 
The Fear Hunter

Book One of the Agatha Bright Mysteries

elise sax
The Fear Hunter (Agatha Bright Mysteries– Book 1) is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Elise Sax

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1079170719

Published in the United States by 13 Lakes Publishing

Cover design: Elizabeth Mackey

Edited by: NovelNeeds.com

Formatted by: Jesse Kimmel-Freeman

Printed in the United States of America

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elisesax@gmail.com

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# Also by Elise Sax

Matchmaker Mysteries Series

Matchmaking Advice from Your Grandma Zelda

Road to Matchmaker

An Affair to Dismember

Citizen Pain

The Wizards of Saws

Field of Screams

From Fear to Eternity

West Side Gory

Scareplane

It Happened One Fright

The Big Kill

It's a Wonderful Knife

Ship of Ghouls

Matchmaker Mysteries The Complete Series

Goodnight Mysteries Series

Die Noon

Doom with a View

Jurassic Dark

Coal Miner's Slaughter

Wuthering Frights

Goodnight Mysteries The Complete Series

Agatha Bright Mysteries Series

The Fear Hunter

Some Like It Shot

Fright Club

Partners in Crime

Partners in Crime

Operation Billionaire Trilogy

How to Marry a Billionaire

How to Marry Another Billionaire

How to Marry the Last Billionaire on Earth

Operation Billionaire Trilogy

Five Wishes Series

Going Down

Man Candy

Hot Wired

Just Sacked

Wicked Ride

Five Wishes Series

Three More Wishes Series

Blown Away

Inn & Out

Quick Bang

Three More Wishes Series

Standalone Books

Forever Now

Bounty

Switched
Also by Elise Sax

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Also by Elise Sax

About the Author

# Chapter 1

"Oh look, another glorious morning. Makes me sick!"

–Winifred Sanderson, "Hocus Pocus"

The day Felicia White went missing, I was unhappily oblivious. In fact, I was drowning in my unwanted new life, so it was impossible for me to notice much of anything.

For the past two weeks, I had been running the family's business, which was a bookstore soup shop. (Or a soup shop bookstore, whichever way you wanted to think of it.) My Auntie Prudence had died two weeks and one day ago under suspicious circumstances, and I had been thrust into the role of her replacement.

It was a bad fit. I wasn't a reader, and I didn't know how to cook.

I was also most definitely not a morning person. I had run the lighthouse—a nighttime activity—for so many years that I had practically turned into Dracula. But now the alarm rang at 3:30 in the morning, and I had to drag myself up and get to work.

"This can't be happening," I moaned, slapping at the alarm to shut it up. The house was dark, and I turned on the gaslight by my bed. The blue flame lit up the shadows in the corners of my large bedroom. My aunts didn't trust electricity, so we had never updated the house attached to the lighthouse from gas.

I waited for the sounds of mysterious bumps in the night or the hint of ghostly apparitions, but our Victorian house seemed like it was sleeping in this morning.

"Lucky," I complained, envious. I didn't think I could ever become a morning person. It just wasn't in my DNA. I yawned and padded my way barefoot to the bathroom down the hall. I turned on the tap in the sink and washed my face with cold water. I combed my long black hair with my fingers and lavender oil and tamed it into a thick braid that hung down my back to my waist. I took my nightgown off and slipped on a long flowy baby-blue dress and belted it with a golden cord.

"Damn it. I forgot," I said out loud and took the dress off again. Since I was now working in public and not alone in the house all the time with my aunts, I had been informed that I had to wear a bra. I took the white bra that I had bought at JCPenney off the hook on the bathroom door and hooked myself into it.

"Why do women do this to themselves?" I asked my reflection in the mirror. I leaned forward and squinted, looking deeper into the corners of the mirror. There was nothing there but the reflection of the white wall behind me and two towel racks. "Fine. I don't need you, anyway," I told the empty room.

Once I was dressed and my breasts were secure, I walked downstairs. I gathered my purse off the hook by the front door and slipped into leather flip-flops with purple tassels that I had left there the night before.

"There you are," Auntie Ida said, making me jump slightly in surprise. She was already dressed in her overalls, and her hair was tied up in a bandana, like she was Rosie the Riveter. She handed me a large basket. "I made a double batch of muffins and croissants for the morning crowd, just in case you can't get it moving in time."

I took the heavy basket from her. "It's a soup shop. Why do we serve breakfast?"

Auntie Ida shrugged. "Folks got used to Prudence's homemade breads with their soups and then they wanted them in the morning, too. And once they had the breads, they needed coffee and tea to go with it."

"Ugh, coffee," I complained. "It's like a religion with these people. They want me to make pictures with cream in their cups. The next person who asks for a damned cream picture in their coffee, I'm going curdle their cream and give them the runs for three days."

Yes, I had a bad attitude, but getting drafted and forced to change my whole life had given me a bad attitude. I had been perfectly nice when I had been left to my own devices running the lighthouse.

"You can't do that," Auntie Ida said, chewing on her lower lip.

"Don't worry. I won't," I said. The Bright family had to be careful about stuff like that. Historically, when we got in trouble, we got in trouble big time. Trouble had cost my mother her life when I was only just born, and my aunts had been warning me against trouble ever since.

I kissed Auntie Ida on the forehead, and she opened the door for me. "Be careful of the wind. It's changing," she warned.

"It already changed," I muttered under my breath, thinking of Auntie Prudence.

"The changes aren't done yet."

"What's next?" I asked, looking over my shoulder at her. Auntie Ida had a sense for bad things, whereas I lived in the dark for most everything.

"Something big."

I walked down the steep hill from the house toward Sea Breeze Avenue. This road was private and not well kept, mainly because we didn't normally welcome guests, so we liked to keep the road difficult to navigate.

And it was definitely difficult to navigate. Unlit, I was careful to lift my feet high when I walked so that I wouldn't trip over the large, mismatched cobblestones that had been set wide apart at irregular intervals.

Down below me, the town of Sea Breeze, California, was dark. It was that awkward time between night and day when the streetlights weren't on. There wasn't a sign of a car or any movement at all. In the near distance, I could hear the waves crashing on shore, and I breathed the scent of the salt air in deep.

Ah, that's better, I thought. This is what I like the best, the sea air and solitude. I was not exactly a people person. It wasn't that I was anti-social. It was just that I wasn't used to being around folks very much.

Making it down the hill, I turned right onto Sea Breeze Avenue toward the shop. Auntie Prudence had opened the shop here in Sea Breeze before Sea Breeze was even a town. We had moved here to the border of Mexico to find sanctuary all those years ago. Auntie Ida, Auntie Prudence, Auntie Tilly, and I lived in the Victorian house that was attached to the lighthouse, which we had built overlooking Sea Breeze. Auntie Prudence had insisted on opening the shop and making actual money.

It had worked. I ran the lighthouse, Auntie Ida did her experiments, Auntie Tilly wandered away and didn't come back, and Auntie Prudence worked at the shop. So, Auntie Ida, Auntie Prudence, and I had fallen into a content life together.

But that was then. This was now.

I paused a moment and fought the urge to turn around and return to the house. I had gotten the same urge every day since Auntie Prudence died and I started running her shop.

Dread.

There was nothing worse than dread.

It was worse than fear. At least I thought it was worse. I had never been afraid of anything, so I didn't know for sure.

I closed my eyes, and in a moment of lunacy, I sent a prayer to the heavens that I would be scared of something. Something big.

If I got a big scare, I could forget about dread, I figured. And boredom.

And soup.

Soup was very hard to make. It seemed simple, but there was nothing simple about it.

I opened my eyes and gave a little shout in surprise. Down the street, a blue glow was moving from side to side.

Like the Blue Fairy, I thought. But fairies didn't exist.

As I walked, I kept an eye on the blue glow. By the time that I walked a block, it had turned toward the beach and vanished. By the time that I walked the second block and arrived at the shop, there was still no sign of it.

The soup shop was in a large one-story building, with three-story-high ceilings. It was made of mahogany and looked out of place among the squat buildings in the seaside town. Two of the shop's regulars, Irving and Doris Lansing, were waiting by the front door for me.

"Oh, good. There you are. Prudence was always open by now," Doris said.

I put the basket down and fished the shop's skeleton key out of my purse. "My alarm didn't go off," I lied, not wanting to tell them about my dread.

"What's that you brought?" Irving asked, taking a gander at the basket on the ground. "It smells like the day I won the winning touchdown in college. Best day of my life."

"My aunt made some baked goods for the breakfast crowd," I said.

"That's us. We're the breakfast crowd," Doris said, as if she was thrilled to be the breakfast crowd.

I opened the door and was greeted by a musty cloud. It was the quintessential smell of old buildings. "Give me a second to light the lights," I said.

"Let me. Prudence showed me how to do it years ago," Irving said and marched into the shop. Doris followed him, and I was right behind her.

There were six assorted tables in the center of the shop and twenty-five rows of bookshelves to the right when you walked inside. Behind the stacks were another three tables, and they had been dubbed the stacks tables. To the left were four fireplaces of different sizes and depths. There was a cauldron in each.

Four soups of the day. Leave it to Auntie Prudence to be an overachiever.

At the far wall was a little kitchen that was open to the customers and a cash register from 1890 on a butcher block counter.

The ceilings were crisscrossed with thick, mahogany beams. Just like the house, there were no shortage of shadows in the corners when Irving lit up the gas lights.

I put the basket on the counter next to the cash register and my purse down behind it. I wrapped a white apron around me and filled the large coffeepot with coffee grounds and water.

Look what an old prospector gave me! Auntie Prudence had told me years and years before, showing me the ugly pot. It had been used to make coffee outside over countless fires during countless cattle runs, and she had been thrilled that it was now hers. She had taken great care with it, and it didn't have a spot of rust. Somehow, the old pot made delicious coffee, and it made twenty cups of it at a time, which was a blessing.

Irving and Doris took a seat in the center of the shop, and I set their table with cutlery and plates.

"I'm not a misogynist, Doris. I just hate women," Irving was telling Doris, as I put his plate down in front of him.

"That's what misogynist means," Doris insisted.

"No, it doesn't. You're mixing up misogynist with racist," Irving said, spitting as he spoke.

"Racist is when you hate people who aren't white," Doris insisted.

"That's ridiculous. Todd is my best friend, and he has Crohn's disease. His face is as red as a beet. So I can't be racist," Irving said, spitting more.

Doris slapped her forehead and shook her head. "Not Crohn's disease. Rosacea. He has rosacea. That's why he's red. And I don't think that counts as not being white."

"Well, now you're not making any sense at all, Doris," Irving said, deflated.

The door opened, and Rocky Montana walked in. Since I had lived a good portion of my life locked up in the lighthouse, I didn't know too many townspeople, but Rocky had a mobile knife sharpening business, and my family had used his services at the house on more than one occasion. Auntie Prudence used him regularly since she only owned two knives, and she cut a crapload of vegetables for her soups.

"Hey there, Agatha," Rocky greeted me with a salute and a smile. He was somewhere in his sixties. His face was leathered from years of a deep tan, and wrinkles crisscrossed his skin like it was a treasure map. From experience, I knew that Rocky had a hearty appetite, but the calories didn't attach themselves to him. He was rail-thin, and his clothes hung on him like they were trying to escape.

"I could smell your coffee from outside. I had to stop in early for a cup," he said.

"Sure thing. It'll just be a minute," I said. It had turned out that coffee was the one thing that I could make as well as Auntie Prudence. The rest was hit or miss.

Rocky waved at Irving and Doris and took a seat at the table next to them.

"See?" Irving said to Doris, as he gestured wildly in Rocky's direction. "I'm not a misogynist. Rocky's browner than a shoe and just as leathery."

"I keep forgetting to use sunscreen," Rocky said, touching his face.

"Misogynist means you hate women!" Doris exclaimed, obviously exasperated.

I fetched the coffee and poured three cups. Then, I served assorted baked goods and returned to the little kitchen. On the back wall, there was a safe behind a picture of dogs playing poker. I opened it and took out Auntie Prudence's cookbook. The book was bound in cracked black leather, and the pages were yellow with age and stained with food. Auntie Prudence had put notes in the margins. All I had to do was follow the directions, and I would be fine, one of the notes explained.

Since today was Wednesday, the soups of the day were carrot, spicy chicken tortilla, lentil, and "million-year soup," which was supposed to make folks live a million years, according to my aunt. I snickered. Nobody in Sea Breeze was going to live for a million years, no matter how much million-year soup they ate. I was older than dirt, and I never ate a drop.

I looked a lot younger than my age. Folks around town told me I looked about thirty years old, but I was a lot older than that, and my aunts were a lot older than I was. Older-than-Methuselah kind of old.

I lit large fires in the four fireplaces. Outside, the sun was starting to rise, and muted light began to filter in through the windows. Even with the front windows and the fireplaces going every day, the shop stayed cool and dark all year long.

Through the windows, I could just make out Sea Breeze starting to come to life. Across the street, morning walkers were heading to the beach, through the small park. A couple of musclebound men were working out at the workout stations next to the doughnut shop.

Turning back to the kitchen, I set to work on the carrot soup. The secret to this soup was the brie cheese, according to Auntie Prudence. And the butter. Gobs and gobs of butter imported from the Swiss Alps. I was halfway through chopping ten pounds of carrots when Mouse Mably walked in. Mouse worked at the shop, mostly baking bread, but she helped out in other ways as well. I thanked the universe every day for Mouse's help. There was no way I could have handled the shop without her.

"I'm so sorry!" she squeaked loudly, jogging through the shop toward me in the kitchen. "I broke my shoe and had to walk the rest of the way in bare feet. And then I stepped in dog poop!"

She looked around at the diners and lowered her voice. "Dog poop," she repeated in a whisper when she reached me. "Don't worry. I cleaned it up."

Mouse was not quite four-foot-ten, and she had mousy brown hair, cut in a pixie cut. Her round eyes seemed to take up most of her face, and her lips were set in a permanent pink pout. She was wearing cutoffs and a man's t-shirt.

"I'll get the bread going, pronto. Did your aunt make muffins again?" she asked, looking at Auntie Ida's basket.

"And croissants."

"Yum!" she announced and took one out of the basket.

I prepared the rest of the ingredients for the carrot soup and set it to simmer in one of the cauldrons. It was time to start on the million-year soup, which had the most ingredients.

"Let me sharpen those knives for you," Rocky said, opening his toolbox on the kitchen counter. "I could see you struggling with the carrots from over there."

I didn't want to admit that my hands were the problem and not the knives, so I passed them over to him. As he started to work on the knives, the door opened and a large man walked in.

As soon as he entered, time seemed to stop, and it was like the rest of the world vanished, leaving only him and me.

I froze in place. I couldn't take my eyes off of him, and there was a humming in my ears. I rubbed at them and realized that my mouth was open. He was tall, very tall. He was wearing jeans that fit him perfectly and a V-neck long-sleeved shirt that was pulled in every direction by his wide chest. He had big glasses, brown eyes, and a thick head of curly hair. He took my breath away.

Either that or I was having an aneurysm.

"What does an aneurysm feel like?" I asked Mouse as she kneaded dough.

"What did you say?" she asked, looking up. I noticed the second she saw him because she made a squeaking noise, and she threw up her hands, sending the dough flying through the air, narrowly missing Rocky's head.

"What the heck?" Rocky demanded, and that's when he saw the man too. "Criminy. Who's that?"

There was a loud crash, and Doris shouted "Oh, my!" sending her coffee mug to the floor as she clutched at her chest.

Everyone's mouths were open. I worried that a fly would fly into mine, but I was powerless to close my mouth. It was all I could do not to take a running leap at him, wrap my legs around him and go to town.

Big ideas for a virgin.

The man smiled and locked eyes with me.

Oh my God. He's looking at me. He's looking at me.

What am I wearing?

Am I naked?

Why am I not naked?

A whole slew of crazy thoughts flew through my mind. Thoughts that I had never thought about a living man before.

By the reactions of Mouse and Doris, I knew that I wasn't the only person having those naughty thoughts.

The man reached the kitchen counter. "I hear you make a mean cup of coffee," he said.

His breath smelled of Twinkies and something I couldn't place that made my insides grow tight and hot.

"You look just like The Rock," Rocky said. "Is that your name? The Rock? My name's Rocky. We're kind of twins."

"I'm not The Rock, but I get that a lot," the man said.

"Except for your hair," Mouse said, beaming at him like he was the second coming. "Your hair is all Bruno Mars. And your glasses are amazing. Really amazing!" She squeaked the last sentence and then covered her mouth with her hand as her face turned bright red in embarrassment.

"Sonofabitch!" Rocky yelled and held up his hand. Blood dripped from it, where he had accidentally cut into his flesh while handling one of my knives. "I've never done that before. Oh, no. Blood."

His face drained completely of color, as he stared in horror, transfixed by his bleeding hand. "B...b...b...blood," he moaned and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Not so fast," the man said calmly and caught Rocky as he fainted dead away. The big man laid Rocky on the floor and raised his feet. It did the trick. Rocky's eyes fluttered as he came to. "There you go. You're coming back now."

"He's like Superman and Marcus Welby all at the same time," Doris gushed, still clutching her chest at her table.

"What the hell's going on?" Irving demanded. "What the hell's happening? What the hell...holy crap. What the hell is that?"

With all of the commotion surrounding the beautiful stranger and the bleeding, I hadn't noticed that the door had opened again. This time another man walked in. He was wild-eyed and obviously in some kind of distress.

And he was naked.

And he was glowing.

He was glowing a nice sky blue color.

"Area 38!" he yelled.

The man who looked like The Rock cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Now there's something you don't see every day."

"Area 38!" the glowing man yelled, again, lunging forward. I backed up against the wall in an effort at self-preservation. He didn't seem to be armed, but he was naked and glowing, and that didn't scream "safe" to me.

The man who looked like The Rock approached the glowing man. He had an easygoing way about him, and the glowing man relaxed visibly around him, as if The Rock was a criminal whisperer.

"Let me help you, man," he said. His voice was deep and silky smooth. A warm wave of wonderful washed through me. I wondered if he recorded the tapes that people used to tame their anxiety attacks and get a good night's sleep. "I'm here for you, bro."

The glowing man blinked rapidly, like he was waking from anesthesia and had forgotten that he had gone in for surgery in the first place. "Hey, I recognize you." He pointed a glowing finger at The Rock and smiled. "You're a fighter, right? Remington Cumberbatch. Remington the Death Clutch Cumberbatch."

Remington Cumberbatch. It was a mouthful of a name, I thought. Then, I felt myself blush at the thought of him being a mouthful. Wow, I had never had so many dirty thoughts in my life.

Well, almost never.

Remington smiled again, showing his beautiful white teeth. "Death Clutch is my old fighter name. I go by Remington Knockout Cumberbatch, now. And I'm only part-time in the octagon these days. I'm a detective for the Sea Breeze Police Department."

A detective for the Sea Breeze Police Department? He must have just arrived, or for sure, someone would have noticed him before. The headquarters were only a block away from the shop. Remington Knockout Cumberbatch would only be a block away. The thought made me hot all over.

"I need a glass of cold water," I said out loud.

"Me, too," Mouse squeaked, fanning herself with her floury hand.

"Help. Blood. Help," Rocky moaned on the floor. He tried to get up, but he fell back down in slow motion, as if someone had removed his bones.

"I got you there, brother," Remington announced and dove for him.

He made it to Rocky, but the glowing man took that moment to shout, "Area 38!" again and made a beeline for the door.

The glowing, naked man was faster than one would expect, since he was barefoot, and I would have thought he would have to be careful about his swinging private parts. Remington took a second to make sure Rocky was still alive and then he bolted for the door after the glowing man.

When they were gone, the shop fell into an unnatural quiet.

"What the hell is going on?" Irving demanded loudly after a moment. "Blue men shouldn't be allowed to just walk around wherever they want with their peckers in the wind!" He wagged his finger at his wife. "And don't tell me I'm misogynist just because I don't like blue people!"

"That's not misogynist, Irving!" she yelled back at him, exasperated. "That's racist!"

# Chapter 2

"Double, double, toil, and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble."

–William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"

I didn't see Remington or the glowing man again that morning. After a couple of hours of normalcy, I had almost convinced myself that it had all been some kind of delusion, brought on by the trauma of my forced career change. But since Remington and the glowing man were both the talk of the shop, I knew that they had been real.

"I'll have a bowl of carrot soup and a couple slices of Mouse's sourdough," Amy Hawthorne ordered at around 11:30. "And a couple saucers of milk for the cats," she added.

Amy was a professional cat walker in Sea Breeze, and she had brought three cats into the shop on leashes. The leashes were attached to a custom-made belt on Amy's waist. The cats wandered around the table legs, getting tangled in the leashes. They didn't seem particularly happy to be walked, but Amy didn't seem particularly worried about that.

"Where's the man?" she asked me.

"The man who glowed?"

"No, the man. The man."

"Oh, Remington. He's a new detective in town."

Amy's eyes grew wide. "He's a local? He moved here? I heard that he's six-foot-eight, and he looks like The Rock."

"Six-foot-eight might be a stretch."

"I heard that Mouse nearly swallowed her tongue when she saw him, and you had to drive an EpiPen into her thigh for her to survive," Amy continued, over the moon with the idea at Mouse's almost demise at the sight of Remington.

"I don't remember an EpiPen, but she had to make a second batch of multi-grain," I explained.

The shop was bustling with customers. Outside, Sea Breeze was a hive of activity. We had very little tourism in town because the water was infected with sewage from Tijuana. So, no one was in the water, and only a few were on the beach. But the long pier across the street that ran far into the ocean was packed with fishermen catching their lunch, unafraid of sewage in their fish and chips. There were also runners getting their steps in, and mothers pushing baby strollers.

At the end of the pier, the tackle shop was doing bang-up business. Back at the start of the pier and to the right was a workout area, and a handful of muscle-bound folks were pumping iron. The doughnut shop was doing a bang-up business, and there was no shortage of weed smokers in the park. No sign of hot cops or glowing men.

I recognized several of the people coming and going, but the Bright family had kept to ourselves for years, and we didn't get out much. Auntie Prudence was different, though. She loved her shop, and she loved meeting and knowing as many people as she could from Sea Breeze. And then everything had ended for Auntie Prudence in a sudden and tragic way. The Bright women were used to injustice, but losing Auntie Prudence hit us all hard.

I poured soup into a bowl for Amy and served her. The door opened, and three young men entered. Two of them were wearing cargo shorts, and the third was wearing baggy jeans. They all wore t-shirts with writing on them. Two were about Star Wars and the third was about Star Trek.

I directed them to a table, but they made it clear that they hadn't come in to eat. "We're gathering intel," one of the men told me. "Area 38," he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

"There was a man here before, talking about Area 38," I said.

"Shhh!" one of them hissed. "This is top secret."

"Are you with the government?" They didn't look like they were with the government. They looked like they had escaped from Comic-Con.

One of them laughed. "We're not from the government. We're blowing the lid off the government."

"We're going to reveal all about Area 38," another one said.

I leaned forward. "What's Area 38? Does it make people glow?"

"So, it's true. The man really did glow," one of the men said. "Brothers, it's true!"

His "brothers" slapped hands, like they had just discovered penicillin. I was sort of curious, too. After all, in all my many years on this Earth, I had never seen a man glow before.

"What's Area 38?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Secret government experiments. Damned fascist Nazis," one of the brothers explained.

"Fascist Nazis are bad," I agreed. "What kind of experiments?"

"Experiments that make men glow, for one. And worse. Much worse," another brother said.

"Worse sounds bad," I breathed.

"What did the glowing man do when he was here?" one of them asked me.

"He was agitated. And naked. He yelled a lot about Area 38. Then, he ran out of the shop, and a police detective ran after him. He might have arrested him, but I don't know. I didn't hear from either of them, again."

One of the brothers slapped his chest and sucked in air. "Do you hear that? The local police are in on it. The conspiracy is locked and loaded in Sea Breeze. This is big. I'll take the carrot soup, by the way. And some of your homemade cinnamon bread."

I took their orders. We were deep in the lunch rush now, the busiest time of the day. The door opened again, and a couple came in. They were deep in conversation and walked directly to one of the tables behind the stacks. I recognized them as semi-regulars. They didn't come in every day, but they came in at least once a week. Normally, they sat at a table in the center of the shop, but whatever they were talking about seemed serious, and I assumed they wanted the privacy that the stacks tables afforded. I didn't know their names, but they looked like they were married and in their forties. They were attractive and well-dressed, which in this town, meant that they were wearing closed-toed shoes.

"Today's soups are carrot, spicy chicken tortilla, lentil, and million-year," I told them as they sat down.

"I'll have the chicken tortilla and some baguette," the man ordered.

"I'll have the million-year. I plan on living forever," the woman said. Something passed unsaid between them, but I didn't know what.

I turned around to get their meals when Frances Finkelstein approached their table. She was one of the few people in Sea Breeze who I knew. Frances was a regular and ran the local real estate office and fudge shop. There wasn't much demand for property in Sea Breeze because of the sewage problem, so Frances had to branch out to sweets to make a living.

But that didn't stop her from trying. She was always working, trying to sell a house. She had even braved visiting our house on more than one occasion.

"Folks from San Diego would be chomping at the bit to get their hands on this historical wonder," she told Auntie Ida one day, standing on our front porch. Auntie Ida didn't let her into the house, of course, let alone let her sell it. We were planning on living there until we died, if that ever happened, or when the tide would turn against us, again, and we would have to move.

Today, Frances was wearing a cheap business suit and pantyhose with beige pumps. Her hair was sprayed so that it hovered around her head like a brown shower cap. She had blue eye shadow on her eyelids and red lipstick on her lips, which had been smeared slightly from the lentil soup she had ordered for lunch.

"Felicia," she sang at the woman who planned on living forever. "I'm so glad we ran into each other. I wanted to talk to you about..."

Felicia cut her off with a wave of her hand. "Not interested right now, Frances. Can't you see we're trying to have a private conversation?"

"Of course," Frances said, never losing her smile. "This will only take a minute. We really need to talk about..."

"No," Felicia interrupted, sternly. "Go back to your table. We're busy. If we want to talk to you, we know your number."

"But..." Frances said.

"No," Felicia said, sternly. "I won't get into this with you today. Read the room, bitch."

Frances's jaw clenched, and then she smiled, again. "Sure thing," she said, brightly.

She turned around and walked back to her table. She threw me a look and put her hands out, palms up, as if to say, "What'cha gonna do?"

I got back to work, serving lunch with Mouse. Most of the tables were full of diners, and we were almost out of carrot soup. I made a mental note to prepare more of that one next time. It was the brie in the soup that sold them. It got them every time.

I carried a pitcher of water around the shop and filled glasses and a bowl for Amy's cats. When I got to the stacks tables, Felicia put her hand over her glass. "You're not serving me from that when you just served the cats," she spat, loudly.

I looked at the pitcher. "I didn't touch the cat bowl with it."

"I don't care. I'm not drinking from the same container that served those filthy cats." She stood and walked around the stacks. She pointed at Amy, who was also standing and looking around, as if she was searching for the person who had insulted her feline clients. "Walking cats is stupid! Insane! Why don't you get a real job and stop torturing us with your stupid, filthy cats?"

The shop grew quiet. At least half of a dozen diners stopped eating, and their soup spoons hovered halfway between their bowls and their mouths. I could practically see smoke come out of Amy's nose, but her cats seemed perfectly content at being insulted. I wondered if I was going to have to stop a fight between Felicia and Amy.

What a crazy day I was having. Life in my lighthouse was so much more relaxing. I sighed again and wondered at the injustice of Auntie Prudence's death.

"I'll have you know that cats enjoy being walked!" Amy yelled at Felicia from across the room. "You take that back right now, or I'll..."

"Or you'll do nothing!" Felicia yelled back. She returned to her chair and sat down, hiding once again in the stacks. She and her husband resumed their hushed conversation.

Mouse gave Amy a hug. "I just took a batch of scones out of the oven. I'll bring you two. On the house," she said to her.

"With clotted cream?" Amy asked, hopefully.

The door opened again, and another couple walked in. I didn't know their names, but they were regulars. They came in every day after pumping iron, outside across the street. They were both in perfect shape. The woman was in even better shape than the man. She had muscles everywhere. Even her neck looked like it could do damage. He was muscle-bound too, but he looked more relaxed about it. Maybe because his shirt was looser than hers.

Mouse took their orders, and I wasn't surprised when I heard them order the million-year soup and refuse the carb-laden bread. The lunch rush was slowing down. Most of the diners were finishing up and paying their bills. I rang up a few of them and cleared the tables. When I was washing down one of them, the door opened, again.

An older man wearing skinny jeans, biker boots, a t-shirt, leather jacket, and a spiky gray Mohawk with more than a little gel. He wore chains, too. The real kind of chains, the kind used to chain things, and he was carrying an armful of posters.

As soon as he entered, he stopped and did a rock 'n' roll pose. A couple of middle-aged women in the shop screamed, and a few older men stood and cheered him. "Eddie Acid!" a woman screamed, and a man fanned her with his hand.

"It's me! Eddie Acid!" the rocker announced. He bowed to the diners in the shop and walked directly toward me. "You must be Prudence's replacement. She probably talked to you about me. Eddie Acid."

I had never heard of him before, but Auntie Prudence didn't talk much about her work. When she was home, she talked about home things.

I nodded. "Of course she did," I lied. "You're Eddie Acid."

He pointed at me, as if his finger was a gun. "The first punk rocker. The greatest punk rocker. The number one citizen of Sea Breeze."

