Fight or flight?

In a place as idyllic as Ardent Lake, both options seemed silly to the point of impossibility, and just to prove it to myself, I stayed right where I was. That doesn't mean I'm anybody's fool. Just in case, I reached in my pocket for my B and B room key. If I needed a weapon, it wouldn't be much of one, but hey, I can poke and jab with the best of 'em.

Thus armed, I bent my head to listen more closely and strained to try and get a clear look at the figure.

As the person drew nearer, some of the details came into focus.

Small. Tiny, in fact, except for the odd, lumpy blob at chest level. Dark sweatshirt. Dark pants. Sneakers. One second, the figure was lost in shadows and I'd convinced myself I was imagining things. The next, the light of the nearest lamp gleamed on spiky red hair.

It was the woman who'd been behind me in line at the wake that afternoon, the one Susan O'Hara hadn't been happy to see.

More curious now than I was afraid, I sat up, and waited for the right moment. When the woman was no more than twenty feet away, I called out a greeting.

She slowed to a trot and I wondered if she was going to pretend she hadn't heard me. Apparently, the fact that I stood up and moved into a halo of light changed her mind.

"Oh, hi." Keeping her place, she shifted from foot to foot. "I didn't see you there."

"Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

The woman's shoulders were so slim, I barely noticed when she shrugged. She took a step closer and I saw that the funny lump that made her look so misshapen in the dark was actually a paper shopping bag she had clutched to her chest. "My husband thinks I'm out jogging," she said with a quick smile and a look that darted all around, as if she wanted to make sure we were really alone. "That's what I tell him, anyway. You know, when I want to go out at night and catch a smoke." She took a couple steps back. "He thinks I quit at the first of the year."

From the odor of cigarettes I caught even at this distance, I doubt he was fooled. Not that I cared a whole bunch. I do admit, though, to being more than a tad curious about who would claim they went jogging carrying a shopping bag.

As casually as possible so she didn't notice and think I was paranoid, or worse, some kind of danger to her, I slipped my room key back in my pocket, and when I moved forward, the soft glow of the nearest lamp lit my face. The woman took a good look at me.

"Hey, you're that Josie from Chicago who was at Angela's wake."

Not to worry, I wasn't about to join Angela in the league of paranormal believers.

I nodded. "Let me guess, Ardent Lake is a small place. And everyone here knows everyone else."

"You got that right." The woman set down the shopping bag and I heard the clink of gla.s.s. When I took a step closer to her, she nudged the bag farther into the shadows near her feet. "And everyone knows everybody else's business, too. Believe me, everyone was talking about you before you were out of Foder's parking lot. They said you were that b.u.t.ton lady who was appraising the charm string for Angela."

"That's right." Though she already knew my name, I officially introduced myself.

"Marci Steiner," she said in return. She took a pack of cigarettes out of one pocket and a pink plastic lighter from another. "Angela, she was killed right outside your shop, wasn't she?"

The very thought still made my throat clutch. I cleared away the uncomfortable sensation with a cough, and even though I knew I had nothing to get defensive about, it was kind of hard to control the reaction. My back stiffened. "It's not like she was killed on the sidewalk right on the other side of the display window," I told Marci. "It was actually down an alley and back in a courtyard. But close enough." Speaking the truth took some of the starch out of my spine. "That's why I made the trip to Ardent Lake. Angela had just left my shop before she was killed. I felt...I feel like the least I can do is pay my respects."

"That's not what people are saying. I mean, some people. I heard them talking this afternoon. They said they remember seeing your name in the paper when that What's-Her-Name, that famous actress, got killed. They said you're here to find out who murdered Angela."

It wasn't a question so, technically, I didn't owe Marci an answer. Morally, I felt obliged. Oh, not to give Marci the truth. To keep my word to Nev and cover for what I was doing.

"Boy, if they needed my help, the cops would be really hard up!" I laughed. "Honest, I'm here because I feel...I don't know...I guess I feel I owe it to Angela. She seemed like a nice lady."

Marci barked out a laugh. "You think so? Then you didn't know her very well, did you?"

"Did you?" I asked her.

She dropped her cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with the toe of one sneaker, then picked up the shopping bag and took a step back. "I guess I'll see you at the funeral tomorrow," she said.

What was it Nev had said-subtle? Doing my subtle best, I stepped forward, and when Marci started walking, I fell into step beside her.

"So, did you know Angela well?" I asked.

She threw me a sidelong glance that might have meant she was surprised at the question. Or maybe she was sending the signal that she wasn't happy I'd tagged along. "You're asking awfully personal questions for someone who's just here to pay her respects."

For a short woman, she sure had a long stride. I did my best to keep up with Marci. "Well, you have to admit, the whole thing is pretty interesting. I mean, in a sad way. What happened to Angela is a mystery, and I only know what everyone else knows, what I've read in the newspapers. Naturally, it's got me wondering...Do you think there's any chance that someone here in Ardent Lake might know more about what really happened?"

She barked out a laugh. "I can't speak for anyone but myself, and all I know is that the woman made me nuts. What with her crazy talk about astrology and spells and whatnot. I didn't like her. There. That's the honest truth. If that makes me a suspect, then a whole bunch of other people here are suspects, too."

