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  I whistled. She was closer to Brayden's age than mine, but that was still a young retiree. What would it be like to cash out in my forties? Warm beaches, cool drinks, and day spas, lots of day spas. Oh, yeah. That wouldn't bother me at all.

  “So, what's she doing in Doyle?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “She said she loves the mountains. Maybe we could take her hiking some day?” He lowered his head to mine. “Now that the woods are fairy-free.”

  I laughed, but a tremor of uneasiness rippled through me. “Let's make sure that mountain lion is caught first.” I scooted closer to him. “After we dance.”

  Grinning, he slid from the booth and pulled me onto the crowded floor. Brayden's dancing was slow and simple. But I couldn't complain about his technique, not with his hand firm against my lower back. Not with my heart pounding. Not with the warmth of his body coiling about me.

  I eased into the rhythm, letting go and letting him lead, and leaned my head against his broad chest. His shirt smelled like soap, and beneath it, the cedar scent of his aftershave.

  “Bastard!”

  The room quieted, dancers missing a beat.

  Brayden stilled, and we looked toward the bar.

  Wharton Van Gogh brandished a beer mug. A thick-set man with cappuccino-colored hair, he spattered liquid across his heavy work boots. Beneath his thick, dingy green vest, his shirt was untucked from saggy jeans.

  “He's drunk,” Brayden said, grim. He angled his body, putting himself protectively between me and Wharton.

  But I wasn't worried. Wharton stood, weaving at the bar, a good ten feet away.

  “Alex got what he deserved,” he slurred. “In fact, getting mauled by a mountain lion is too good for him.”

  The bar owner, Antoine, strode around the bar and put his hand on Wharton's shoulder. He said something to the drunk man.

  Wharton shook his head, handed him the mug. He started for the door and stopped beside the table of a middle-aged couple. “Tourists!” He staggered out the swinging doors.

  Antoine hurried to the couple. “Don’t mind him. He wishes he could play tourist. Let me get you the next round.” The bar owner straightened and rubbed a hand over his short, graying hair. “Show's over, folks.” He ambled behind the bar and poured beers.

  “Poor bastard,” Brayden rumbled.

  “Who?” I asked. “Wharton?”

  “He drinks too much.” Brayden shook his head and changed the subject. “So, I guess the town's going with the mountain lion theory.”

  I pressed closer to Brayden. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t ignore my unease tonight at the mention of the “bear” attack. I couldn’t forget that dark vibe at Ground. And I couldn’t pretend that someone who’d hated Alex, a potential murder suspect, hadn’t just appeared in the bar. I’d never seen him in here before. Had Alex’s death triggered tonight’s binge? Was this hatred or guilt?

  “What did Wharton have against Alex?” I asked.

  “History,” Brayden said.

  And history could be tangled. “Anything specific?”

  “I don’t know. There’s always been tension.”

  There was more going on in Doyle than an accident or animal attack. What if a human had killed Alex? What if Alex's death had been murder?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My phone vibrated in my apron. I handed a cup of coffee across the dark-wood counter and pulled it from my pocket.

  A message from Karin: WHAT DID YOU LEARN?

  I smothered a groan. Only two days had passed since Alex’s death, and my sister wasn't going to let this go. Worry knotted in my stomach.

  ALEX HAD ENEMIES, I typed, and slipped the phone into my apron. Okay, technically, he had an enemy that I knew of — Wharton Van Gogh. But if there was one, there might be more.

  Another customer, a local shop owner, strode to the counter. “Hiya, Jayce. My usual, please.”

  My phone buzzed again.

  “Hi, Fred!” Ignoring my phone, I filled his order. The Wednesday afternoon crowd filled Ground with the buzz of conversation, the clink of mugs on tables. The customers were a mix of retirees and thirty-somethings tapping on their computers. How many were writers like Karin?

  And when was the last time my sister had actually published anything? I saw Karin typing a lot but hadn’t heard of any new releases since… her disappearance last summer.

  My pocket vibrated, and I snatched the phone from my apron.