"Eddie Acid!" a woman screamed and lunged for him, but her husband dragged her away and out the door.

Eddie posed again and showed me one of his posters. "Do I have your permission to put one of these in the window?"

"Sure," I said. There were already a handful of posters on the windows, so I didn't think another one would hurt. "What's the Punk Rock Knitting Championship?" I asked, reading the poster.

"Glad you asked, sweetheart." Eddie cleared his throat and faced the diners in the shop, like he was running for Congress. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm happy to announce that Sea Breeze will be hosting the first annual Punk Rock Knitting Championship next week. It's like a dance-a-thon but with knitting. So, get to practicing. There will be a sign-up table at the lifeguard tower. I'm putting up the prize money. Two thousand dollars!"

There was a general murmur of excitement and awe. Eddie walked around the shop, answering questions about the knitting championship.

"Oh, I love to knit," Mouse told me. "I'm going to win that two thousand dollars and buy an electric bicycle. It'll change my life. Are you going to enter the competition?"

"I don't know how to knit," I told her. I also didn't know how to ride a bicycle, and I didn't know what I would spend two thousand dollars on. I had everything I wanted, and if we ever needed something, it sort of showed up, like the time the oven broke and a new one appeared in its place the next day.

"We have such a thoughtful house," Auntie Prudence said that day, looking at the new oven in our kitchen. "It always knows just what we need. And look, the oven has six burners. What luxury!"

Mouse and I closed the shop at four o'clock in the afternoon. "Are you sure you don't want me to clean up?" Mouse asked me as I shut the door behind us.

"No, it'll get done," I said.

"That's what Prudence always said, and she was right. Every morning, the shop was spic-and-span. You guys must have a great cleanup crew."

"The best. I never have to tell them what to do," I said. The cleanup crew wasn't exactly what Mouse thought it was, but if I told her the truth, she would probably get me locked up.

We left the shop, and I locked the door with the skeleton key. Mouse went to the right, and I went to the left down Sea Breeze Avenue. As I got closer to home, I felt a familiar feeling of relief, and when I turned onto our long dirt road up to the house, I took a deep, healing breath. Working in the soup shop wasn't bad, but I still felt out of place, like I was invading Prudence's space. And I so missed my lighthouse. Although today had more than its share of excitement. Between Remington, the glowing man, Area 38, Felicia and her fights, and Rocky's accident, I had forgotten about my dread for a good part of the day.

Finally walking up the steps to the front porch of our house, the door opened before I had a chance to touch the doorknob.

"Get in, quick," Auntie Ida said, pulling me inside by the hand.

"What's wrong? Did something happen to the house?"

Auntie Ida's face had drained of color, and her eyes were wild. Her hair had escaped her bandana and was flying every which way, and her overalls were undone, revealing her checked shirt.

"Not the house. The wind. The wind's changed. Big time changed. Not changed like I said it was changed. But really changed. And you know what that means," Auntie Ida said.

I had no idea what that meant. "What does that mean?" I breathed, afraid of the answer.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Auntie Ida and I jumped a foot in the air and clutched onto each other for support.

"Don't answer it," Auntie Ida ordered. I could feel her tremble against me.

The doorbell rang again, and it was followed by pounding on the door. "We have to open it," I said. "What if the shop burned down?"

"What was that?" Auntie Ida said, pointing at my face.

I touched my face. "What?"

"That. You want the shop to burn down."

"No, I don't," I lied.

She pointed at me, again. "There. You did it again. You want the shop to burn down. Listen, the shop is your thing now. Prudence said so."

"When did she say that?"

The doorbell rang again. I ignored Auntie Ida and opened it, just to change the topic of conversation.

Outside, a woman was standing on the front porch, and she looked royally pissed off at having been kept waiting. I knew her face well. I had grown up with her face.

But I thought her face was dead.

"Prudence?" I asked her.

# Chapter 3

"Man produces evil as a bee produces honey."

–William Golding

"Auntie Prudence?" I repeated, dumbstruck. It was all I could do not to pass out. It was all I could do to keep breathing. My beloved Auntie Prudence was standing in front of me, even though she had died two weeks and one day ago under mysterious circumstances. I had seen her body after she died. Auntie Ida and I had buried her in the backyard in a coffin that Auntie Ida made for her out of driftwood and hand-fashioned copper nails. We had mourned her loss. We had packed away her clothes. I had taken over her shop.

But here she was, standing on the front porch. Breathing. She didn't look like a ghost. She looked real and alive. Her skin was lightly tanned. Her cheeks were pink. I stuck my index finger out and poked her middle. Yep, she felt like herself. Trim but slightly soft from a life of fresh-baked bread and Auntie Ida's homemade midnight treats.

But after a couple seconds of staring at her, I realized that Auntie Prudence didn't exactly look like herself. She was slightly different, like one of those puzzles in a kid's magazine that asks to notice the differences in a picture.

Her hair was tied up high on her head when she normally wore it tied low. And her clothes looked like they came out of Katharine Hepburn's wardrobe, not Auntie Prudence's closet.

And there was something else. Something about her demeanor. Where Auntie Prudence was sweet and patient, this woman gave off a distinct ballbreaker stink. Then, it dawned on me. I knew who she was, and she wasn't Auntie Prudence.

I squinted at her and took a closer look. "Auntie Tilly?" I breathed.

"Of course it's your Auntie Tilly," she spat, pushing me aside so she could enter the house. "Who the hell do you think I am? Ida, make me some of your terrible pancakes. I've come all the way from New Mexico, and my dogs are barking."

Auntie Ida and I trotted behind her, as she marched into the kitchen. Auntie Tilly and Auntie Prudence were twins, but I hadn't seen Auntie Tilly in years. Lots of years. Lots and lots and lots of years. She had gone wandering and didn't bother coming back.

But now she was back.

"You walked all the way here?" Auntie Ida asked, breathless, as she gathered the ingredients to make Auntie Tilly pancakes.

"No, that's just an expression. I took Southwest Airlines, but nobody bothered to pick me up at the airport, so I had to take a taxi here and lug my bags up the road myself because the cabbie got goosebumps when he got near," Auntie Tilly explained.

Auntie Ida and I nodded. The house was different things to different people. It had a few tricks to ward off unwanted visitors. For example, the five stairs up the porch could turn into a hundred for someone who was really unwanted.

"That reminds me. Bring in my luggage, Agatha," Auntie Tilly ordered.

"Wait a second. What're you doing here?" I asked.

"The wind," Auntie Ida answered for her.

"Yep. Big change of wind. Big," Auntie Tilly said. "I'm here for a while. I'm going to take care of the lighthouse."

"What?" I said. "No! Now that you're here, you can take over the shop, and I can go back to my lighthouse."

Auntie Tilly and Auntie Ida shook their heads in unison as if they were being pulled by the same string. "The shop's yours now. Prudence said so," Auntie Ida said.

I put my hands on my hips. "When? When did she say so? This doesn't make sense. Tomorrow I have to make chili. Do you know how much pressure that is? Truckers come in from all over for Auntie Prudence's chili. Auntie Tilly could make that without a moment's thought."

"That's true. I make a mean chili," Auntie Tilly said. "But Prudence was crystal clear about this. The shop is yours. It's your destiny. Your destiny starts with the wind change. You can't get clearer than that."

I stomped my foot on the tile floor. "It's not clear at all," I exclaimed. "It doesn't make any sense. Why is cooking soup my destiny?"

"Do you want syrup with your pancakes, or do you want some of my gooseberry jam?" Auntie Ida asked Auntie Tilly, changing the subject. "I just put some up last week. It's so good, you'll want to slap someone."

"I always want to slap someone. But give me some of that jam, anyway," Auntie Tilly said.

"I would have picked you up from the airport, if you had bothered to inform us that you were arriving," Auntie Ida told Auntie Tilly.

Auntie Tilly shook her head, vehemently. "No way. You can't drive, and any other means of transportation would have garnered too much unwanted attention."

"I've been meaning to get that Uber thing," Auntie Ida said, stirring the pancake batter.

"You need a phone for that," Auntie Tilly said.

"Oh, I definitely don't want a phone," Auntie Ida said.

"What's happening here?" I demanded. "Is the conversation about me over? What about my destiny? What about my lighthouse?"

There was a creaking sound from the other side of the house, as if someone was walking on the old floorboards. Immediately, we shut up and listened, craning our heads to see if there was something to be seen. But the sound wasn't followed by another one, and there was nothing to see except for our old, beloved home.

"What's going on? Awfully quiet around here," Auntie Tilly said, looking straight at me.

"It's been quiet for nearly a year," Auntie Ida answered for me, as she flipped a pancake on the stove.

"Why? What happened?" Auntie Tilly asked, looking at me, again.

"I'm being saved from heartache," I said and fought back tears that were stinging my eyes. I didn't want to go into detail. The details were way too painful.

"I should have come home earlier," Auntie Tilly said. "Obviously, everything's gone to hell in a handbasket. It's not right. It shouldn't be this quiet. My niece shouldn't be lonely. But I was needed in Goodnight. They couldn't have gotten along without me, you know."

We ate pancakes with gooseberry jam for dinner and caught up with Auntie Tilly. I brought in her luggage and set her up in her old room. I checked on the lighthouse to make sure everything was being taken care of in my absence. Then, I went to bed early.

I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and dressed in my nightgown. I turned the lights off in my room and laid down in my bed, pulling the covers up under my chin. What a day. The wind had changed, all right. The soup shop had turned into a circus's center ring. It might have been the focus of a government conspiracy. I still didn't know what Area 38 was, and what it had to do with a glowing man.

And then there was Auntie Tilly. The wind must have really changed if she had come back to stay.

I turned over in bed and fluffed my pillow to try and get comfortable. I wanted to talk about all this with someone. I used to have someone to talk to about my days and about my feelings. But that someone had disappeared, went away supposedly to save me from heartbreak.

But his disappearance had left me heartbroken.

"Where are you?" I said out loud, but there wasn't an answer.

"Chili was not invented in Chile, Irving," Doris told her husband, as I handed them their second bowl of chili. It had turned out good today. Not as good as Auntie Prudence's, but good enough to make diners ask for seconds. It was eleven o'clock, and the shop was packed with the lunch crowd.

"Of course, it was. Chili. Chile. They're the same word. Why do you think that is, genius?" Irving said with his mouth full of chili.

"It's not the same word. They're spelled differently," Doris said. "Chili's from Texas. Everyone knows that."

"Chile is not in Texas, Doris. It's a completely different country," Irving insisted.

Doris pointed at him with her fork. "I wonder if this fork could go right through your face."

A table of truckers paid, and I cleared off their table. The door opened, and the workout couple came in. I had seen the woman earlier in the day, doing her jumping jacks outside across the street, but her husband hadn't been with her. Now, he was wearing a suit that was a little too big for him, and she was still in her workout clothes. I sat them at the truckers' old table.

"Today's soups are beef and barley, vegetable, chili, and loaded potato. Mouse made cornbread that's going fast, if you're interested," I told them.

"We don't eat bread," the woman informed me.

"I could go for some cornbread," the man countered. "Do you have that good butter from Switzerland that Prudence always went on about?"

"Yes. Of course," I said. The woman shot him a death stare, a stare that only a woman who worked out every day of her life could.

"We'll both take the vegetable soup," she said, and he nodded.

Phew. People were so weird about food. This one wouldn't eat gluten. That one didn't eat dairy. The other one was on a low carb diet. Another one was vegan. It made me crazy. I should have changed the menu to one soup per day and made them all love it or leave it.

I went back to the kitchen and cut the man a large slab of cornbread and spooned a big dollop of butter on top. The front door opened, and even before I looked up, I knew that Remington was back.

I could feel his presence. My arms sprouted goosebumps, and I felt younger. Schoolgirl younger. I was surprised to realize that I was fighting off a case of the giggles. Oh, geez. Why was I getting this reaction to a man?

I lifted my head and saw him. He was just as sexy as he was yesterday, but he was wearing a fitted suit now. He nodded at me and walked my way with a definite purpose. My body clenched in some weird turned-on exercise, and I got giddy with the possible reasons for his visit.

Are you going to ask me out? Are you going to ask me to marry you? I should have worn earrings. I look good in earrings.

Once again, the sight of Remington provoked a whole litany of crazy thoughts in my head. I willed myself not to giggle or throw myself on top of him or flip my hair back, like I was Farrah Fawcett. Just act normal. Act like you don't care. Act like he's not sexy at all.

"We're full up, but if you want to wait a few minutes, a table should clear," I told him when he reached me. My voice came out like I had a frog in my throat. I tried to clear it, but I sounded like I was choking.

"Are you all right?" he asked me.

I grabbed a glass of water and gulped half of it down. "Yes. Sorry about that."

"I'm not here to eat. I'm here on professional business."

The noise in the shop died down, and more than one head turned in our direction. "Is this about the glowing man?" I whispered to him.

"No. He got away and hasn't been seen since. This is more serious than that."

"Area 38?" I whispered, leaning toward him.

"No. I've come to ask you a few questions about a disappearance," he said seriously. He never lost eye contact with me. I felt naked under his gaze. I was sure that my pupils were dilated and my face was bright red, but I was too embarrassed to break eye contact and look away.

"Look, it's the detective," Mouse squeaked loudly. She was walking out of the stacks with an armful of dirty plates, and when she saw Remington, her hands flew to her face, like she was starring in Home Alone. The plates went flying.

"Incoming!" Remington shouted, and half of the diners covered their heads in an act of self-preservation. The dishes rained down and crashed on the floor, narrowly missing Irving's head.

"Sorry!" I announced. "Just a slight mishap!"

"It's him! It's him!" Mouse continued, walking in Remington's direction, like she was a zombie with a big craving for Remington brains.

"Why don't you look like that in a suit?" Doris asked Irving.

"Nobody looks like that in a suit, Doris," he replied. "Not even the cop. It's an optical illusion. Probably done with mirrors."

The shop cleared out of a few diners, who weren't thrilled that dishes were raining down on their lunches, and I helped Mouse clean up her mess. When we were done, she went to the kitchen to drink ice water.

"May we talk privately?" Remington asked me.

I pointed at myself. "Me?"

"And me," he said.

"Uh," I managed and pointed at the stacks. He followed me behind the books, and we sat at a stacks table. We were all alone behind the bookshelves. Just him and me. Me and him. His muscles and my virginity. He smiled at me, and I realized that my mouth was open. "Uh," I said, again.

"A woman's disappeared," he said, finally.

"A woman's disappeared," I repeated.

"Felicia White."

"Felicia White."

"She was last seen here at your shop."

"She was last seen here at your shop."

Remington laid his hand on mine on the table. "Are you all right? You're repeating everything I say."

"I'm repeating everything you say?" I asked and closed my mouth again. I retracted my hand from under his. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. What were you saying?"

"Felicia White. She's disappeared."

"Felicia," I said, rolling the name around in my mouth. "I didn't know her last name. She and her husband are semi-regulars. She ordered the million-year soup, and there was something else I can't remember."

Remington took a small notebook and pen out of his jacket's inside pocket and took notes. "Did she seem agitated? Nervous?"

I shook my head. "She seemed mean."

"Mean to you?"

"Mean to everyone. But I don't think that's out of character for her. I'm not sure. I've only been running the shop for two weeks. I haven't paid that much attention."

"What's the name of the shop?" Remington asked. "There's nothing written outside, and nobody seems to know."

"What do you want to call it?"

"Excuse me?"

"You can call it whatever you want. It's that kind of shop."

He smiled at me and nodded. "Cool," he said. A warm wave of wonderful rolled up my back at the sound of his voice. "I like your style."

"Oh," I breathed. He was awfully handsome. He was rough and tumble in The Rock kind of way, yet dashing and charming in a James Bond kind of way. He was sexy in all kinds of ways.

"Anything else? Who was she mean to?"

I told him about Felicia's conversations with Frances and Amy. "She doesn't like cats."

"I'm a dog guy, myself," Remington said. "What about her better half? Did you get a read on the husband?"

"I don't think I heard him say anything, but they came back here to talk. It's not their regular table."

"They wanted privacy."

I nodded. Remington was studying my face. Maybe he was trying to detect if I was lying and I had poisoned Felicia's meal and had buried her in the alley behind the shop. But then he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and smiled at me.

"You have an eye for people," he said and winked.

My hand flew to my chest, and it was all I could do not to say, "Oh my."

"Anything else? Something that made you feel off? Something uncool?"

"No," I said but then remembered something. "Actually, there was something. Something she said. When she ordered the million-year soup, she said she planned to live forever." I got the chills, and I shivered. "Do you think something bad happened to her?"

Remington cocked his head to the side. "Folks sometimes leave town and don't tell anyone. Maybe she got into a fight with her husband. Maybe she went with a girlfriend to get Botox and didn't bother to tell anyone. We'll probably find her, but..."

"But you think something bad happened to her."

"The woman vanished from a small town. I'm thinkin' that's not chill. I'm thinkin' the mean girl maybe got too mean for her own health. You get me, Aggie?"

"I get you," I breathed. He knew my name, and not only did he know my name, he felt comfortable enough to give me a nickname. It was the first time anyone had ever called me by a nickname.

"How mean was she to you?" he asked and studied me, again. This time, it was definitely the suspicious kind of studying.

"She was fine. I get customers like that. It doesn't bother me."

Remington scratched the back of his neck and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Good because folks have been talking smack about you and your family."

"Define smack."

"Weird stuff. I'm a Trekkie and a big Star Wars fan. Stuff like that."

My spine stiffened, and I crossed my arms in front of me. "Like I have a spaceship, and I talk to little green men? Stuff like that?"

"More like the Jedi mind trick stuff. More like the unexplainable stuff."

He was still studying my face. Damn it. My aunts and I had been very careful to lead quiet lives. I wonder just how much unexplainable stuff he was talking about.

I laughed. "Unmarried women sure get attention," I said, waving my hand.

"I heard more than one whisper that maybe you put something more in your soup than soup."

"Are you accusing me of something, Detective?" I demanded, crossing my arms in front of myself, again.

Remington raised his hands in surrender. "Nope. I'm just asking questions. Just doing my job."

"Good. I have nothing to hide." Yes, I lied about having something to hide, but I wasn't lying about having nothing to hide about Felicia's disappearance.

By the time we walked out from behind the bookshelves, word had gotten around the shop that Felicia had disappeared. Remington winked at me and left the shop on his way to find Frances and Amy, in order to interview them about Felicia.

"What happened back there?" Mouse asked me urgently when Remington left. "Did he touch you?"

I showed her my arm. "Right above the wrist."

She focused on the spot. "Lucky," she breathed. "Did he accuse you of murdering Felicia?"

"Sort of. Was she murdered? What have you heard?"

"Thousands of things. A couple truckers said she must have been taken by terrorists. Irving said she probably got colitis and had to go to the hospital because that happened to him last year."

I weighed the possibilities. Colitis seemed more likely than terrorists, but anything was possible. For the next hour, I heard all kinds of possibilities. News of Felicia's disappearance had spread like wildfire. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in Sea Breeze since the two for one special at the tackle shop last January.

I had to admit that the excitement was contagious. I fielded each conspiracy theory that entered the shop with boundless enthusiasm. I was filled with a crazy desire to know what had happened to Felicia White, the mean girl and semi-regular.

When a local woman brought in posters about Felicia's disappearance, I took one and put it in the shop window. Missing. Have you seen this woman? Felicia White was last seen on Wednesday. Please call if you have any information. Reward offered. There was a phone number and a picture of Felicia riding a horse. I wondered how often she rode a horse. Did she own the horse? Did she compete?

There was a lot I didn't know about Felicia, but suddenly I wanted to know everything about her. And I wanted to solve the mystery of her disappearance. I wanted it more than I wanted to go back to my lighthouse and never come out again. I also needed to clear the Bright name before Remington nosed around us and found out something we didn't want him to find out.

But how could I solve the mystery? I didn't know a thing about mysteries.

I slapped my forehead. Duh. I owned a bookstore. I must have owned hundreds of mysteries.

"Do you know anything about mystery novels?" I asked Mouse.

"I'm not much of a reader. I'm more of a Netflix binger."

"I'm an avid mystery reader," Doris announced, overhearing me. She bounded up from her seat. "I'll get you started."

She took my hand and tugged me toward the stacks. She gestured to a shelf. "Most people make the mistake of going for something modern," she said. "Current. Those people are morons. Nothing good has been written since the 1950s. You agree?"

She gave me a pointed look, and I figured I should agree. "Yes. Nothing after 1950."

"Good girl. Now, most amateurs would point you to Agatha Christie," Doris explained. Her voice amped up, and she was talking faster than normal. "They're not wrong. She is the queen of crime, the maven of murder. So, you can't go wrong with Agatha. Hey, she has the same name as you! I just realized that."

"So, should I read her?"

"Not yet. Let me finish," she said, sternly. "Other people would steer you to Arthur Conan Doyle. We both know that would be a mistake. Am I right?"

"Yes?" I said like a question. I was getting lost in the names. Genre fiction was a tough nut to crack.

"Yes! So, here's what you're going to do." She took four books off a shelf and handed them to me. "Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. Noir. These books will get you into mystery, good and fast. When you're done with those, we'll start you on Agatha." Doris barked laughter. "Agatha. That just kills me that you've got the same first names. Maybe it's a sign."

Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. They had good solid names. Good detective names. I clutched the books to my chest with renewed purpose in life. I was sure that the secret to Felicia's disappearance laid between the novels' covers.

When I returned to the kitchen, the three Comic-Con looking, Area 38 conspiracy theorists were waiting for me. "Would you like a table?" I asked them. "Today's soups are beef and barley, vegetable, chili, and loaded potato."

"Loaded potato sounds good," one of them said.

"That's not why we're here," another one said. He was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Princess Leia in a metal bikini on it. "Although, I could go for a bowl of chili."

"We're here about the woman who got taken by the government," the third guy said.

I gasped. "Felicia White? She was taken by the government?"

"Not so loud," the Princess Leia guy said. "Don't you think it's a weird coincidence that a man who was glowing came in here shouting about Area 38, and then the next day a woman went missing?"

He was right. It was a weird coincidence. I wondered what Raymond Chandler would have said about it. Would he have told me to start my investigation with Area 38?

"Where is Area 38?" I asked.

"Not so fast. How do we know you're not part of the government?" one of them asked me.

"I'm not," I said. I wasn't. I didn't even have a social security card. I had never paid taxes. I was nowhere close to being part of the government.

"We'll have to check you out, make sure you're trustworthy," one of them told me. "In the meantime, we'll add you to our protest list."

I didn't know what the protest list was, but my mind was swirling about Felicia and Area 38. Maybe she worked for the government. Maybe she had something to do with the glowing guy.

Whatever happened to Felicia, I needed to find out. Was this the wind change that my aunts had talked about? Was this my destiny?

# Chapter 4

"I put a spell on you because you're mine."

—Jay Hawkins, "I Put a Spell on You."

I carried the mystery books home, eager to dig into them. The rest of the day at the shop had been all about conspiracy theories, innuendo, and rumors. It had been hard to filter out any clues or glean any idea what happened to Felicia. She had disappeared without a trace. I was hoping that the books would help me start the investigation.

I planned on reading at home at the kitchen table with cookies and milk. Auntie Ida had made some killer snickerdoodles last night, and I was ready to eat a half dozen of them.

But when I walked through the front door, I was greeted by mayhem. Auntie Ida and Auntie Tilly were screaming at each other. Auntie Ida was wearing a gray jumpsuit and a welder's mask, while Auntie Tilly was in black slacks and a blue chambray shirt.

"Don't you tell me what to do!" Auntie Ida yelled at her sister, her voice muffled by the welder's mask.

"Don't you tell me what to do!" Auntie Tilly yelled back at her.

I walked past the arguing women in the entranceway and put my books down on the kitchen table.

"You're crazy! You can't play with nuclear fuel!" Auntie Tilly was yelling. I opened the icebox and took out a pitcher of milk.

"I'm not playing! I've almost got time travel down!" Auntie Ida yelled back.

"Why do we want time travel? We're older than dirt!" Auntie Tilly yelled.

I poured the milk into a large glass and found the cookies. I brought them all with me to the table and sat down.

"For your information, I need to go back in time because I can't for the life of me remember the recipe for fig bars!" Auntie Ida yelled.

"You give stupid a bad name!" Auntie Tilly yelled.

"Stupid is a bad name, moron!"

I had forgotten that Auntie Tilly and Auntie Ida fought like cats and dogs. Auntie Prudence used to play referee, but with her gone, the two sisters would probably fight until they were hoarse. I decided to let them work it out themselves. I couldn't play detective and referee at the same time. Besides, they were more than grown women, and they could take care of themselves. And I didn't have time to worry about nuclear fuel. I had a mystery to solve.

I took a bite of a cookie and cracked open one of the Dashiell Hammett books. After a couple of pages, I was lost in the story, and I didn't hear my aunts fighting at all. I only stopped reading when Auntie Tilly shook my shoulder.

"Ida wants boeuf bourguignon for dinner, but I think we should have pancakes. You have to vote," Auntie Tilly told me. She stood tall with her arms crossed in front of her and her face set in a "I dare you to vote wrong" position.

I swallowed. "We had pancakes last night, and boeuf bourguignon is too similar to soup. I can't bear to look at soup again today. How about cinnamon toast with hot chocolate?"

I was surprised when Auntie Tilly's face softened. Her eyes widened, and she smiled. "Perfect! I haven't had cinnamon toast in ages. And maybe brownies for dessert. What do you think?"

I thought it was wonderful. When you get as old as I am, you don't bother with diets anymore. Interestingly, since I stopped worrying about what I ate many years ago, I had stayed the same weight.

My aunts buried the hatchet in order to make dinner. I guessed that no grudge could continue when cinnamon toast was for dinner. They whipped up the brownie batter in a few minutes and put the brownies in one of the ovens. Then, they toasted an entire loaf of white bread in the other oven while they mixed cinnamon and sugar. When the bread was toasted, Auntie Tilly prepared a half-gallon of hot chocolate while Auntie Ida slathered the toasts with butter and sprinkled them with the cinnamon-sugar mixture.

I pushed my books aside and helped set the table. "This is much better than pancakes," Auntie Ida said when we were sitting and her mouth was full of cinnamon toast.

"I wouldn't go that far, but it's good," Auntie Tilly said. "The food pyramid can kiss my ass."

"What's the food pyramid?" I asked.

"You need to get out more," Auntie Tilly chastised me.

"Me? I'm out every day now. I'm seeing crazy things. There was a man who glowed yesterday, and today a woman went missing, and the police think that I might have killed her," I said and took a sip of my hot chocolate.

"Do you think you'll go to prison?" Auntie Ida asked breathlessly, with more than a little excitement. "I have a prison jumpsuit I could loan you. I've always dreamed of going to prison. I want to try out my potion to change metal into feathers."

"Don't say potion," Auntie Tilly warned her.

"Sorry. Chemical mixture," Auntie Ida corrected herself. "It would be a hoot to see all those bars turned into feathers. Just think of the possibilities for comfy mattresses and pillows for the prisoners."

"They wouldn't be prisoners if the bars turned into feathers," Auntie Tilly said, logically.

"I don't get your point," Auntie Ida said.

The oven timer went off, and Auntie Ida took the brownies out of the oven to cool and sat back down.

"Why do the police think you killed this woman?" Auntie Tilly asked me.

"Because the Bright family is weird, according to some people he spoke to," I said.

Auntie Tilly and I took a slow turn and looked directly at Auntie Ida. Her welder's mask was pushed back so it rested on top of her head.

"Don't look at me like that. I haven't left the house since the war," Auntie Ida said.

"Which war?" Auntie Tilly asked.

"The one with John Wayne," Auntie Ida said.

"That could mean anything. The man did a million movies," Auntie Tilly complained. "Was he riding a horse in this war?"

Auntie Ida thought about that a moment and tapped her chin with her finger. "No. He was wearing a helmet, and the movies were loud."

"World War II," Auntie Tilly said. "You haven't been out of the house since World War II. That's pretty good. Maybe the locals have memories of you before then. Like that thing you did in the 1920s."

Auntie Ida threw the slice of toast that she had been eating down on her plate violently. "That wasn't my fault. Don't bring that up, again, Tilly. It's so like you to try and get my dander up."

"I'm a truth talker, woman. Deal with it," Auntie Tilly spat.

"You're a mean old woman," Auntie Ida said.

"You're older than I am," Auntie Tilly pointed out.

Sigh. Even cinnamon toast couldn't bring them together. Maybe all of the arguing would give them laryngitis and then they'd shut up. In the meantime, perhaps brownies would do the trick. I got up and brought the pan of brownies back to the table. I cut three large squares and passed them around.

I took a big bite of one and washed it down with hot chocolate.

"What's this?" Auntie Tilly asked, picking up one of my books.

"I'm learning how to solve mysteries. I'm going find to Felicia," I explained excitedly. "She's the missing woman. She was last seen in the soup shop. That's why I'm a suspect. A suspect in her disappearance and maybe even a murder suspect."

I clapped my hands together and giggled.

"I don't think your Auntie Prudence would approve," Auntie Tilly said. "She was careful not to get the attention of the townsfolk."

"True. Attention has never been our best friend," Auntie Ida said. "Maybe you should close up the shop for a few days until this blows over."

Normally, nothing would make me happier than the idea of closing up the shop for a few days, but I needed to be close to the suspects in order to solve this mystery, even if I didn't know who the suspects were. If the shop wasn't open, how would I find out more about Area 38? How would Remington know where to find me?

