residence. The table—a simple pine table painted a glossy cherry red and decorated with hand-painted birds and flowers—had been in this room for as long as I could remember. When Ingrid Whitfield had run the Merryville Gift Haus out of the space, the table had held mountains of hand-knit sweaters,scarves, and mittens. Now it served many purposes: I used it when I was cutting patterns for my hand-tailored pet apparel, Rena occasionally used it to display her homemade organic pet treats, but it was primarily used as a gathering spot for friends and family when the doors to Trendy Tails were locked to the public.
That evening, the four of us sat at the table discussing the day’s events while my mother dished out servings of her famous creamy mushroom hotdish. Basically, it was mushroom stroganoff: earthy mushrooms and egg noodles in a hearty herbed cream sauce. My mother, however, would have protested slapping such a highfalutin name on her homespun casserole. She took pride in creating simple home-style fare, and she would assume she was being accused of putting on airs if you’d called her hotdish something so fancy. And, to be fair, Mom parted ways with a traditional stroganoff by making the dish vegetarian, adding green peas and carrots for color, and smothering the top with buttered bread crumbs. I was happy to let her call it whatever she wanted to, because it was one of my favorites, and I didn’t want anything to slow the frequency with which she made it. Sticklers might argue that it wasn’t a proper dish for a summer supper, but the gusto with which we were all scooping dinner onto our plates made it clear there were no sticklers at the table.
“I’m not kidding, Izzy,” Jack said. “You’re staying out of this.”
I sighed and gave Jinx a gentle nudge to encourage her to jump off my lap. I didn’t mind the animals being in the room while we ate, but I didn’t want to drip hot mushroom sauce on my cat. “I don’t know why you’re in such a state, Jack. I’m not about to put on a deerstalker and go looking for clues with a magnifying glass. But I can find out stuff you can’t. People clam up when you’re around, but it seems they’ll say just about anything in front of me. I promise I’m just going to keep my ear to the ground.”
Jack glowered at me. Given my past behavior, my promise may have lacked credibility.
“It can’t hurt,” Dolly added as she ground a generous amount of black pepper over her hotdish. “Jack, you have to admit that we have a pretty good track record in the field of criminal investigation.”
Rena snorted and I winced. It had to chafe just a bit that a gang of amateurs had beaten the police at their own game, not once but twice in the past year. Jack never mentioned our sleuthing in those terms, but I’d heard others make cracks about Merryville’s new homemaker homicide division.
“You’ve gotten lucky,” Jack said.
“Hey!” Rena, Dolly, and I protested in unison.
The look on Jack’s face, the look of a man who’sjust realized he’s the only man in a roomful of women, would have been comical if he hadn’t just dismissed the hard work I’d put into solving those crimes. He looked to the floor where Packer sat wiggling in anticipation of a savory morsel falling to the floor, apparently seeking some sort of solidarity. “I mean,” Jack backpedaled, “that you’ve gotten lucky that you haven’t been hurt. Besides, I understand why you were so motivated to snoop in Merryville’s last two murders, given Rena and Dolly’s involvement”—my friends and family had a terrible knack for looking like killers—“but Pris is hardly part of your inner circle.”
“The man has a point,” Rena said. “Pass the pepper, please.”
Echoes of Phillip Denford’s early-morning threats filled my ears. I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until my lizard brain took over, and I sucked in a gasp of air. Jack was wrong about my desire to get involved
That evening, the four of us sat at the table discussing the day’s events while my mother dished out servings of her famous creamy mushroom hotdish. Basically, it was mushroom stroganoff: earthy mushrooms and egg noodles in a hearty herbed cream sauce. My mother, however, would have protested slapping such a highfalutin name on her homespun casserole. She took pride in creating simple home-style fare, and she would assume she was being accused of putting on airs if you’d called her hotdish something so fancy. And, to be fair, Mom parted ways with a traditional stroganoff by making the dish vegetarian, adding green peas and carrots for color, and smothering the top with buttered bread crumbs. I was happy to let her call it whatever she wanted to, because it was one of my favorites, and I didn’t want anything to slow the frequency with which she made it. Sticklers might argue that it wasn’t a proper dish for a summer supper, but the gusto with which we were all scooping dinner onto our plates made it clear there were no sticklers at the table.
“I’m not kidding, Izzy,” Jack said. “You’re staying out of this.”
I sighed and gave Jinx a gentle nudge to encourage her to jump off my lap. I didn’t mind the animals being in the room while we ate, but I didn’t want to drip hot mushroom sauce on my cat. “I don’t know why you’re in such a state, Jack. I’m not about to put on a deerstalker and go looking for clues with a magnifying glass. But I can find out stuff you can’t. People clam up when you’re around, but it seems they’ll say just about anything in front of me. I promise I’m just going to keep my ear to the ground.”
Jack glowered at me. Given my past behavior, my promise may have lacked credibility.
“It can’t hurt,” Dolly added as she ground a generous amount of black pepper over her hotdish. “Jack, you have to admit that we have a pretty good track record in the field of criminal investigation.”
Rena snorted and I winced. It had to chafe just a bit that a gang of amateurs had beaten the police at their own game, not once but twice in the past year. Jack never mentioned our sleuthing in those terms, but I’d heard others make cracks about Merryville’s new homemaker homicide division.
“You’ve gotten lucky,” Jack said.
“Hey!” Rena, Dolly, and I protested in unison.
The look on Jack’s face, the look of a man who’sjust realized he’s the only man in a roomful of women, would have been comical if he hadn’t just dismissed the hard work I’d put into solving those crimes. He looked to the floor where Packer sat wiggling in anticipation of a savory morsel falling to the floor, apparently seeking some sort of solidarity. “I mean,” Jack backpedaled, “that you’ve gotten lucky that you haven’t been hurt. Besides, I understand why you were so motivated to snoop in Merryville’s last two murders, given Rena and Dolly’s involvement”—my friends and family had a terrible knack for looking like killers—“but Pris is hardly part of your inner circle.”
“The man has a point,” Rena said. “Pass the pepper, please.”
Echoes of Phillip Denford’s early-morning threats filled my ears. I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until my lizard brain took over, and I sucked in a gasp of air. Jack was wrong about my desire to get involved
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