We got to the broad sidewalk that ringed the park and a cross street, and I hoped Marci didn't decide to cross against the light. I was already scrambling to keep up with her, and I didn't want to look like a stalker.

She glanced over her shoulder, back the way we came. "I'll bet anything you're staying at the Victoria. It's one of the few places to stay in town and I know for a fact that other B and B is booked solid with a group of antiquers. The Victoria is back that way."

I shrugged like it was no big deal. "It's a beautiful night. I don't mind walking some more. Besides, if your husband asks, you can tell him we b.u.mped into each other, and that's what delayed you."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

The light changed and we crossed the street.

"So you were saying..." She wasn't, but I was hoping she wouldn't come right out and call me a liar. "About people who didn't like Angela."

She darted me a look and took a moment to make up her mind. "Well, if you don't hear it from me, you'll only hear it from somebody else," she finally said. "There's that b.i.t.c.h Susan O'Hara, for one. I saw you talking to her at the funeral home. I'll tell you what, the moment I heard that Angela had been murdered, I prayed Susan was the one who did it. d.a.m.n, that would be perfect! Miss High and Mighty O'Hara, led away in handcuffs."

Oh yeah, I was tempted to pounce on this nugget. Like a pigeon on a bread crumb. I controlled myself, playing it cool far better than any theater major who'd never been much of an actor should have been able to. "I never met Susan until this afternoon. She doesn't exactly seem like a murderer."

"Yeah, that's what they always say, isn't it?" We came to another cross street, and since there was no sign of traffic, Marci hurried across and I followed along. "From what I've read in the papers, the cops say robbery wasn't the motive in Angela's murder. Is that true?" she asked.

"I only know what I've read in the papers, too."

"Well, if it's true about robbery not being a motive, it's got to make you wonder, doesn't it? We're not exactly country b.u.mpkins here in Ardent Lake. I mean, we watch CSI and all the other cop shows. We know what's what. And I know the first thing the cops are going to ask is who had a reason to kill ol' Angela."

"And you think Susan did?"

She stopped in front of a sweet little Victorian cottage with a white picket fence out front and an arbor that spanned the walk that led to the front door. I pictured it in the summer, with roses growing all around.

Marci put her hand on the gate inside the arbor and pushed it open. "I don't think it," she said. "I know it."

I had played it cool long enough. Even a b.u.t.ton nerd who truly was in town just to offer her condolences wouldn't pa.s.s up an opportunity for hot gossip like that, right?

Eager not to look...well, too eager, I schooled my voice when I asked, "Why would Susan want to kill Angela?"

Marci slid me a look. "So you are working with the cops."

"Please!" I made sure my laugh was light and airy. "A person doesn't have to be connected with the police to be curious. And you've got to admit, what you said about Susan was bound to make me wonder what's really going on and how much you know about it. It's like some really good book. Or a movie. I can't help but want to know more."

Behind the lace curtains in a front window, there was a light on, and Marci threw a glance that way.

I was going to lose her, and this opportunity to learn what I could from her.

The thought pounded through my brain, and I folded my fingers into the palms of my hands and wondered where I'd gone wrong at the same time I decided that there was nothing like a little upping the ante on the gossip to keep the conversation going.

As if sharing a secret, I lowered my voice. "Susan told me-"

"What?" Marci flinched as if she'd been slapped. "Because if that b.i.t.c.h said one word about me-"

"Your name never came up. But she did say that she thought Angela was a nutcase."

"No big news flash there." Marci shifted the shopping bag from one hand to the other, and again, I heard the rattle of gla.s.s. Whatever she was carrying, it was bigger than a drinking gla.s.s, smaller than a pitcher. "But of course, Susan would say that. She'd do anything to make Angela look bad."

This didn't make sense to me. "But Angela was donating the charm string to her museum," I blurted out, thinking out loud. "And Susan was grateful. In fact, she asked me if I thought she might still get the charm string. If she was so appreciative, why would Susan want to discredit Angela?"

Marci let go of the gate and it slapped closed. "Did you see the guy at the wake? The one with the silvery hair?"

I had a vague recollection of a man at the back of the room who looked sadder than the rest of the folks gathered there. "Larry?" I asked.

Marci nodded, confirming my suspicion.

"He's obviously pretty broken up."

Another nod sent her spiky hair twitching. "Larry's a nice guy. Kind of quiet, you know?"

"And he and Angela were dating."

"She told you, huh?"

"She mentioned it when she came to the shop. She said Larry was the only good thing that had happened in her life lately."

"Yeah." Marci chuckled. "On account of the curse! G.o.d, maybe for the first time in her life, Susan is actually right. Maybe Angela really was a nutcase."

"But that's not exactly a reason Susan would want to kill her."

Oh yes, I was fishing. For all I was worth.

Marci glanced around. We were the only ones out there on the street, but she stepped nearer, anyway. "Larry's the reason."

"The reason Angela believed in curses? I don't think so. She said-"

"Not the reason she believed in curses. The reason Susan hated Angela."