"I won't get any attention. I promise," I said, taking another large bite of a brownie. "I'll solve the mystery quietly. No one will even know I'm doing it."

I could tell that they were going to argue with me some more, so I decided to leave. I cut another brownie, put it on a napkin, and left the table with it and my books. I went upstairs and tossed the books and the brownie on my bed. I went to the bathroom to take a shower and wash off the day. After, I slipped on my nightgown and wiped the mirror down with a towel.

I found myself studying my face. I rarely gave my appearance much attention, but I wanted to see what Remington saw when he looked at me. My face hadn't changed in years. I was still the same Agatha I had always been. Except there was a tinge of excitement in my eyes.

The dread had been replaced with eagerness. Enthusiasm.

Was I happy? Could I be happy because a woman disappeared? Or because a handsome young man with muscles smiled at me and called me Aggie?

Just as I hadn't dieted for many years, I hadn't thought about attention from men for many years. Not any live man. Not a man who could touch my arm and make my blood rush through my veins like I was alive. Because that was the thing. I hadn't felt alive for years, and I just noticed it now that I suddenly felt alive, again.

Life. It could be really good. Imagine that.

Suddenly, I realized that I wasn't alone in the bathroom. My image in the mirror was joined by another. Behind me was a face I had known my entire life. A beautiful man's face. A face I hadn't seen in a year.

I whipped around. John Richards was standing in the small bathroom, looking down at me from his six-foot-four height. A little shorter than Remington, I found myself noticing. His back was ramrod straight. In my whole life, I had never seen him slouch. Not even an inch. He was wearing his usual outfit, the only clothes I had ever seen him wear.

His linen shirt was open at the neck and tucked into black pants with a high waist and pants legs that stopped just below his knees. He was barefoot, as usual, a curse for a man who had always been so formal and well-groomed during his life.

His face, like mine, was frozen in time. His looked about five years older than mine. His beard was dark and neatly trimmed, and his hair, which hung to his shoulders, was pulled back with a leather tie.

He was studying me. But unlike Remington, who was filled with joy and self-confidence, John studied me with a definite sadness in his eyes. He put his hand out, as if he was going to touch me and then as if remembering that such a thing was impossible, put it back down at his side.

"You're here," I breathed, not quite believing it. I thought he was gone forever. He had more or less told me he was never coming back a year ago. For my own good, he had said. To avoid heartbreak, he had said.

"I felt a disturbance in the force, and I had to see you," he said now, a year later. He spoke with an English accent, and his voice was deep and strong. It was my favorite voice in the world.

"A disturbance in the force? Topical humor. Good one, John."

"I've been practicing. Trying to stay current for you."

A long silence fell between us, while we looked at each other, like we were trying to figure out if the other one was real. As for me, I knew that John was sort of real. Realer than not, but not real enough for a happily ever after.

How could there be a happily ever after with a man who had died over three hundred years ago?

I was in love with a ghost. And let me tell you, ghost love sucks.

"I'm happy you're back," I said honestly and wiped a tear from my eye.

"You see? I've been back in your presence for less than a minute, and I've already made you cry."

"Don't do the James Dean thing," I said. "I hate the James Dean thing."

"Who's James Dean?"

I laughed. "You need to work harder on staying current, John. James Dean died in 1955."

"Well, there you go. I hate dead people," he said, ironically.

The James Dean thing was John being anguished. John feeling guilty. John doing the "You're tearing me apart" scene every time we realized that this thing between us could never be realized.

Damned ghost love.

"Don't leave again," I whispered, terrified of his response.

"I never actually leave, you know. I can't ever leave this house or the lighthouse. I just get quiet."

There was another moment of silence between us, and I watched his chest rise and fall, as if he was still breathing. It was cruel, just how alive he looked.

"Don't get quiet again," I said, softly. "I'm not happy when you're quiet."

"I'm not happy when I'm quiet, either."

We moved out of the bathroom. He followed me into my bedroom and I closed the door. I sat cross-legged on my bed, and he stood over me with his hands clasped behind his back. "Auntie Prudence died," I informed him, taking a bite of my brownie.

"I know."

"I run the soup shop now."

"I know."

"I might go to prison."

One of John's eyebrows shot up. I had shocked him. "Excuse me? That can't be possible. We must do something. You must flee. Run to the Arctic Circle. You'll be safe there."

I smiled. I loved when John was protective of me. It proved that he returned my feelings.

"Don't worry. I won't go to prison because I'm going to solve the mystery myself. Look at these." I showed John the four mystery novels. "I'm learning how to be a detective."

"This is very exciting," John noted. "You are flush with happiness about becoming a detective. What mystery are you going to solve?"

"A woman's missing. Felicia White. I met her at the soup shop. She's mean, so all kinds of people would possibly want to do her harm. And then there's the glowing man."

I told John about Area 38, Frances, and Amy. "Those are my only suspects," I said. "That's what Dashiell Hammett does. He lines up suspects."

"That seems like a smart strategy," John said. "In my line of work, I was given the guilty party and only had to prosecute."

Another silence descended between us. John's previous career was a sore subject in the Bright household. Let's just say that John and the Brights were on the opposite sides of the law at one time, and the result was tragedy for both of us.

"Maybe Amy the cat walker has got Felicia locked up somewhere," I said, changing the subject from John's past.

"Maybe in a dungeon," John guessed.

"You're right. A dungeon would be ideal for locking up a woman. I'll have to search all of the dungeons in Sea Breeze. I wonder if there are any dungeons in Sea Breeze."

"What about the Frances woman?"

"She has a fudge shop. Maybe Felicia's locked up in the fudge shop. And then there's the Area 38 thing. That's a secret government operation. It made a man glow blue, so I bet it could disappear a woman pretty easily."

John's face grew serious. "Don't mess with the government, Agatha. The government is powerful. You could wind up in prison. Or worse."

We locked eyes at his last words. John was intimately aware of how governments worked, and we both knew how bad "worse" could get.

"I'll be careful," I promised. "I don't think Remington would put me in prison, and he's probably already looked into Area 38. I could ask him about it."

"Who's Remington?"

"He's the new detective in town." Heaven help me, my face grew hot. I willed myself not to blush, but I was on fire. I must have turned beet red. I was blinking, too. A lot of blinking. I turned my head away from John so he couldn't see, but of course, he had already seen.

"Ah," John said, softly. "Remington." He drew out the syllables of the name, as if each one gave him much needed information about the hot cop. "Tell me more about Remington."

I opened one of the books, pretending that I suddenly found it fascinating. "Well, you know. He's a policeman," I said, speaking into the book so that I wouldn't have to look directly at John. "He asks a lot of questions. He suspects everyone. And he has muscles."

"What kind of muscles?"

"Big ones all over his body," I said before I could stop myself.

"You've looked at his body?" John asked, pained. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his inner fight playing out on his face. He wanted me to be happy. In fact, he had told me many times that he wanted me to be happy. He went quiet for a year because he wanted me to be happy. But on the other hand, I didn't think he was prepared for me to look at other men's muscles.

"No. It's just that I could tell he had muscles under his suit. He's big. He's also a fighter in his spare time," I said.

John's body tensed, and he stood even straighter, something I thought was impossible. "This man sounds dangerous, Agatha. Perhaps you should stay clear of him."

John was right. Remington was dangerous. I could tell he was. But thinking about that gave me a thrill that went up and down my body. I couldn't stop smiling.

"Yes. There's indeed been a change in the force," John commented, softly. "Tell me more about your Remington."

I took a deep breath. "He calls me Aggie instead of Agatha. No one's ever done that before."

"That's very rude."

"I sort of like it," I said and regretted it instantly.

"You do?"

"Yes." It was impossible for me to be dishonest to John. It would be like wearing my skin on the inside of my body. Painful and physically impossible.

"I'm happy that you're happy," John said after a long moment. His body was still tense, his hands still clasped behind his back. Our relationship was complicated but simple. The simple part was the desire, the attraction, the undying affection, and the whole soulmate thing. The complicated part was that the simple part was flat out impossible.

"Tell me more about your investigation," John urged me, falling on a safer subject than Remington's muscles. "Teach me about Dashiell Hammett."

We spoke late into the night, and I read most of one of the Dashiell Hammett books out loud to John. He was fascinated at the open violence of it, riveted by the page by page breaking of taboos and the frank openness about personal matters that were anathema to John's time when he lived. My fascination came from a totally different aspect of the book. I was fascinated with the procedural nature of the investigation and how Dashiell Hammett let his character break it in order to solve the mystery. Breaking the rules was actually part of his rules.

It not only fascinated me. It excited me. I couldn't wait to get started on my own investigation.

"You are tired, Agatha. You need to sleep," John told me after midnight when I yawned. "Slip under the covers and pull them up under your chin."

I turned off the light and slipped under the covers. "And pretend that you're tucking me in," I added, sleepily.

"Yes. Pretend that I'm tucking you in." John's velvety voice came to me through the dark room, and for the first time in a year, I knew that I would sleep well.

"John," I said, as I began to drift off to sleep. "Don't go quiet again. I need you here."

"But..."

"No. Promise me."

"I promise, Agatha. No matter the consequences."

# Chapter 5

"Going so soon? I wouldn't hear of it. Why, my little party's just beginning!"

–The Wicked Witch of the West

I yawned again. I couldn't stop yawning. After precious little sleep, I could barely keep my eyes open while I served customers. And in the soup business, a server with her eyes closed is a dangerous thing.

The house had been different when I woke at four this morning. Even though it was quiet and dark, there was a palpable feeling of hope in the spaces between the walls. Perhaps it was John's reappearance. Maybe it was my new goal of finding Felicia. Either way, the new feeling of optimism and positivity gave me a burst of energy.

That's why I bounded up from my bed before the alarm went off. There was no sign of John when I woke, but I knew that he was giving me my privacy. Sure enough, as soon as I was dressed—and I dressed in a hurry—he had returned.

"You will remember to be careful, I trust," John said, gently, as he followed me through the hallway and down the stairs. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood ramrod straight, as usual.

"Oh, I hope not," I answered. "I want a lot of excitement. I'm going to grill the suspects today. That's what Dashiell Hammett calls it. Grilling."

"Can you not grill and be careful at the same time?" John asked with a slightly irritated tone in his voice.

"John, how lovely to see you," Auntie Ida gushed, coming out of the darkness with a basket of baked goods in her hands when we arrived downstairs. She was wearing her overalls and her hair was tied up in a bandana again. "The house has been quiet without you. Not that you're loud. You're pleasantly not loud, in fact."

"She means that the house has been sad without you," Auntie Tilly said, appearing down the stairs in her housedress and slippers. "I've missed you, John. How are you?"

"I suppose I am the same, except that I'm concerned about Agatha. I fear that she's in danger."

"Do you think so?" I asked him hopefully.

"She is very excited," John told my aunts. "Perhaps she should stay home."

"She can't," Auntie Ida insisted. "It's matza ball soup day. It's the bestselling soup. If she doesn't open the shop today, she'll bring down the town."

And that was that. John didn't have an argument against matza ball soup, and he was far too kind to want to bring down the town. Saying goodbye to John and my aunts, I slipped on my shoes, took the basket from Auntie Ida, and left the house.

My morning turned out to be tame, much to my disappointment. The Area 38 guys didn't show up. Even Doris and Irving were quiet. Doris was reading a book, and Irving had his nose in a Popular Mechanics magazine. There wasn't a mention of Felicia and her disappearance in any of the other diners' conversations. But there was a general buzz about Remington and his marital status.

I overheard Mouse talking to a table of four women about him. "I didn't see a wedding ring, and I checked," Mouse told the women, much to their delight.

One of them clapped her hands together. "Finally, fresh meat in this Podunk town. Did he smell good? I heard he smelled good."

"I smelled him when he walked by me on the street," another of the women announced, like she was Veruca Salt and had just been handed her golden ticket. "He smelled real good. Like he was single and rockin' in bed."

There was a general murmur of approval around the table. "That's a good smell," Mouse agreed.

"And he has a job. He's a detective. How much do detectives make?" another woman asked.

It was more or less like that all morning. Nothing about Felicia. Everything about Remington.

I was just about losing hope when Frances walked in around noon and took a seat at the table next to Irving and Doris. My first suspect had finally arrived. My heart beat in my chest like it was going to war. I felt giddy all over, and I hoped John was right about being in danger. I skipped over to her, ready to grill her just like in a Dashiell Hammett book.

"Today's soups are matza ball, broccoli and cheddar, vegan paradise, and beans, beans, beans," I told her. Drat. My professional self had pushed my mystery-solver self out of the way. When faced with my first suspect, I froze and couldn't figure out how to grill her.

So, I was talking about soup. John would be so happy. Dashiell Hammett would be so ashamed of me.

"What's in the beans, beans, beans soup?" Frances asked me.

"Beans."

Frances adjusted her hair, which had been hairsprayed enough to put another hole in the ozone layer. "That makes sense. I'll take a bowl of the matza ball soup."

"Mouse made challah to go with it. You want a few slices?" Damn it. My soup self was getting in the way, again. Honestly, I was nervous about grilling her. Hesitant. Shy. And I couldn't figure out how to broach the subject in a nice way about Felicia and the possibility that Frances had killed her.

"Sure," she said. I turned to walk away in cowardly retreat, but Frances called me back. "Hey, I heard that new detective was in here, asking you questions."

Sheesh. Everyone only wanted to talk about Remington. I understood the attraction, but a woman was missing. "He's single, and he smells good," I told her.

"I know that, but what did he say about Felicia?"

My ears pricked up. I hadn't managed to broach the subject of Felicia with Frances, but she had broached it with me. I pulled out a chair at her table and sat across from her. "Are you asking me about Felicia?"

"She's missing. You know that, right?" she asked, and I nodded. "I know something about them, Felicia and Donald."

"Her husband Donald?"

"That's the one. I'm their real estate agent."

Goosebumps sprouted on my arms, and I rubbed them. "You know something about Felicia?" I breathed.

Frances leaned forward. "Felicia and Donald are upside down on their house, and it's about to get foreclosed on. Since Felicia is the breadwinner, with her gone, the house is going to get foreclosed on for sure."

"Oh," I said. It was a clue, but I had no idea what it meant. "That sounds bad."

She looked around as if she was making sure she wasn't overheard and lowered her voice. "They hired me to sell the house for them before they lost it. Then, a week ago, Donald came into my office for a slab of my rocky road fudge, and he told me to forget the house, that they didn't need to sell it anymore. And you know what happened then."

"Felicia disappeared," I said. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know, but it's fishy, right? That Donald guy. Fishy."

Donald White. Suspect number one. There was the possibility that Frances was trying to pin the suspicion on Donald in order to take it off her, but I would deal with that later. Dashiell Hammett would tell me to follow the clues for now, and that's what I planned on doing.

"So, did the detective guy ask about their house?" Frances asked me.

"No, he didn't say a word about it."

She leaned back and took a deep breath. "That's good," she said, sounding relieved.

I served Frances, and then I prepared a delivery lunch of matza ball soup, challah, and half a dozen of Auntie Ida's chocolate chip cookies.

"I'm going to leave for a while. Special delivery. Can you hold down the fort until I get back?" I asked Mouse.

"You're leaving?" she asked, surprised. "You've never left when the shop was open before. Prudence never did, either."

"Special delivery," I repeated, showing her the basket because I couldn't think up another excuse.

"Are you feeling all right?" Mouse asked. "There's a doozy of a flu going around. My cousin caught it and coughed for three weeks and got a hernia. They operated, but they cut off her index finger instead of fixing the hernia. Her lawyer says she has a good case against the hospital. She wants to buy a boat."

Gosh. I hoped I didn't have the flu. I decided to tell her where I was going. "I feel fine," I said, touching my forehead. "I'm bringing soup to Donald White to make him feel better."

"I don't think Donald will be hungry," Mouse said.

"Why? It's lunchtime."

"You'll see when you get there."

I carried the basket lunch out of the shop. Mouse knew where Donald and Felicia lived, and she had given me the directions to get there. It had been eons since I had walked around Sea Breeze during the day. Normally, I just spied on it from atop the lighthouse. Being at eye level was a completely different experience.

I recognized at least a dozen soup customers, doing their thing outside. Crossing the street, I saw Amy sitting in the park with three cats on leashes. I made a mental note to ask her some questions if she was still there when I returned. But the park was in the opposite direction of where I was going. Instead, I turned to the right and walked north past the pier, up Sea Breeze Avenue. The ice cream and doughnut shops were doing bang-up business, as usual. Next to them, about ten people were pumping iron in the outside workout area, including one of my semi-regulars, the female half of the married couple. Further down, lifeguards were washing their trucks at the lifeguard tower. Beyond that was the police station, and I found myself stopping in front of it.

The building was narrow and squat with double glass doors at the front. Sea Breeze Police Department was written in black above the door. Two police cars and a brown sedan were parked on the street in front. It was very quiet, and nobody was coming in or out of the building. I wondered if Remington was inside, interrogating prisoners under a hot spotlight.

I got excited just thinking about it.

Donald and Felicia's home was a couple of blocks up Sea Breeze Avenue and another couple blocks east, away from the beach. It took only a few minutes to walk the distance. Their house turned out to be a little cottage. The front lawn was brown with two large palm trees. Two Toyotas were parked in the driveway, and the garage was half-open, revealing a warehouse worth of discarded possessions. At a cursory glance, I counted six coffeemakers and two treadmills inside.

A woman stepped out of the house and click-clacked down the driveway in high heels. "You're going in like that? With no makeup?" she asked me as she walked by. "You'll never beat the competition that way. I got laser hair removal and a full makeover at the Clinique counter at the Macy's in San Diego for this. Not to mention that I brought a tuna casserole. What man can resist tuna casserole? I'll tell you. No man can resist tuna casserole."

Darn it. I didn't bring tuna casserole.

In fact, I had never eaten tuna casserole during my long, long life.

As soon as the first woman was gone, another woman came out of the house. She was wearing a long evening gown and a rainbow of colors on her eyelids. "Tough crowd," she said. As she passed me, she peeled her fake eyelashes off and tossed them into the neighbor's bushes. "I brought lasagna. Big mistake. I hope for your sake you didn't bring lasagna."

I had no idea what was going on. Was every woman in town reading Dashiell Hammett? Doubtful. This was more like a DoorDash reunion or something. I took a deep breath for courage and rang the doorbell.

Donald finally answered after I rang the bell for a second time. "What now?" he demanded as he opened the door.

"Uh," I said, shaken. I almost turned around and walked away without asking him one question. But then I thought of Dashiell Hammett, and that gave me courage. I held up the basket and showed it to Donald. "I work at the soup shop. I brought you matza ball soup."

He blinked a couple times. "Oh, yeah. I recognize you. Soup? I've got casseroles coming out of my ass. I wouldn't mind some soup. You got anything to go with it?"

"Challah bread and homemade chocolate chip cookies."

"All right," he said, putting his hand out for the basket.

"How about I bring it in and serve it for you? I know how to warm up the soup." What was I saying? Everyone knew how to warm up soup, but it was the only way I could think to get into his house and grill him. It worked.

"Oh sure, that would be nice," he said and opened the door wider so I could walk in. The cottage was nicely furnished with modern furniture. A giant television was on the wall in the living room. We walked past it on our way to the kitchen, which was nothing like the kitchen in my house. While our appliances were from the turn of the twentieth century, and we didn't have built-in cabinets or countertops, Donald and Felicia's kitchen was very modern with granite countertops and even a little refrigerator just for wine bottles.

I put the basket on the kitchen island.

"Well, look at this here," I heard from the breakfast nook. Turning, I saw Remington sitting at the kitchen table, staring right at me. His long legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He was wearing a suit again, and he was holding a pen in his hand. There was a small notebook on the table in which I assumed he had been writing notes.

So, I wasn't the only one who suspected Donald in his wife's disappearance. Remington was already grilling my number one suspect.

"Hello, Detective," I said. "Did you bring a lasagna?"

"He's trying to find Felicia," Donald answered for Remington. "There's been no sign of her."

"That's terrible. I'm so sorry. That's why I brought soup," I said.

I poured the soup into a small pot and put it on the stove. "It'll take a minute," I said and sat down at the table. The women at the shop were right. He didn't wear a wedding ring, and he smelled good.

"What were we talking about?" I asked.

"I was asking Mr. White some questions about his wife," Remington said. "We can wait until you leave to continue. How about leaving now?'

I pretended to be concerned about one of my fingernails. "That's okay. I'll just sit here quietly. Donald, would you like me to hold your hand?"

Remington's mouth turned up into a crooked smile. Donald sat down next to me. "Nah, that's okay," he said. "We're almost done, right?"

"Sure thing," Remington said and glanced at his notes. "Can you run down where you've been since your wife went missing?"

That was a good question. I was glad he thought of it.

"Again? Whatever it takes to find her," Donald said, happy to oblige. He was so amenable that it made me doubt that he could have killed his wife. "On Wednesday, Felicia went out to the store to make dinner, and she didn't come back. I called her, but there was no answer. Actually, she left her cellphone at home. I found it later next to the bed. That's pretty normal. She's not a big fan of her cellphone. I called the police a few hours later and went out to look for her myself. Yesterday, I looked for her in the morning and spent the rest of the day at home. Then, last night, the casserole ladies came by, and a pastor came, too. We had a prayer meeting for Felicia until one in the morning. This morning was more casserole ladies and you two."

"You poor man. You must be terribly worried," I said.

Remington shot me a look of honest surprise, and he smiled his little crooked smile, as he looked back down at his notebook. "Anything else? Any side trips?" Remington asked.

"Just my search for her," Donald said and turned to me. "Is that soup ready yet?"

I jumped up and took the pot off the stove. Turning the stove off, I poured the soup into a bowl and served it to Donald, along with the bread and cookies.

"I only brought enough for one," I told Remington, guiltily. "I didn't know that Donald had company."

Remington put his hands up in surrender. "That's cool, Aggie. I've got a chicken breast and broccoli in my car."

"Is that a joke?" I asked.

"My body's a temple," he said, pointing at himself.

At that moment, I so wanted to be religious.

Donald spooned some soup into his mouth and made an appreciative noise. "This is very good. Hits the spot. Thank you."

Closing my eyes, I tried to focus. What was my goal here? What was I trying to accomplish? Oh, yeah. I was trying to get information out of Donald about his wife.

"Where did you look for her?" I asked him. "Where did you think she went?"

He took another spoonful of soup. "Normal places. The grocery store. She left her car here, so she couldn't get very far. The beach, the park, that sort of thing."

I caught Remington clenching his jaw. So, something that Donald said bothered him. But what?

I needed to read more mysteries.

Remington finished questioning Donald, and they made it clear to me that it was time for me to leave. I gathered the basket from the kitchen and tried to think of a way to quickly get more information. As we walked toward the front door, it came to me.

"Has Felicia disappeared before?" I asked Donald.

"No. Why would you ask that?"

"Maybe she ran away. Were you having difficulties?"

Donald opened the door. "Felicia and I have a wonderful marriage. She didn't leave. She would never do that. We're in love. We're partners. We're forever."

Remington and I left together. Outside, Remington didn't say anything until we turned the corner and were definitely out of earshot of Donald's house.

"What was that?" he demanded, stopping.

"What?"

"The soup."

"Matza ball soup," I said. "Jewish penicillin. I thought it would soothe him since he can't find his wife."

Remington stared down at me for a second. He was at least a foot taller than I was and a foot wider. After a moment of silence, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. He clutched onto his middle and continued laughing until he was out of breath.

"You're the worst liar I've ever met," he said, finally. "The worst. Was that your first time you ever lied?"

As far as the world was concerned, my life was more or less a lie. But this was the first time I out and out lied. I had fibbed before, but not lied.

"No, of course not," I fibbed. "I'm a good liar, but I wasn't lying. I was bringing him soup because his wife's missing. That's all."

Remington threw his head back and laughed, once more. He pointed at me. "You did it, again. You tried to lie. Oh, wow. It's a pleasure to watch you try to lie. Do yourself a favor, Aggie. Don't ever play poker. You'll lose your shirt."

He winked at me when he mentioned my shirt, and I felt myself blush.

"Between you and me, why'd you come out here, really? You know something? You care to share with me? Come on. Spill the beans, Aggie. Unleash your truth." he said.

"I'm trying to solve the mystery," I told him, honestly. "I wanted to grill him and get to the truth."

"Holy shit. You remind me of somebody I knew."

"I do?" I asked. It was the first time someone said I reminded them of another person. If he knew the truth about me, he wouldn't have said so.

Remington nodded. "Yep, but she knows how to lie. She's nosy like you."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"No, I like it in a woman. Nosy. Unpredictable. Wild child."

"Oh."

He traced his finger down my jawline, and I felt the air rush out of my body, replaced by heat. Holy smokes. Being touched by Remington was better than a lifetime of cinnamon toast.

Touching was something that John could never do.

At the memory of John, I pulled back out of Remington's reach.

"Do you have any information you want to share with me? Something you found out? Any idea where Felicia is?" Remington asked.

"I think she left him. She's hiding somewhere. You know, gone quiet for a while to give him space," I said. Sure, I had borrowed the theory from real life with John, but it was as good as any reason.

"I think the same thing," Remington told me. "There was a surge of purchases made on her credit cards in the past couple of weeks. Ms. Spendy got a new wardrobe, including a couple of bikinis and hot pink Jimmy Choo shoes. She's up to something."

We continued walking toward the beach. "What's the matter?" Remington asked me. "You look like someone shot your dog."

"It's not much of a mystery if she ran away to wear new bikinis and pink Jimmy Choos," I complained.

"We haven't found her, yet. The plot might thicken, yet, Aggie," he said.

Just as we reached the police station, Remington's cellphone rang, and he answered it. "Where?" he asked into the phone. "I'll be right there." He hung up. "Ask and ye shall receive," he said and took my hand. His hand was large and warm and made me feel safe and cared for.

"Where are we going?" I asked, as I jogged to keep up with him. We were headed down the street toward the soup shop.

Remington pointed ahead of us. There, police car lights were flashing by the lifeguard tower. When we reached it, I could see that the entrance to the pier had been blocked off with yellow police tape. Remington ducked under the tape and held it up for me to walk under, too.

"Police only, miss," a police officer told me.

"She's with me," Remington told him and winked at me.

We walked down the long pier. Normally, there were fishermen and walkers on the pier, but now we were the only ones on it. As we got closer to the end of the pier, I could see that there was something lying there. Finally, as we neared it, I could make it out.

"It's a shark," I said. "How did a shark get on the pier? Wait a second. Something was wrong with the shark. It's deformed. Really deformed. Do you think the polluted waters deformed it?"

Remington was still holding my hand, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. "You said you wanted a good mystery, remember. Hold on to your hat."

"I'm not wearing a hat," I said as we kept walking. That's when I saw it.

The shark wasn't deformed.

A minute later, we stopped at the end of the pier and stood over the shark. "Well, that's something you don't see every day," Remington noted.

"It's a mako shark," I said. "Very common in these waters."

"What about on piers? Have you ever seen one on a pier?"

"No. Could it have jumped up here?"

We looked over the side of the pier. We were at least twenty feet above the water. "I don't think the shark jumped," Remington said. "And what about the other part? Is that common? Have you seen that before?"

"No. I've never seen that before."

The other part he was talking about was a woman. She was lying next to the shark with her head inside the shark's mouth. So, we couldn't see the woman's face. But it was definitely a woman. A definitely dead woman.

"I'll bet you a million dollars that I know who that woman is," Remington said.

"I'd bet a million dollars that you know who she is, too. I know who she is, too."

We pointed at the woman's feet. One was bare, but the other was still wearing a shoe. A hot pink shoe with a pointy four-inch high heel.

"Jimmy Choo," Remington and I said in unison.

# Chapter 6

"The world is full of obvious things, which nobody by any chance ever observes."

–-Arthur Conan Doyle

Faced with the reality of Felicia's death, my giddiness and excitement about playing detective disappeared, completely. "This is terrible," I said to Remington, stating the obvious.

"Are you going to be all right, Aggie?" Remington asked, putting his arm around me.

"I don't know."

"Should I call the paramedics for you?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to go home?"

"I don't know," I said. I was uncomfortable and a little scared. Felicia's disappearance had turned ugly. It was like a Dashiell Hammett book had come to life, but without the guarantee of a happy ending. It was serious. This was not the fun hobby I had thought it was.

Even so, I realized that my desire to solve the mystery was still there. An obsession, not a desire.

I wanted to know whodunit.

I wanted to solve the mystery, and now I also wanted to get justice for Felicia.

"No, don't call the paramedics," I told Remington after a moment. "And I don't want to go home. I want to find out what happened to her."

"Okay. The medical examiner is coming this way. Keep quiet, and he won't pay you any attention."

The medical examiner walked down the pier toward us. He was accompanied by a morgue worker, who was pushing a stretcher. An older police officer was with them. Unlike Remington, he was wearing a uniform.

"The chief of police," Remington told me under his breath. "He won't pay you any attention, either."

He was right on both counts. The two men talked to Remington without noticing me at all.

"What do you think, Cumberbatch?" the chief asked Remington.

"I'm thinking she died last night, and I'm wondering how the hell no one noticed this scene this morning."

"I can answer that one," the chief said. "There was a tarp over the body and the shark and a pile of netting on top of the tarp." He pointed behind us, and sure enough, there was a mountain of netting that had been tossed aside. "Some woman tripped over it when she was doing a selfie, and the rest was history. How do you know she died last night?"

