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“I’ll tell Hannah you liked her recipe.”

I looked at him sitting across from me. He was an incredibly handsome man. He was kind and loyal and smart. He had integrity and cats loved him. And no one had ever kissed me the way he did.

I set down my fork. “I’ve been trying really hard not to get mixed up in this case.”

“I know,” he said. “And I know it’s difficult because people you care about are involved.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Kathleen, I don’t want you to be someone you’re not. I really don’t. It’s just that—” His mouth worked as he tried to find the right words. “I remember what it felt like when you went over that embankment down by the river, and that was just a few months ago. And last year, when you came so damn close to getting caught inside when that cabin exploded in the woods.” His blue eyes locked on to mine. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to,” I said. I leaned across the table to kiss him this time. I pressed my hand against his cheek.

He smiled. “Your sleeve’s in your turnip,” he said.

I smiled back at him. “Your elbow is in yours.”

After we’d gotten our respective body parts out of our supper and cleaned the turnip and carrot off our clothing, I told Marcus everything I knew.

“It feels like some kind of Victorian melodrama,” I said. “I can’t shake the feeling this is all connected to that pawnshop robbery.”

“I can’t make a case on feelings.”

I pushed my plate away. “I know,” I said. “But you have to admit it’s odd that Dayna stopped cooperating with the prosecutor’s office, she dropped out of sight and the next thing she shows up here—somewhere she hasn’t been in more than twenty years.”

“It does seem a little too convenient to be a coincidence,” he said. He got up and cleared the plates from the table. “Banana bread and coffee?” he asked, reaching for the kettle.

“You made banana bread?” I said.

He shook his head. “No. I bought banana bread. It’s from Fern’s. Georgia Tepper made it.”

I shifted in my chair. “That means you went to Fern’s to talk to Burtis and yes, thank you, I’ll have a slice.”

He laughed. “Okay, yes, I went to talk to Burtis over at Fern’s. Not exactly on the record, but not exactly off it, either.”

I rolled up my sleeve so the turnip stain didn’t show. “Marcus, do you honestly think Burtis killed his ex-wife?” I patted my chest. “In here, and in your gut.”

“I don’t do gut feelings,” he said, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his midsection. “I need facts. I need evidence.”

“You also have instincts,” I countered. “What do they tell you?”

I looked at him without speaking.

Finally, he raked a hand back through his hair and gave me a wry smile. “Okay. My instincts tell me that Burtis didn’t kill his ex-wife.”

“So, does the evidence point to anybody else?”

“We’re still investigating,” he said. “We don’t have all the evidence.”

He was just a second too slow in answering.

“Who?” I asked.

“C’mon, Kathleen,” he said, reaching for a knife to slice the banana bread. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

I thought about everything I’d learned so far about Dayna Chapman’s death. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Brady,” I said.

Marcus’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s Brady,” I repeated.

Marcus let out a long, slow breath. “She was at his office, and they had words at the reception desk.”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t Brady.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Marcus said.

I thought about the look on Maggie’s face when she’d said Brady’s name.

“We have to figure out who killed Dayna Chapman.”

“We?” Marcus asked, his eyebrows going up.

I nodded. “Uh-huh. You and me.”

I ate my banana bread while Marcus gave me his “this is a police investigation” speech.

When he finished I had a sip of my coffee before I answered. “Everything you said is right. But the fact is, people will tell me things that they won’t tell you. Dayna Chapman’s murder touches a lot of people I care about—Maggie, Lita and yes, Burtis.” I took a deep breath. “I won’t do anything stupid, but I’m not going to stop asking questions. If that’s a problem you’re just going to have to arrest me.” I stuck both hands out in front of me, my hands pulled into fists, like I was waiting to be handcuffed.

Marcus studied me for a moment and then picked up his cup.

“Too melodramatic?” I asked after another moment of silence.

He nodded as he got up for more coffee. “Just a little.”

We didn’t talk any more about the case for the rest of the night.

*   *   *

Both Owen and Hercules were in sulky moods in the morning. Owen flicked his tail in Hercules’s face and in return his brother swiped at it with one paw. A couple of yowls were exchanged before I banged my bowl of oatmeal on the counter, making them both jump.

“Both of you stop it,” I said sternly. There was silence for a moment and then they both began to grumble under their breath as they sat crouched on the floor. “Hello!” I snapped. “Did I ask for comments from the peanut gallery?”

I pointed at Owen and flicked my finger toward the back door. “You! Time to go outside. I’ll be out in a minute.” I looked at Hercules, who did a lousy job at not looking guilty. “Go in the living room or go upstairs.”

They hesitated, eyeing each other. I took one step toward them and they both moved, Owen for the porch and Herc for the living room door.

“Much better,” I said. I didn’t know if it was the shorter days or maybe the full moon, but both cats were acting crankier than usual. Of course, they could have been thinking the same thing about me.

After I finished my oatmeal, I went outside to clear the steps and the path around the house. Harry had already been by to clear the driveway.

Owen bounded around happily in the snow chasing a dried leaf.

“Let’s go,” I called when I finished. He came across the backyard with a snow beard stuck to his face. “All you need is a red stocking cap and you’d look like Santa Claus,” I said, leaning down to brush off the snow. He went ahead of me up the steps. Hercules was sitting on the bench in the porch. He jumped down and followed us into the kitchen, lifting one paw and shaking it in annoyance when he stepped on a tiny bit of snow that had fallen off his brother’s tail.

I split the last of the bag of kitty kibble that was still in my old jacket between the two of them. Owen stopped to rub against my ankle and I bent to give him a scratch behind one ear. “Have a good day,” I said.

Hercules had quickly eaten the dried chunks of cat food and now he was waiting by the door.

“Are you going outside?” I asked as I pulled on my hat and tucked some stray wisps of hair underneath it. He blinked at me, then craned his neck and looked at the porch door. That seemed to be as much of a yes as I was going to get. Hercules didn’t like going outside much in the snow—or the rain or the mud. Usually he had a purpose. I wondered what it was this time. At least the locked door wouldn’t be an obstacle to him getting back in again. That was the one advantage to his “superpower.”

I let the cat go ahead of me and turned to lock the porch door. When I turned around again Hercules was already following the path around the side of the house. I didn’t have a good feeling about that. By the time I got around to the truck, he was waiting by the driver’s door.

“No,” I said.

He looked at me. He looked at the door.

I bent down and picked him up. I expected at least an angry yowl. Instead he went limp in my arms.

“Passive resistance,” I said. “It’s not going to work.”