by Dixie Davis
Lori returned to her spot on the sofa and her untouched Diet Coke. “Joey, did you happen to notice their billing address?”
He thought for a minute. “Atlanta, I think.”
That wasn’t close. At all. “How long is the drive?”
“Six hours from Wilmington.”
They both fell silent and turned to look at the porch door. Dawn’s husband had followed her here.
Suddenly, natural causes and suicide seemed a lot less likely.
“How long until they have a cause of death?” Lori murmured.
Joey shook his head. “I don’t know. This is my first dead body.”
It wasn’t Lori’s, but Glenn died in a hospital, safe and monitored. Not like this.
“Are you okay?” Joey asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”
She nearly laughed. “Of course I’m not okay.”
Chief Branson walked in and called two officers over. Lori wasn’t eavesdropping, but she couldn’t help but overhear their instructions: search Travis’s room at the Riverboat Motel. Travis must have consented, because the chief handed over a room key.
Lori glanced at the time. One fifteen. Nowhere in town had check-in before two o’clock. Had Travis spent the night here?
Once the officers left, Joey stood and approached Chief Branson. “Is Lori under suspicion?”
Lori gasped, while Chief Branson’s eyes widened enough for Lori to see the effect from across the room. “Should she be?”
“No, no,” Joey said quickly. “I mean, if anything suspicious even happened.”
“We’re still determining the cause of death, and even then, it won’t be conclusive until we get an autopsy and reports.”
Joey seemed to shrink back a bit under the official weight of the investigation and the Chief of Police, but he didn’t slink away. “I wanted to get Lori away from this for a little while. Let you work in peace.”
The chief blew out a long breath. “Don’t leave town.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Lori said. Unless she could count Joey’s place in Wilmington, but she wasn’t going to hunker down on his futon. She also wasn’t going to drive all the way back to her empty house in Charlotte, and her boys were thousands of miles farther away.
Her boys. How was she going to tell Doug and Adam about this? They’d worry about her, and the business, and everything, on top of their busy lives where they had enough to worry about.
Joey held out his hand to help her up from the sofa and she accepted.
With a final glance at the smooth, cream-colored ceiling above them where Dawn lay, Lori followed Joey out of the inn, past the grieving widower. Not offering at least one comforting thing to him took enormous force of will, even though Joey didn’t really give her the time to pause or agonize over it.
He walked her to the business that occupied the house next door, Salt Water Bakes, weaving through the crowd growing to gawk at the cop cars and crime scene van in front of the B&B. Joey directed her past two people standing on the porch in front of the bakery’s historic home plaque, and into the heavenly smell of flour, sugar and butter.
“Lori!” Val Cromley, the owner of Salt Water Bakes, exclaimed from behind the black marble counter. “What on earth is going on over at your place?”
Normally, hearing anybody refer to the Mayweather House as “her place,” would have made Lori’s heart swell. Today, instead, it ached. “Problem with a guest,” Lori murmured.
Val raised an eyebrow and glanced over their shoulders at the windows and the flashing lights beyond. “Problem?”
“She’s dead,” Joey said. Lori shot him a look to tell him to be quiet, or at least not so blunt, but he didn’t see her. “Not sure what happened yet. The chief said they’d have to do an autopsy.”
Val shook her head, her brown curly hair bouncing around her jaw. “They’re not thinking—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Joey shrugged. “He couldn’t say. I guess they haven’t ruled anything out.”
Val’s gaze grew distant and she nodded. “It couldn’t be — no, I’m sure she probably had an underlying condition or something. Haven’t had anything that dramatic happen here in . . . eight years.”
Val seemed to be lost in that memory until Lori cleared her throat. “Did you know her?”
“Who?”
“The guest?” Lori held up a hand to show how tall Dawn was. “Blonde hair, cut in a bob.”
“Uh, yeah, I think she came in yesterday, early afternoon. Or maybe the day before, about closing.” Val thought a moment longer. “Maybe both. Complaining about—”
Lori waited for Val to finish, but she didn’t. “Complaining about what?”
“Uh, nothing. Just . . . said you probably wanted to get rid of her.” Val paused as her words sunk in, and horror crept into her face.
Horror at what she’d said? Or horror at — no, she couldn’t possibly think Lori could’ve done something like that. She knew Lori better than that.
Except that she didn’t. Lori hadn’t even lived here for three weeks. She was still very much an outsider. And weren’t outsiders always the first suspects?
“Do you do wedding cakes?” Joey abruptly changed the subject, but even that happy topic didn’t alleviate the sick twist in Lori’s stomach.
Val brightened. “Yes, we love to do weddings. Are you planning one at the Mayweather House?”
“Yep.” Joey grinned. “Ours.”
“Congratulations! Let me go get the catering book.” Before she stepped into the back, Val cast one last concerned look at Lori. Lori was pretty sure her own expression looked about the same.
Val couldn’t suspect her, could she? This might be bad.
Val returned quickly and flipped through some options in a binder. “These are our best sellers. What kind of timeframe are we looking at?”