"I think she died last night, too," the medical examiner said. He ordered his assistant to help him take Felicia's head out of the shark's mouth. Felicia's face was almost unrecognizable. It was a bloody heap. This was the first time I had seen a shark attack victim, and I was amazed and sickened by the damage a shark could do.

Remington took a couple of latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on. Kneeling down, he inspected Felicia's body. "No purse, obviously," he said. "And no wallet or jewelry." He dug in her pants pockets and came out with little balls. "I have no idea what these are."

He handed them to the morgue worker, who put them in a plastic baggie and jotted notes on the bag. "Looks like drugs to me," the chief said.

"Probably some form of meth," the medical examiner said. "It's always some form of meth."

"Mothballs," I interrupted, and Remington shot me one of his lopsided smiles.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" the chief asked, like he had just noticed that I was standing there.

"She's with me," Remington told him. "Are you sure that they're mothballs?" he asked me.

I nodded. "Oh, yes. One thing Bright women know about are mothballs. That and Irish whiskey. We're very familiar with Irish whiskey, too."

The chief rubbed the back of his neck. "The world is getting too crazy for me. First, there was a naked man running down the street, lit up like a Christmas ornament. And now there's a dead woman with her head in a shark's mouth, and for some weird reason, she's got mothballs in her pocket. You can handle this without me, right, Cumberbatch? I got a headache coming on and a doozy case of acid reflux. My wife says it's from pizza rolls, but I'm pretty sure it's this stuff that does it."

"No sweat, Chief. I got an iron stomach," Remington said and tossed me another of his smiles.

"Ma'am," the chief said to me, tipping his hat, and walked away.

"This doesn't look like a shark bite to me," the medical examiner said to Remington, once the chief was gone. He was examining Felicia's head with some kind of medical tool. Remington crouched down next to him. Felicia's head was a gory mess. I was surprised that I could look at it without getting sick. Instead, the detective came out of me, and I tried to memorize the details and glean some clues from the crime scene.

Felicia was fully dressed except for the one missing shoe. The shark had taken a big chunk of her face off, along with a big patch of hair and scalp. On the other hand, the shark looked fine, but dead. Peaceful. It was almost as if the shark had seen Felicia on the pier, jumped up and bit her, and simultaneously had a massive stroke that made him drop dead right there and then.

It was weird, to say the least.

"Are you sure?" Remington asked the medical examiner.

"Well, there's only been seventeen shark attacks in these waters in the past hundred years, but there's been plenty of dog bites. I'm not seeing anything consistent with a bite. And you're right. She's been dead about twelve hours. I need to get her back to the office to see if there's water in her lungs and do a proper postmortem. You got a humdinger of a death here, young man."

I clapped my hands together. "A humdinger of a death," I repeated. My skin prickled, and my heart raced. It was one death, but there were at least five mysteries surrounding it.

Remington and the medical examiner investigated the crime scene for another hour before wheeling Felicia away into the medical examiner's van. They came back with another stretcher for the shark, which caused a stir with the owner of the tackle shop, who wanted to use the shark's jaws as a decoration for his store. After they cleared the scene, they removed the police tape, and the locals surged onto the pier to see what was what.

"We need to autopsy the shark too, bro," Remington told the tackle shop owner, slapping his back in a congenial way. "I'll see if we can save you the jaws after, but it might take a while to get them to you. You get me?"

"Gee, thanks," he said, pacified.

"Man, it's all good," Remington said, smiling.

He put his arm around my waist, and we walked back across the pier. "What do you think?" I asked him.

"I think I like my arm around you."

"Oh," I said, inhaling sharply. I liked his arm around my waist, too. It was the first arm around my waist in my life. What was I supposed to do in this situation? Could I get pregnant from an arm around my waist? I was pretty sure I could.

I definitely could have gotten pregnant from the thoughts swirling around my mind. Lots of naughty thoughts that I had only heard about from others with a lot more experience than I had with this sort of thing. Remington's hand was large, and his forearm was knotted with muscles. When we walked, he guided me with his strong arm. I really liked being guided.

Before we got on the topic of his arm and my waist, I had been thinking of something. It was something important. What was it? My brain was so full of thinking about his arm and my waist, that I couldn't remember. Was it about Remington's handsome face? His amazing body? Yes, I often thought of both of those things, but this was something else. Something more important. What had I been thinking about? Oh, yeah. Felicia.

"What do you think about Felicia?" I managed, finally.

"I think she died at least twelve hours ago. At least. Maybe fifteen. And I'd bet you a romantic dinner that the shark was there for decoration. The doc thinks she was killed with some sort of large hook."

"A large hook?" I asked. "What kind of large hook?"

Remington pulled me closer to his side. "A kind with a sharp end that can tear a woman's face off. So, how about that dinner?"

He stopped at the beginning of the pier and turned me to face him. He oozed testosterone, like he was a testosterone vending machine, and I had exact change. It was hard to look at him in the eyes because I was sure my face would give away the fact that I was head over heels gaga attracted to him. My throat was thick with arousal, and it was all I could do to get words out.

"I like dinner," I croaked, looking back at the end of the pier, where lookie-loos were taking selfies where Felicia had been discovered, now that the police tape had been removed.

"After I finish this investigation?" he asked. "Somewhere romantic with dim lighting and walking distance to my crib."

His crib? Did that mean that he had more in mind than just dinner? I was pretty sure it meant he wanted dessert. Carnal dessert. Oh, wow. This was moving fast. Faster than I was comfortable with.

"How long will the investigation take?" I asked him, wondering how much time I had before the carnal dessert.

"More often than not, the husband is the killer. So, I'm guessing that it won't take long."

"Wow, Donald hooked his wife's face off?"

Remington shrugged. "Whatcha gonna do? It's a crazy time. Naked men in the street, glowing, and now this."

"I think it's just like it was when Grant was president," I said.

"Grant? How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess."

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity. Since the shop was across the street from the pier, it became rumor central about all things Felicia and sharks with a lot more emphasis on the sharks than Felicia.

Word hadn't gotten out yet that the shark was a patsy and that some lunatic with a giant hook was wandering around ripping off women's faces. So, I decided to keep that nugget of information to myself until Remington and the police released the real story and let everyone think for now that a shark killed Felicia. Besides, I was learning all kinds of things about sharks.

"My question is how did that shark jump onto the pier?" Mouse asked a customer.

"Sharks are known for jumping," Irving answered her from another table. "I saw two sharks jump onto the pier in San Diego once. They could have gotten silver in synchronized swimming at the Olympics."

"If there are jumping sharks, they need to close the pier," Mouse said with a touch of panic in her voice.

The panic was contagious. The shop erupted into urgent conversations about closing the pier because of jumping killer sharks. Then, the conversations turned to the loss of business in Sea Breeze because of such a closure. Although, no one came to Sea Breeze to walk on the pier. Tourism was dead because of the sewage in the water. Only locals used the pier.

I was tempted to calm the customers' fears about jumping, killer sharks, but that would start another long conversation, and I wanted to close the shop on time at four o'clock. In any case, if Remington was right, Donald would be arrested by the morning, and there would be no more talk about sharks.

At four o'clock, I had to shoo the customers out, and I locked the door. After walking a block toward home, I realized that if Felicia had died at around midnight, that meant that Donald had an airtight alibi. He had been at a prayer meeting with a pastor and a bunch of casserole stalkers. That meant that Remington was wrong and there was a crazy hook killer out there somewhere, who wasn't Donald White.

The epiphany spurred me into a desire for action. I walked home as quickly as I could so that I could dig into the mystery books. The answer must be in there, I thought.

John was waiting for me when I opened the door and walked into the house. We had known each other so long that I was sure he could look into my soul. Guilt ran through me and over me like water. I worried that John could read my thoughts and knew about Remington's arm around my waist, about the flirting and the promised romantic dinner near Remington's "crib." I was sorry that I had betrayed John, but I didn't regret flirting with Remington. It had made me feel alive for the first time in years.

"Your aunts got word that there was a shark attack in town. That a woman was found dead. I was...concerned," John said.

He was a man of few emotions. He was born and bred into the religion of the stiff upper lip. He wouldn't dream of showing me any anger. But he couldn't hide the fact that he was worried. His ever-changing eyes were heavy-lidded, and his body was tense, probably from the effort of burying his emotions.

"The missing woman showed up with her head in a shark's mouth, but the shark didn't kill her," I said, taking my shoes off.

"Perhaps you should stay in the house until the wind changes again. This is very serious business, Agatha. And I would like to remind you that I cannot leave the house."

We locked eyes. The message was clear. He wanted to protect me, but even if he could leave the house, he couldn't protect me. We both knew that.

"I will cut you!" Auntie Tilly shouted from the kitchen.

"I will peel you to death with the potato peeler!" Auntie Ida also shouted from the kitchen.

"I'd like to see you try! Your peeler ain't gonna do shit against my butcher cleaver!" Auntie Tilly yelled.

"Oh, no. They're fighting again?" I asked John.

"All day. It's a war of attrition over infinitesimal territories. I thought they were going to draw blood over the placement of the dishtowels."

"I better go in there and break them up before they burn the house down," I said. "We don't want to go through that again."

"Agatha, we've not finished our discussion," John said, sadly.

"You un-alphabetized the spices!" Auntie Ida yelled from the kitchen. "You're a monster!"

"Salt belongs in the front. Not allspice!" Auntie Tilly yelled.

"I'm going to peel your ass off, old woman!" Auntie Ida screeched.

"You're older than I am!" Auntie Tilly yelled.

"I have to go in there, John. I promise I'll be careful in town," I said and went into the kitchen to break up my aunts' fight before real blood was spilled.

The next morning, I arrived early at the shop, an hour before Irving and Doris. I was so eager to learn more about Felicia's demise that I barely slept and was full of energy off of no sleep at all. I started making the soups of the day when it was still pitch black outside and deathly silent inside.

I chopped vegetables, barely aware of what I was doing because my mind was focused only on Felicia. The image of her dead body next to the shark was seared into my brain. Remington's words about Donald's guilt were next to the image in my brain. But I knew that Donald had a rock-solid alibi. At least, he said he did. If Donald didn't kill Felicia, who did? I was down to the same suspects I had when Felicia was only missing and no proof of anything.

By the time that Irving and Doris walked into the shop, I had the four soups of the day simmering in the four cauldrons in the fireplaces.

"You probably heard, but that shark was wrongly accused," Doris told me, as she and her husband took their seats at the center table.

"Just like that Philip Seymour Hoffman. He didn't kill Kennedy," Irving said.

"You mean Lee Harvey Oswald didn't kill Kennedy," Doris corrected him.

"I mean the skinny guy with the shotgun. Philip Seymour Hoffman."

"Philip Seymour Hoffman is an actor," Doris said.

"The man who shot Kennedy was not an actor," Irving insisted.

"No, Philip Seymour Hoffman didn't kill Kennedy. He played Truman Capote in the movies," Doris said, exasperated.

"Then, who the hell is Lee Harvey Oswald?" Irving asked.

"He killed Kennedy."

"I told you, Philip Seymour Hoffman did not kill Kennedy!" Irving said, raising his voice.

Doris patted his hand. "You're right, dear. Philip Seymour Hoffman did not kill Kennedy. But now we're talking about Felicia White."

"I still think the shark did it. Have you seen that Jaws movie? A shark like that can do all kinds of mischief. Jumping on a pier and biting off a woman's face would be nothing for a shark like that," Irving said.

"They're saying it wasn't the shark," Doris said. "Isn't that true, Agatha?"

"Yes," I said. Now that the cat was out of the bag, I figured it was safe to say that.

"What do you have good for breakfast?" Irving asked me. "Any more of those muffins I like?"

"No, but Auntie Ida made fresh scones, and I've got clotted cream from England to go with them," I said.

"Do I have to drink tea with it? I can't abide tea. It's a cowardly drink," Irving said. "If you're going to drink a caffeinated beverage, you need to go all the way. I like my coffee."

"Irving, you only drink decaf coffee," Doris pointed out.

"What the dickens are you talking about?" Irving demanded.

"We'll take a bunch of those scones with clotted cream," Doris told me. "And coffee."

When I returned with their order, they were still talking about Felicia. I kept my ears open, listening for any clues.

"They're going to lose their house for sure, now," Doris said, spreading cream onto a scone. "I heard they're upside down on it, and Felicia brought home the bacon in that marriage. With her gone, Donald has bubkes."

Irving poured sugar into his coffee. "Oh, please, Doris. That house is going to sell fast. I heard that the Manson Family almost killed someone in that house."

"Who's Manson?" I asked.

"Ha. Ha. Funny one, Agatha," Doris said.

Irving took a big sip of his coffee. "Maybe that Manson fellow was the one who killed Felicia. Maybe it wasn't the shark, after all."

"Manson's dead," Doris said.

"He's not dead," Irving insisted.

"Yes, he is. Dead. Dead. Dead."

"No, he's not. Next thing, you'll be telling me that Doris Day is dead," Irving said.

"I've got news for you, Irving..." Doris began.

The door opened, and a group of Saturday regulars came in and sat at a table next to Doris and Irving. "Today's soups are tomato, creamy leek, Tuscan white bean, and Irish stew. But we're not serving lunch until eleven o'clock," I told them.

"We're here for coffee and knitting," one of the women explained. They each carried a bag, in addition to their purses. They opened their bags in unison and pulled out yarn and knitting needles.

"We're practicing for the Knitting Championship," another of the women explained. "You got any more of those biscuits that Doris is eating?"

The shop was soon full of early bird diners. They were almost all women, and each and every one was knitting. They were also all talking about Felicia's death, which they were now calling a murder.

They knew that the shark didn't do it, but they didn't know about the large hook that Remington said was the murder weapon. I kept everyone's coffee filled so that I could listen in on their conversations, as I moved around from table to table. One of the good things about Auntie Prudence's prospector coffee pot was that it poured both regular and decaf, a neat trick that no one seemed to notice.

I worried that Mouse would notice, though. She didn't come in until lunch when we only served water, iced tea, and soda, but she was already asking questions about the shop's little trick for cleaning up at the end of the day. I would have to ask my aunts what to do about that. It was important not to draw too much attention to ourselves.

"I heard it was flesh-eating bacteria in the water that did her in," one of the knitters said as I filled her coffee cup.

"We've got flesh-eating bacteria in addition to sewage, now?" another knitter asked.

"Maybe the sewage grew the flesh-eating bacteria," another knitter suggested. "Like the Penguin in the Batman movies."

The door opened, and Eddie Acid entered. He was carrying a knitting bag, like most of the customers, and he posed when he stepped inside. There was a general murmur of oohs and ahs in the shop, and Eddie bowed to the diners. When he spotted me, he pointed and smiled while he walked toward me.

"Thank you for setting up a knitting practice session, Agatha," he said.

"Actually, it's just breakfast. I didn't set up a knitting session. Lunch is going to start soon."

As if on cue, Mouse walked in. "I'm sorry I'm late!" she squeaked. "I was up all night with my roommate, making signs to save the sharks and not to kill all of them just because one of them is a murderer. And then this morning I saw Amy, who told me it wasn't the shark, after all, and nobody wanted to kill the sharks. So, I made twenty-four Free the Sharks signs for no reason at all. Oh, my God. It's Eddie Acid!" she squeaked with glee.

Eddie posed for her in his best punk rocker pose. It dawned on me that Mouse wasn't old enough to know what punk rock was, let alone Eddie Acid.

"Can I count on you for another knitting session tomorrow in the shop?" Eddie asked me.

"Sure!" Mouse squeaked.

"But we're closed tomorrow," I said, half-whining. I had been looking forward to a day with my lighthouse instead of with soup.

"You won't have to serve anything. Just keep it open for knitters," Eddie said.

Mouse hopped up and down. "Oh, please, Agatha! Please, please, please. I'll be in charge. You don't have to do anything."

But I would. The shop wouldn't open for Mouse. Or close for that matter. She wouldn't be able to handle the key. It would never allow it. I would have to be there to unlock the door. Even though I wanted a day off, maybe it would be good to have it open, I thought after a moment. Perhaps the suspects would gather there, and I could work on my investigation. That's why I agreed to open the shop to knitters on Sunday. Eddie called me a hero and spoke to me at length about the importance of knitting.

When the lunch rush started, the theories about Felicia's death flew around the shop. I couldn't keep up with all of them. Customers suspected everyone in town of murder, and more than one wanted to know where Felicia had been during the days leading up to her death.

It was a good point. Where had she been before she had been murdered?

Halfway through the lunch rush, a group of people came in, and two of the Area 38 guys were with them. Just like Eddie Acid, they came right for me.

"Did you see?" one of the Area 38 guys asked me, breathlessly. His eyes were wild, darting from left to right and settling on me only for the briefest of moments.

"What?"

"That woman. They got her. They tried to pin it on a shark, but they've been found out."

My skin prickled, and my heart raced. I had forgotten about the mysterious Area 38. Could they have murdered Felicia and set the scene to make it look like a shark attack? "Really? Are you sure?"

"Of course we are."

"Do you have proof?" I couldn't wait to tell Remington that I knew who had killed Felicia.

"No, not yet," the guy said. I could feel my face drop in disappointment. Without proof, they were just another rumor-mongering group of people in my shop, pointing fingers at suspects. "But we're close. We're going to start to have meetings here. We need a base of operations, and this place has cookies already. We've got about ten people so far, but once word gets out about what the government is doing, we should have at least a hundred people here every day. Okay?"

"Uh," I said.

"Come on, gang," he said to his group. "There are tables behind the bookshelves. We can go there."

I was getting nowhere fast, except that the shop was becoming the center for every weird group in town. I wasn't any closer to figuring out who killed Felicia. But Remington had a point about Donald. Even if he had an alibi, he was the obvious suspect. So, if I really was going to Dashiell Hammett this case, I had to start with him.

I left Mouse in charge of the shop for the second day in a row and took a basket with Irish stew and Mouse's sourdough to Donald's house. I arrived just as two casserole stalkers were leaving with their casseroles still in their hands.

"He's not there. No answer," one of them told me as she walked by.

"He's probably setting up the funeral arrangements," the other stalker said.

I carried the basket up to the front door. I rang the bell, but just like the casserole stalker said, there was no answer. But I knew he was there. Don't ask me how. It was a Bright thing. I was sure he was hiding from the casserole stalkers, and I didn't blame him one bit.

Tiptoeing around the house, I spotted him through the kitchen window. He was on the phone having an animated conversation. He didn't look like he was making funeral arrangements. He didn't look like he was even in mourning. He was waving his arm around while he spoke, and he was wearing a euphoric expression on his face. Donald White was thrilled that his wife had turned up dead with her head in a shark's mouth.

He did it. He did it. I knew that Donald did it. He was guilty as sin. Guiltier than sin.

I watched as he hung up, slipped his cellphone into his pocket, and gathered his keys. He was going somewhere, and I was determined to follow him.

# Chapter 7

"I am wicked in many ways."

–Jessica Spotswood, "Born Wicked"

I left the basket in the dirt by the side of Donald's house and slinked along the house and peeked around the corner. Donald came out of the front door and locked it with his key. After putting his key chain in his pocket, he took a deep breath and smiled wide. Yep, he definitely wasn't a man in mourning.

I felt sorry for the Area 38 conspiracy theorists and my shop full of townsfolk who had their theories about the killer. I knew who the killer was, and I was looking right at him. But knowing and proving were two different things. I needed to bring proof about Donald's guilt to Remington, and that meant that I needed to follow Donald. That's exactly how it worked in a mystery novel. Follow the suspect. Find the clues. Get the proof.

Luckily, Sea Breeze was a walkable town. Donald walked away from his house instead of taking his car. Keeping him at a safe distance, I followed him. Now I really was inside a Dashiell Hammett book. I was following my main suspect, trying to get evidence that he killed his wife. That he had ripped her face off with a hook.

I was going to get justice for Felicia, and I had never been more excited about anything in my very long life.

We walked like that for a couple of blocks away from town. Turning west, I realized that we were heading for the marina. Donald's phone rang, and he stopped to answer it. I stopped walking and pretended to look at a bush with great interest so that he wouldn't notice that I was following him. But I was still craning my head, trying to hear every word of Donald's phone conversation.

"You got it?" Donald asked into the phone. "Look, I'm being nice. I'm accepting installments. What's nicer than an installment plan? I'm nicer than the bank. Get me the first installment today, or I get mean."

Donald put his phone back in his pocket and smiled wide. I'd never seen him look so blissful. Just like a sociopath. He had guilt written all over him. It was so clear to me that he had killed his wife. It couldn't have been clearer if guilt was tattooed on his face in neon.

As we got closer to the marina, it was more difficult to follow Donald without him noticing. There were fewer people around and fewer places to hide. I kept a longer distance between us so that he wouldn't get suspicious.

When he walked through the gate to the docks, I worried that I would lose him. Luckily, Donald walked into the marina office just inside the gate. The office's door was propped open, and I ducked behind it to listen in.

"Donald White," I heard Donald say by way of introduction.

"Oh, yeah. I've been waiting for you. You want to sell your boat, right?" I heard the marina worker ask.

Donald had a boat? Why did he own a boat when his house was about to be foreclosed on? It wasn't responsible financial planning.

"That's right. I don't need it anymore," I heard Donald say.

"Nobody needs a boat, Mr. White. It's a lifestyle thing."

"My lifestyle has just improved, and there's no room for a boat in it anymore," I heard Donald say. "What can you get for it?"

"If you're selling as is, I think I've got a buyer for thirty-five thousand. If you want to put some elbow grease and financial investment into it, I've got a few other buyers who will give you up to forty-five thousand for it."

"I want to sell now. I'm in a hurry. I've got things to do. When can you get me a check?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good deal. I'll be back tomorrow," Donald said, and I heard his shoes click on the tile floor, coming closer. I crouched down even lower and closed my eyes, as if that would stop him from seeing me.

It worked.

Donald walked out of the gate without looking back. He didn't notice me behind the door. He was still in a stellar mood. This time, he turned toward town. I jumped up from behind the door and, keeping an eye on him, I maintained a long distance. After a couple of blocks, there were enough people and traffic that I felt comfortable to get closer to him without being seen.

I watched as he stopped at the jewelry shop window and ogled the men's gold watches. It looked like Donald might already have plans for the money from the sale of his boat. It was foolish to buy a gold watch when he was going to lose his house, but who was I to judge? Unlike most of the world, I never went shopping, and didn't spend a dime in any given month. Still, Donald didn't seem like a reasonable person to me. Maybe he wasn't just a killer. Maybe he was a psycho killer.

Donald pointed at one of the gold watches, and shot at it, like his finger was a gun. "I'll be back for you," he said to the watch.

I followed him for another block, when suddenly Frances came out of nowhere, running at Donald at a fast clip, which was an amazing feat in her business suit and high-heeled pumps.

"Yoo-hoo! Donald! Yoo-hoo!" she sing-songed in a loud screech.

Donald's whole body flinched, and he froze in place. He looked around him, like he was searching for a hiding place. I didn't blame him. Frances was coming straight for him like it was the Super Bowl, and he had the ball at the four-yard line. I hid behind a bush by a store and continued to spy on him.

"Yoo-hoo! Donald! Can you hear me, Donald!" she hollered, her voice breaking.

"Of course, I can hear you," Donald snapped at her. He was still frozen in place, and I guessed that he had given up on trying to escape. "The whole world can hear you. Dogs are breaking free of their owners and are on their way here because they hear you. The astronauts in the space station hear you, even though in space no one can hear you scream."

Frances reached him and stopped just before she would have crashed into him. She had worked up a sweat, and her mascara was pooling under her eyes. She mopped at her forehead with her hand. "I've been trying to reach you, Mr. White."

"I know. I've been busy. A shark ate my wife."

"I heard it wasn't the shark. The shark was set up."

Donald shrugged. "Whatever. Look, I'm busy. I have stuff to do."

He took a step, but Frances put her arm out, barring him from getting away. "We have to talk about your house. You're going to lose it if we don't act fast."

"I don't care about losing it. I'm out of here. I'm packing up and getting out of this backwater sewage depository." Holy crap. Donald was getting out of Dodge. He was probably going to flee to Brazil, and then he would never be arrested. In that case, I didn't have a lot of time to find proof that he killed his wife. There was a small window of opportunity now to get justice for Felicia.

Frances smiled wide. "Really? So, you wouldn't mind me putting it on the market for you?"

"You can try. But I'm upside down on the house, so it doesn't mean anything to me. Consider it a gift from me to you. I'm feeling magnanimous, lately," he said and stepped to the side out of Frances's reach in order to escape.

I watched him walk down Sea Breeze Avenue, swinging his arms, happily.

Frances was watching the bush I was hiding behind.

"I see you there, Agatha," she announced, loudly. "What are you playing at? Agatha? Agatha!"

I debated with myself whether I should keep hiding, in hopes that she didn't really see me and would leave. No such luck. Frances marched over to the bush and looked down at me with her raccoon mascara eyes.

"What's going on today? Am I invisible? Does no one hear me?" she demanded.

I stood up. "I was just tying my shoe."

"You're wearing slip-on sandals, Agatha."

"Oh." Damn it. I really needed to learn how to lie.

Frances crossed her arms in front of her. "Spill. Why are you spying on Donald?"

"I'm not spying on him anymore. You let him get away."

She turned around, and we both watched Donald recede into the distance.

Frances turned back around toward me. "Are you trying to catch him? I don't blame you. There aren't a lot of single men in Sea Breeze who don't use the beach showers as their only means of personal hygiene. You better work quick because he just told me that he's leaving town for good."

"I'm not trying to catch him," I told her. Well, not catch him the way she thought I wanted to catch him. "His wife is still at the morgue, for goodness sake."

"All's fair in love and real estate." She took a piece of bush out of my hair and handed it to me. "So, why were you spying on him?"

"Spying is a broad term."

Frances wagged her finger at me. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I think I know what's going on here. Doris told me that you suddenly developed an interest in mystery books. Do you think Donald killed Felicia?"

Yes. Yes, I did. "No," I lied. "Of course not."

Frances took a step back. "Wow, was that you trying to lie? You're the worst liar I've ever seen. It was like the first time you ever tried to lie. Do you want me to teach you how to lie? I'm a great liar. You have to be when you're trying to sell houses next to an ocean full of sewage."

She was friendly and inviting, and I believed her offer to teach me how to lie was genuine. Nevertheless, Frances stood to make a lot of money off of Felicia's death from the sale of her house. That moved Frances up on the suspect list. So, as much as I might liked Frances, I needed to remember that she might have a hook back at her office and that she might have designs on my face next.

I shuddered at the thought. "That might come in handy."

"The main thing is to never break eye contact," she told me, never breaking eye contact. "It's all in the eyes. Everything. That's how you know if your man is cheating on you. Do you have a man?"

Did I have a man? Technically, I didn't have a man. But I had a couple almost men.

"If you have to think about it, you don't have a man," Frances said, kindly. "If you're looking, I belong to a singles club. You can come with me one night. There isn't much to choose from, but Tuesdays are hot wings nights."

"Hot wings sound good," I said, but I couldn't imagine anything worse than going to a singles club. I had just started talking to men who were alive. I didn't think I could make a jump to a singles club right now.

"It's tomato soup day, right?" Frances asked. "I could go for a bowl with some crackers. Are you going back to the shop? We can walk together."

I took a peek down the street. Donald had disappeared. I had lost him. Who knew what he was doing, now. Maybe he was hiding the giant hook that he used to kill his wife, while I walked down the street with Frances to get her a bowl of tomato soup. It was a huge disappointment. My first real detective-ing had gotten cut short, and I couldn't help but feel that I failed.

As for Frances, she seemed open and friendly, but I needed to remember that she was a suspect. She stood to make a lot of money from Felicia's death. That was a big motive for murder. Maybe she was buttering me up with friendship before she hooked me through the eyeballs.

"Look at Amy with the lifeguards," Frances said when we got near the lifeguard tower. "She's working those cats of hers. Dogs are better to attract men, but she can do wonders with a tabby."

Amy had two cats on leashes, one around her shoulders, and a fourth in her arms. Sure enough, a couple lifeguards were petting the cat in her arms, and Amy was lapping up the attention.

"She's very happy since Felicia went missing," I said, remembering her argument with Felicia in the soup shop.

"Felicia wasn't exactly all sweetness and light. I bet there are more than a few people who will gladly dance on her grave. Amy's a good person. Eccentric but good. Not that you could tell in this town. Look at Bunty over there," Frances said pointing at my semi-regular who worked out every morning across the street from the soup shop. She was wearing a long coat in the sun. "Bunty in her perspiration coat. She wears it every once in a while to help her lose more weight, even though she has zero body fat. On her cheat day, she allows herself to eat two stalks of celery. The woman's obsessed with her body. I mean, who isn't obsessed with their bodies, but we still eat the occasional sweet. You know what I mean? Her husband Sid is weird like that, too. He must be lying passed out in his perspiration coat somewhere."

I nodded. I wasn't obsessed with my body. When a person's lived as long as I had, the fascination with thin thighs wanes over time. "And Irving and Doris, right next to Bunty. You don't think they're eccentric?" Frances asked, gesturing to a spot next to Bunty.

Where Bunty was wearing a perspiration coat, Irving was wearing Magnum PI-level short-shorts and knee socks. Doris was wearing leggings that revealed a lot more about her lower half than I wanted to know. They were both carrying beach chairs, and Doris had a large, long half-duffel bag slung over her shoulder. I couldn't imagine what she had in it.