  Karin again.

  HAVE YOU TALKED TO HIS WIFE?

  MAYBE I SHOULD COME TO DOYLE.

  Crud! Frantically, I texted back: AM SEEING HER THIS AFTERNOON. WILL REPORT.

  “Is everything okay?” Darla flipped her blond ponytail behind her shoulder. She wore the same green, long-sleeved Henley that I did, with the Ground logo above the left breast.

  My newest employee, Mathilda, turned sideways to slip past her and to the espresso machine.

  “I need to pay a condolence call this afternoon,” I said.

  The espresso machine whirred, and Mathilda shot me a sour look. She smoothed her flame-red ponytail behind her back.

  I grimaced guiltily. But it wasn’t like I was a slacker boss. I put in long days, and I would today, too.

  “Candace Mansfield?” Darla’s round face creased with sympathy.

  “Yeah, and I should probably take something over. Where can I get a casserole?”

  She raised a pale brow. “Usually you bake them yourself.”

  Who had time for that? Besides, I'd never baked a casserole in my life.

  “Or you could take flowers,” she suggested.

  “Right! Thanks,” I said, relieved. The grocery store down the block sold flowers. Problem solved.

  At five, I checked the clock on my phone. How late could I make a condolence call?

  Blowing out my breath, I glanced toward the front of Ground. The sun had already set. The red-paned windows were black mirrors, reflecting the empty coffeeshop.

  “If you want to get out of here,” Darla said, “I can do the clean up on my own. There's not much left. And I think I owe you one. You cleaned up on your own last week.”

  “Thanks,” I said, untying my apron and pulling it over my head. “You're a life saver.”

  I raced upstairs to my apartment, whipped off my top and slid into a silvery, v-neck sweater.

  The cat, Picatrix, hopped onto my unmade bed and watched as I smoothed the sweater over my hips.

  I changed into a pair of high-heeled, blue boots and pirouetted. “What do you think?”

  The black cat meowed critically.

  “It's a condolence call,” I said, “not a date.” I grabbed a thick, electric blue jacket and my purse off the floor. “See ya.”

  I trotted downstairs. Darla had already put the chairs on the tables and was mopping the floor. I didn’t want to leave footprints, so I zipped out the kitchen door and into the dimly lit alley.

  I bought a red-and-yellow bouquet from the grocery store and walked down Main, my breath steaming the evening air. Christmas lights blinked in a deserted shop window. The street was lifeless, and my boot heels echoed on the empty sidewalk. Doyle was a tourist town, and we didn’t get many mid-week tourists in early autumn.

  Crossing the low bridge over the creek, a wave of cool air drifted up to me. The water muttered beneath my feet, and I shivered.

  I zipped my parka to my chin and turned off Main Street into a residential area. Maybe I should have called first? I had the Mansfields’ number from all the orders Alex had placed at Ground. I shrugged deeper into my jacket. It was too late now. If Candace wasn't home, I'd leave the flowers with a note on her porch.

  I approached the orange, city paving machine surrounded by traffic barricades. My stomach dipped as Candace’s house came into view. Light streamed through the gray Victorian’s windows. I'd half-hoped she wouldn't be home.

  Clutching the bouquet more tightly, I walked through the t
angled garden, climbed the steps, rang the bell. I waited.

  Skin prickled on the back of my neck. I glanced over my shoulder.

  A curtain dropped in the window of the low, yellow Victorian across the street.

  Mrs. Steinberg. I shook my head. I couldn't blame her for being nosy, since it was exactly why I was here.

  The front door sprang open, and I hopped backward.

  “Jayce?” Candace's eyes were red and puffy. Her thin frame swam inside the bulky blue sweater she wore above her jeans. One side of her short, brown hair was matted, exposing flecks of gray, and I guessed she'd been sleeping.

  “Hi, Candace.” Unsure what to say next, I handed her the flowers. “I'm so sorry to hear what happened to Alex.”

  She stared, dead-eyed, at the bouquet. “Come inside. It's cold.”

