Chapter 12

More times than she probably should have, Winnie found herself stealing glances in Mark Reilly’s direction as he flitted around the private room, sharing memories of his stepfather with a tear in his eye.

With Mr. Nelson, he’d looked back fondly on his mom and Bart’s annual flower beds, sharing a behind-the-scenes account that included tales of drawings and spreadsheets in the weeks leading up to planting season.

With Bridget, Mark lamented his good fortune in being raised by a man like Bart.

With Peggy Landon, one of Serenity Lane’s earliest settlers, he recounted the patience his stepfather had shown him when he’d resisted riding his first bike as a young boy.

Observing (and, yes, eavesdropping) from a distance, it was easy to view each and every encounter as insincere—a show put forth by a very viable suspect in Bart’s murder. Yet, the moment Mark got around to Winnie and started talking about how much her peach pie promise to his mother had truly meant to Bart, she couldn’t help but want to scratch his name off her mental suspect list.

Up close, Mark’s grief over Bart’s death seemed sincere.

Up close, his outrage over the manner in which Bart died seemed true.

But was it?

“Nice article in this morning’s paper.”

She looked up from her half-eaten lunch to find Greg Stevens’s dimples on full display. “Oh. Greg. Hi.” Pushing her plate forward, she wiggled out of her chair and extended her hand to the uniformed man. “I didn’t know you knew Bart.”

Greg’s broad shoulders shrugged beneath the dark blue fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t, really. But Chuck”—she followed the line of his finger to the redhead talking to Mark at the far end of the table—“over there wanted to stop by.”

“Do you always go to the funerals of people you aren’t able to save?”

“Sometimes. Depends on the circumstances.” He took inventory of Winnie’s dress and then gestured to her hair. “I like your hair down like that. It’s really pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“We wanted to come by the service, but a call on the other side of town prevented us from being able to do that. So here we are at the repast—although we’re not staying to eat.”

Mr. Nelson pushed his chair into the gap between them and pointed up at Greg. “That’s right, young fella, there’s meat . . . but it’s a bit rubbery if you ask me.”

The dimples disappeared as Greg drew back, confused. “I’m sorry, I—”

She reached out, placed one hand on Greg’s forearm and one hand on Mr. Nelson’s shoulder. “Mr. Nelson, he said eat . . . not meat. And he’s not staying to do that.”

“Smart man,” Mr. Nelson muttered as he scooted his chair back to the table and resumed his conversation with the thirty-something brunette on his other side.

A flicker of amusement brought the paramedic’s dimples back in play. “You know this guy?” Greg asked, lowering his voice to a near whisper.

Unsure of how to take the question, she merely nodded.

“A bit hard of hearing, I take it?”

“He does okay.” She heard the defensive note to her tone and, instead, let her gaze return to the far end of the table and the two men now in full-blown conversation. “So you came to accompany Chuck?”

“We’re riding together today.”

“I see.” But she really didn’t. She was still trying to decide whether his comment about Mr. Nelson had been a simple case of making conversation or the first sign of a person she didn’t care to continue knowing.

“Turns out, Chuck has known the victim for a while.”

“Oh?”

“From what I gather, Mr. Wagner used to run some sort of collectors club in town and Chuck started attending meetings with his dad when he was a kid.” Greg widened his stance and rocked back on his heels. “I think his dad was into old Lionel trains and Chuck did something with baseball cards. When Chuck’s parents moved to Florida a few years ago, Chuck stayed on with the club.

“Anyway, enough of that. I saw the article in the weekend section of the Herald this morning. You must be really excited.”

“I am. Bridget did a great job.”

“Have you slept at all in the last day or so?” he asked.

She hated that her hands moved to her face as she revisited her brief look in the bathroom mirror at the church, but she couldn’t help it. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

Again his dimples disappeared as reality dawned across his handsome face. “No. That’s not what I meant. You—you look fine—great, actually. I just saw the pictures of the inside of the ambulance and know it must have taken some time to doctor it up like that.”

“Oh.” She brought her hands back down to her sides and resisted the urge to hug Chuck for the distraction that came from his sudden appearance at her elbow. “It’s—it’s nice to see you again, Chuck.”

“You, too, Winnie.” Chuck looked from Greg to Winnie and back again before clearing his throat awkwardly. “So, uh . . . nice piece in the paper this morning. Are you excited to get going on Monday?”

“Excited, and a little bit scared, too.”

“Scared?” Greg echoed.

She reached across the top edge of her chair and rescued her water glass from the table. “Sure. This whole business idea could be the cleverest thing in the world. But it won’t matter if no one calls and places an order.”

“They’ll call.” Bridget sidled up alongside Greg, locked gazes with Winnie, and hooked her thumb in the paramedic’s direction.

The gesture alone was embarrassing all on its own, but it was the not-so-subtle cluck of appreciation that accompanied the gesture that had Winnie trading her next sip for a gulp.

“I agree.”