The pier was still packed with people taking pictures of themselves at the scene of the crime. Frances and I crossed the street, and I held the soup shop door open for her to walk in before me.

Inside, I felt a wave of relief to be back in the dimly lit, cool shop with the high ceilings and the cauldrons bubbling in the fireplaces. The big lunch rush had ended, but the Area 38 crowd had grown. They had pushed the stacks tables together, and they were in deep conversation about government conspiracies. There was a lot of hand waving and voice raising going on.

The group of knitters had grown, too. They took up half of the remaining tables. They were fast knitters, and blankets and sweaters were being created at a breakneck pace.

"I hate knitting, but I'm going to enter the competition too. All that time that we're sitting there knitting, I bet I can get my hands on a few houses," Frances confided in me. "And look over there. Your boyfriend's here."

Frances waved at a couple knitters and took a seat at their table. My boyfriend was there? I scanned the shop for Remington, but Frances had a totally different idea of boyfriends for me.

Donald White was standing in the corner of the shop by the kitchen with his cellphone plastered to his ear. My heart skipped a beat, and I clutched at my chest. My heart revved up again and beat wildly. I had lost Donald, but now here he was, like he was a Christmas present under the tree. I wasn't a failure as a detective. I was crazy lucky as a detective. A wave of optimism filled me.

I walked as calmly as I could to the kitchen and pretended to wipe down the counter, in order to overhear Donald's conversation. "How long until I get the check?" he asked into his phone.

He continued talking, but I couldn't hear him because the flour delivery guy arrived, and Mouse was gushing all over him. "You guys sure go through a lot of flour," the delivery man said, dropping a twenty-pound bag of flour onto the counter. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with Bakerman Love written on it. He was a young guy with a long beard and long hair tucked into a blue ski cap.

"You have the best flour," Mouse gushed all over him. She twirled a strand of her hair around and around her finger.

"I just deliver it. I'll tell the boss you like it," he told her.

"You deliver it so well. Like an artist," she said without a touch of irony. She batted her eyelashes at him, and he blushed.

"Most guys don't respect the flour, but I do," he agreed.

"I can tell. It really shows in the flour," she said.

It dawned on me that I was watching flirtation up close and personal. Remington flirted with me, but I hadn't learned to flirt back. Sort of like the flour guy.

"I have a lot of pride in my work," he continued.

"And carrying the flour has given you muscles." Mouse giggled and put her hand over her mouth.

The flour guy flexed his bicep. "I don't even work out. This job keeps me in shape."

"I like your shape," Mouse told him.

"Thanks," he said and left. Mouse watched him leave, and I watched Mouse watching him.

"Mouse, we have a hundred pounds of flour in the back," I told her when he was gone.

"I know," she said, looking at her shoes.

In fact, we had a huge surplus of flour ever since we got the new flour delivery guy.

"Were you planning on making bread for the knitting championship or something?" I asked her.

She looked up at me and smiled wide. "That's it! That's what I'm planning. I'm going to make lots of bread for the knitters. I wasn't just ordering flour that we didn't need."

"Okay," I said.

"Mouse, can I get a bowl of tomato?" Frances called.

"Right on it," Mouse sang in response and skipped happily to the tomato soup cauldron.

I turned my attention back to Donald, but he had already hung up. Drat. I had screwed up, again. I was never going to solve the mystery and find justice for Felicia if I kept dropping the ball where Donald was concerned.

He sat down at a table in the corner, and I went to him. "Today's soups are tomato, creamy leek, Tuscan white bean, and Irish stew," I told him.

"I'll have the Irish stew and whatever bread the girl made today," he said. His phone rang, and he answered it. "I thought we went over this," he said, testily into the phone. I dropped to a crouch and pretended to pick something up from the floor, while I listened in to his phone conversation.

"Make the check out to cash," he said. "Yes. Cash. Can you FedEx it to me for tomorrow? I got places to go and things to buy. You're not taking any service fees out of the insurance policy, are you? Good. So, the whole five hundred thousand? Perfect. Music to my ears."

He clicked off the phone, and I stood up. "I'll get that stew for you," I said and smiled a big, honest smile.

Gotcha. I was finally getting somewhere with the investigation. Felicia had a very healthy life insurance policy, and Donald was the beneficiary.

Donald had five hundred thousand reasons to kill his wife.

# Chapter 8

"The roof might fall in; Anything could happen."

–Dashiell Hammett

Donald stuck around the shop for a while after that. I kept an eye on him, while I waited on the ever increasing numbers of Area 38 people and knitters.

"I mean, go big or go home," one of the Area 38 guys told the others at his table behind the stacks. "Am I right? I mean, am I right, justice warriors?"

There was general agreement that he was right, and two people ordered iced tea. We were completely out of bread and baked goods. Even though we had enough flour to last until Doomsday, we were out of sugar, and Mouse left to buy some in order to make a few quick batches of cookies.

With her gone, it was harder to keep tabs on Donald. The knitters and Area 38ers were keeping me busy.

"If the government for the people is going to do the people wrong, we've got to burn the place down," one of the Area 38ers shouted and stood on a chair, like he was going to break out into a song from Les Miserables.

"Communists!" one of the knitters shouted and pointed a knitting needle at the conspiracy theorist.

"You're going to give our knitting championship a bad name," another knitter complained. "Knitting is wholesome! Don't sully knitting by burning down the government!"

"Listen lady, you go back to reading your AARP magazine and leave the world to someone who doesn't need Metamucil to get through the day," the Area 38 guy said.

More than one knitter threw her knitting needles at him.

That's when Remington walked into the soup shop. I hadn't seen him since the day before, and I had forgotten how attractive he was. He was the tallest man in the place, especially since it seemed that conspiracy theorists were all below average height. He was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, but no suit today. There was a handgun clipped to his waistband, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing several tattoos.

I never understood the attraction to tattoos until that moment when I saw Remington's.

I wanted to touch them. I wondered where else on his body he had tattoos.

Remington was carrying a basket, and my heart sank when I realized that it was the one that I had left in the dirt at Donald's house. Remington caught my eye, and he winked at me. I felt my face get warm, and I was sure that I had turned a deep shade of red.

He took three steps with his long legs and reached me across the shop. "I came to ask you what you've been up to, but now I want to know what they're up to."

He gestured to the knitters who were now threatening open combat with the Area 38ers. If they did erupt in battle, my money was on the knitters because they had some serious strength in their hands and forearms from the knitting. As for the Area 38 group, I just assumed they had carpal tunnel from playing video games.

"Dude, it looks like they're going to trade shots in the phone booth," Remington said with an appreciative tone.

"Where?" I asked. "Where's a phone booth?"

Remington threw me a look that made my insides turn to jelly. "It's a fighting expression. It means they're close, and in this case, someone's going to wind up with a shiner, and probably both of them are going to wind up in jail for the night."

One of them was an eighty-something woman with a walker, and the other one was a twenty-something guy in khaki cargo shorts, an I believe t-shirt, and creamy leek soup in his long beard.

"Are you going to arrest them?" I asked him. "I think Mavis there sleeps on an orthopedic mattress because of her rheumatoid arthritis. Do you have orthopedic mattresses in jail?"

"Don't worry, Aggie. I won't arrest either of them. I'm working on a homicide. Speaking of that..." he said and lifted up the basket.

"Where did you find that?" I asked. "I must have misplaced it."

Remington laughed. "Did you just try to lie again? Too funny. Are you doing that just for me? Very thoughtful, Aggie. I find it very endearing. Your nose crinkles when you try to lie, and you look so cute."

I was cute? No one had ever said I was cute. Even when I was a little girl, none of my aunts ever called me cute. I wasn't sure "cute" was even in their vocabulary. Remington took a step forward, and I took a cowardly step back. Heat bounced off him. Really good heat. The best kind of heat.

"I wasn't lying," I lied. "I misplaced it at Donald's house. I brought it over to give to him because his wife was eaten by a shark."

"Not a shark. The shark was a cover," Remington said.

I was like a deer caught in the headlights of his gaze. I was so transfixed by him, that I was only mildly aware that skeins of yarn were flying overhead, and the Area 38ers were goose stepping around the shop, chanting about the evils of fascist dictators.

When Donald walked out of the shop, I barely took notice. And when Frances whispered "You go, girl," in my ear as she left too, I didn't register that, either. Ditto when Mouse ran back into the shop with a sack of sugar.

Remington was garnering all of my attention. "This is from me to you because I like you, Aggie," he said. "You should stay away from Donald because you're not exactly off the suspect list. Felicia was last seen in public at your soup shop."

"You think I killed Felicia?" I asked.

"I'm not sure you could lug a shark onto the pier, but stranger things have been known to happen."

If he knew about the stranger things in my life, he would probably arrest me right then and there, I thought.

I leaned forward. "Donald White is very happy since his wife died. He's waiting for a big check from the life insurance company," I whispered.

"I know, Aggie. That's why you shouldn't be visiting him with baskets. It makes you look suspicious, and it might make you dead."

I almost laughed. Dying was the last thing on my mind. But then I thought of Auntie Prudence. She had been a lot older than I was, and I would have bet money that dying was the last thing on her mind when she died under mysterious circumstances two weeks ago.

One of the Area 38 guys approached Remington with three knitting needles in his hand. "You're a cop, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, bro. What can I do for you?" Remington said.

"Arrest that lady, would ya? She almost put my eye out." He handed Remington the three knitting needles as proof.

"Why don't you let bygones be bygones? Go back to your table and eat a cookie," Remington suggested.

"That young man has ruined my knitting time," the old lady in question complained, joining our huddle in the middle of the shop.

"He's going to mind his own business now, ma'am," Remington told her. "How about we all go back to our corners and take a load off?"

"His presence is triggering me!" the woman insisted.

"You've invaded my safe space!" the Area 38 guy shot back.

"Can't we all just be friends?" Remington asked.

"No!" they shouted back in unison.

Things were escalating fast. I needed to put a stop to it before someone got arrested. "I'm going to close up early," I said.

"But it's two o'clock," Mouse said, running out of the kitchen covered in flour and sugar. "That's two hours early. The soup shop has never closed two hours early."

There was a general gasping and murmuring all through the shop, as customers were in shock that the unthinkable was about to happen. It was so surprising to close the shop two hours early that all talk about sharks, murder, government conspiracies, and knitting fell to the wayside, in order to be replaced with talk about how I had control of the shop for a mere two weeks and already I was letting it go to hell.

"But the shop will be open tomorrow for knitting practice!" I announced.

"That's more like it," one of the knitters said and began packing up her yarn.

"That's discrimination!" one of the Area 38 guys said. "We have rights, too!"

"Fine. Fine," I said. "It'll be open for all groups tomorrow, but there won't be any food or drink. Just a place to meet."

"Closing early. Open on Sunday. It's like the whole world has turned upside down," one of the customers noted as I shooed everyone out of the soup shop.

"First, a naked man glows blue. Then, a woman's got her head down a shark's throat. And now this," another customer said, as she left.

Finally, Remington, Mouse, and I were the only ones left. With the shop empty, we could see the extent of the damage left in the wake. Soup was all over the floor. There were two broken chairs. Knitting needles and yarn littered every surface.

It was a mess.

"I'll help clean up," Remington offered, rolling up his sleeves above his elbows.

"I'll start on the kitchen," Mouse announced.

"No, you can leave it. I'm going to lock up," I said.

"Even though I'm a man, I can help clean up," Remington assured me.

I gathered my purse and dug out the skeleton key. "Not necessary," I said.

Mouse got her purse, too, and slung it over her shoulder. "Agatha has some magical way she keeps the shop clean," she explained to Remington.

"That's not true. There's no magic here. No one ever said magical. Don't say that," I said, completely flustered. "You shouldn't throw accusations like that around."

I held the door open for them to leave, and I locked the door with the key. "What do you do? Come here in the middle of the night to clean?" Remington asked.

"Magic elves," Mouse said, laughing. "She's got magical elves that come and clean every day."

I broke out into a sweat. "There's no such thing as magical elves," I said. "There's no such thing as elves, either. Take that back, Mouse."

"I didn't mean any harm," Mouse said, hugging me goodbye.

"Wow, you sure get upset over elves," Remington said to me after Mouse walked away. "I love elves. I'm a Lord of the Rings fan. I've got Gandalf's staff in my apartment, if you want to see it. I love Lord of the Rings, but I'm really more of a Star Trek fan. I've got an authentic Borg suit, too. You're free to come over anytime and try it on."

His eyes were twinkling, and his face had turned decidedly boyish. "I didn't understand most of what you just said," I told him.

Remington smiled wide and slipped his arm around my waist. "It just means that I'm a geek. A very cool geek. Don't worry, Aggie. I can bring you up to speed. Teach you. I could teach you a lot of things," he added for emphasis, his voice low and sexy.

"Oh," I said.

"What's he doing?" Remington said, changing the subject suddenly. He dropped his arm from my waist. I followed his gaze to a place across the street. Donald was there, looking through the window of the lifeguard tower, which was next to the pier.

We continued watching as Amy stepped out of the lifeguard tower and began an animated discussion with Donald. "I need to get closer to that," Remington said. "You stay right here."

He dashed across the street, and I followed him. I stopped on the sidewalk across the street and stood behind a van, spying on him, spying on Donald. Remington waved toward a policeman in uniform, who was walking his beat near the pier, and gestured to the policeman to join him. When he did, Remington made a show of talking to him, but I was sure that he was really listening in to Donald and Amy's conversation.

Donald didn't look happy with Amy, and Amy looked downright pissed off at Donald. I was dying to know what they were saying, and I wasn't sure that Remington would share that information with me later.

"Hey, Agatha. How are you today?" I heard behind me. I turned around to find Rocky. He was holding his tool bag, and he looked worse for wear.

"Are you on a job?"

"The tackle shop at the end of the pier," he explained. "They have a lot of knives, and they have a ton of scissors, for some reason. They're all dull as dishwater. I've got my hands full."

I nodded. "You look tired."

"Yeah, but I'm not complaining about good business."

I turned my head for a moment and saw Amy walk away from the lifeguard tower, and Donald walk in the opposite direction. Whatever their conversation was about, it was over. The tackle shop owner stepped out of his shop and yelled for Rocky to get moving. He shook his fist in our direction, and I could see that his face was red all the way from where I was standing.

"Would you do me a favor and get my blue workbox out of the van and bring it to me in the tackle shop?" Rocky asked me, slightly frazzled. "The bossman is a pain in my rear. If I don't get over there pronto, he's going to have my guts for garters."

"Sure. No problem," I said since there was no one left to spy on. Remington was following Donald, and the uniformed policeman was walking back toward the pier. Rocky jogged to the tackle shop, and I opened the back of the van. Inside was chaos. Besides the tools of his trade, Rocky had filled his van with personal belongings and some trash.

Climbing inside, I spotted the blue toolbox at the other end of the van. I stepped over various belongings in order to get to the toolbox, but it was impossible to find a foothold without stepping on one of Rocky's belongings. I stumbled, and my foot landed on something made of glass, which shattered into a million pieces.

"Sorry, Rocky, but it's your fault for making me do this," I muttered.

I scooted my foot under a tarp and took another step. I was almost in reach. Another step, and I would be able to get the toolbox and bring it back to Rocky. I lifted my foot that was under the tarp, but it was stuck under something heavy, and I flew forward. Putting my hands out to brace myself, I landed hard on the floor of the van. I had saved my face, but my hands felt sprained. I rolled onto my back and caught my breath. When I was breathing normally, I sat up and flipped the tarp off to see what I had tripped over.

There on the floor of the van was a long metal pole with a large, rusty metal hook at the end. A bloody, large, rusty metal hook.

A bloody hook.

Holy crap. A bloody hook.

I grabbed hold of it and dragged it out of the van on my hands and knees. When I was outside, I carried it up on the sidewalk and hailed the uniformed policeman.

"A hook! A hook!" I yelled, pointing at the hook clutched in my hand. The policeman looked around to see where the sound was coming from, and I waved the hook at him. "Over here! A hook!"

When he got to me, I handed the policeman the hook. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's a hook."

All of my hollering brought a small crowd, and Remington ran back to me. "She found a hook, Detective," the policeman told Remington and rolled his eyes, like he was saying, who cared if I found a hook.

"You found it?" Remington asked me.

"It's not mine. I promise," I assured him.

He arched an eyebrow. "You found it?"

"It's not mine," I whined. "I found it in Rocky's van."

Everyone's head turned to the van. "I saw her climb out of there, Detective," the policeman said.

"See? See?" I said. "I found it in Rocky's van. It was under a tarp, and I tripped over it."

"You tripped over the murder weapon," Remington repeated.

"It's a murder weapon?" the policeman asked, startled.

"It's not my murder weapon," I insisted. "It's Rocky's murder weapon. At least, it was in his van."

Everyone looked at the van, again.

"Where's Rocky?" Remington asked, calmly.

I pointed at the tackle shop at the end of the pier. "He's sharpening their knives."

"The killer is in a tackle shop full of knives," someone in the crowd said. "That's bad luck."

"You stay here," Remington ordered me. "You come with me," he commanded the policeman, who was still holding the hook. They began to walk toward the pier, and I followed them. So did the small crowd of people.

When we got to the end of the pier, the people were making so much noise, talking about killers and hooks, that Rocky and the tackle shop owner stepped out of the shop to see what was going on.

"Are you looking for bait and tackle?" the shop owner asked, not understanding what was going on.

"Rocky, you remember me?" Remington asked him.

"Sure, you're The Rock."

"I'm Detective Remington Cumberbatch. Is that your van parked on the street?"

"Sure. Still running after twenty years. Did I park too far away from the curb?" Rocky asked.

"Why was this hook in your van?" Remington asked, pointing at the hook in the policeman's hand.

"Hey, I know what that is," the tackle shop owner said. "It's an antique whaling hook. That might be worth something."

"Rocky, it's the murder weapon," I told him. "It was used to kill Felicia."

Rocky's mouth dropped open, and his face was the picture of shock and surprise. "Why was it in my van?"

"Do you have something you want to get off your chest, Rocky?" Remington asked.

"No."

"Nothing about Felicia? About the hook?"

"No."

"Okay," Remington said, his voice calm and cool, like he was talking to a skittish horse. "I'm going to bring you to the station to ask you a few questions."

"But I have knives to sharpen," Rocky said.

"You can sharpen them after," Remington said, taking handcuffs off his waistband. "Put your hands behind your back."

"Oh, my God. The new cop is arresting Rocky!" someone in the crowd exclaimed.

"Is that a cop? I thought they were filming a movie," another person cried from the crowd.

"Your hands behind your back, Rocky," Remington said, and Rocky did what he was told.

"I can't believe that Rocky Montana ripped a woman's face off," the policeman said.

"I would never!" Rocky yelled.

"We'll talk about it at the station," Remington told him.

"No. No. No. No, no, no," Rocky moaned as Remington handcuffed him. "I don't want to go to jail. Not again. I swore I would never go to jail again."

"Take him in, and I'll meet up with you in a minute," Remington told the policeman. "Now, about you, Aggie," he said to me.

"I found it in the van," I said.

"I'm going to need a statement from you. And a promise."

"A promise?" I asked.

"Yes. I need you to stop finding things. I need you to stop hanging around killers," he said, his expression serious.

At that moment, it dawned on me that I had solved the mystery of Felicia's murder. I had found the murder weapon and discovered that poor, sweet Rocky was the killer. "I thought I would feel better," I told Remington.

"Ain't nothing satisfying about dead people, baby," Remington said.

I wished he didn't say it that way. It reminded me that John was waiting at home for me. Where Remington worried that I might be a murderer, John was worried that I would get murdered.

There was a high-pitched scream near us, and I turned to see the policeman on the floor, the whaling hook on top of him. "I stumbled over it!" he yelled.

"See?" I said to Remington. "It's not hard to do."

"He's going to jump!" a woman yelled.

Remington and I whipped around, just in time to see Rocky jump off the pier twenty feet into the ocean with his hands handcuffed behind his back. We ran to the railing and looked down just as Rocky hit the water.

"He's dead," the tackle shop owner said. "Rocky can't swim."

"The current will sweep him down to Mexico," someone in the crowd announced. "He'll be swimming with the Mexican fishes."

Rocky had gone in the water, and that was the last that we saw of him. It was hard to imagine that he could survive with his hands cuffed behind his back, even if he could swim.

"Well, there's something you don't see every day," Remington said.

# Chapter 9

"The streets were dark with something more than night."

–Raymond Chandler

Remington handed the policeman his gun and phone and jumped into the ocean, but he didn't find Rocky. Divers were brought in from San Diego, and various boats covered the area. But Rocky didn't show up. The general consensus was that he was eaten by Mexican fishes.

The antique whaling hook was tested quickly, and it came out positive for Felicia's blood and matched the shape of her wounds. So, the mystery was over. Rocky killed Felicia. Rocky died.

All done.

"I'm glad that this is behind you, Agatha," John told me that night. It was nearly midnight, and I was sitting up in bed. We had been talking for hours. That wasn't new for us, but the topic of the conversation was. We had never discussed a murder mystery before. Not even with Auntie Prudence.

"I don't think it's behind me. I don't feel like it's over."

He stood over me, his hands clasped behind his back. His hair was tied with a leather tie, as usual, and I felt the familiar urge to untie it and touch it. I knew with certainty that it would be thick and soft, even though I had never touched it before.

"Agatha," he said, softly, as if he could read my thoughts of longing. He stepped closer, and I put my hand out on the bed, less than an inch from his thigh.

It was always like this. The longing. The frustration. The sadness. The love. There were years and years and years of this. That's why John went silent for a year. But pain was better than emptiness, as far as I was concerned. I needed him with me, even if he couldn't be with me all the way.

"Why would Rocky kill Felicia?" I asked John, carefully reinserting the real world back into the room.

"Would? Don't you mean did?"

"No. I don't think he did. Rocky was a nice man. Kind. Gentle. I can't see him taking a hook to Felicia's face."

"There's violence in all men," John said, speaking from personal experience. "Rocky might have had mental issues. He might have gotten angry with her. You've said that Felicia was not a kind woman and that many people didn't like her. Perhaps Rocky was one of them. It would only take one swipe of a whaling hook to kill a woman. One swipe can be done without intention, merely by impulse."

John had a point. Everything he said made sense. There was no reason Rocky couldn't have killed Felicia. People did things all the time that were out of character.

"But..." I said.

John arched an eyebrow and smiled. "But," he repeated. "You enjoy this, Agatha. You like your mystery."

Yes. I never felt so alive since Felicia died. That probably didn't say anything good about me, but there you go. I was a busybody, a murder fiend. "I can't stop thinking that Donald killed Felicia. He had every reason to. Money. Lots of money, John. And he's running around town, acting fishy. Not to mention the fact that he's planning on leaving Sea Breeze. I think he's guilty, but I can't prove it."

John ran his hand over his beard. "Donald White does sound like a scoundrel and a cad. He's more than likely up to no good. He could have probably killed his wife without too much trouble. I knew a man who killed his wife and sold her flesh to the local baker to make pies. It was discovered when the baker found an earring."

"What did you do to him?" I asked.

"I prosecuted. The judge chose to hang him."

The words dropped into the silence of the room and stayed there between us. Hanging was a sore subject for the Bright women.

"I would like to get hold of Donald and take him to the woods so that he could never hurt another soul, especially a soul I care about," John said.

"There are no woods here," I told him, but his offer filled my heart. In life, John would protect me against all threats. "I need to find proof that Donald did it, but I don't know how."

"You are glowing, Agatha. You enjoy a mystery more than you ever enjoyed the lighthouse."

"I brought home more mysteries so that I'll keep learning. This one is by Agatha Christie. We share the same name," I said, showing him the book.

"Read it to me," John urged. "Let's see what the other Agatha would say about a knife sharpener killing a woman with a whaling hook."

I read for about a half hour until I fell asleep. In the middle of the night, I was woken by the sounds of my aunts downstairs in the kitchen. For once, they weren't fighting. It was the sound of a Bright whiskey night.

I loved Bright whiskey nights. We hadn't had one since Auntie Prudence died.

Hopping out of bed, I ran downstairs. I found my aunts in the kitchen. They were stirring batter in a large bowl. A bottle of whiskey was open and three glasses full of amber liquid were on the table.

I sat down at the table and took a sip from one of the glasses. Yum. We had collected Irish whiskey over the years, and this one from 1885 was particularly good.

"What are you making?" I asked.

"I wanted to make scones, and Tilly thought to put cranberries in them. Genius," Auntie Ida said.

"And Ida had the idea to roast a turkey to make mini-sandwiches for our Sunday lunch. More genius," Auntie Tilly said.

It was one of the rare moments of peace between them, and it felt good.

"We're going to start on the turkey when we put the scones in the oven, and we're making an extra six batches to take with you to work tomorrow," Auntie Tilly told me.

"I'm just opening. I'm not serving food," I said.

"A few scones won't hurt anybody," Auntie Ida said.

"Whiskey," John said, appearing next to me. "I still don't understand why you women haven't succumbed to the joys of rum. I would love to taste rum on my lips, again. Or even smell rum."

"I'll make a rum cake next week, and you can pretend to smell it," Auntie Ida offered.

"Typical of a man not to understand the finer points about a finer drink," Auntie Tilly chastised him.

"I'll have you know that some of my most favorite moments in life started with rum. Be careful, or I'll haunt you, Tilly," he said.

"What do you call what you're doing now?" she asked.

"Gifting you with my presence. Educating you about the pleasure of rum. If I haunted you, Tilly, you would know it. You would never sleep again because of the terror," John said, his face set in stone, all hard planes and edges. He would have been a fearsome man in life. All strength and no weakness.

Except for me. I would have been his weakness.

Auntie Tilly laughed. "You're a funny one. I've got news for you, scary man. I haven't slept in years."

That was a lie. Auntie Tilly slept like the dead. Her snoring could be heard for miles. When the scones were in the oven, the three of us sat at the table and sipped whiskey. John broke out into a bawdy song about a woman on a ship. I closed my eyes in appreciation of his voice and of old songs.

"How's the wind?" I asked Auntie Tilly, when John finished his song.

"Still changing. Be prepared for anything," Auntie Tilly said.

"See? The wind is still changing," I said to John. "Rocky didn't kill Felicia."

We drank and baked and a couple hours later, we put the turkey into the oven. When we returned to the table and poured more whiskey, John had disappeared. He did that sometimes because he wanted to and sometimes because he had to. I didn't know the exact rules for a dead person, but I knew there were rules. Limits.

Auntie Tilly and Auntie Ida leaned forward and lowered their voice. "What have you done to John?" Auntie Tilly demanded.

"Nothing. I wasn't aware I could do anything to John," I said. I had a list of things I wanted to do to John. They were all things I had never done to anyone, and they were all done naked.

Auntie Tilly waved her hand, dismissively. "Not that. He looks like a wounded puppy."

"He's always been the tragic hero and heartbroken, but this is different," Auntie Ida said. "Did you do something we're not supposed to do?"

I leaned back and crossed my arms in front of me. "I would never."

"Because that would be dangerous. We don't want bad attention, and by bad attention, I mean attention," Auntie Ida said.

"I know," I said, choosing not to tell them about Mouse's suspicions.

Auntie Tilly closed one eye and stared at me, like she was looking at my head through a sniper's rifle. She tapped her chin with her index finger. "If I were crazy, I'd say that John was jealous."

Auntie Ida sucked in air. "You know what, Tilly? I think you're right. John is jealous. Why is John jealous, Agatha?"

I swallowed down the rest of my whiskey and poured more into my glass. "There's nothing to be jealous about," I said into my glass.

Auntie Ida and Auntie Tilly gasped, loudly. "You just lied," Auntie Ida said. "You just lied about there being nothing to be jealous about."

"Agatha Bright, do you have a man in your life?" Auntie Tilly asked.

"No." It was the truth. I didn't have a man in my life. I had a ghost in my life, and I had a sexy detective who flirted with me every chance he got. Nothing more than that.

Auntie Tilly arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "You better be careful, girl. Playing around with men's emotions can have bad outcomes."

"That's true," Auntie Ida said. "Wars have started like that. And recessions. Darth Vader went to the dark side because of it."

"I'm not playing with men's emotions," I insisted. "I don't know how to play with men's emotions. I'm not even sure what men's emotions are. I know they like sports, but I don't know much more than that."

They let the conversation drop after that, probably because the turkey needed basting. I decided to sneak away to the lighthouse just for a visit and to get some much-needed alone time. Before Auntie Prudence died, I had a lot of alone time, but now I was the center of the world with the soup shop. I was surrounded by people every minute of the day.

The lighthouse was connected to our home through a passageway that we built years ago. When we first arrived in Sea Breeze, we built the lighthouse and lived in it for a while, but it was too close quarters for my aunts, who were at each other's throats nonstop. It was much safer to live in a bigger house where they could stay an arm-swinging length or a knife-throwing length away from each other.

Now, the lighthouse was abandoned except for the tools and objects needed to keep a lighthouse running. I passed through the house and climbed the circular staircase up to the top. I had climbed them thousands of times, but after making soup for the past two weeks instead of working the lighthouse, I found that I was slightly winded by the exertion.

Once I was at the top, I ran my finger against the large glass enclosure, which held the light. It was clean. My aunts were doing a good job in my absence. I opened the door and stepped out onto the narrow metal balcony that circled the light.

