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When I caught up with the others, I gave Stephen a hug, squeezing him proudly and planting a kiss on his cheek, prompting an alarming blush from the boy. “Congrats, buddy!” I said. “What’re you gonna do with that money?”
“Save it,” Jennifer said.
“Spend it,” Stephen said at the same time.
Mark chuckled before saying, “How about you put half in your saving account and spend the rest?”
“I’ll accept that,” Jennifer said. She turned to Dean. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No, I was just going to—”
“Oh, good. You and Bryony can go get something from the Raven and Fox. They’re catering lunch today. Bryony loves their club sandwiches. And she has a question she needs to ask you. You can have a nice meal and discuss her question.”
I gave Jennifer the most withering look I could summon up. “I don’t,” I said to Dean. “Have a question, I mean. I do, however, really love their club sandwiches.”
“Yeah,” said Jennifer. “She does. Have a question.” She reached out and put her hands on both Dean’s back and mine and gave us a gentle shove in the direction of the pub’s tent.
Dean cast a confused look back and forth between me and Jennifer, but gave in and started walking towards the tent. I lingered long enough to shoot Jennifer another death glare before falling in beside Dean as he moved across the lawn. She merely smiled benignly at me and turned back to her family.
“She’s so bossy sometimes,” I said to Dean. “Must come from being a mother. Lord knows Glynis is bossy.”
Dean smirked. “Your mother is a hoot.”
‘“A hoot,’ huh? What are you, seventy-two years old? Who even talks like that?”
The look Dean gave me was a pale shadow of the one I’d given Jennifer just minutes ago. It did not have the desired effect, however. It only made me grin.
“So what’s this question you have for me?” Dean asked.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s nothing, really. Just Jennifer being pushy.” We entered the tent that was now filled with the scents of frying bacon, hot soup, and French fries. There were still pieces of the prize-winning cakes, a few globs of trifle, and a solitary scone left on the long table at the front of the tent. I sidled over to the scone, looked around, and then stuck it in my purse for later. It would be a nice treat that night with a cup of Earl Grey cream tea.
Dean chuckled. “It’s not about the dance next week, is it?”
I froze and looked up at Dean with wide, deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes. “How... How did—”
There was a loud thump and the rattle of dishware and glasses breaking. Someone screamed. Someone else was making the most horrible sounds I had ever heard. Dean sprang into action, shoving his way through the crowd towards the front of the tent. I followed in his wake, taking note of the looks of horror on people’s faces. What had happened?
Dean fell to his knees, and I saw someone writhing on the floor in front of him. Viki Childress was standing opposite Dean and me, looking down at the body, confusion and fright on her face as she gripped hands with her boyfriend, Gordon Oakes. I stood at Dean’s back and looked over his shoulder, finally able to see what had happened.
Barry Shubitz was lying on the floor, writhing in obvious agony. There was a shattered glass of spilled lemonade lying on the ground next to him and an overturned bowl of salad at his elbow. His face had gone an alarming shade of purplish-red, and he was clutching his throat. His tongue and eyes protruded from his face, and there were long claw marks up and down the sides of his neck. I shuddered in horror, and the world went a little fuzzy and gray at the edges.
Dean tried to pull Barry’s hands away from his neck, but couldn’t. In his agony, the short, chubby lawyer was stronger than the county sheriff who worked out daily. “What happened?” Dean asked. Barry just shook his head and kept clawing at his throat. Dean glanced up at the crowd that had surrounded them. “Does anyone know what happened? Is he allergic to something?”
I blinked, coming out of the shock of seeing Barry choking to death. I fell to my knees next to Dean and started going through Barry’s pockets, searching for an epinephrine injector or some other sort of medication. I came away with nothing, then I dug in my purse and drew out my pocket knife, a gift from my father when I was sixteen. “Do you know how to do a tracheotomy?” I asked Dean.
“I’m not a doctor, Bryony!” he snapped. Then he looked up into the faces of those gathered around. “Is Doc Hutchins still here?”
“It’s too late, Sheriff,” said someone in the crowd. “I think he’s dead.”
I looked down at Barry again and saw he’d gone limp. Dean pressed his fingers against the side of Barry’s neck, held them there for a moment, then sagged. He nodded and looked at me. “He’s gone.”
“How can that be?” Viki whispered. She glanced at Gordon with fear in her eyes, then turned and fled the tent.