That night Dylan fell asleep holding me close. Though he’d respected my wishes and refrained from berating me for getting involved in another homicide investigation, I knew that he feared for my life. But he seemed cheerful enough when the sun rose on a lovely April morning.
“Since I don’t have anything urgent to take care of at the office and you start late today, why don’t we have breakfast out?”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Did you have anyplace in mind?”
“There’s a cute B and B north of here that serves the best waffles and French toast. I went there with my parents a few times.”
“That was years ago,” I said. “Are you sure they’re still in business?”
Dylan grinned. “Uh-huh. I called them yesterday.”
“Sneaky!” I said, bopping him on the head with a pillow.
He bopped me right back. We got into a pillow fight until Smoky Joe jumped on the bed meowing for his breakfast.
“I’ll feed you in just a minute,” I told him. “And don’t worry—I’m taking you to the library as usual. I have to remember to bring some cans of cat food and some more kitty litter. We’re running low on supplies.”
Half an hour later, Dylan and I were in his BMW, heading for the Westcott Inn. I studied his profile as he drove. His face muscles were relaxed, his mood contemplative.
“Do you have any idea how you plan to start your investigation?” he asked.
I laughed. “None whatsoever. After that big buildup last night, I have no idea where to begin. I have two thoughts, though—either Daphne’s ex-husband murdered her, or her death is connected to her father’s murder twenty years ago.”
Dylan nodded. “A sound deduction.”
“Really?” I was pleased by his compliment.
“Sure. Daphne was strangled. There was no evidence of sexual assault or signs that her assailant was after money or valuables.”
“Sounds like you spoke to John about it,” I said.
“I did.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
He shot me a shamefaced grin. “I was, until you mentioned you’d gone to speak to someone you thought might have murdered Daphne’s father.”
“John put out an APB for Bert Lutz,” I said. “I’ll know soon enough if and when he’s brought back to Clover Ridge for questioning.”
“And what are you planning to do about tying Daphne’s murder to her father’s?”
I shrugged. “Good question. I read through the old newspaper items. The only thing that caught my eye was the argument Chet Harper had with Lester Brown. He seemed to think that Lester was having an affair with his wife. Lester said Chet was way off base on that.”
“Maybe she was having an affair, only it wasn’t with Lester.”
I nodded. “Robby said that Daphne told him she’d picked up vibes from someone recently who had deep feelings for her mother. She was going to check him out.”
Dylan rolled his eyes.
“I know. Pretty flimsy information. If only I could speak to Patricia Harper and ask her who this person is. Though of course that doesn’t mean he killed her husband.”
“Robby’s not in contact with his mother?”
“Nope. He said she remarried and lives in Oregon. Oh—and that Dowd was her maiden name.”
Dylan patted my knee. “We investigators have our arsenal of tools to track down people who try to fly under the radar. I’ll see what I can find out about Patricia Harper née Dowd now Mrs. Something-Else who’s living in Oregon.”
I leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks so much, Dylan. I can’t believe you’re helping me with this.”
He pursed his lips, pretending to be angry. “Neither can I. But to tell you the truth, I’m overwhelmingly impressed by you, Miss Carolinda Singleton.”
“Thank you, my love, but I’ve told you—I changed my name to Carrie fifteen years ago.”
“You’ll always be Carolinda to me.”
“So much for changing things legally,” I said wryly.
We stopped at a light, and Dylan turned to face me. “You have changed, Carrie. You blow me away.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt! You seemed so tentative that October morning you came to look at the cottage—unsure of yourself and your place in the world. And now you’re a confident, well-respected member of the community.”
I laughed. “I’d just gotten my job at the library. I didn’t have enough money to pay what I imagined the rent would be. And then you let me have the cottage at a ridiculously low rate.”
“I think I was beginning to fall for you even then.”
“And now?”
“I know I’m the luckiest guy around.”
“How lucky am I? I now live at the cottage rent-free.”
Our fingers entwined, and we rode the rest of the way without speaking.
The Westcott Inn was a pretty, sprawling, white wood-framed house with a red front door. We entered the narrow hall, and a smiling woman in her midforties led us to a table beside a window in the dining room. I gazed out. Just beyond the lawn, three horses were grazing in a meadow.
“Like it?” Dylan asked.
I took in the muted woven carpet, the knickknacks on the mantel above the fireplace, and grinned. “Can’t wait to come back.”
“Let’s first see how you like the food here,” Dylan advised.