I could hear the waves crashing on the shore in the distance, and I breathed deeply in the scent of saltwater on the wind. It was the middle of the night, and the town was dark and quiet. Only a handful of streetlights were on, and there wasn't a car on the road.

And then I saw it.

A blue glow was moving down Sea Breeze Avenue.

I froze in place. He was back. The glowing man was back.

"Agatha Bright, don't do it," John roared, appearing next to me.

"The glowing man is back. I need to talk to him and find out about Area 38," I said, opening the door to go back inside.

John followed me as I ran down the stairs. "Agatha, I must put my foot down. This is a serious matter."

"Put your foot down later. I'm going to catch that glowing man."

"You're in your nightdress."

"I don't think there's a dress code," I said, reaching the bottom of the lighthouse.

"I can see your breasts through the fabric. They're lovely breasts, but I don't think you should be showing them to the town."

Covering my breasts with one arm, I turned to him and wagged my finger under his nose. "I'm going to catch the glowing man, and you can't stop me."

"Fine. Fine!" John bellowed, throwing his hands up. "If that's the way you want to play it, Agatha, I can play, too. If you're going to change, so am I."

"What does that mean?"

"It means no more Mister Patient Ghost. It means I'm going to be proactive."

John disappeared, and a second later, there was complete chaos in the lighthouse, like a tornado had hit. Every object flew off the walls and crashed to the floor. I ducked before a hammer could make contact with my body. A table upturned itself and crashed violently against the wall. The small windows rattled with fury.

It only took a minute for the violence to end, but I got the message. "Do you feel better, now? Shame on you, acting like a petulant child," I said, even though John was no longer there. Moving things in the real world exhausted him, and he would be silent for a while. Good. More time for me to catch the glowing man.

I ran outside and down the cobblestone road. It wasn't until I reached Sea Breeze Avenue that I realized I was barefoot. I didn't care. Nothing was going to stop me. The glowing man was in sight. He had made a U-turn and was running down the street in the opposite direction. He turned down a side street, and I sped up.

Just then, I saw another light, and it was coming straight for me. Instead of blue, it was white. A car. I hopped onto the sidewalk and kept running. When the car slowed down, I waved at it to move along and leave me alone.

It didn't work. The car made a U-turn and slowed down next to me. The passenger window opened.

"Are you all right?" a man asked from inside the car. Holy crap. It was Remington. My thoughts went instantly to the fact that my breasts were showing through my nightdress, and I didn't know whether to be ashamed or thrilled by it.

"Fine. Can't chat now," I said, still running.

"What're you running from?" Remington asked, driving next to me as I ran.

"Running to, not from. The glowing man is back. I'm going to capture him and make him tell me about Area 38."

"He's back? Get in."

"No, I have to catch him."

"I'll drive you. It'll be easier to catch him."

He stopped the car and opened the passenger door. I got in. I hadn't ridden in a lot of cars during my life, and I marveled at the technology. There was a computer between the seats and a shotgun attached to the dashboard.

"I get it. This is a police vehicle," I said. "I've read about these."

"Put your seatbelt on," Remington said.

"Seatbelt," I repeated, searching for one.

Remington reached over me and pulled the belt across me and clicked it into place. "Agatha, tell me what you were doing running down the street in the middle of the night without shoes on." Good. He didn't mention my breasts. "I'm not accusing you of anything," he said, like he was accusing me of something.

"You're not?"

"No, but I'm getting a distinct stink of booze coming off you, and strangely enough, turkey, too."

"It was whiskey night," I explained.

"Where?"

"At home with my aunts. On whiskey nights, we drink a lot of whiskey and bake. We roasted a turkey this time, too, along with cranberry scones."

"And after, you decided to run down the street, toasted. Agatha, strictly speaking, that isn't legal."

"I'm not toasted," I insisted. "If that means inebriated. I've never been inebriated in my life. Believe me, I've tried, but I can't get there. Speaking of getting there, step on it. We have to catch the glowing guy."

He put his foot on the gas, and we zoomed down the street. I instructed him to turn right where the glowing guy had gone a minute before.

"You should invite me to a whiskey night. I like whiskey as much as the next man. You live with your aunts, right? I'd love to meet them," Remington said. "Maybe I'll stop by sometime."

I couldn't imagine him stopping by the house. It was a recipe for disaster. "Over there!" I yelled, pointing ahead. There was a tinge of blue glow where the glowing man had been. "Turn right!"

"It's like he's leaving a glowing trail," Remington noted.

"What do you think is making him glow?"

"Something tells me it's not from eating a large bag of blue sour candies. I think it's probably something we want to stay far away from. Like Chernobyl or Tribbles."

We had lost the glowing man, but a car sped away in the distance. "He's got a car," I said.

"It's either his or he's got a glowing partner," Remington agreed.

"Catch him! Can't you go any faster?"

"Aggie, I can go as fast as you want. Faster, probably. But I'm not in a hurry. Let's hang back and play it cool. We'll see where he's going. We can always interrogate him later. You like how I'm saying 'we'?"

I giggled and slapped my hand over my mouth in embarrassment. We followed the car out of town, toward the desert. "Do you think he's going to Area 38?" I asked.

"If he's smart, he's not. Let me tell you, if someone made me glow, I wouldn't go back for a visit. You hear me?"

We followed the car for forty minutes, while Remington talked about Star Trek and his Captain Kirk uniform collection, whatever that meant. Finally, we turned off the highway onto a dirt road for a couple of miles. We almost ran into the security fence that surrounded Area 38 because the complex was dark. Ahead of us, a gate opened, and the glowing man's car drove through. The gate closed, again before we could reach it.

"Area 38," I read out loud on a small plaque on the gate. "Trespassers will be prosecuted."

"That means shot," Remington said. "Or sent to a black site in a small Middle Eastern country."

"That doesn't sound good. I don't want either of those things. Can we sneak in? I bet I could climb the fence no problem."

"It's an electric fence," Remington said. "You'll get fried like bacon on a Sunday morning."

"An electric fence. What will people think of next?" I asked, impressed.

"I've heard rumors about machine guns and self-rising bread."

Remington opened his door. "Where are you going?" I asked.

"Out."

"What about the electric fence? What about the bacon?"

"I'm not going to touch the fence," he said, clicking on a flashlight. "I'm going to do some non-touching spying. You want to join me?" I practically jumped out of the car. "Be careful where you step in your bare feet," Remington warned.

"I'll be fine."

He shined the light on me. "How did you get like that?"

"Good food and lots of sunshine. Actually, I'm not much taller than the average woman."

"No, like that. That. Your clothes. Your feet. You weren't dressed like that before."

"I can assure you that I've worn this outfit many times," I said, sidestepping the truth.

"Aggie, you know what I mean. You were wearing a nightgown before. Now, you're wearing a dress with a belt, and there are shoes on your feet."

My hair was brushed, too, and I was wearing my favorite pair of earrings, but I didn't think I should point that out to Remington. I was trying to keep a low profile, and my aunts would be angry if I drew attention to us.

"Maybe I should sit down," Remington said, shining the light on my clothes. "Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe there wasn't a glowing man. Maybe I'm not at a secret government facility with a beautiful woman who has materialized shoes out of nowhere. Oh, hell. Of course, I'm dreaming. All of that sounds like a dream, doesn't it? Either a dream or a psychotic break. Normally, I'm as cool as the other side of the pillow, but I'm low on the cool thing right now. Opposite of cool. Way opposite. Polar opposite...even though polar sounds cool."

"You think I'm beautiful?" I interrupted.

Remington blinked. His mouth turned up slowly into a wide smile. "Baby, you got it all in the right places."

"That's good, right?" I said. "Look!" I exclaimed and pointed at the ground. There were a couple of rocks. And they were glowing.

"What the hell is going on here?" Remington asked.

He put gloves on and pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. "Evidence," he said, putting a glowing rock into the bag. "I'll get it tested, and maybe we'll uncover the secrets of Area 38."

# Chapter 10

"Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend."

–Agatha Christie

Remington dropped me off in front of the soup shop and left to take the glowing rock to a lab, which could test it for radioactivity or whatever would cause it to glow. We had walked a good portion of the Area 38 fence, but we didn't learn anything about the mysterious facility except that glowing men liked to come and go from the place, and they were very diligent about keeping the lights off.

Afterward, when Remington dropped me off at the soup shop, it was still dark, and Doris and Irving were already waiting for me at the front door. "No soups today," I warned them.

"We know," Doris said. "We're here to give our support to the knitters."

"You got any of that horrible coffee you make?" Irving asked me.

"I'll start the pot." I took the skeleton key out of my pocket and unlocked the door.

"I'll turn the lights on," Irving said. "I know how."

While he turned on the gas lights, I walked to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot. A large basket of my aunts' cranberry scones was sitting on the counter.

"I heard that the shop got destroyed yesterday, but it doesn't look worse for wear," Doris said and sat at their usual table. She was right. It looked like it did every day since it was opened years ago. The only thing that changed were the books.

The door opened, and two men wearing black suits and dark sunglasses walked in.

Irving grabbed one of the men's arms and tried to guide him through the shop. "I'll help you find a table, young man. Straight ahead. Be careful."

"We're not blind," the man growled, pushing Irving's hand away. "We're with the government."

Irving backed away. "I swear to God, I didn't rip the tags off my pillow. It came that way," he said.

"Sit down, Irving," Doris told him. "I don't think they're here about your pillow."

"Why not? I pay my taxes," Irving said.

"What are you saying? You want them to arrest you about your pillow?" Doris asked, incredulous.

"Why not? I'm not important enough? I'm not a Koch brother, so the government doesn't care about me?"

"Fine!" Doris said, slapping the table loudly. "Officers, arrest this man for his unlawful pillow!"

"I'd throat punch them, if I wouldn't lose my pension," one of the men in black said to the other man in black.

"May I help you?" I asked them, interrupting the confrontation.

"Agatha Bright? We're with Homeland Security," one of them said to me. Oh, no. They found me. They knew that I had tried to break into Area 38, and I stole a rock. I stumbled backward, knocking the coffeepot onto the floor.

"What happened? Did he hit her?" Irving asked Doris. "You want me to call Johnnie Cochran for you, Agatha?"

"She doesn't need a lawyer...yet," one of the homeland security agents said, adding the last part directed at me for emphasis. "We've heard that you're hosting a group, which is protesting a so-called Area 38."

"I'm not hosting them. They're customers, like the knitters," I said.

One of the agents took out a small notebook and jotted down notes.

"I'm sure you understand that Area 38 doesn't exist," he said.

"And if it did exist and a group decided to break into it, you would be a co-conspirator," the other agent told me.

A lot he knew. I had already tried to break in, so I was a sole conspirator.

My face grew hot, and my palms began to sweat. Anything I was going to say to them would have to be a lie, and I was the worst liar in the world, so they would know I was lying and then I would wind up in a black site in a small Middle Eastern country.

"I don't want to be tortured," I blurted out.

"You know what's torture?" Irving said from his seat. "An old man at four in the morning without a cup of coffee. That's torture."

I picked up the coffeepot and filled it again.

"I promise I'm not working with the Area 38 group. I don't know their plans," I said and locked eyes with the two agents. It wasn't a lie, and I milked it for everything it was worth. No blinking. No blushing. There was no way they could tell that I had known exactly where Area 38 was and that I had followed a glowing man there just a couple hours before.

At least, I hoped there was no way they could tell that.

"We'll be watching," one of them said, pointing at his eyes and then at mine.

The other agent handed me a card. "We expect you to contact us if anything illegal is planned."

I nodded, and the two agents left. When the door closed behind them, I slumped against the counter and tried to catch my breath. When my aunts found out that not only was I getting attention, but I was getting attention from the government, they would give me hell.

I made the coffee and served it to Irving and Doris along with a plate full of scones. "We thought the Area 38 geeks were delusional Comic-Con escapees, but I guess they've been right all along," Doris said.

"The crazy people aren't crazy after all, and good, sensible folks like Rocky are murderers," Irving said, tsking loudly. "It's like that bad acid trip we had on the second day of Woodstock."

"Don't remind me. I'll get a flashback," Doris said.

The shop filled up before sunrise. From the conversations, I gathered that there was a general consensus among the knitters and Area 38ers that Rocky was a murderer. The knitters thought Rocky killed Felicia because he was crazy, but the Area 38 group thought he was a contract killer for the Area 38 government.

It looked like I was the only one who thought Rocky was innocent. Or rather, I was sure that Donald was guilty, so ipso facto, Rocky had to be innocent. I couldn't forget about his cash windfall from his wife's death. There was also the fact that Donald hadn't looked for Felicia very much when she had first gone missing. I didn't know much about loving husbands, but I assumed that a loving husband would turn over every rock to find his missing wife.

The door opened, and Bunty and her husband walked in. It was early for them. Normally, they were across the street working out at this time. Maybe they took Sundays off, I thought.

"I want a half dozen of those scones," Bunty's husband told me as soon as I sat them at a table.

"Are you kidding me, Sid?" Bunty asked him, enraged. "Aren't you pushing this to the limits? You've stopped working out, and you're eating a bunch of junk."

I didn't know what she was complaining about. Her husband Sid looked like he was wasting away. His clothes were visibly baggy on him. In my opinion, he needed some scones. So did Bunty. Her perspiration coat had worked. There wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere on her.

"I'll eat what I want, Bunty," Sid growled, and Bunty backed down, taking her knitting out of her bag without saying another word.

The door opened again, and Frances walked in. She was followed closely by Amy, who had three cats on leashes and one cat in a baby stroller. With Rocky getting eaten by Mexican fishes, I felt I needed to apologize to Frances for suspecting her.

"Psst! Agatha!" one of the Area 38 organizers called. The group had taken up residence in the stacks tables, again, and I went over to him.

"No soup today," I said.

"We know. We're here on official business. We're planning on invading Area 38. We're taking the people to the power. We're eating the rich. We're giving it to the man."

"That sounds like a lot of work."

"We're getting organized now," he said. "That's what I wanted to ask you. We need to do trust exercises, and I was wondering if we could do them here."

The Homeland Security agent's warning echoed in my head like a jackhammer. "What are trust exercises?"

"The usual," he said. "Ropes, ladders, water. That sort of thing."

"That doesn't sound like a soup shop activity. If you can't do it sitting on a chair, you have to go elsewhere," I said, wisely.

He took my refusal better than I expected, which was good because I didn't have the time or the energy to argue with him. The door opened, and Mouse ran in. She was frazzled, and her dress was partially tucked into the back of her underwear.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" she squeaked, running through the shop toward the kitchen. "I know I promised you I would take care of things today, Agatha, but a lizard got into my apartment. So, I had to save it and return it to the wild, but it got under my dresser, and I went to catch it while I, you know, tried to calm it and assure it that I wasn't going to harm it. But then I got stuck under the dresser for fifteen minutes. I finally got out, but the dresser broke and crashed onto the lizard, killing it. So, then I had to bury it, and my outfit got dirty from that, so I had to get dressed again, but I had nothing to go with my purple shirt. And you get the picture."

"Not a problem," I said, meeting her at the kitchen. I pulled her dress out of her underwear. "Can you handle Amy and the cats while I talk to Frances for a moment?"

"Sure. We've got enough milk."

Frances agreed to meet with me in the kitchen, and I closed us in the pantry for privacy. "What's this about?" Frances asked. "Are you going to hit on me? Everyone hits on the real estate agent. It's because we go into their homes. A couple trips to a person's bedroom, and they think we're intimate. You know what I mean?"

"I'm not going to hit on you," I said.

"Good. Not that you're unattractive. But I like penises, and you don't have one. You don't, do you? I knew a woman in Long Beach who had a penis. It was a big one, too. She liked to show it off."

"I don't have a penis," I said.

"Oh, okay," she said sounding slightly disappointed.

"I wanted to apologize for suspecting you of Felicia's murder. That was out of line, and I'm deeply sorry."

Frances tapped my chest. "Go on. Me? A killer? I'm flattered. Why me?"

"The house. The money."

Frances nodded. "Smart. Very smart. I would have suspected me, too. Frances Finkelstein, killer. It's very cutting edge. Very hip."

"I'm still sorry," I said. "And since Rocky was arrested..."

"You don't think Rocky killed Felicia, do you?" Frances asked, as if I had suggested that the earth was a cube made of chocolate.

I froze. "Why? You don't think he killed her?"

Frances leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. "No. Rocky knew about knives. That part's true. But he had a deathly fear of blood. No way would he have cut up Felicia's face. And on top of that, he kept the bloody hook in his van? No way, Jose."

"No way, Jose," I breathed, remembering Rocky's reaction when he cut himself in the shop. He nearly passed out. "You're right. I thought I was the only one who didn't think Rocky was the killer. But someone else did it. The killer is still out there."

Frances's eyes widened. "For sure. There are suspects all over the place. Even in this place." She opened the pantry door and gestured to me to peek outside. "Look over there. Bunty and Sid. Workout freaks. Sure, I do the occasional Jazzercise class, but that's normal. What they do isn't normal. It's freakazoid. And did you know that Bunty is having an affair with Donald?"

"What?" I gasped.

"Oh, yes. That's what I hear anyway. Look at Sid. Doesn't he look miserable?"

"Yes. He ordered six scones."

"Exactly. Wouldn't you eat six scones if your wife was doing the nasty with Donald?"

Donald was cheating on Felicia with Bunty? It all made sense. The pieces were falling into place. More than ever, I was sure that Donald killed his wife. I was never more sure of anything. He killed her for both the money and to run away with Bunty. Money and sex, the two most common motives for murder. It made perfect sense.

But there was a problem with that scenario. Donald had a solid alibi. He was having a prayer meeting with a pastor and the casserole stalkers when his wife was killed.

Or was he?

I needed to check up on his alibi, immediately.

"But they didn't kill Felicia," Frances continued. "It was the Area 38 group. The conspiracy theorists may be crazy, but they're not idiots. All kinds of creepy stuff happens out in the desert. I would bet dollars to doughnuts that there really is an Area 38 out there, and they're making people glow and killing them. For all we know, Felicia was in on it and couldn't keep her big mouth shut."

I decided to keep my big mouth shut about Area 38 and Homeland Security. No sense in stoking the fires with Frances and getting myself sent away to be water-boarded. Still peeking through the pantry doorway, I saw Amy hand her cat leashes to Mouse and walk our way.

"What's going on?" Amy asked as she pushed her way into the pantry with us.

"Agatha thought that I killed Felicia," Frances told her, excited.

"Lucky. Nobody ever suspects the cat lady," Amy said. "Everyone's a suspect except for me. But I don't think Rocky killed her."

"Either do I, and neither does Agatha," Frances told her.

"And you didn't kill her, Frances. Not with your manicure," Amy said. "I definitely know who killed Felicia."

"Donald?" I asked.

"No, it's that Area 38 place," Amy said. "Those freaks at the stacks tables are right. The government did it and pinned it on poor, dead Rocky."

"But why would they kill Felicia?" I asked.

"Because Felicia was weird," Amy said.

"She's right. Felicia was weird," Frances said. "She had secrets. She was playing around with money, letting her house sink into foreclosure while she was employed. I bet her job was really a front. She was probably a spy."

Amy nodded in agreement. "I detected a slight accent."

"You're right," Frances exclaimed. "I thought it was a speech impediment, but maybe Felicia was a Russian spy."

"Or Chinese," Amy suggested.

"I think Donald killed her," I said. "I'm going to check on his alibi." Area 38 was definitely suspicious, but I couldn't stop my suspicions about Donald.

"Agatha is a detective," Frances told Amy. "She's been reading books about it."

"That's so cool," Amy said. "We should detective with her. We can check on Area 38 while Agatha checks on Donald. This is going to be great. If we were on Netflix, people would binge-watch us. For sure."

"I'm in," Frances chimed in. "Just think when we find the killer and shine a light on corruption in the government. We'll become so famous that homeowners will be knocking down my door to sell their houses for them."

"And everyone will want me to watch their cats," Amy said.

"We should probably leave this to the police," I suggested. Unlike Frances and Amy, I didn't want attention. I didn't want the world to binge watch me. I didn't want my name and face in the paper. It could be a matter of life or death for the Bright women.

No, I didn't want to prove that Donald killed Felicia for attention or a boon to my business. I wanted to prove that Donald killed Felicia because I needed to. I had a busybody compulsion. I couldn't stop myself.

"The police think that Rocky killed Felicia. Maybe they'll give us an award or a medal when we figure out the real story," Frances said.

"We'll need black ski caps and metal batons in case we need to break kneecaps," Amy said, rolling with the detective thing.

"Good point. I almost forgot about the metal batons," Frances said.

Frances and Amy left the shop so that they could get a head start on taking down the government, and I left the shop to spy on Donald, again. Mouse assured me that she would handle the knitters and Area 38ers while I was away, and I explained to her that I would be back in the afternoon to lock up.

Once outside, I walked as fast as I could toward Donald's house. Across the street in the park, workers were building the bandstand for the Punk Rock Knitting Championship. People were coming and going, enjoying their Sunday. A couple of them waved to me, and I waved back, but I didn't stop. I didn't even pause when I passed the police station.

When I reached Donald's house, two casserole stalkers were on his front porch. "He's not here," one of them told me. "And I brought a pot roast this time. You'd think he would be grateful for pot roast."

"Maybe he's inside, mourning," I said. Or on the phone with the yacht salesman. Or packing up and hiding from the casserole stalkers.

"I peeked through the windows," the other woman told me. "He's not in there."

"A woman with a lasagna got a call from one of her sources and said she saw him near the bandstand that's being built, so she went to find him," the pot roast stalker said. "I'm heading over there, too. He can run, but he can't hide."

I did a quick tour around the house, but Donald wasn't there. So, I followed the two casserole stalkers to the bandstand.

In the few minutes that I had been away, the area had grown thick with Sunday visitors. Since the ocean wasn't safe to enter, they mostly walked along the pier, stood in line at the doughnut shop, and watched the workers as they built the punk rock bandstand. Knitters were everywhere, practicing on benches, at the doughnut shop tables, and on blankets on the grass in the park. Across the street, the soup shop was doing a steady stream of business with knitters coming in and out of the door.

I scanned the park for Donald, but I couldn't find him. I did find four casserole-bearing women searching for him, though, and I followed them for a while. No Donald. It was like he had disappeared, and I wondered if he had already skipped town. Perhaps the boat salesman had come through on the sale of his boat.

I decided to find out. Turning away from the bandstand, the knitters, and the casserole stalkers, I headed toward the marina to search for Donald there, or at least ask the salesman about his whereabouts. Ahead of me, two lifeguards were washing their trucks, and another two were working out in the outside exercise area. There was no shortage of muscled men pumping iron this Sunday, and I found myself searching for Remington. He had muscles on top of muscles, but I had never seen him exercising with the others.

Even the dogs and cats were out today. I noticed two cats walking toward the lifeguard tower. "Amy's cats," I said out loud. I recognized them. A calico, and a Siamese. They had been in the soup shop nearly every day with Amy since I started working there. Amy would be devastated to find out that two of her clients had gotten loose and were running wild in Sea Breeze. Amy took her job very seriously, and she enjoyed having a stellar reputation as the only cat walker in town. I had no choice. I had to catch them for Amy.

That's why I followed Amy's cats instead of continuing to the marina. I convinced myself that it would be a temporary detour and that once the cats were secured, I would head out to find Donald, again.

I watched as the two cats slipped into a door at the lifeguard tower that had been left ajar.

"Here, kitty kitty," I sang, pushing the door open all the way.

Inside was a small, dark storage closet, not much bigger than the pantry at the soup shop. "Here, kitty kitty," I sang again and nearly tripped over something on the ground.

It was a foot.

A foot in a shoe. The foot was attached to a well-dressed man, who I would have recognized anywhere. It was Donald, the object of my search.

I found him.

Donald White was lying on the floor of the lifeguard tower's storage closet, and cats were swarming around him, licking their lips. Donald wasn't moving. He was dead.

And he had no eyes.

"Hey, I saw you come in here, and..." Remington started, appearing behind me. He stopped talking when he saw Donald on the floor in front of me, lying dead with no eyes.

"Well, there's something you don't see every day," Remington said.

# Chapter 11

"Where large sums of money are concerned, it is advisable to trust nobody."

–Agatha Christie

"I found him," I said.

"You found him," Remington said.

"I followed Amy's cats, and here he was. I don't know what happened to his eyes. He didn't have them when I found him."

"You found him," Remington repeated.

"I thought we went over that."

"You followed Amy's cats."

"Yes, those two," I said pointing at two cats who were licking Donald's face. "I think those two over there are also her clients. Are you going to take his pulse?"

"I can tell from here that his pulse days are long over."

I thought so too.

Remington turned toward me. "Agatha, didn't we talk about this? I told you to stop finding dead things."

I scowled at him. "Technically, I've only found one dead body. The other thing was a bloody hook. I didn't find Felicia at all, so you can't count that one."

"You forgot about Rocky. You were there for that one."

I bit my lower lip. "I forgot about him. But how can you blame me for Rocky?"

"I don't blame you. I just think it's crazy coincidental that death follows you."

"Death follows you."

"Death is supposed to follow me. That's my job." Remington's jaw clenched. "It's getting harder and harder to keep you out of jail."

"I'm not the killer. Donald's the killer," I insisted.

Remington cocked his head to the side and pointed at Donald's body. He was a bloody mess with no eyes, and cats were swarming his body. "It looks like Donald's the victim, not the killer."

He had a point. Donald was definitely a victim. And that meant that I had been completely wrong about him. He wasn't the killer. How could I have been wrong about him? He had been the perfect suspect. He had inherited a bucket of money from Felicia's death. He was selling off his boat. He had threatening phone conversations. And he had planned on leaving town. Donald White had killer written all over him.

"Maybe it was an accident," I suggested. "He could have stumbled in here, hit his head, fell down dead, and his eyeballs popped out of their sockets from the force of the fall."

"Not possible," Remington said. He shooed the cats away and kneeled down next to Donald. "No head injury. He's got a chest wound that bled everywhere and is probably the cause of death."

"Maybe he fell on his chest," I said, even though Donald was lying on his back.

"Oh. My. God," I heard behind me. I turned around. Amy was in the storage room, staring at Donald's eyeless face, her eyes big as saucers. "I followed my cats in here, and...Oh. My. God."

Remington stood and put his hands out, palms forward. "Take a deep breath. It will be okay. Are you all right?" he asked Amy.

"Yes, of course I'm all right," Amy said and let out an ear-splitting scream.

"Of course she's all right," Remington repeated to me and rolled his eyes.

I gave Amy a hug. "It's okay. You're okay," I told her.

"Where are his eyes? Someone took his eyes," Amy moaned.

There was another scream, but this time it didn't come from Amy. It was Frances. She had pushed her way into the small space. She was screaming louder than Amy. It sounded like a siren.

"Satanists!" Frances screamed, finally able to form words. "Satanists have taken his eyes!"

She screamed, again, this time like an air raid siren, and ran outside.

Remington rolled his eyes at me again and sighed deeply. "I should go after her, but I need to stay with the body and secure the crime scene."

"She'll probably come around, again, after the shock wears off," I said. "I don't think she can resist coming back."

Amy pulled away from me, alarmed. "Do you think she's right about the Satanists?"

"Satanists don't exist," I said because accusations about Satanists came right before accusations about witches, and that scared me.

"Satanists do exist," Remington corrected. "But Satanists didn't do this."

"But the eyes," Amy whispered, as if she was afraid that Satanists would hear her and pluck her eyes out, too.

"Satanists didn't do this," Remington repeated. "The cats ate his eyes after he died."

Amy stood up straight, and she put her hands on her hips. She squinted at Remington, and her nostrils flared. "Cats do not eat eyeballs. Take that back, Detective."

"Cats love eyes," Remington explained. "It's like jalapeno poppers for them."

"You take that back," Amy said. "Cats are God's favorite creatures. They would never eat a person's eyes. I would trust cats with my eyes before I trusted you with my eyes. You take that back, or I'll sue you for slander."

"Fine. Satanists ate his eyes," Remington said. "And cats are Satanists," he added under his breath.

Remington called for backup and taped off the storage closet. Amy corralled the cats, and Frances ran back, this time with her cellphone camera poised in her hands to take lots of pictures of Donald's eye sockets. Unfortunately for her, Remington wouldn't let her back in the room in case she contaminated the scene.

He had another police officer take the three of us back to the police station in order to question us. Once we were in the small building, they separated us into three rooms. Mine looked like an office. There was a desk with a computer on it and piled high with file folders. A large desk chair was behind it, and posters of fighters and spaceships were on the walls.

After a few minutes, Remington walked in. He plopped down on the chair and put his long legs up on the desk. He stretched his arms up and crossed them behind his head.

"Dead for a couple hours. Cause of death was stabbing to his chest with something narrow, like an ice pick. Now, your turn," he said.

"I don't know anything. Somehow Donald stabbed himself, because he's the killer," I said, crossing my arms in front of me. If I were standing up, I would have stomped my foot. If I were lying down, I would have kicked and slapped the floor. I was having a hard time believing that Donald wasn't the killer. "I was so sure," I whined.

Remington flipped open a notebook in his lap and clicked a pen. "What were you doing at the scene?" he asked.

"I was following Amy's cats."

"When did you last have contact with the victim?"

"Yesterday. I served him at the shop."

"What was your relationship with the victim?" Remington asked and looked up from his notebook.

"He was a semi-regular at the shop, and I knew that he killed his wife."

Remington sighed. "How about your friends, Amy and Frances?"