  I followed her into the house, and my eyes watered from the scent of bleach. The living room was neat but bland. White walls. Gray sofa. Black leather chairs. A black and white rug. I imagined her telling Alex white walls made the room look bigger.

  And then I wondered where Alex had died. Not in this room. Had Mrs. Steinberg said something about the porch?

  Candace tracked my gaze to the doorway. “He was killed in the sunroom.”

  My shoulders jerked. It was one thing for my sisters to pick stray thoughts from my mind, but for Candace to do it—

  “Everyone wants to know,” she said. “You just missed the cleaning crew. I had to hire a specialist. I didn’t know there were specialists for animal attacks. Would you like some coffee? No, of course not. It can't compare to Ground's. Tea?”

  “Sure,” I said weakly.

  “Have a seat. I'll put these in water.”

  Taking off my jacket, I sat on the black couch. Waited. And wished I hadn't come. This was so awkward. Karin! I was so going to get her for this.

  Candace returned five minutes later carrying a tray heaped with tea things and two steaming mugs. She handed me a mug and sat in a leather chair opposite me. “I saw you that day, outside our house.”

  “I was delivering Alex's coffee order,” I said in a rush. “Darla had twisted her ankle, so I decided to bring it myself.”

  “And you were never paid. How much do we owe you?”

  “Nothing,” I said, uncomfortable. I shifted on the couch, and my jeans squeaked on the leather. “Forget about it.”

  “No, I insist.” She rose and walked to the entry, where I’d seen her purse hanging from a peg. “How much was it?”

  “Candace, really, it doesn't matter.”

  “I don't like owing people money. And it wasn't fair—” She choked back a sob.

  Hastily, I set my mug on the black coffee table and hurried to her. “Candace.” I didn't know what else to say, so I laid my palm on her quaking back.

  She wiped her eyes. “I don't understand it. He wouldn't have left the sunroom door open, not with the weather so cold and those damn workmen so loud. How could an animal have gotten inside to surprise him?”

  “I don't know. Are you sure…” I bit my lip. What was I doing here? The woman deserved peace and privacy.

  She turned to me, her expression strained. “Sure about what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  She stared wetly at her tennis shoes.

  “I just…” I swallowed. If I didn’t ask, Karin would be hot on the case. Next, my sister would find a way to blame magic and fairies for Alex’s death. “There have been so many rumors. A bear, a mountain lion. Are you sure it was an animal?”

  “I only saw him at the morgue, beneath a sheet.” Her brows drew closer. “But it must have been an animal. That's what everyone's saying. That's what they're saying.”

  “You think it wasn't an animal?”

  “What else could it have been?” She trudged into the living room and collapsed into an overstuffed black armchair. “If only I’d been here. If only he hadn't stayed home that day.”

  “You mean, he wasn't supposed to be home?” But we’d been delivering coffee to him at home on Mondays for weeks.

  “He always worked at home on Mondays. But last Monday, he took the day off. He talked about going for a hike to clear his head.”

  “So, it wasn’t a sick day.” Had he cancelled his coffee order? No, it didn’t matter. Or did it? It might speak to when or if he was planning on taking that hike.

  “In a manner of speaking. It was work pressure. It's not easy being a forensic scientist. I wonder what he would have made of his own crime scene?”

  “I always thought he had an interesting job, though I'm not entirely sure what a forensic scientist does.”

  “Doyle’s got a small crime lab, so he did pretty much everything. He tested for drugs in the bodies, analyzed trace and DNA evidence…” She gave me a wintry smile. “And I heard all about it.” She sobered. “Or most of it. I could tell there were things he didn't want me to hear. And lately…” She looked toward the window, her narrow face reflected in its glass.

  “Lately?”

  “Something was on his mind. I wish he would have told me.” She blinked rapidly. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Maybe there was nothing to tell.” If only Karin would believe that.

  “No. It wasn't like him to take a day off when there wasn't a vacation or event of some sort. If only he'd gone on that hike.” She pressed a hand to her mouth.

  The doorbell rang, and I started.