Only two of the other six or seven tables were occupied—one with two older women, the other with a couple about our age.
“I imagine this place is very busy during the summer,” I said.
“And most weekends,” Dylan said from behind his large menu. “I’m having blueberry pancakes.”
“And I want French toast with strawberries and honey.”
“Good choice.”
Our waiter, a slender college-aged young man, approached with a broad grin. “Good morning! My name is Eric. Would you like to start with orange juice? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” I said. “With cream.”
“Orange juice for me,” Dylan said. “And we’re ready to order.”
“Great!”
We told him what we wanted to eat, and he sped away to place our order. I leaned back in my chair and gazed out at the horses.
“Happy?” Dylan asked.
“Very. As long as we’re home by twelve fifteen, I’m all yours.”
“I have nothing pressing right now. I plan to start interviewing for an assistant in a week or two.”
I suddenly remembered. “I haven’t spoken to my mother since I drove her home from the film shoot yesterday. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
I reached inside my pocketbook for my phone and called my mother’s cell. It went to voice mail. “I’m beginning to get worried.”
“Could be she’s watching another shoot and has her phone off,” Dylan said. “Why don’t you try her again after we eat?”
“Good idea.”
Eric brought over Dylan’s juice and my coffee and the rest of our order a few minutes later. My French toast filled a large platter.
“Wow! I’ll have to take half of this home,” I said. But a few minutes later I was finishing off the last of the toast.
Eric was pouring me a coffee refill when my phone played its jingle.
“Maybe that’s her,” I said.
It was John Mathers, sounding grim. “Carrie, your mother’s here at the precinct. I brought her in for questioning.”
“Questioning? For what? Why?”
“Ilana Reingold was found murdered this morning. Looks like she’d been struck over the head with a heavy object.”
A cold fear washed over me. “Where did this happen?”
“Dirk Franklin, the director, found her in her room at the hotel where most of the cast and crew are staying.”
“How awful! But why do you think my mother has anything to do with it?”
“Several of the cast heard her threatening Miss Reingold yesterday, and she doesn’t deny it.”
“I was there and heard her myself, but she didn’t mean it literally. She was hurt and angry because Ilana kept flirting with Tom, my mother’s husband, and frustrated because Tom acted like nothing was wrong. He and Ilana were engaged several years ago.” As I spoke, I realized how incriminating my words sounded.
“Right. That’s what the director told me. I’m about to interview the other actors.”
“John, this is my mother you’re talking about. She wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“Sorry, Carrie. I advised her to get a lawyer. She said she doesn’t know any lawyers in the area.”
I swallowed. “Is Tom with her?”
“No, he brought your mother here then took off. I’m not sure where he went.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I told Dylan what happened. He went in search of Eric to ask for our bill.
“I can’t believe John likes my mother for the crime because she got angry at Ilana yesterday for flirting with Tom,” I said as we exited the inn’s long driveway.
“Well, unless he has solid evidence to prove she’s a viable suspect, I doubt that he can book her.”
“She needs a lawyer. I have to call Ken Talbot. He doesn’t handle criminal cases, but he has a friend who does. I can’t remember his name.”
“Phil Demuth. His office is in the same building as Ken’s.”
“I forgot that Ken is your lawyer too. Do you happen to have Phil Demuth’s phone number?”
“Yes. I’ll call his office if you like, but Phil’s probably in court.”
Dylan instructed his phone’s virtual assistant to contact Phil Demuth’s office. His receptionist answered the call.
“Hello, Irene, Dylan Avery here. Is Phil in, by any chance?”
Irene said Phil was in court and was expected back in the office at two PM. Dylan explained the situation and asked her to have the lawyer call my mother ASAP. He asked me for my mother’s cell number, which he then rattled off to Irene. He thanked her and ended the call.
“There’s nothing more you can do for your mother now except give her moral support when we get to the precinct.”
I reached over to hug him. “Thanks. I’m glad you’re going with me. I can’t imagine where Tom disappeared to at a time like this.”
Dylan shook his head. “Me neither.”
I let out a huff of exasperation. “How can John think my mother’s guilty? Anyone could have killed Ilana. Most of the actors are staying at that hotel, but she and Tom aren’t.”
Dylan patted my thigh. “You’ll find out more when we get to the station. Bizarre that two women were murdered a day apart in Clover Ridge.”
“I’m wondering—is this a man who hates women, or are there two murderers wandering around town? Daphne and Ilana come from two different worlds. They didn’t even know each other.”
“As far as we know,” Dylan said.