"What about them?"

"Amy's cats just happened to be at the murder scene, eating the victim's corpse? Frances just happened by?"

He had a point. It was fishy. What were Amy and Frances doing there? Why were Amy's cats there? "They were supposed to be spying on Area 38," I explained. "They think the government killed Felicia, and that Felicia was a Chinese spy."

Remington blinked a few times. "I thought you were going to stay away from Area 38. I thought you were going to stay away from killers and dead people."

"I am. I mean, I was. I mean, it wasn't my fault. And Amy and Frances were spying on Area 38, not me. I was spying on Donald."

Silence filled the room. Remington tossed his notebook onto the desk, and he put his hands in his lap. "Excuse me? You were spying on the victim?"

"The killer. The killer!"

"Were you spying on him when he died?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"What are you implying?"

"That you killed him," Remington said, matter-of-factly.

"I didn't kill him. I found him only a minute before you found me finding him. For all I know, you killed the killer, and you're trying to pin it on me."

"Maybe you did it with Amy and Frances," Remington continued. That's the easy money. The safe bet. All three of you are definitely suspects."

"Do you really suspect me? Do you really suspect all three of us? What are you thinking?"

Remington smiled at me and leaned back in his chair. "I think Rocky's still alive, and he just killed his second victim."

"Rocky?" I asked, honestly shocked. "Rocky's dead. He's swimming with the Mexican fishes."

"Is he?" Remington asked.

"Is he?" I repeated, thinking about it. There was no proof that Rocky died. "So, are Amy, Frances, and I off the hook, then?" I asked after a moment.

Remington shook his head. "Nope. Especially Amy. How did her cats get out? Maybe they got loose when she got into an altercation with Donald. And Frances? That woman isn't innocent of anything. I wouldn't put it past her to be in cahoots with Amy. Maybe she was cleaning herself off when we found the body."

"Amy and Frances are nice women," I said, coming to their defense. They had been nice to me, and after our detective plotting in the pantry, I felt like I had acquired two friends.

"Nice women kill all the time. It's sort of a rule. Princess Leia killed all kinds of folks."

"I only understand about half of whatever you say."

Remington kicked his feet off the desk. He walked around the desk to the other side and sat on the edge. Leaning forward, he took my hand and brought it to his lips.

Kissing my hand gently, a zing of electricity went up my arm and down my body, filling my body with a warm, throbbing sensation that made me pant. I wanted more of it. A lot more.

"Do you understand this?" Remington asked. "How about we don't wait until this case is finished before we go out? This thing is getting more complicated by the day, and I don't want to wait any longer. How about dinner tomorrow?"

I nodded, because my tongue had swollen, and I wasn't sure I could speak. Remington was looking at me like he was a cat, and I had the most delicious eyes in the world.

"I'll pick you up at six, since you're an early riser," he said.

I nodded again.

"And maybe after dinner, we can have dessert." He kissed my hand again, but this time he let his lips rest on it for a long time.

I squirmed in my chair. I suspected that I knew what he meant by "dessert," but I didn't have any personal experience with it.

Remington gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and he smiled at me. "Don't look so frightened, Aggie. We can have a small dessert to start off with."

"Oh," I breathed.

It wasn't until I left the police station that I realized that Remington said he was going to pick me up from my house tomorrow. I hoped he didn't expect to come inside. That could be disastrous.

I collapsed onto my bed before eight that night and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Auntie Ida and Auntie Tilly had eaten dinner with me in haughty silence. They were both feuding over whether to hang the toilet paper over or under. John was quiet again, probably still recuperating after his temper tantrum.

I had been glad for the quiet. The day had worn me out. My brain struggled with the idea that Donald had not killed his wife. Everything I thought was true was wrong. I was no Dashiell Hammett. I was no Raymond Chandler or Agatha Christie. I wasn't even much of an Agatha Bright.

I sucked at detective-ing.

If Donald wasn't guilty, then it was down to Area 38, Amy, or Frances. But none of them felt right to me.

But who was I to trust my instincts? It turned out that I had terrible instincts.

So, I slept.

My head hit the pillow at 7:45, and I was sound asleep by 7:46.

Three hours later, I woke up. Or rather, I was woken up.

"Agatha, you need to wake up now. Agatha." The voice slowly invaded my sleep. "Agatha, you need to get up. Agatha, the situation is urgent. Agatha."

I fought against my fatigue and pushed against the veils of blackness in my sleep to finally open an eye. John was standing over me. His hands were clasped together behind his back, as usual. Any anger or resentment had vanished from his face. He was back to the John I had known my entire life.

"You must get up, Agatha," he urged me quietly.

"What's happening? Is it Auntie Ida or Auntie Tilly?"

"Neither. They are fine for now, but there's something terribly wrong. A stranger has invaded the house."

I sat up, instantly wide awake. "What're you talking about?"

"There is a man in the house. He broke through a window and entered through the cellar." John's voice was calm, but his mouth was set in a tight line.

"That's impossible. The house would never allow that."

"It's impossible, and yet it's happened. Do you have a weapon?"

"But it's impossible," I insisted. I got up and retrieved a baseball bat from my closet. Everything was turned on its head. What I had believed to be true—knew to be true—was false. Even the house was turning on me.

"I'll wake Ida and Tilly. I'll be right back," John said and disappeared.

I carried the bat and tiptoed out of my bedroom.

"What the hell's going on?" Auntie Tilly demanded, stepping out of her bedroom. Rollers covered her head, and she was brandishing a curling iron in one hand with the cord trailing behind her on the floor, which she had brought with her from New Mexico, even though we didn't have electricity.

"Oh my. Oh my. Oh my," Auntie Ida said, coming into the hallway. She wrung her hands in worry. "This can't be happening. It's impossible."

"That's what I said," I said, happy that someone else agreed with me.

"He's climbing the cellar stairs. He's almost in the kitchen," John said, his voice slightly more stressed.

"Let's go," I said and held my bat high.

We tiptoed down the stairs, like we were a parade. I was in front, Auntie Tilly was behind me, and Auntie Ida pulled up the rear. John disappeared again and reappeared on the bottom floor. By the time we got to the entranceway, I could hear the intruder climbing the steps to the kitchen.

So, it was true. The impossible was possible. Someone had broken into our home. I was afraid, but I was more angry than fearful. My legs wobbled while I walked to the kitchen with the bat held above my head.

We found the intruder in the kitchen, just as John had warned. His clothes were baggy and torn. He was rail-thin. His skin was weathered, and his face was heavily lined. He was somewhere in his sixties, and he had a large black and blue knot on his forehead that looked painful. The man was tired. Visibly exhausted.

And his hands were handcuffed behind his back.

"Rocky?"

# Chapter 12

"Don't make me drop a house on you."

–Fiona, "American Horror Story: Coven"

"I didn't know where else to go," Rocky said.

"Are you here to sharpen our knives?" Auntie Ida asked him. "The bread knife could do with a going over after Tilly used it to cut the tags off her pantyhose."

"What else could I do? I couldn't find any scissors," Auntie Tilly complained. "What kind of house has this become when there isn't a pair of scissors to be found?"

"He's not here to sharpen the knives," I told my aunts. "Rocky killed Felicia White, and he escaped custody. He's either here to kill us or to hide."

"I didn't kill her. I swear I didn't," Rocky moaned. "And I would never kill you. Never."

"Get out of this house! Be gone! Be gone!" John roared. He got in Rocky's face and shook his large fist at him. He was terrifying. Furious. Ready to kill Rocky and protect the Bright woman. He towered over Rocky, at least a half of a foot taller. He had fifty pounds of muscle on him, too. Rocky wouldn't be able to do anything against John, even if John was armed.

But of course, Rocky couldn't see or hear John. He stood looking right through him to me, pleading with his puppy dog eyes. Only my aunts and I could see him. That was part of the curse.

And after last night's outburst, I didn't think John had the energy to knock something off the wall again, let alone protect us from a killer.

"You don't look like a killer," Auntie Tilly told Rocky, ignoring John. "You look too hungry and tired to be a killer. Maybe you stole a car or cheated on your taxes. I could see you doing that."

"Thank you," Rocky told her. "I'm not a killer. I don't know how the bloody hook got in my van. I swear it on my wife's grave."

"Oh, you're a widower?" Auntie Ida asked, stepping forward.

John moved aside. "You must make him leave. He's an accused murderer," he ordered me. "He's still wearing handcuffs."

I gasped. If he was still cuffed, he couldn't have killed Donald. That meant that Remington was as bad of a detective as I was, and that made me indescribably happy. "Rocky, are those the same handcuffs from yesterday?" I asked.

He nodded, sadly. "It's been hard to do things with my hands behind my back, let me tell you. Especially private things."

"You've done an admirable job," Auntie Tilly noted. "Your fly's up and everything."

Everyone looked at Rocky's fly, including Rocky. "It was a pickle to do it, but I managed," he said.

"It's amazing you survived," I said. "Everyone thinks you're dead."

"I thought I was dead for a while, too. When I hit the water, I sank like a stone."

"That's because you're skinny," Auntie Tilly said, stepping forward. "I can fatten you up. Are you hungry? I'll cook for you."

"No, I'll cook for you," Auntie Ida said, elbowing Auntie Tilly in the side. "Tilly doesn't know how to use spices. That's because she's old and has lost her taste buds. She cooks like she wants to start a fire in our stomachs. She'll give you a nasty case of diarrhea."

"That wouldn't be good, considering the handcuffs," Rocky said, reasonably.

"Are you women insane?" John roared. He paced the kitchen, throwing his hands up as he spoke. "This man is a danger. He broke into the house. Can you imagine what kind of monster he is to bypass the house?"

"Or he's not a monster and needs our help, and that's why the house let him break in," I told John out of the corner of my mouth.

"Huh?" Rocky asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Did you hear that Donald White was found murdered today?"

"He was? I didn't do it. I swear," Rocky said.

I believed him. He might have figured out how to zip his pants with his hands cuffed behind his back, but I didn't think he could stab Donald that way.

"Even if you believe him, Agatha, it's unwise to let him stay, to say the least," John said.

"Good idea! We'll let him stay," Auntie Ida said. Her eyes were twinkling, and she twirled a strand of her long red hair with her finger.

"He can stay in my room. My bed's plenty big enough for the both of us," Auntie Tilly suggested.

It was a free for all. A single man was going to be a guest in our house for the first time ever. It was too much for my aunts to handle with any amount of decorum. If they got the faintest whiff of vanilla on him, they would lick him like an ice cream cone.

"We have to call the police," I said.

"Finally! A little common sense in a sea of lunacy," John said.

"But I'm innocent!" Rocky pleaded. "I can't go to jail. I can't handle enclosed spaces, and I have a fear of showering in front of others."

"Maybe we can cure you of that," Auntie Tilly told him with a wink.

Auntie Ida clenched her fists and scowled at Auntie Tilly. "Of course we won't call the police. We'll hide you. I'll cook for you, and Tilly will wash your clothes."

"I'll make you new clothes," Auntie Tilly offered, one-upping Auntie Ida. "I taught Chanel everything she knew. That haughty bitch."

"Huh?" Rocky said.

"This is ridiculous," John complained.

"Are you sure you didn't kill Felicia?" I asked Rocky.

"I promise. Please help me. I have nowhere else to go. I heard that you're a detective. Would you find the real killer and prove me innocent?" Rocky asked.

Everyone looked at me, and I felt myself blush. "I'm not a detective. I thought Donald killed Felicia, but the killer killed Donald, and I have no idea who did it," I said truthfully.

"Oh, please, Agatha," Auntie Ida said. "I bet you could do it easily."

"Solving a murder is easy," Auntie Tilly said. "My last roommate did it all the time. No sweat."

"You do have the books, Agatha. Perhaps the answer is in one of them," John said, changing his tune. We locked eyes, and he smiled, slightly. An apology.

"Please, Agatha. I can't take a shower in front of other men," Rocky said. "I'm self-conscious."

"What about not bringing attention to us?" I asked my aunts. "What about not getting involved with townsfolk?"

"But he's self-conscious, Agatha. So, you're going to prove him innocent," Auntie Ida said.

"That's right," Auntie Tilly said. "You can't expect the poor man to soap up in his birthday suit in front of criminals. I'll get the bolt cutters."

And that was that. We were officially harboring a fugitive. I would probably be arrested and have to take showers in front of all kinds of people.

Auntie Tilly got the bolt cutters and freed Rocky's hands. "That's a lot better," he said, thanking her.

"You can take a shower upstairs," Auntie Ida told him. "There's a lock on the door so nobody'll see you. While you're getting clean, I'll make you fried chicken and pancakes."

"That sounds good," Rocky said.

"And I'll make you a cherry pie for dessert. And macaroni and cheese," Auntie Tilly added.

The rest of the night was a Rocky whirlwind. My aunts cleaned, dressed, and fed him. Even though he was half-dead with exhaustion, they kept him up at the kitchen table, interrogating him about his marriage and asking him why he was still single. Then, they launched into sales pitches about their viability as romantic partners for him.

Rocky ate second helpings and more or less had no idea what they were talking about. While they fed him, I went downstairs to check the window that Rocky broke to enter the house.

"I will be very glad indeed when you'll capture the killer, and we can return to normal," John said, appearing in the cellar with me.

"That would be nice," I said, even though I believed that the horse had left the barn in the normal department. When Auntie Prudence died and I was put in charge of the soup shop, that seemed to trigger the end of normal and the beginning of murder and mayhem.

And then there was Remington. What would John think when Remington came to the house to pick me up for our first date? My first date, ever.

I decided not to tell John in advance because I wanted to hold off on that conversation for as long as possible.

"I'm sorry about last night," John said, as I inspected the broken window. It was just a broken pane, and I knew from experience that it would fix itself by morning. "I don't know what came over me."

I knew what came over him. He had to shoulder a curse for years and years, and he had reached the end of what he could tolerate. He had gone quiet for a year in order to give me space, but when I took space for myself, it was too much for him to bear.

We were existing in an impossible situation, which was becoming more impossible by the day. I sat down on the floor and hugged my knees to myself.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known," John said, looking down at me. "It was inevitable that once you got out into the world that others would see what I do."

"No. Don't say that," I said, fighting the urge to cry. "It sounds like you're saying goodbye."

"I cannot say goodbye, Agatha. I've tried. I'm not strong enough."

"You're the strongest man I've ever known," I said. It was the truth. All men paled in comparison to John. Even Remington. But Remington was alive. Remington could touch me, kiss me.

"I'm afraid that I'm not strong, either," I said.

I left the house at four, after I fell asleep for a few hours on the cellar floor. John had watched over me while I slept. He was still worried that Rocky was dangerous, but Rocky was sound asleep in an extra room upstairs, and he wasn't likely to wake up for hours. Auntie Ida handed me a basket of muffins when I left the house, while Auntie Tilly was up at the lighthouse.

When I got to the soup shop, Doris and Irving were waiting for me, as usual. Irving turned on the lights, and Doris followed me around the shop. "Did you hear about Donald?" she asked.

"Yes, I found him."

"That's what I heard," Doris said, as I filled the coffeepot. "I heard he didn't have a nose."

"He had a nose, but he didn't have eyes."

"Eyes!" she exclaimed, pointing at me. "Yes, eyes. He had no eyes. That's what I heard. I also heard that Amy's cats killed him."

"First a shark and now cats," Irving said, as he lit the last light. "The whole animal kingdom is enacting its revenge on us. I don't blame them one bit."

"Why do cats want revenge?" Doris asked him. "They've got it made."

Irving wagged his finger at her. "Humiliation, Doris! They've been humiliated. All of those lace doilies. The lace doilies humiliated them!"

"Irving, I'm beginning to think that the time you accidentally drank kerosene did you some damage," Doris told her husband.

"What're you talking about, Doris? I've been regular ever since. A little bit of kerosene does wonders for the gastrointestinal tract. We should bottle it and make millions. Rake in the money for those folks with Cohen's disease."

"You mean, Crohn's disease, Irving."

"No, Cohen's disease. What's the problem, Doris? Are you anti-Semitic?"

Doris picked up the basket of muffins and moved them to the other side of the counter. It reminded me of something and made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I didn't know what it was.

The breakfast regulars came and went. Mouse came in early for a change and baked the bread. "Here he is," she whispered to me when the flour man arrived.

"More flour," he announced, dropping a twenty-pound bag on the floor. "You sure do bake a lot. I like that," he told Mouse. She blushed in response. Mouse glanced at me guiltily, but her love for the flour man obviously outweighed her fear of being fired for over-ordering flour. Not that I would ever fire her. Mouse was a wonderful baker, and without her, I would have to bake as well as make the soups.

Mouse and the delivery man flirted for a while, and when he finally left, she came to me with her hands clasped together, like she was in prayer. "I'm so sorry, Agatha, but think of it this way. The soup shop will be just like a French bakery."

"Mouse, we have more flour than all of France. You could make a baguette for every American in the country and still have flour left over."

Mouse scrunched up her face and slouched down, like she was disappearing before my eyes. "But he's so cute, Agatha. I want to take him home and pet him like a hamster. But he only sees me as the flour girl."

I patted her back. "It's a work in progress. Don't quit. He'll come around. I guess a little more flour won't hurt."

Her face brightened. "I'm making double batches of everything, and I'm delivering a bunch to the knitting competition. Eddie Acid is going to make a banner, thanking us. Free publicity!"

I smiled, but the idea of more publicity and more customers made my heart sink. We had more than enough customers, as far as I was concerned.

At 10:30, Amy and Frances came in and sat at a table by the kitchen. For the first time, Amy didn't have a cat with her.

"Today's soups are chicken noodle, lobster bisque, lentil, and minestrone," I said.

"I'll take a bowl of bisque and whatever Mouse made today," Frances said.

"I'll take the chicken noodle, and," Amy said and lowered her voice. "A serving of espionage."

"Not espionage, Amy. Reconnaissance," Frances corrected. "We're doing reconnaissance today, Agatha. Are you in?"

"Yes," I said without knowing what they meant by reconnaissance. The situation was dire. I was harboring a fugitive, and my two new friends and I were suspects in a murder. A killer was out there somewhere, and he might strike again. "What does reconnaissance mean?"

"Oh, good," Frances said, delighted. "We're going to infiltrate the Area 38 protesters and learn more about Area 38 through them."

"We never found Area 38 yesterday, and then the thing happened, and my cats were slandered," Amy said, sadly.

"Amy's prescribed rest for all of her clients, so she won't be cat walking for about a week," Frances explained.

"Poor kitties. They're traumatized," Amy said.

Frances shot me a quick look, and I understood that she was thinking the same thing I was: The only reason that Amy's cats were traumatized was that they couldn't eat more of Donald. But I decided to keep that thought to myself, and so did Frances.

"How did the cats get out? How did they get there?" I asked Amy. The answer could go a long way to keeping her out of jail.

Amy just shrugged. "No idea. I can't help but think that it was done by a nefarious villain."

Amy and Frances started to eat, and I served the knitters who had come in to practice. When the Area 38 group arrived, Frances signaled to me, and we joined them at the stacks tables.

"Today's soups are chicken noodle, lobster bisque, lentil, minestrone," I told the Area 38ers.

"Which soup is best for physical activity?" one of the leaders asked.

"Minestrone. Definitely," Frances answered for me. She stuck her hand out. "Hi. Frances Finkelstein. Real estate agent and fellow concerned citizen. I'm here with my friends to lend our hands in your effort to bring down this conspiratorial Area 38."

"Really?" an Area 38er asked, excited. He was wearing a t-shirt with pictures of two fried eggs and a slice of bacon on it.

"Yes, go us!" Amy shouted, raising her fist.

"We're doing trust exercises this afternoon. Are you in?" one of the leaders asked us.

"Are we in? We're in all the way. Isn't that right, Agatha?" Frances said.

"What's a trust exercise?" I asked.

"It's going to solidify us as a team for when we break into Area 38 and reveal all of their evil secrets," the breakfast shirt guy explained.

"We're breaking in?" I asked, thinking about the electric fence and the Homeland Security agents. "What if they have guns?"

"We've got that figured out," he said.

The door opened, and a woman walked in, carrying a casserole dish. I recognized her as one of the casserole stalkers. She signaled to me, and I walked up to her. "You can sit anywhere," I told her.

"I'm not here for soup. We've got a memorial for Donald outside, and I thought you would want to attend, since you were interested in him."

"Oh, that's nice, but..." I started to decline her invitation, but then I changed my mind. The casserole stalkers might have information about Donald. "Sure. I'd love to."

"We're starting now. You should bring something. We've already got three lasagnas, two macaroni and cheeses, four tuna casseroles, and a pot roast."

"I'll bring lentil soup," I offered.

I got the soup and left Mouse in charge of the shop and Amy and Frances to dig dirt out of the Area 38 group. Outside, Sea Breeze was buzzing with activity. The lifeguard tower's storage closet was still taped off, and people were taking selfies near it. Workers were hammering and sawing the bandstand, which looked like it was almost complete. Knitters were sitting in beach chairs in front of it, practicing their knitting skills.

I found the group of casserole stalkers by the bandstand. They were standing in a circle, holding their casseroles, and in the center of them was a life-sized picture of Donald, which had obviously been taken when Donald was unaware. One of the casserole stalkers hit play on a boom box, and music began to play.

"Donald White was a good man. A widower," one of them started, her voice rising dramatically over the music. "And a good eater."

"I never saw him eat anything," one of the stalkers interrupted.

"That's because you made him lasagna every damned day, Mary. Nobody likes lasagna every damned day. Try and be creative. Men in mourning don't want lasagna."

The casserole stalkers with lasagnas started to complain. "Lasagna is the perfect food. It has all four food groups in it!" one of them yelled. "You take that back right this second."

"I will not. Lasagna is boring. Boring. Nobody wants lasagna."

There was an audible gasp, and then the insults started to fly. It was a free for all. The pot roast lady claimed superiority, but the tuna casserole ladies chastised her for not making an actual casserole.

I was getting nowhere fast. Besides Donald's distaste for lasagna, I wasn't getting any useful information. What had Donald been doing in the storage closet? Was he meeting someone? When the first handful of lasagna was thrown, I knew that I wasn't going to get any closer to solving the mystery if I stayed with the casserole stalkers.

The stalkers began throwing food in earnest. Large handfuls of casserole flew through the air, sent overhand with force and landing with loud splats on faces and other body parts. I stepped out of range until my back was up against the bandstand.

"Hey, there, soup girl," I heard behind me. Eddie Acid jumped down from the bandstand and stood next to me. "Are you ready to punk rock knit?"

"I'm not much of a knitter," I admitted.

"Everyone's welcome, babe," he said and ran his ring-covered fingers through his Mohawk. "What's going on over there?"

"There's not a lot of single men in Sea Breeze. It's a problem," I said.

The casserole stalkers had finished with their food fight, and their argument over appropriate foods to catch a widower had expanded to physical violence. Women were rolling around in the grass, grunting and pulling hair.

It was a step backward for feminism, for sure.

A police siren blared, and a police car drove up to the park, followed by Remington's car.

"Man, this is so punk rock," Eddie said. "Very Casbah."

"How's the Knitting Championship coming along?" I asked him, as the police officer and Remington tried to corral the casserole stalkers. It was an uphill battle. The women were still rolling around on the ground, and now they were covered in food, which made them slippery. Neither the policeman or Remington could get a handhold on them.

"Stop in the name of the police!" the police officer yelled and was taken down by the macaroni and cheese woman.

"I can't complain," Eddie answered me. "It's going to bring in some cold hard cash for charity and bring in some rockin' press for punk rock. You know that punk rock is still alive, right?"

"Of course," I lied.

"I mean, we punk rockers like our share of shit talk, but enough's enough. People have to know that punk rock is alive and cool. Way cooler than that hip hop shit. Look at all of these enthusiastic knitters. They understand the value of punk rock."

He gestured toward the knitters, who had all stopped knitting and were standing, watching the policeman roll around the grass with a lasagna stalker. Remington was standing over them with his hands crossed in front of him, and he was shaking his head.

"I think we're going to have record turnout for the competition," Eddie continued. "I heard press is coming in all the way from Los Angeles and Yuma."

"That's exciting," I said, but something in the grass near my foot had caught my attention. "What is that?" I asked, pointing.

"Don't know. Don't care," Eddie said. "I'm not responsible for litter. I got one job, and that's all I plan on doing."

I leaned down and looked at the litter more closely. "It's a knitting needle," I said and picked it up. It was a green knitting needle, but half of it was red. Red and thick with goopy, dried blood.

"A knitting needle is pretty sharp, right?" I asked Eddie. "Thin like an ice pick?"

I held up the bloody knitting needle, as I examined it. Remington must have had a sixth sense when it came to me because he turned away from the casserole stalker riot and looked right at me. Then, his eyes were drawn to the bloody knitting needle in my hand, and he frowned.

"It's not my fault," I called to him over the fray. "I just found it!"

# Chapter 13

"I have not killed anyone. They will not let me."

–Dashiell Hammett

The police station was so full, that they had to keep the front door open to make room for everyone. They didn't have enough handcuffs for all of the casserole stalkers, so they used zip ties. Once everyone was secured, Remington ordered me into his office again.

"You found it?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yes. What're the odds?"

"With you, I'd say the odds are pretty good." We stood almost touching. I had to crane my neck to look up at him. "The chief wants me to arrest you."

"So, the knitting needle is the murder weapon?"

Remington nodded, smiling. "Yes, Aggie, and you seem pretty happy about it."

"I can't believe I found the murder weapon. I'm like a detective genius."

"Rocky must have dropped it," Remington said.

"Rocky isn't the killer. He's afraid of blood."

"How do you know?" he asked me, his eyebrow arched high.

It was all I could do not to tell him that Rocky was hiding in my house as we spoke. "Remember when he cut himself in the shop? He almost passed out."

"He could have gotten over his fear in order to kill Felicia and Donald. His bloodlust could be stronger than his fear."

"Oh," I said. Darn it. He could be right. "Are you going to arrest me like the chief wants you to do?"

"I should, just to keep you out of trouble, but we have a date tonight, and I don't want to miss it."

"Oh," I said. In the middle of everything, I had forgotten about our date. Dinner and maybe dessert. Holy smokes. My lust and fear were battling it out, and unlike with Rocky, I didn't know which would win.

"You look nervous," Remington said.

"I'm not nervous at all," I lied.

He smiled. "That's a shame. I like when you're a little nervous. It tells me that there might be something to be nervous about, and it gets my blood pumping."

"Oh. Blood pumping," I breathed. Remington traced his finger up my arm, and he leaned over so that his lips nearly touched mine. I was sure that he was going to kiss me. My first kiss. I licked my lips and got ready for it. He was so close that I could smell his breath. Yes! Yes! My first kiss! Yes! It was finally going to happen!

Nope.

No, it wasn't.

The door to the office burst open, and Eddie Acid marched in, interrupting our moment. "I'm going to sue your ass!" he shouted at Remington.

Remington moved me behind him. "Excuse me, sir? How did you get back here? You're supposed to be in an interrogation room."

"I'm Eddie Acid," he said and posed. "And if you say that that knitting needle is a murder weapon, I'm going ruin this whole police department. You'll all be on the street, and this Podunk department will be shuttered. You hear me?"

Remington stared at him for a second, and I thought he was going to punch Eddie in the face. But he didn't. Instead, he broke into laughter. He had a deep, rumbling contagious laugh, and I found myself giggling.

"Hey, man, it's all good. Don't stress your heart," Remington said. "I work for the city. I get paid no matter what. We're all cool here. Tell me why you care about a knitting needle?"

"Don't you get it?" Eddie asked. "You're saying a knitter killed that suburban loser."

"I am?" Remington asked. He turned to me. "Am I, Aggie? Is that what I'm saying?"

"There are a lot of suspects, Eddie," I said. "I'm a suspect, too."

Eddie pointed at Remington. "Just make sure none of the suspects are a knitter. The Punk Rock Knitters Championship will go off without a hitch. Or else!"

That was going to be hard. Except for the Area 38ers and me, everyone in town was a knitter. There wasn't a person in Sea Breeze who didn't have yarn.

The door opened, and one of the Area 38 group leaders peeked his head in. "You ready, Agatha? We're about to begin the trust exercises."

"I'll be right there," I said, and he ducked out of the room.

"What now?" Remington asked me.

"I've joined the Area 38 guys. They want to break into Area 38," I said.

"Are you crazy? You could be shot," Remington said.

"They've got a plan for that," I said.

"Hey, what if they planted the knitting needle?" Eddie asked. "There's a lot of bad blood between those freaks and my knitters. They could have planted it to give the knitters and punk rock a bad name."

"May I leave?" I asked Remington. I didn't want to hear any more conspiracy theories. I was up to my neck in conspiracy theories, and none of them were getting me any closer to solving the murder mystery.

"No," he said.

"I'll see you at six," I told him and left the office anyway.

I followed the Area 38 guy back to where the casserole stalkers had been duking it out just a few minutes before. Seagulls and dogs were swarming the area, eating the discarded casseroles.

There were about fifteen Area 38ers, including Frances and Amy, waiting to start the trust exercises.

"Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!" Frances called waving her hands at me. I joined her and Amy.

"We heard that you stabbed somebody with a knitting needle and were arrested," Amy said to me.

"Who did you stab?" Frances asked. "Was it that obnoxious Eddie Acid? He's full of himself, let me tell you. He's got a second home with a view that's sitting empty, but he won't let me sell it for him. He claims it's for parties. What's that about?"

