Bob Binkins was carried past on a stretcher, injured but alive.
Stabbed. He was stabbed.
The sheriff and Detective Freedman had already arrived on the scene, and the festivities, while allowed to continue at a safe distance, had died down. The boating business had been cordoned off and people had tried gathering to watch and been forced further back.
A few of those people stared at me, suspiciously, like I’d somehow teleported myself into the building, stabbed Bob, and then reappeared next to Luca.
Stop it. You’re just stressed. It was easy to get frustrated when everything seemed to be going opposite to how I’d anticipated.
Today felt like a waste. Instead of schmoozing with handsome Luca at the lake, I should’ve been seeking out Roxanne. I should’ve been in dogged pursuit of the truth. So why had I slowed down?
The answer was obvious, though I didn’t want to admit it.
I was afraid of being good at detective work.
“Are you all right, honey?” Gran stood beside me, only coming up to my shoulder, and looped her arm around my waist. “Come on. Why don’t we head back to my place? I’ll fix you something to eat. You can have some pop and relax.”
I shook my head.
“What is it?” Gran asked.
“What are the odds?”
“The odds?”
“Yeah. What are the odds that Angela was stabbed in the cafe, and now Bob Binkins has met the same fate. He’s not dead, but he’s been stabbed. Do we have a serial killer on our hands?”
“Goodness, Milly, are you trying to scare me?” Gran whispered. “First the mugger and now this?”
“There’s something weird going on here. Two stabbings. They’ve got to be connected.”
“But it can’t be a serial killer. Bob isn’t dead.”
Not yet. I didn’t say the words out loud. They would only frighten Gran, and there was no sense in that. I spotted Detective Freedman hoofing it across the sand.
“Be right back,” I said, and hurried after him.
The detective, wearing his shoes even on the lake shore, appeared to be in high dudgeon. He scratched the back of his neck frequently but stared directly ahead, blocking out the noise and curiosity from the onlookers behind the police line.
“Detective,” I called, and ducked under said line. It was a natural action, one I’d performed before, and I did it unthinkingly.
Detective Freedman spun toward me, letting out what I could only describe as a tea kettle hiss. “What the heck are you doing? Get back behind that line, Miss Pepper.”
“I need to talk to you,” I said, neither retreating nor approaching. “Please. It’s about Angela.” And Bob.
Detective Freedman equivocated. He released a grunt and came over, guiding me back behind the police line. “What is it?”
I waited until we were far enough from potential eavesdroppers then turned to him. “I think there’s a connection between Angela’s murder and the attempt on Mr. Binkins’ life.”
Detective Freedman’s already sour expression went positively acrid. “Excuse me?”
“What are the odds that they were both stabbed?” I asked. “And in such a short amount of time? It’s barely been a week and—”
“Let me make something clear, Miss Pepper, you are still a person of interest. And you will not peddle these inadequate, irresponsible theories to me or anyone else in this town. Do you understand me?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” Freedman said. “You’re not a detective. You’re not even a cafe owner at this point. You’re a suspect. Plain and simple. So stay away from these cases unless you want to incriminate yourself further.”
It was pointless arguing.
He gave me a final glare of reproval before continuing his march off toward the lakeside road.
“Well. That went fantastically.” But I wasn’t going to give up.
The more I thought about it, the more my deduction made sense. I just had to prove I was right. And in doing so that I was innocent. At this point, it was the only way to save the cafe.