Your Goose Is Cooked (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) by S. Dionne Moore

blood on our hands.”
    For a minute he was silent, then: “I think we should say something.”
    From long experience dealing with headstrong teenagers, I’d braced myself for a lecture to convince him of seeing my point of view, but William was neither a teenager, nor apparently headstrong. “Here I was heating up for a debate session and you agree all quick-like. I’m almost disappointed.”
    William got up. “Who’s the doctor in town?”
    “We’ve got two, they alternate between a practice here and one town over. Dr. Alex Icon and Dr. Troy Gordon. Take your pick. Both can help you, William.”
    A stiff nod was his only response. He stirred the simmering spaghetti sauce. I figured he was done talking and would return to silent mode. Finishing off one last pepper, I lumbered to my feet feeling not an ounce lighter than I had a month ago and opened the refrigerator for a salad. Chicken salad. Grilled white breast meat over all those veggies and a crisp mix of arugula, spinach, and romaine. When William turned from the stove, I held one up and raised my brows in question. He shook his head and got down a plate, dishing up some spaghetti for himself.
    Even with the creamy herb dressing I so loved, the salad didn’t satisfy my taste buds. A dangerous place for me because I knew if the food I was eating failed to satisfy, I’d start looking for something that would, which generally meant I’d choose things not good for me.
    William slurped a noodle into his mouth. Reminded me of the time Tyrone proudly sucked a noodle through his nose until it came out his mouth. A cooked noodle, of course. He walked around the house like that grossing out both Shayna and Lela. When Tyrone headed to the front door to wow the neighborhood with his feat, I stopped him.
    “But, Momma,” he protested, talking all funny-like. “The talent show is coming up at school.”
    “You’re not snorting a noodle for the talent show.”
    He shot me a look of teenage contempt. So I shot back. Hunkering down on his level, I pushed my face next to his. “How about I heat you up then you can go out on stage and try to put the fire out?”
    William worked on spinning the noodles around the fork and feeding his face, as I shared the whole noodle story with him. He didn’t say another word, but his eyes sure sparkled. Somehow, deep down, I felt like we’d made a positive step.
    I stabbed another forkful of spinach and chicken. I chewed hard, pushing against the thought of tangy spaghetti sauce and tender meatballs. It got to be too much. I shoved back my salad and pushed to my feet. I took a very small portion of noodles and smothered it with a ladle of sauce and meatballs. William raised his eyebrows at me. I lowered mine at him. He got the message and showed some spirit by bowing his head over his plate and sucking another noodle in lightning fast.
    We ate in silence until William tapped his watch. Time to open up again. I nodded and he hustled out to unlock the front door. He’d just returned to clear his plate when the bell let out a blast of electronic cheer. For just a second, my mind tripped back in time to Hardy slamming the door in Marion’s antique shop the day we found her body behind the counter. As annoying as that bell had been, it sure beat the electronic screech.
    Regina Rogane -Conrad slipped up to the podium, her smile set in stone. “I’m starved. Chad’s meeting me here in twenty minutes.”
    She looked good. Marriage had taken the shadows from Regina’s eyes that’d been there from the first day her momma took sick, only to deepen when momma had to be moved to a nursing facility, where she’d eventually died.
    I pulled out a couple of menus. “When you going to give us some little chiefs? Our police force is lacking numbers, you know.”
    Regina winked at me. “I’d have to close the shop. Where would you get your hair done?”
    I motioned her to follow me to a table for two in the corner. “Now who do you think did