“As soon as possible.” Joey beamed.
“Is that the Fourth of July or Thanksgiving?”
“Actually, I was thinking before Memorial Day.”
Val gave a sharp little intake of breath and so did Lori. That fast? That was less than six weeks away, and she hadn’t even had a chance to tell her boys yet. She’d meant to call, but how did you spring this kind of news on someone? Doug and Adam hadn’t even met Joey yet. They’d only been dating a few months. An engagement that short was definitely rushing things.
“Joey,” Lori said slowly.
He turned to her and took her hands. “I know, I know. It’s crazy. But I don’t think either of us want a big fuss, and with everything that’s happened today. . . .” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “The whole drive here, I kept thinking what if it was you. What if something happened to you — or what if you were next? Would anybody even know to call me?”
Lori watched his face as Joey grew more and more earnest. Somehow, this was more romantic than his proposal.
“I want to be there for you — with you — and I know you wouldn’t want to move in together. So let’s just get married.”
Tears pricked at her eyes and Lori blinked them back. “Okay,” she said. “What flavor of cake do you like?”
“It’s cake. Everything is good.”
Lori laughed and turned back to Val, who was looking at them with thinly veiled eagerness. For their happiness, or for her payday?
Best not to be cynical. Lori looked over the options, but they’d really have to figure out the guest list, or at least its size, before they could make a decision on the cake. She definitely wanted chocolate and carrot cake layers, though.
Val gave them a print out of a couple options and price quotes, including the rush. “Are you planning on having it at the Mayweather House?” Val asked almost as an afterthought.
“Don’t see why not,” Joey said. “They’ve had weddings before, right?”
Val considered. “One or two, I think. Small ones. If you have it there, I can waive the delivery fee, though. Doesn’t cost me anything to carry it across
the yard!”
Lori thanked her, grateful the conversation had recovered from that uncomfortable moment when Val seemed to suspect her. They set an appointment to come in for a tasting and headed out again, cutting across the yards to avoid the crowds still gawking at the Mayweather House.
Lori took Joey’s hand, thankful again he was here to help take her mind off all this. If she’d stayed cooped up in her parlor, waiting and watching as they investigated, possibly suspecting her . . .
Joey walked with her past the brick travel agency — built in 1901 — and the log cabin-turned-bookstore — built in 1822 — all the way to Mimosa Café, set up in the newest house on Front Street — built in 1947. The pink house had made Lori stare years ago on her first vacation here, but if you named your café after a tree with fluffy pink flowers worthy of a Dr. Seuss book, your color palette should be obvious.
Now, it was a reassuring reminder that life would go on — for her.
Joey got the door for her, and they stepped into the welcoming scents of garlic and herbs. Lori’s stomach grumbled. She hadn’t had anything really to eat since that frittata this morning.
“What’s good here?” Joey murmured to her.
Before she could answer, loud laughter carried from across the café. Lori followed the sound to find Kim Yates standing by a table of old biddies who looked as comfortable as only regulars could.
One of the ladies spoke loud enough that Lori and Joey could hear every word, even though her back was to the door. “All I’m saying is that we’ve never had anything like that before she was here, and within a month, a guest turns up dead at her place.”
“You can’t mean that.” The lady across from her waved her linen napkin at her friend. “You don’t even know her.”
Kim picked up the first woman’s mug and filled it with the coffeepot. “Well, do you think a local killed her? Somebody from around here, somebody we’ve known all our lives?”
There was no reason to think anyone had killed her yet. But of course that was where the gossip went.
And it also went to blaming Lori.
“No, nobody here’s a murderer.”
Kim nodded and set down the mug. “And half the town saw what happened at the Salty Dog.”
Lori felt the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t only idle gossip. They really believed she did it. And like the second woman said, they didn’t even know her.
Maybe that was exactly why they were so eager to blame her.
“Let’s, um, let’s just go,” Joey said, tugging her back toward the door.
The café definitely needed a bell on the entrance like Dusky Card and Gift. Numb, Lori followed Joey back up the street toward the Mayweather House.
“You don’t think the police will see it like that,” Lori said. “Do you?”
Joey bit his lip and hesitated. That was all the answer she needed. But at least he had the sense to try to tack on a “No, of course not.”
She was in trouble. “I don’t understand why this had to happen. I thought things were actually getting better with Dawn.”
“Really?”
Lori shrugged. “I made some treats, and Dawn took them up to her room.”
“Treats? I’m starving.”
“None left, sorry.”
Joey pretended to pout. “What did you make her?”
“I found a recipe of Beth’s for lemon thyme zucchini bread.”
He came to a sudden halt in the middle of the asphalt. “You did—” He was almost shouting.
Lori had never heard him raise his voice before. Was he really that angry?
Joey tempered his tone. “You went off the menu plan? I worked so hard on that.”
“I know, but—” But she kind of hated being held to a plan when she could be trying something new.
