I felt like I was suffocating.”
“That’s terrible,” I say with sincere sympathy, because regardless of murder motives, being trapped in a controlling marriage sounds like its own kind of prison.
“Men can be such disasters,” Carlotta sighs at the thought. “Trust me, I’ve dated enough to qualify as a certified chaos inspector.”
Lenny snorts with amusement. “She’s not wrong. Duncan was particularly possessive, even for a wealthy man who thought he owned everything he touched.”
“Duncan found out about Marcus, didn’t he?” I ask because subtlety has never been my strong suit, and Carlotta’s presence has officially blown any chance of conducting a delicate interrogation.
Muffin’s expression tilts toward relief—as if she’s finally allowed to stop performing for the room.
She sniffs. “About six months ago. Duncan hired a private investigator and had me followed. Can you imagine? Hiring someone to spy on your own wife?”