She knew she should acknowledge Greg’s faith in her idea with something more than a quick glare in Bridget’s direction, but she couldn’t. Not at that moment, anyway. No, what she truly needed (and desperately wanted) at that exact moment was a trapdoor beneath her feet.

*   *   *

She leaned back against the lip of the porch and watched as Lovey jumped off her housemate’s lap and wandered toward the staircase on which Winnie sat. “So what did you think about the service and the repast today, Mr. Nelson?”

Mr. Nelson moved his white knight, smiled triumphantly, and then glanced up from his chessboard. “I think the showing from Serenity Lane was nice to see . . .”

“Minus the Donovans, of course.”

“That’s just as well. Not sure I’d have been able to hold my tongue about that intentional flowerbed trampling the other day.” Mr. Nelson leaned back in his chair and lifted his chin to the gentle late afternoon breeze. “The service was nice. Father Deagen did a fine job, although he needs to secure a different organist.”

“I thought the organist was fine.”

“That’s because I was sitting between you and Bridget.”

Lovey lowered her body to the floor, flapped her tail from side to side, and then darted past Winnie in an attempt to kill a lone dandelion swaying in the breeze. “What does your placement between Bridget and me have to do with the organist?” she asked.

“His playing encouraged her to sing.”

“We were at a funeral, Mr. Nelson. That’s what we were supposed to do.”

Mr. Nelson crinkled his nose and then dropped his gaze back to the dark brown pieces on the table in front of him. “I will say, I found myself wondering, from time to time, if a reevaluation of Mark Reilly was in order. Especially at the repast.”

She sat up tall. “You, too?”

He paused his hand on the rook, mumbled something unintelligible, and then switched to the bishop. “Seems as if Bart meant a good deal to that young man.”

Seems . . .

There was that word again. Only this time, it wasn’t just taking up space inside her head.

“Do you believe it?” she asked.

Mr. Nelson moved the rook four spots, held it between his fingertips a few beats, and then backed it up one spot. “I know he gave his parents a hard time for a lot of years. He was one who always wanted things handed to him—second chances, money, accolades, you name it. But Mark wouldn’t be the first person to look back on his youth and realize he could have been more appreciative.”

She processed her friend’s words while simultaneously watching Lovey stalk her way around the yard—a leaf, another dandelion, a butterfly . . . “I wish I’d had the courage to ask him outright about the house, but it just didn’t seem to be the appropriate time or place, you know?”

“I asked him.”

She turned in time to watch Mr. Nelson remove his hand from the rook and gesture toward his nonexistent opponent. “You asked him?”

“I sure did.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t. Someone came over and tapped him on the shoulder the second I finished the question.”

“Okay, but did you see any sort of reaction before he turned away?”

Mr. Nelson caressed his stubbled chin and contemplated the white side’s next move. “You mean other than the way his eyes darted around his head and the color drained from his face?”

“Interesting . . .”

“That’s one word for it.” Mr. Nelson moved his white knight around his forward-most pawn and sat back. “The one that came to mind at the time, though, was guilty.”

“But he seemed so sincere, so genuinely distraught over losing them both so quickly.”

“I take it Bart or Ethel never told you what Mark pursued in college?”

She searched her memory bank for an answer to the question but came up empty. “I thought Mark dropped out of college . . .”

“He did. But he went for a few months.”

“Okay . . .”

“He wanted to be an actor. And, from what I saw when he was in high school, he was quite good at it. One minute he could be a swashbuckling pirate in Treasure Island, and the next he could be down on his luck in Death of a Salesman.”

“So you think he was faking today?”

“I can’t say for sure.” Mr. Nelson reached for his cane and used it to steady himself as he stood. “But I’ve got my eye on that young man, Winnie Girl. If Mark had something to do with Bart’s death, I will do everything I can to see that he pays for his crime.”

“I know you will, Mr. Nelson. And I’ll help.”

Mr. Nelson caned his way over to the stairs, winked at Winnie, and then looked out over their shared front yard. “You’re a good girl, Winnie Johnson. A real blessing to all of us, you know that?”

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Nelson.” And it was. She’d be lost without her friends. They kept her grounded as to what mattered most in life.

“Now, if we can just get Lovey to realize how lucky she is to have you as her new owner, we’ll be all set.”

She didn’t mean to snort when she laughed, but she couldn’t help it. Some things just seemed impossible to imagine. Lovey warming up to her was one of those things.

“I don’t know what Gertie was thinking when she left Lovey to me. It’s not like I’ve ever really had a pet before.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it as a certain pixie-haired female flitted her way through Winnie’s thoughts. “You’ve been talking to Renee, haven’t you?”

“Don’t worry, Winnie, your secret is safe with me.”

“It shook!” she insisted. “I was three! How was I supposed to know?”

Holding tight to his cane with his right hand, Mr. Nelson started to lean down to pat her shoulder but stopped and pointed across the yard instead. “There she goes again, that little rascal.”

“Little ras—” Winnie turned in time to see a flash of brown and white hightail it across the street and around the back corner of Bart and Ethel’s house—a gap in the late couple’s basement window Lovey’s likely destination.