Normally, Annette would cancel anything to go shopping. Especially on a beautiful, warm day when Roman was handling clients and her son was actually okay with being seen in public with his mother.
But when Beverly showed up that morning, alert and fresh and brimming with energy, Annette knew what she had to do.
The three of them settled at the kitchen table with a bowl of popcorn—appropriate—and their drinks. The curtains drawn, the women had a clear view of the kids. Something to ground them, as Annette said.
“Start at the beginning, Bev,” she commanded, beaming at Quinn. Quinn, who was still confused about the canceled shopping trip. Quinn, who perhaps didn’t appreciate small-town gossip quite yet. Quinn, who blinked quickly three times and twisted her lemonade in her hands, studying the rim as if to inspect how well Annette had cleaned it.
Quinn, who needed someone else’s drama for once.
Beverly launched into her overview.
“The teacher turnover piece is dead in the water. Going nowhere.” She glanced away as she said it. “I’m switching gears. I think I mentioned before that I was interested in pursuing the Carlson case?” At her question, Beverly met Annette’s gaze then Quinn’s.
“What case?” Quinn asked, frowning and turning to Annette. “I thought he was older.”
Annette pursed her lips, leaned back, and folded her arms over her chest. “He was. Elderly, from what I know.”
“Do you know anything else?” Beverly pinned Annette with a hard stare. She hadn’t even gotten through her overview.
“I thought you were coming here to tell us what happened,” Annette replied, amused by her neighbor’s suddenly changed disposition. The prior despondence and melancholy had been replaced. Was it temporary? Annette wondered.
“I don’t have much to tell. Yet.” Beverly mirrored Annette and crossed her arms. She blinked and leaned forward to look at her notepad before leaning back. “Basically, I think there’s more to Carl Carlson than meets the eye.” She relaxed and reached for her drink but didn’t sip from it.
“So, what do you have to tell?” Quinn asked, grinning.
Annette nodded in agreement, thirsty for gossip.
Beverly sucked in a deep breath and looked around. “I know that Carl Carlson died in the home, obviously. I know that his obituary was weird. And I know that there was more to the Carlson family than we even realize.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?” Quinn asked, rapt.
Beverly shrugged. “I called my mom. She’s part of the old generation. The one that holds the town secrets.”
“And?” Annette asked, wide-eyed.
“She’s in Birch Harbor for the week.”
Quinn’s face fell. “Who is running the bed-and-breakfast?”
“She blocks it out for a week. Every year in August she goes to the harbor to soak up the lake water like a fish and flounce around with her old-timey friends.”
“But did she tell you anything?” Annette asked, eyeing Beverly hard.
“Not yet. She was busy.” Beverly rolled her eyes like a teenager. “She’ll be back home this weekend, and I made her promise we would do breakfast.”
“I want to go!” Annette joked. Half joked, rather. She didn’t even know what was supposed to be so fascinating with Carl Carlson and here she was, glomming on to Beverly and Beverly’s mom, Bertie.
“You can come. We can make it a girls’ brunch!”
“It’s the Saturday before school starts,” Quinn said. “What better way to celebrate?”
“True,” Annette agreed. “We can celebrate and brunch.” She smiled. After all, there was no greater female bonding than bonding over small-town lore. And if it was a Saturday, Jude could join.
“Saturday brunch it is,” Beverly confirmed. “But before we get to that, the reason I came over was because I had questions.” Beverly leveled her gaze squarely on Annette.
Annette giggled nervously. “Like, questions for Quinn and me? About Carl?”
Beverly nodded mock gravely. “Specifically, about his house. Quinn’s house, I guess. And maybe Apple Hill Lane more broadly.”
The shape of Annette’s lips pinched into a smirk and she winked at Quinn. “What do we know? We just live here.”