Kate punched the dough, flipped it, and hit it again. Then she started pummeling it.
“If you’re not careful, those rolls are going to have you arrested for assault,” Maxi said.
“Haven’t you heard? We pastry makers are a violent bunch. We beat eggs and whip cream. But don’t tell Kyle. Seriously, what are we going to say to Sam?”
“Peter’s idea is to say nothing,” Maxi said, sipping coffee out of a tiny cup. “Not yet. And I think he’s right. We don’t know anything yet. One doctor feels guilty because maybe he missed something. And maybe he did. Or maybe he didn’t understand just how awful it was to work for Stewart Lord. All the hours. All the pressure.”
“Or maybe Muriel wasn’t being as good with her diet and exercise routine as she told her doctor.”
“That too. Until they do tests, there’s nothing to tell Sam. He’ll just worry. And that will hurt him.”
“But you know Coral Cay,” Kate said, cleaving the doughball in two, placing each half in a separate mixing bowl, then deftly covering them loosely with plastic wrap. “That little piece of bad news is going to be the talk of the town, literally, before the week is out. And Sam is sitting right there in the police station jail. Gossip central. He’s going to hear something.”
“I wonder if this will maybe help him. Help his case.”
“What do you mean?” Kate asked, pushing the bowls up against the far side of the counter—well out of the reach of curious little hands.
“Well, Sam knew Stewart Lord. And really didn’t like him. So someone could say that he had a reason for that one. Even though we know he didn’t do it. But Muriel Hopkins? I don’t think he even met her. So why would he kill her? And how?”
“You’re right. If it turns out she was murdered and we can show Sam didn’t do it, that should go a good way toward proving Sam didn’t kill Lord, either.”
“It also means the bobo has to leave you alone and find another suspect,” Maxi said.
“What do you mean?”
“From what Rosie and Andre said, she died a month ago. You were still living in New York then, right?”
“Oh yeah. With an apartment and a job and a fiancé. I wonder when she died?”
“Well, let’s fire up my old girl and ask,” Maxi said, walking into the living room and sitting down at the computer. “M-u-r-i-e-l and H-o-p-k-i-n-s. I’m gonna put in ‘Florida,’ in case there’s more than one.”
“Add ‘obituary,’” Kate suggested. “That should narrow it down.”
Maxi hit “Enter,” then scooted back in her seat. “Oooh!”
“What?”
“This is from the Hibiscus Springs newspaper. It says Muriel F. Hopkins, fifty-two, administrative assistant at Lord Enterprises Limited, died of a heart attack.” She paused, scanning the text. “On the sixteenth of last month.”
“Whoa,” Kate said.
“That mean something?” Maxi said, looking up.
Kate shook her head. “Remember how I told you I lost my job, my apartment, and my fiancé all on the same day? That was the day. And if this doesn’t make me stop feeling sorry for myself, I don’t know what will.”