  “Do you want me to get that?” I asked.

  She nodded, struggling to master herself.

  I hurried to the entry and opened the door.

  The man on the porch blinked, his eyes widening with surprise. He had a military look to him. Buzz cut. Ears sticking comically from beneath hair flecked with the first strands of gray. Ruddy complexion. But his gut strained the buttons of a navy business suit. “Hello. Is Mrs. Mansfield in?”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  He drew a deep breath and held it. His mouth curved in a pained smile. “Eclectus Hood. I'm her lawyer. Hers and Alex's. Perhaps you could get her? Now?”

  “It's all right,” she said from behind me. “Eclectus, please come in.”

  He strode past me and engulfed one of her hands between two of his. “Candace. How are you holding up?”

  She shook her head. “What did the police say? Did you learn anything?”

  He cut a glance to me. “Maybe we should speak in private.”

  “I was just leaving,” I said, and I returned to the living room for my things.

  “But what is it?” she asked him.

  I shrugged into my jacket, my ears straining to catch their low murmurs and hearing only every third word. I couldn’t blame Karin for my eavesdropping. Now, I was curious.

  A word drifted from the hallway, and I froze.

  Murder.

  Looping the purse over one arm, I pulled my hair free from my collar and returned to the hallway. I paused beside Candace and the lawyer at the front door. “Please let me know what I can do to help out,” I told Candace.

  She nodded. “Thank you. And the flowers were lovely.”

  I strode outside and to the street.

  The lawyer had said murder, but had I heard correctly?

  Thoughtful, I walked to Main Street and back to Ground.

  A woman in a crimson wool coat stood staring at my coffeeshop’s windows, and I slowed. Her red hair was cropped short, and in their white knit gloves, her thin hands were fists.

  Stomach churning, I came to a halt beside one of my green metal sidewalk tables. “Terry?”

  She turned swiftly. Her brow wrinkled with confusion. A goddess pendant glittered at the throat of her sienna turtleneck. The silver goddess wore a crescent moon like a horned crown.

  “Hi.” Heat flamed my cheeks. “I'm Jayce, Jayce Bonheim. I don't know if you remember me. We met at the… funeral.” At her daughter's funeral, the funeral for Brayden's wife.

&nbs
p; “Yes,” she said in a monotone. “You’re younger than I remember.”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  She turned and looked at the window. I’d left the interior lights on, and the overturned chairs atop the tables were clearly visible. “I don't think I can. This is where Alicia…” She swallowed, a spasm of pain crossing her face.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “The old Ground burned down.”

  “Good.” Her absinthe eyes glittered, anger vibrating through her voice.

  I took an involuntary step backward, and I forced my muscles to loosen. If one of my sisters had been murdered, I'd probably want to see the site burned to the ground too.

  “Brayden told me you two are dating,” she said stiffly. “How long has that been going on?”

  “A few months,” I said vaguely and looked away.

  Brayden and I had been in love for years but had never acted on or even spoken about it, because he'd been married to Alicia. And then Alicia had died.

  From an outsider's perspective, Brayden and I hadn't wasted any time getting together. From my perspective, we'd waited agonizing years. But guilt twinged through me.

  “It's good that he's moving on,” she said, her voice like broken glass.

  “Why don't you come inside, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee?”

  Terry’s face contorted, and I silently cursed myself. She’d already said she couldn’t sip coffee at the sight of her daughter’s murder. But I was rattled, and not thinking right.

  “Or I could get you a cup of coffee and bring it out here?” I gestured to the empty table.

  “No. Thanks. I've seen all I needed to.” She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving me feeling aching and inadequate at the same time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aimless, I wandered my apartment. My visit with Candace, seeing Terry, had wrapped me in a caul of guilt. I wasn’t proud of my role as Karin’s spy. But I couldn’t forget my fear when she’d vanished last summer, how we’d feared she’d had some kind of post-partum breakdown. We’d tried spell after spell to find her, and finally, inexplicably, she’d reappeared with her story of going to another world. I had to help keep Karin on an even keel.