Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“No,” he said, moving around me toward the sunroom. “I’ve just never been in such an old house that didn’t feel cold or smell musty. Yours is really warm and cozy.”
Oh, he loved my house. Perhaps he wasn’t the annoying creature I thought he was. And I might even want him to visit again.
“Is it all right if I take a tour?”
I nodded, and he took the two steps down to the sunroom. I heard his breath catch as he walked to the right, toward the end that faced my garden.
“This is beautiful,” he remarked wistfully, and I had to wonder how much he would enjoy living in my little house. Funny how quickly my earlier irritation had dissipated. The man was actually much different, and perhaps I’d misjudged him. My grandfather was right: I needed to give people the same courtesy I gave new books—at least fifty pages before I made a decision. Best not to be hasty.
“I’m sorry you lost your job,” Pete offered, making himself comfortable at the table and leaning back in his chair. “Are there any muffins?”
“Nice segue.” I squinted at him. “And of course there are muffins. Would you like blueberry or corn?”
He squinted back. “When have you known me to want anything but blueberry?”
True. I shrugged and moved to the covered stoneware cake plate, grabbed him a muffin, and put it on a dessert dish. Then I got the refrigerated honey butter and brought everything over.
“Pete told me you’re not on the county grid,” MacBain said, rejoining us in the kitchen. “How do you have a refrig—are you eating?”
Pete, mouth full, quickly chewed and swallowed. “Yes, I’m eating. Xan’s muffins are amazing.”
As I handed the chief his mug, he groused, “We didn’t come here to have tea and baked goods. We’re on official business.”
“I understand,” I soothed. “But it was kind of you both to accept my invitation and come in.”
He grunted but sipped the tea. “You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you.”
The aroma of lavender and lemon verbena drifted from his tea, and I knew he was responding not just to me, but to my grandmother as well. I would scold her later for butting in. Apparently, she liked the look of our new chief of police. I needed to tell her how much he didn’t like how I rode my bike.
Taking a seat at the table, the chief eyed Pete’s muffin. Or what was left of it.
“Blueberry, corn?” I offered. “There’s also pumpkin spice and apple.”
He glanced at Pete. “Aren’t you sorry now you didn’t wait for more options?”
Pete scoffed loudly. “Xan knows I don’t eat no apple or that pumpkin crap.” He shuddered for his boss’s benefit. “I like corn or blueberry. That’s it. Blueberry’s the best.”
MacBain shook his head and turned to me. “I would love an apple one, please.”
When I returned with his muffin, Pete explained the amazing honey butter, and once I sat down with a cup of chai, the chief inquired about my loss of job, his brows furrowing as he learned about the town’s budget issues.
“So how are you supporting yourself?” He sounded quite concerned, which warmed me from the inside out.
“Oh, between the garden and the forest, I’m completely self-sufficient out here, save for the gas that runs the stove, the fridge, the—”
A knock on the front door interrupted me.
Getting up, crossing the small room quickly, when I opened the door I came face-to-face with Amanda Sterling, née Astor, one of my oldest friends and the woman whose family had established Osprey. She now owned most of the land in town and everything on it. Not anything out this far—not the Wingate Farm, or the Johnson Apiary, or the Corey land. The town was her domain, not anything near the preserve.
I looked at my friend, clad in her high-end clothes with designer labels, and guessed that to anyone who didn’t know our history, she would have looked completely out of place in my home. The Louis Vuitton tote certainly cost more than I made in a year as a small-town librarian.
“Somebody killed a girl right outside your door,” she informed me.
“Right outside my door?” I said, sounding pained. “You don’t think that’s a bit overly dramatic?”
“Fine,” she replied irritably. “On the road near your home. Is that better?”
“It’s doubtful she was killed there,” I said as she brushed by me and into the house. “I’m certain she was dumped and—”
“Oh, Chief MacBain,” she greeted him curtly and then looked over at Pete as if he was gum on the bottom of her shoe. “Are you here because of the dead woman?”
Both men were suddenly standing, looking at her like she was some grim apparition they were horrified to be confronted with.
“You don’t think Xander had anything to do with it, do you?” She bristled, hackles raised, ready to tangle with them on my behalf.