Roses Are Red; He's Dead (A Mellow Summers Paranormal Mystery Book 9) by Janet McNulty Page B

back to the cleared trail. My lungs burned as I ran, having not sprinted like this in a few years, while my fast breathing formed clouds of white vapor.
    I made it to the small town with its locally owned shops lining the street and spotted the jewelry store right away. I dashed across the street and tugged at the door handle. Locked. I checked the hours posted on the glass door. Yep, the store closed at five and my watch said it was ten after.
    Dismayed, I stared at the red paperweight, wishing that I had not stopped to talk to Burt and Morgan. How could I have allowed myself to get so distracted?
    “Hey, Mel!”
    I looked up. Approaching me from the other side of the street were Aimie and Patrick. I stuffed the ruby into my sweater pocket, hoping they didn’t notice my quick movements, but they did.
    “What’s that?” asked Patrick, pointing at my pocket.
    “Nothing,” I replied, “just something I wanted to get looked at, but I was a little late in getting here.”
    “Well, maybe tomorrow then,” said Patrick. “I’m told that this guy closes at five o’clock on the dot, not a minute sooner, or later.”
    “What are you two up to?” I asked.
    “Just exploring the town,” said Aimie. “I love visiting all of these little shops.”
    “And buying stuff,” joked Patrick.
    Aimie smacked him in response.
    I smiled at their playfulness.
    “Hey,” said Aimie, “you owe us a lunch, or dinner, considering the time. Where’s Greg?”
    “Back at the resort. He doesn’t like shopping much.”
    “That’s a man thing,” said Aimie, “but you should join us. We were just about to grab a bite at this place down the street here.”
    Not wanting to be rude and the fact, that my stomach growled just then, I agreed to join them.
    We went to this Indian restaurant that Emily had told Greg and me about when we had first checked in. The owner, a jovial man who welcomed all who walked through the door with a smile and handshake, had emigrated from India about 30 years ago and established his restaurant as a way to introduce Americans to real, as he called it, Indian food. I felt a little odd being here by myself with Aimie and Patrick; the restaurant had been set up to accommodate couples, since it wasn’t far from the resort.
    “Three?” asked the owner as he greeted us, wearing an orange tuxedo, his coattails swaying with each movement.
    “Yes,” said Patrick.
    Even though we were the only three person group there, he never said anything, but grabbed three menus and led us to a table. We took our seats and looked at the menu, more interested in what this place had to offer in the way of food, instead of talking. When the waiter arrived, we placed our orders. That was when the conversation started.
    “They really decorated this place nice,” said Patrick.
    Aimie laughed. “Yeah, for couples.”
    She must have noticed me squirm because she added, “Oh, don’t worry. We don’t mind having you along. Besides, you did agree earlier to joining us sometime for a meal.”
    “How did you two meet?” I asked them.
    “Work,” said Aimie.
    “We both are in the shipping business,” added Patrick. “We transport goods from one place to another.”
    “Yeah, it was love at first sight,” said Aimie.
    “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Patrick joked, and received a playful smack in response.
    “What about you and Greg?” Aimie asked.
    “Well,” I began, “believe it or not, he is my next door neighbor.”
    “What?” said Aimie in surprise.
    “Yeah. We also attend the same college and that was where we had first met, with me dressed in a grungy pair of jeans and bed-hair.”
    Both Aimie and Patrick laughed, picturing my messy appearance.
    I thought back to the day that Greg and I had met. It was the first day of classes, and my first class of the day, and I had arrived late, dressed in my usual attire of jeans and a t-shirt; and no, I hadn’t bothered to brush out my hair. That was also when I had met