murder?”
I blinked as every horrible memory rushed back like high tide streaming into the Bay of Fundy. I poked at my salad without much appetite.
“Not much new, but I did learn that there was a new boyfriend.” I told him all Mrs. Wilson had said, then proceeded to make her wielding of the burglar bar into a lighthearted story. Curt laughed in all the right places and telling the story replaced the image of Martha with that of a little old lady with too-black hair, restoring my appetite.
“Good grief!” I said as I finished. “I forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”
I dropped my salad fork on my plate and reached into my purse. I pulled out the diary I’d trod on, taking care to hold it by one corner with my napkin. I showed it to Curt. “Martha’s, I think. I found it on the back patio just before Mrs. Wilson came after me.”
“How’d it get there?” He reached for it.
I pulled it back. “Uh-uh. Fingerprints. I think either Ken or the new boyfriend dropped it when they left by the back door. Photos were missing from in the house, too, and the bathroom had been ransacked.”
Curt looked at me thoughtfully and I squirmed under his gaze. I braced myself.
“I don’t think I’ll ask how you know all this, though I’m willing to bet William didn’t tell you.”
Relief swept through me. He wasn’t going to give me a hard time about my B and E.
He continued, “It sounds like somebody covering tracks.”
“I think so, too.” I frowned as I stared at the red book. “I leafed through it quickly when I found it and I saw the name Mac. That scares me, Curt.”
Curt looked thoughtful. “You said Martha was hit with a rock, right?”
I nodded, the vision of the blood and hair on the murder weapon making me shudder.
“I can’t see Carnuccio doing something like that. He certainly hasn’t always been a model citizen, but there’s a great distance between womanizing and drinking too much and committing murder.”
I nodded. “I agree. And I don’t think he’d be seeing Martha at the same time he was seeing Dawn. He’s too crazy about Dawn to do anything to jeopardize their relationship.” I hope, I hope, I hope.
“Yeah, but he is used to women who will sleep with him—and Dawn won’t.”
Our spaghetti arrived and saved me from having to defend Mac. We spent the next few minutes eating and it was a relief to put the mystery aside. As I twirled my last few strands of spaghetti, I couldn’t keep my good news to myself any longer.
“You’ll never guess who called me today.” I knew I must be wearing a silly smile.
Curt paused with a forkful of meatball halfway to his mouth. He gave me the look that said, “You’re right. I can’t guess.”
“Mr. Henrey!” I gestured excitedly as I said it, forgetting the twirled spaghetti on my fork. The tail end lashed out and a great blob of red sauce flew unerringly through the air to land on Curt’s white polo right over his heart. We both started at the red mark, me appalled, he with resignation.
“I almost wore red,” he said. “But I told myself that I was mature enough to eat spaghetti without getting it all over myself. I forgot about you.”
He looked so forlorn that my guilt meter went zinging over the top. At the same time I had to slap my hand over my mouth to curb my inappropriate laughter. “I’m sorry!”
“I can tell.” His voice was sardonic.
“I am. Really. I’ll wash it for you. I can get the stain out.” I think.
He nodded. “You do realize that this wouldn’t have happened if you cut your spaghetti instead of twirling.” He pulled one side of his shirt out of his pants.
“I’ve worried about our union of twirler and cutter. Such a vast chasm of difference. What will it do to our children? And what are you doing?” By now his shirt was completely untucked.
“You can’t wash it with me in it.” He spoke with a perfectly straight face.
“No shirt, no food,” I reminded him and ate the offending
I blinked as every horrible memory rushed back like high tide streaming into the Bay of Fundy. I poked at my salad without much appetite.
“Not much new, but I did learn that there was a new boyfriend.” I told him all Mrs. Wilson had said, then proceeded to make her wielding of the burglar bar into a lighthearted story. Curt laughed in all the right places and telling the story replaced the image of Martha with that of a little old lady with too-black hair, restoring my appetite.
“Good grief!” I said as I finished. “I forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”
I dropped my salad fork on my plate and reached into my purse. I pulled out the diary I’d trod on, taking care to hold it by one corner with my napkin. I showed it to Curt. “Martha’s, I think. I found it on the back patio just before Mrs. Wilson came after me.”
“How’d it get there?” He reached for it.
I pulled it back. “Uh-uh. Fingerprints. I think either Ken or the new boyfriend dropped it when they left by the back door. Photos were missing from in the house, too, and the bathroom had been ransacked.”
Curt looked at me thoughtfully and I squirmed under his gaze. I braced myself.
“I don’t think I’ll ask how you know all this, though I’m willing to bet William didn’t tell you.”
Relief swept through me. He wasn’t going to give me a hard time about my B and E.
He continued, “It sounds like somebody covering tracks.”
“I think so, too.” I frowned as I stared at the red book. “I leafed through it quickly when I found it and I saw the name Mac. That scares me, Curt.”
Curt looked thoughtful. “You said Martha was hit with a rock, right?”
I nodded, the vision of the blood and hair on the murder weapon making me shudder.
“I can’t see Carnuccio doing something like that. He certainly hasn’t always been a model citizen, but there’s a great distance between womanizing and drinking too much and committing murder.”
I nodded. “I agree. And I don’t think he’d be seeing Martha at the same time he was seeing Dawn. He’s too crazy about Dawn to do anything to jeopardize their relationship.” I hope, I hope, I hope.
“Yeah, but he is used to women who will sleep with him—and Dawn won’t.”
Our spaghetti arrived and saved me from having to defend Mac. We spent the next few minutes eating and it was a relief to put the mystery aside. As I twirled my last few strands of spaghetti, I couldn’t keep my good news to myself any longer.
“You’ll never guess who called me today.” I knew I must be wearing a silly smile.
Curt paused with a forkful of meatball halfway to his mouth. He gave me the look that said, “You’re right. I can’t guess.”
“Mr. Henrey!” I gestured excitedly as I said it, forgetting the twirled spaghetti on my fork. The tail end lashed out and a great blob of red sauce flew unerringly through the air to land on Curt’s white polo right over his heart. We both started at the red mark, me appalled, he with resignation.
“I almost wore red,” he said. “But I told myself that I was mature enough to eat spaghetti without getting it all over myself. I forgot about you.”
He looked so forlorn that my guilt meter went zinging over the top. At the same time I had to slap my hand over my mouth to curb my inappropriate laughter. “I’m sorry!”
“I can tell.” His voice was sardonic.
“I am. Really. I’ll wash it for you. I can get the stain out.” I think.
He nodded. “You do realize that this wouldn’t have happened if you cut your spaghetti instead of twirling.” He pulled one side of his shirt out of his pants.
“I’ve worried about our union of twirler and cutter. Such a vast chasm of difference. What will it do to our children? And what are you doing?” By now his shirt was completely untucked.
“You can’t wash it with me in it.” He spoke with a perfectly straight face.
“No shirt, no food,” I reminded him and ate the offending
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