Joey seemed like the betrayal ran deeper than a simple meal plan. “I can’t believe you did that.” He gaped at her, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry.” She hadn’t realized his menu was this important to him. “I’ll try harder.”
Joey nodded slowly and finally started walking again.
As they came closer to the double-decker porches that now meant she was home, it didn’t feel familiar at all. They could see between the rubberneckers enough to detect that the lineup of official vehicles parked at her place had changed. Now instead of a crime scene van, a gray minivan sat outside her inn.
“What’s happening now?” Lori picked up her pace to get home, though the short, light jog left her breathless.
Maybe Joey’s subtle suggestion of a Diet Coke wasn’t such a bad idea.
They reached the house, and the officer standing guard at her door admitted them with strict orders to stay downstairs. Lori had had enough soda, but she needed something real to eat, so she headed for the kitchen.
She cut through the hall that led to the office — and bumped right into someone. “I’m sorry, officer—” Lori stopped short. This wasn’t a police officer.
It was Travis.
What was he doing here in her off-limits hallway? This was her house, her inn, so she asked.
“Looking for something to eat,” he mumbled.
Lori raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t there food on the sideboard?”
“I didn’t see it.”
He would have had to walk right past the fruit, cheese and crackers to get to this hallway — past a door marked Private. “I’ll show you,” Lori offered, hoping her impatience didn’t show instead.
Joey reached them as Travis and Lori returned to the parlor. Joey shot her a questioning look, but she only shook her head. “Here you are,” she said to Travis, pointing out the treats on the sideboard.
“Sorry. Guess I’m a little distracted.”
Lori flinched inside. She couldn’t stay mad at a man going through as much as Travis was. She grabbed a napkin and loaded it up with cheese and grapes, then walked Travis to the couch. “Any news?”
He nodded slowly. “Finally rustled up the medical examiner. Guess he was working out at the ER and had to drive back.”
Lori realized she wasn’t even sure where the nearest ER was. She shot Joey a meaningful look, but when he didn’t wander away like she meant, she pointed and waved him away. Joey rolled his eyes but headed back to the office.
“How are you holding up?” she asked.
Travis simply shook his head.
She’d been there. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah,” he barely breathed. “I’d really hoped . . .”
“That you could patch things up?” Lori guessed.
He turned to her. “Did she talk to you?”
“No details, no, but a few things she said made it sound like you’d hit a rough patch.”
Travis snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
Somewhere deep, an undercurrent of anger flowed through those words.
“She was the one pushing for the divorce.” Travis looked at his hands, tugging at an invisible hangnail. “I wanted to try counseling again. I just . . . I can’t stand the idea of divorce.”
“My husband and I had a rough time,” Lori admitted, not daring to look after Joey.
Travis raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction Joey had gone.
Lori shook her head. “No, he’s my fiancé.”
“I take it the rough patch didn’t end well.”
“Actually, it did. We worked at it and got some help and came through it stronger.” She took a deep breath. “And a year later, he was diagnosed with cancer.”
Travis sucked his teeth. “All that work for nothing then?”
“No, not for nothing. We had a really great year, and I was glad to be there for him once he was diagnosed. To be sure he could be with our boys as much as possible. To get every last minute we could together.”
“And I guess the life insurance didn’t hurt.”
Of course it hurt — cashing that check felt like killing her husband. But that wasn’t the first time she
’d thought of that, how, if her marriage had failed, she might not be in the comfortable position she was. On the other hand, Glenn probably wouldn’t have changed the beneficiary on his will that quickly. Who knew, maybe a child support or alimony agreement might have stipulated the life insurance policy stay the same.
But that didn’t matter. “Staying together wasn’t about money. In the end, the months that I did have with him were worth it, regardless of whether I got a check.”
Travis’s jaw retained its bitter set.
“Remember the good times, the times that made you want to keep fighting for her. Don’t dwell on the hard times, unless you think it’ll help you become better in the future.”
He shook his head like he didn’t believe her. “How am I going to do this? I don’t even know what to do next. A funeral? How am I getting her body back to Atlanta?”
“The logistics are tough, but I’m sure the police or the medical examiner can point you in the right direction.”
“And how am I going to pay for any of this? Getting a divorce was going to take every cent we had.”
After the way Travis had talked about life insurance, it seemed unusual that he and Dawn wouldn’t have policies. “No life insurance?”
“Yeah, she had a policy, but it’s not like they’re going to cut me a check tomorrow. Especially not with all of this going on.” He swept a hand across the scene of flashing blue and red lights.
The bitterness in his voice hardened into cynicism. Was money really the biggest problem he was facing right now, when his wife lay dead upstairs?
Unless that was his fault. Was Lori interviewing a murderer? Goose bumps crawled down her spine.
Certainly sounded like motive. She had to find out more. “Will it be enough to cover everything?”
Travis arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, five hundred grand should cover it.”
Half a million dollars? That definitely sounded like motive. “I’m sure it’ll work out, then,” she tried. “Have you been in town long?”