I am not usually slow, but this took some thinking. "You're implying-"

"Implying!" Marci punched open the gate and stepped onto the walk that led to the front door. "I'm not implying anything, I'm telling you flat out. Susan and Larry used to be a couple. That's why Susan hated Angela so much. Angela stole him away from her."

IWASN'T SURE how well Marci was connected to the Ardent Lake gossip grapevine, but I did know this much: at the funeral the next day, Larry looked positively inconsolable. He was a tall, handsome guy and as we stood around the coffin at the cemetery, I made sure I positioned myself directly across from him and watched his face twist with pain as the minister read the last of the prayers.

"I'll need to talk to him," I said to Stan after we walked away from the service. "But I'm thinking this would be a bad time."

"There's a luncheon." Stan pointed to the line in the church program that invited everyone attending back to the home of Angela's cousin, Charles.

"You hungry?" I asked him.

"After that fabulous breakfast we had back at the B and B? Heck no. But I'm thinking if we want to talk to suspects..."

I knew just what Stan was talking about. I'd had two cranberry m.u.f.fins back at the B and B, as well as a gorgeous fruit compote and a bowl of yogurt drizzled with honey from the hives in the back garden.

We went to the funeral luncheon, anyway.

COUSIN CHARLES LIVED in a modest house in a development called Vista View Hills about two miles outside of town. I didn't see any hills, or anything that even began to qualify as a vista, either, for that matter. In fact, as we pulled down the street and parked, the only thing I saw were more cookie-cutter versions of Charles's split-level. The only thing I could think when we got inside was that it was a very good thing the house wasn't in town. His seventies throwback s.h.a.g carpeting and avocado appliances would never pa.s.s muster within Ardent Lake city limits.

There was a buffet table set up in the dining room, and it was heaped with food. I suspect it was homemade by the women who were running back and forth into the kitchen to make sure everything was hot and restocked. Angela's garden club members, I heard someone say. They were working hard, and their expressions were sad. I didn't need anyone to tell me they were also Angela's friends. Stan volunteered to talk to them, and since many of them were close to his age and would, no doubt, appreciate some masculine attention and maybe talk a little more freely because of it, I left him to it and took a turn through the rest of the house.

There was quite a crowd, but I was disappointed when I realized Larry was a no-show. And though he was officially hosting, Cousin Charles was obviously n.o.body's idea of the life of the party. Even an after-funeral party.

He was a plump guy with fiery cheeks and thinning dark hair. Still dressed in the dull olive suit he'd worn at the funeral, Charles sat on a folding chair in front of the fireplace in the family room, a plate of rigatoni and salad on his lap. He glanced up at his fellow mourners as they walked by, and looked away again before there was any chance they could make eye contact.

"It's so nice of you to host everyone at your home," I said, settling myself in the empty chair next to him.

His gaze fluttered in my direction. "That's me, Mr. Nice Guy."

I wasn't sure how he expected me to respond, so I took a bite of tasty chicken Marsala. "You're..." I gave him a chance to look my way, and when he didn't, I pressed on. "You're Angela's cousin, right?"

He gave me another fleeting glance. I'd introduced myself to Charles at the wake the day before so I wasn't surprised when he said, "And you're that b.u.t.ton lady."

I gave him a smile I was sure he didn't notice. But then, he'd dropped his gaze to his pasta. "There are so many people here. Angela must have been very well liked."

"I suppose some people liked her." Charles's top lip curled when one of the garden club ladies walked by. He poked his fork around in his salad. "You appraised the charm string."

There was no use denying it. Aside from the fact that it was true, everyone in town seemed to have the inside track on my business.

"How much?" Charles asked.

I happened to be taking another bite of chicken when he said this. That was a good thing because it gave me the opportunity to think of a politically correct answer while I pointed to my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I'm not at liberty to discuss Angela's business. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course I do." He didn't so much set his plate on the hearth as he dropped it. Good thing lunch was being served off plastic. "Charles always understands." His voice was singsong. "Charles is Mr. Nice Guy."

I wondered what I'd gotten myself into and glanced around, hoping there would be someone nearby who I could draw into what was quickly turning into an uncomfortable conversation. No such luck. Apparently, there were reasons Charles was sitting there alone. Just as apparently, I was the only one in town who did not know those reasons. At least until now. That would explain why I'd gotten enmeshed in trying to chat with a man who could have been taught a thing or two about congeniality by Ebenezer Scrooge.

But then, his cousin had just been murdered.

The thought touched a chord, and I decided my initial impression of Charles may have been rash. He was grieving, poor man. I owed it to Angela's memory to be patient.

"You and Angela," I said, making the attempt, "you must have been close."

"Well, that's one thing that would explain why I forked out the bucks for this little shindig. Oh sure, the garden club helped out. But do you have any idea how much a couple cases of beer costs? And all this plasticware? Not to mention the cost of the funeral itself. Kind of funny, don't you think, when we both know that if I was the one who'd been whacked, Angela wouldn't have opened a package of Oreos and pa.s.sed them around the funeral home in my honor."

"But you did what you did because you're Mr. Nice Guy."