"I didn't stab anyone. I found the knitting needle. It's the murder weapon. Donald was killed with it," I explained.

"Oh, so a knitter did it," Amy said. "I knew it. You can't trust knitters."

"What're you talking about?" Frances asked. "You're a knitter, Amy. So am I."

There was a pause when Amy and Frances looked at each other suspiciously, and I was reminded that they were both suspects.

"What did you find out about Area 38?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Nada," Frances said. "Except that they're expecting a million people to help break into Area 38 with them."

"It's a long way to a million from this group," Amy noted.

Two of the leaders set up a large fire pit and began to light it. Eddie Acid had returned and was in deep conversation with the knitters, and I didn't think that would end well. Doris and Irving showed up with their beach chairs and set up near us.

"Hey there, girls! We're here to watch the show!" Irving announced to us.

"We love trust exercises. They're hysterical," Doris said, taking out her knitting from her bag.

Next to us at the lifeguard tower, two lifeguards were inspecting the back of a third lifeguard. "Flesh-eating bacteria?" I heard one of them say.

"There's flesh-eating bacteria in the water, in addition to sewage," Frances whispered in my ear. "I'll never sell another house again. It's career-eating bacteria."

The Area 38ers finished lighting a large fire and instructed us to stand in a circle around it. I had a feeling of déjà vu, but I pushed it aside. After all, there was no way the Area 38 would follow the casserole stalkers' lead and start fighting over lasagna.

"We're a group!" one of the Area 38 group leaders announced, once we were standing in a circle. "As a group, we can do anything. Anything! We can overturn the man and take back our power!"

There were a few cheers, and a few murmurs in the group.

"What do you mean, flesh-eating bacteria?" I heard a man ask another with clear panic in his voice.

"Don't worry. You can't catch it unless you touch it," Frances said.

"I was in the water yesterday," he said. "How long does it take to know if you've got it?"

"I don't know," she said and gave him a wide berth.

"So, we're going to start with trust building exercises," the Area 38 leader said. "Can we get a volunteer?"

"Look at that. The lifeguard has flesh-eating bacteria. That doesn't sound good, Doris," Irving said from his chair.

"Don't get close to him, Irving," Doris said.

"Volunteer?" the Area 38 leader asked again. Nobody volunteered. He smiled at me. "Thank you, Agatha. Come on over here."

"Maybe you should start with someone else," I said. "I have trust issues."

"We have to start somewhere," he said.

I walked around the fire pit to him. In one direction, the knitters near the bandstand were giving us the evil eye, and in the other direction, the two lifeguards were backing away from the third lifeguard.

"Look again! Look again!" the third lifeguard urged them. "It can't be flesh-eating bacteria. It has to be something else," he said, panicked.

Another volunteer was called to join me. This time it was the guy next to the guy who swam in the ocean and was afraid he had flesh-eating bacteria. He was wearing a long red velvet cape with wide collars.

"What the hell is going on?" the second volunteer asked me. "It's like the opening scene of The Walking Dead. This is how the whole thing started. What if we all get flesh-eating bacteria?"

I didn't have an answer for him. I had never watched The Walking Dead. I had lived with the walking dead for my whole life. The Area 38 group leader told me to fall back in his arms, and I tried to focus on that.

"Oh my God. It's going everywhere," the guy who was afraid he had flesh-eating bacteria said. "It's like mold."

He ran over to me and asked the other volunteer to check him for flesh-eating bacteria.

"I'm not doing that," the cape guy said. "No way. That shit don't play."

"Trust me. I won't infect you," he urged.

"I don't trust anybody."

Nobody trusted him, which seemed to provoke him. Something told me to make a quick exit, but I was rooted to the spot. There was too much to see, and I had sensory overload. There were the knitters, the lifeguards, the Area 38ers, Irving and Doris, and a man in a cape running away from a man asking him to search his body for a deadly disease.

It was a lot.

My stomach growled, and I realized that I had forgotten to eat lunch. I could have gone for some of Auntie Ida's leftover fried chicken and maybe a tomato salad to go with it.

"Just fall back anyway," the Area 38 leader instructed me.

"But there's no one to catch me," I said.

"He'll come back."

The guy in the cape did come back, but he ran off again. He was running around and around the fire, and the other guy was chasing him.

"Fine!" he yelled. "If you're not going to check me, I'm going to rub my body all over you!"

It was like the ultimate third grade cootie scare.

The guy with the cooties chased the other with his hand outstretched, and he was fast. When he almost reached him, the caped guy freaked out and flung his body around.

That's when his cape caught fire.

"You're on fire," the cootie guy said and stopped running after him. I didn't blame him. Thinking short term, fire was definitely worse than flesh-eating bacteria.

"Don't touch me!" the caped guy screamed. His cape was burning for real, now. Long licks of flame climbed up his cape.

"You're on fire! You're on fire!" the entire Area 38 group yelled, finally a group.

It was either the warnings, the heat, or the flames, but he finally understood that his cape was on fire. He ran past the group toward the lifeguard tower.

"That boy's lit up like a Christmas tree!" Irving exclaimed from his beach chair.

"Take off the cape, you moron!" Doris yelled, still knitting.

The cape guy listened to Doris. Just as the flames were going to reach him, he flung it off. The cape sailed through the air and landed on the pergola, which was attached to the lifeguard tower.

"He did it. He saved himself," Frances cried.

"It's a miracle!" Amy exclaimed

"That was a close one," the cape guy said, gasping for air.

But the lifeguard tower wasn't so lucky. The cape acted like an accelerant, and the tower went up in flames in a matter of seconds. The three lifeguards were outside at the time, but the tower turned into cinders before the firefighters showed up.

"Was that part of the trust exercises?" Amy asked me.

"I don't know," I said.

"I thought there would be a ropes course. When we did this with the real estate company I work for, they used a ropes course," Frances said.

I didn't want to start the trust exercises again with a ropes course. I wanted to be done with the Area 38ers. "I don't think I'm a group person," I said.

"Me neither," Frances said. "Twelve years with the Moonies soured me on groups, let me tell you."

After I closed the soup shop, I returned home. There was still a large group across the street, not to mention two firetrucks and three police cars. Remington was there somewhere, but I had succeeded in running back to the shop before he arrived. I didn't need to be the center of another disaster. I worried that if he saw me at the foot of the ruins of the lifeguard tower, he would have locked me up for sure.

Even though it wasn't my fault.

I didn't cause disasters. Disasters just seemed to follow me.

I was looking forward to peace and quiet at home for a couple of hours before Remington was due to pick me up, but I walked into a battle. Auntie Ida and Auntie Tilly were in a Rocky tug of war in the entranceway.

"I'm going to show him the lighthouse," Auntie Tilly said, tugging one of Rocky's arms.

"I'm going to feed him a slice of banana bread," Auntie Ida said, tugging Rocky's other arm.

"How about I eat the bread and then go see the lighthouse?" Rocky suggested. His face was locked in an expression of pure fear, and I didn't blame him for being scared.

Auntie Ida beamed with pleasure at Rocky's decision to eat her banana bread before he visited the lighthouse. She had won the tug of war.

"I could go for a slice of banana bread, too," I said. "I forgot to eat all day."

"How could you forget to eat?" Tilly demanded.

"I was too busy with knitting needles, a riot, and a fire," I explained.

We went to the kitchen, and Auntie Ida served the banana bread with tall glasses of buttermilk.

"Did you prove my innocence?" Rocky asked me. "Can I go home now? There are a lot of knives that need sharpening."

"Not yet," I said. His face dropped in disappointment, but my aunts looked delighted. "I have something to tell you, and to you know who."

"What is it?" Auntie Ida asked, concerned.

"Remington Cumberbatch is going to pick me up soon. We're going out to dinner."

"That's the man who arrested me," Rocky said, visibly insulted by my choice of date.

"I know. I'm sorry. He won't come inside," I said.

"Have you told you know who?" Auntie Ida asked. We all looked around us, expecting John to appear. But he was quiet again. Even though I couldn't see him, I knew that he was probably listening, and I knew that it would be difficult for him to hear about Remington.

"No, I haven't told him," I said.

"And well you shouldn't," Tilly said. "You have a right to a nice dinner with a man who can eat. You know who should go away and stay away."

"Don't say that, Auntie Tilly. I would be heartbroken," I said.

"Heartbreak is a temporary affliction," Auntie Tilly said. "You'd get over it eventually, and then you could settle down with a beautiful man who breathes oxygen."

The doorbell rang a few minutes before six, and I ran to answer it. My aunts came with me to the door, and Rocky hid under the kitchen table. When I opened the door, Remington was standing on the porch, slightly out of breath. He had changed his clothes and looked spectacular in slacks and a sweater.

I had forgotten to change my clothes. I was still wearing what I had worn to work. I didn't look bad in my long flowing dress, belted with a thick brown leather belt, but I smelled a little like lobster bisque.

"Wow, that was a lot of stairs," Remington said, smiling at me. "You look nice." I felt a tingle of pleasure at the compliment.

"Doesn't she?" Tilly asked.

"Yes. An angel. I'm Remington," he said, putting his hand out to her to shake. But my aunts pushed his hand away and gave him a bear hug. He hugged them back. He was so tall that he could wrap each arm around an aunt.

After introductions, I pushed Remington out the door and closed it behind us. Even if John was keeping quiet, there was no sense in testing it with Remington. Not to mention the fact that we were harboring a fugitive.

"What happened to the front steps?" Remington asked, looking down. "There were at least a hundred of them when I climbed up, but now there's only four."

"Where are we going out to eat?" I asked, changing the subject, because I was a terrible liar and I couldn't explain to him that the house created more stairs if it didn't like the visitor. I didn't think the house was anti-Remington per se, but it was definitely pro-John.

I appreciated its loyalty and felt guilty about my lack of it.

"Do you have a favorite restaurant?" he asked, opening the car door for me.

"I haven't been to a restaurant since they started putting goat cheese on pizza."

"That was a long time ago, Aggie."

"I haven't been to a restaurant in a long time."

"No, I mean that was a long time ago. Like more than thirty years ago," Remington said.

"I'm older than I look."

# Chapter 14

"Any woman can fool a man if she wants to and if he's in love with her."

–Agatha Christie

It was the first time I had ever gone to a restaurant with a man. The few times in my life when I had gone out to eat had been with Auntie Prudence and Auntie Ida, and we went to Mexicali for crabs and beer on the beach. We stopped going years ago when the border crossing became more difficult and a Mexican cartel cut the restaurant owner's head off.

Going to a restaurant with Remington was a totally different experience. It was special. It combined lust and food, which was an awesome combination. Even a better combination than chocolate and peanut butter.

Remington took me to an Italian restaurant with a patio that overlooked the ocean. Candles in red candleholders were in the center of each checkered cloth-covered table. Remington held my hand, opened doors for me, and was as attentive as an ICU nurse, except that I wasn't dying, and he wanted to kiss me.

He was obvious about wanting to kiss me. It was like knowing that there was leftover pie and ice cream in the kitchen, waiting for me whenever I wanted them.

The host sat us outside at a table for two, and he thanked Remington for fixing a problem.

"Paolo's family owns this restaurant," Remington explained to me. "They had an issue with a supplier."

"All fixed," Paolo announced, ecstatic. "So, garlic bread is on the house tonight. And don't order the scallops. That's my gift to you."

Remington waggled his eyebrows at me. "Free garlic bread and no food poisoning. I bet you're pinching yourself right about now to be on a date with me."

"I like garlic bread," I agreed and my face got hot.

"What a day, but at least it's ending well," Remington said, studying me, as if I was the menu.

"Yes, crazy day."

"You should have seen those crazy Area 38 people. They burned down the lifeguard tower with a cape. A velvet cape. You can't make this shit up."

I kept my expression blank and focused on not blinking and not smiling, trying to hide from him the fact that I had had a front seat to the flammable cape debacle. It didn't work. I couldn't hide, any better than I could outright lie.

"What?" Remington asked. "What are you hiding?"

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. My face broke out in a big sweat, and I wiped my forehead and upper lip with my checked napkin. "Nothing," I croaked. "Not hiding a thing." I was hoarse, my voice taken by the stress of lying. I grabbed my glass of water and gulped down half.

"You know what? I'm going to pretend that you're not lying to me about this," Remington said. "I'm going to pretend that you had nothing to do with burning down the lifeguard tower."

"Where's that garlic bread?" I asked, looking for Paolo. I could feel Remington's eyes boring holes through me right to my lying, hiding brain.

"Oh my God! You burned down the lifeguard tower!" Remington cried. The other diners turned to look at us.

"I didn't burn it down. I saw it get burned down," I insisted. "I was doing trust exercises with the cape guy."

"Why were you doing trust exercises?"

"To bond as a group in order to overthrow the government and reveal the secrets of Area 38. Duh!" I added loudly, because his romantic get-in-my-pants look had been replaced with his why-are-you-such-a-walking-disaster look.

Paolo returned with our garlic bread. "Ready to order?" he asked.

"No," Remington said.

"I'm hungry," I said.

"The lasagna is very good tonight," Paolo suggested.

"Don't say lasagna!" Remington and I shouted. Paolo took a step back.

"Sorry," Remington apologized to Paolo. "It was a difficult lasagna day for us."

"There was a casserole riot," I explained.

Paolo nodded. "Oh, yeah. I heard about that. Hey, aren't you the woman who killed Donald White with a knitting needle?"

"That wasn't me. I just found the knitting needle."

"So she says," Remington said and winked at me.

"It was the cats," someone said from another table, butting into our conversation.

"Yeah, the cats did it," another diner said.

"Cats don't have opposable thumbs. How could a cat hold a knitting needle?" another diner asked.

"No, moron. The cats ate Donald. I don't know anything about a knitting needle," the first diner said.

"You're both morons," another diner said. "The girl killed him with the knitting needle first, and then the cats ate him."

"Then, what about the shark?" the first diner asked.

"The shark killed Felicia. It doesn't have opposable thumbs, either," another diner said.

"You know what?" Paolo said to Remington and me. "I think you two need veal. Veal will wash away all the knitting needles and burning lifeguard towers from your day," Paolo said. "And it comes with spaghetti bolognese, which revs up the body for love." He winked at me and walked away.

"I don't think I need any spaghetti," Remington said and took my hand in his on the table. He caressed my palm with his thumb in little circles that made my body tingle from head to toe. Maybe I didn't need any spaghetti, either. The conversation about my guilt and thumbs died down in the restaurant. "Did I tell you how beautiful you look?"

"You said something about it. You can say it, again, if you want."

"You're very beautiful, Aggie. The sun is setting, the waves are crashing onto the shore, I'm with a beautiful woman, and nobody's calling me about a dead body or wildlife gone crazy. I have a very good feeling about tonight. Very good."

Me too. I was having a great feeling about tonight. Remington only had eyes for me. He was giving me his unbridled attention. I felt beautiful and special, and my mind was exploring all the possibilities of what was to come. If his thumb on my hand could make me go this wild, I could only imagine what his other body parts could do to me.

Paolo arrived with a bottle of wine and our veal. Remington poured me a glass but didn't pour one for himself. "I don't drink. I'm still a fighter, part-time, so I eat clean. My body's a temple."

My face grew hot again when he said "body." I was revving up without the spaghetti. I didn't know how I was going to get through the meal without jumping over the table and ravaging his clean-eating temple body. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I had no idea how to ravage his body.

Being a virgin wasn't all that it was cracked up to be.

"What do you want? You can't just come back here!" I heard Paolo yell from the other room. I turned my head just in time to see the two Homeland Security agents storm onto the patio. They were still wearing black suits and dark sunglasses. They glanced at me briefly, but it was clear that they were focused on Remington.

"Detective Remington Cumberbatch?" one of them asked him.

"Yeah, that's me. Which one are you? Will Smith or Tommy Lee Jones?"

"Huh?" the agent asked.

"He means from the movie Men in Black," the other agent explained.

"No funny business, Cumberbatch," the first agent sneered. "We're here because of what happened today. You've got a violent insurgent organization in your town. The violence has escalated, and you need to make it stop."

"Shouldn't you be talking to the chief of police or the mayor?" Remington asked.

"They're at a bocce ball tournament and couldn't be disturbed," the agent said. "So, it's up to you." He punctuated the words by poking Remington in the chest.

I figured that was a mistake. So did the rest of the diners. Everyone stopped eating and was watching the action. Remington didn't disappoint them.

Remington stood and towered over the two agents. It was almost comical to see the three standing together. Remington was a big man. Big. Hercules big. The other two men were average, and even with their attitude and dark glasses, they couldn't hide the fact that they were intimidated by Remington's size.

"Apologize to the lady for ruining her evening," Remington ordered them. His voice was calm and cool as usual, but deep and booming.

"Sorry, ma'am," they said, surprising me. Remington signaled them to follow him into the restaurant to finish their conversation.

Remington winked at me. "I'll be right back."

I watched him go. His back half was just as nice as his front half. When he was out of sight, I took a sip of my wine and looked out over the water. The government was sure worried about the Area 38 group, I thought. Perhaps Frances and Amy were on the right track, suspecting that the super-secret government facility was killing folks in Sea Breeze.

Did super-secret government facilities kill people with antique whaling hooks and knitting needles, though? That didn't sound like the weapon of choice for government types. But what did I know? I hadn't read any government mysteries. I made a mental note to ask Doris which ones to read.

If the government didn't kill Donald and Felicia, who did? It was just like Frances said: the town was full of suspects. There were scads of people who had reason to kill Felicia and Donald. They had led secret lives and were probably up to no good.

Secrets about money. Secrets about their house. Secrets about a boat. And secrets about lots of other things, I was sure. What did Frances say about Donald? Oh, yes. Something about him and Bunty, the woman with no body fat, who worked out every day in the park. Donald and Bunty were having an affair. Yes, that's right. Donald and Bunty were having an affair, and Bunty's husband Sid was miserable, losing weight, and eating crap.

Holy crap.

I spilled my glass of wine and gripped the table hard. Donald and Bunty were having an affair? Sid was miserable?

The answer to the mystery had been right in front of my eyes the whole time. I had even served soup to the answer.

Sid killed Felicia and Donald. It was so simple. So logical.

The change in Sid's physical appearance.

The change in Sid's emotional state.

Sid flew into a jealous rage and killed them both.

Easy peasy.

I was a detective-ing genius again.

The next morning, the soup shop was quieter than normal. Four of the Area 38ers had dropped out of the group, and another two were in the hospital for trauma and mild burns. There were quite a few knitters in the shop, but they weren't knitting as much as they were tossing death stares to the Area 38 group. Bad blood. The knitters blamed the conspiracy group for planting the knitting needle and for making them look bad. They were also worried that the group would do something to sabotage the success of the Punk Rock Knitting Competition. They were probably right.

"Today's soups are sweet and sour cabbage, butternut squash, miso, and beef and bacon," I told the Area 38 group table behind the stacks.

"I'll take the cabbage," one of the leaders ordered. "There's a meeting in two hours. Are you coming? We're learning how to evade bullets."

"Evade bullets? Is that possible? Aren't bullets fast? And hard?"

"Yeah, but we got a strategy."

"Are you going to use real bullets?" I asked.

"How else would we know if we're evading them?"

"I've got a thing in a couple hours," I said, vaguely and walked away.

Actually, I really did have a thing. Since Sid and Bunty didn't show up for lunch today, I was going to bring soup to Sid and ask him a lot of questions. I was going to make him confess to the murders and clear Rocky's name. I got Sid's address from Doris. Sid and Bunty Black lived only a few blocks inland.

When Frances and Amy came in, I told them about my plan, and they decided to join me instead of learning how to duck bullets. I packed a thermos of beef and bacon soup, three slices of Mouse's sourdough bread, and four of her cinnamon rolls, and we left the shop.

"If he gets suspicious, let me do the talking," Frances said as we arrived at the house. "I'll tell him I want to sell his house. That'll cover us."

"It's weird not walking cats. I walk so much faster," Amy said.

"Have you ever thought of getting a dog?" Frances asked her.

"No way. I know where my loyalties lay," Amy said.

"I heard that you were out with the hottie cop last night," Frances said. "Was that a rumor?"

"We had veal."

"Don't tell me that," Amy said. "I'm anti-veal."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"But I'm not anti-gossip," she added. "Spill the beans. How was it? What does he look like naked?"

"I bet he can work wonders with his tongue," Frances speculated. "Tall men are usually talented that way."

I wasn't used to talking to people who weren't my family about my personal life. Actually, I wasn't used to having a personal life. Not a personal life with someone alive, in any case. So, I figured it was okay to spill the beans about Remington.

"I didn't see him naked, but I bet it's all good," I said. "Homeland Security interrupted our dinner, and they made Remington take them to the lifeguard tower to discuss the violent insurgent group in our town."

"Oh, that's good intel about the government," Frances said.

"They're probably the killers, and they just wanted to return to the scene of the crime," Amy said.

"I wish we got to talk to them," Frances said. "I bet we could worm a confession out of them."

"I have one of their business cards back at the soup shop, if you want," I offered.

"It's a shame you didn't get to see Remington naked," Amy said.

"He did touch my hand. He drew little circles on it with his thumb."

"Oh, I bet he does great thumb," Frances said.

Sid and Bunty lived in a small bungalow, a lot like Donald and Felicia's, except that the front yard was perfectly tended with a lovely flower garden. We walked up the two steps to the front porch, and Amy rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

Nobody answered.

We rang again, but it was the same thing. No one answered, and there wasn't a sound. "That's funny," Frances said. "I could have sworn that Sid worked from home."

"Does this mean that we have to go back and duck bullets?" Amy asked. "That doesn't sound as fun as trust exercises to me."

"Hold my soup," I told Amy and handed her my basket. "I'm going to see if anyone's home."

Frances and Amy followed me as I opened the side fence and went in back. I peeked through every window. The inside of the house was as tidy as the outside, and nobody was there. I tried the back door, but it was locked. Then, I tried each window, and the window to what looked like a home office, opened.

"I'm going in," I said.

"You're what?" Amy asked, alarmed.

"I'm going in. I need to speed up my detective-ing."

I climbed through the window, and Frances climbed in after me. Amy handed her the basket through the window and climbed in, too. "This is called breaking and entering. We could get twenty years in San Quentin for this," Frances said.

"Then, let's hurry before we get caught," Amy said. "I'll start in the bedroom."

"I'll take the office," I said.

That left the kitchen and living room for Frances.

There were two desks in the office. One of them was obviously Bunty's. I found her personal stationery and a calendar with her weight and measurements written down every day in longhand. From her papers, I found out that she was a professor at Imperial Community College.

But I couldn't find anything pointing to her having an affair with Donald. I moved on to Sid's desk just as Amy and Frances returned.

"Nothing," Frances said, throwing her hands up.

"I found a whole bedroom full of sex toys," Amy said, rubbing her eyes. "I'll never be the same again."

"Nothing on Bunty's desk. Just work and her weight," I said.

I rifled through the papers on Sid's desk.

"Hold on," I said, looking through his credit card statement. "There's a lot of jewelry purchases here. Have you two ever seen Bunty wearing jewelry?" They hadn't. I found some receipts in one of the desk drawers. "Here's a receipt for a turquoise necklace. I've seen Felicia wearing that. You know what? We've got this turned around. Bunty wasn't having an affair with Donald. Sid was having an affair with Felicia."

# Chapter 15

"When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand."

–Raymond Chandler

"Sid and Felicia? Not Bunty and Donald? How did I get that so wrong? What has the world come to when I can't count on my sources for good dirt on my neighbors?" Frances complained.

We had gone through Sid's desk and found a wealth of information. He had spent a fortune on Felicia. Jewelry, dinners, sex toys.

"It's good to know that a man his age is still that sexually viable," Amy said.

Frances agreed. "And I didn't see any Viagra in the bathroom. So, it's all him. Maybe it's all the working out that he does."

"He hasn't been working out for a while," I pointed out. "He's been in a bad mood."

"Maybe he's in mourning for Felicia," Frances suggested.

Yes. That was exactly it. Frances had hit the nail right on the head.

"If I was Bunty, I would have killed Felicia," Amy said.

"I would have killed Sid," Frances said.

"I would have divorced him and lived happily ever after," I said.

Frances and Amy stared at me with their mouths open. "I never thought of that," Amy said. "That's pretty smart."

"I would have preferred to kill Sid than get divorced," Frances said. "That way I'd get the life insurance."

"Let's go," I said, getting up from the desk.

"Where now?" Frances asked.

"Please don't make me run from bullets," Amy whined.

"We're not going to run from bullets. We're going to college."

Frances drove us to Imperial Community College in her MINI Cooper. Bunty was a women's studies professor there, and according to the website, her office hours were just about to start at 1:30.

"What're we going to say to her?" Amy asked on the way there. "'Hello, Bunty, Sid bonked Felicia?' Is that what we're going to say?"

"If she killed Felicia, she probably knows already," Frances said.

"But what if she didn't kill her?" I asked.

"My money's still on Area 38," Amy said. "They made a man glow, so killing a couple of people isn't that far off."

"Maybe the glowing man is the killer!" Frances said, like she had just discovered electricity.

Oh, no. More suspects.

"Even if the glowing man is the killer, what are we going to say to Bunty?" I asked.

"We'll go around the truth," Frances said. "I'm selling Donald's house. It's the perfect ice-breaker into her hound dog husband's activities, and then you can lower the boom and accuse her of ripping off her husband's lover's face with an antique whaling hook."

Charming. I couldn't see how that strategy could go wrong. "You're still selling his house, even though Donald's dead?" I asked Frances.

There was a long pause before she answered. "Oh, sure," she said, like it was no big deal. "He signed it over to me since he was leaving town and didn't think the house was worth anything."

"That's lucky for you," Amy told Frances.

It sure was. Very lucky.

When we got to the college, Amy found Bunty's office for us without a problem because she had taken an animal husbandry class on campus a couple years before and knew her way around.

Bunty's office was open and the lights were on, but she wasn't there. We walked inside and stopped dead, riveted by the décor. "That man has four penises," Amy said, pointing at a sculpture on Bunty's desk.

"That woman has five vaginas, and they all have teeth," Frances said, pointing at a framed painting on the wall.

The office was decorated with all kinds of penises and vaginas. In my very long life, I had never seen so many penises and vaginas. In fact, I had never seen a penis up close and personal, and I wondered if any of these representations were accurate.

"Is this what women's studies means?" Amy asked.

"Women's studies means a lot of things, or are you one of those people who believes that women are one-dimensional, cookie-cutter Barbies with no personalities?" Bunty asked, walking into her office.

"I don't think I'm one of those people," Amy said, sounding unsure of herself.

Unlike Amy, Bunty was sure of herself. She sidestepped us and sauntered to her desk. She took a seat on the large leather chair behind it, and rested her elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers together.

"What may I do for you women? If you want to audit my introduction to women's subjugation class, I'm sorry but it's full up," Bunty said.

"These are my friends Agatha and Amy," Frances began. "I'm Frances Finkelstein, and I'm selling Donald and Felicia White's house."

"I know who you all are," Bunty said. "It's a small town, and it's hard to forget a cat walker. And Agatha has fed me on more than one occasion. I'm a fan of your million-year soup, by the way."

"Thank you," I said, pretending to look at a figurine of a woman with four breasts. I was sure that if we made eye contact, she would know that I wanted to accuse her of murder.

"Why should I care that you're selling the Whites' house?" Bunty asked Frances.

"It's a lovely mid-century bungalow, two blocks closer to the ocean than your house," Frances said. "If you act fast, I can get you and Sid in there. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Frances seemed sure of herself, and her voice was steady, but the back of her blouse was wet through with sweat. I didn't blame her. Even a good liar would have blanched under Bunty's gaze.

"Bullshit," Bunty said after a moment.

"Excuse me?" Frances asked, startled.

"Bullshit. I call bullshit on everything you said. You're not here because of that dump of a house."

"Frances really is selling that house," Amy said, coming to Frances's defense.

"I have no doubt. But you've been snooping around ever since Felicia was found with her head in a shark," she said, pointing at me. "Am I correct to believe that this impromptu visit has something to do with that?"

"Uh," I said.

"That's what I guessed," Bunty said, leaning back in her chair. "I saw you talking to those conspiracy theorists who set fire to the lifeguard tower, Agatha. I saw you with the new detective in town. I saw you with these two women. So, now it's my turn? Go ahead. Shoot. What do you want to ask me?"

I took a deep breath. "Did you hate Felicia?"

"Why would I hate Felicia?" she asked without hesitating a second. "I don't hate anybody. I don't even hate the patriarchy, and you know why?" I shook my head. "Because I'm a strong, self-actualized woman. I don't feel anger. I don't feel envy. I am fine within myself because I understand my strength as a woman."

She ran her hand over her hair, and her bicep flexed. She was definitely a strong woman. She worked out every day of her life. I bet she could crack walnuts between her butt cheeks.

"So, you didn't care that she was having an affair with your husband?" Frances asked, bravely. Frances was strong too. Sure, she probably couldn't crack walnuts between her butt cheeks, but I'd want her watching my back in a knife fight any time.

"Is that why you're here?" Bunty asked. "I don't care that Sid had an affair with Felicia. Sid has had many affairs. So have I. We're a very proud, openly polyamorous couple."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means they have lots of penises and vaginas," Frances said.

"They share lots of penises and vaginas, you mean. Am I right?' Amy asked Bunty.

"Sid and I have a very committed relationship, and we share our love with other men and women when we wish. It adds to our marriage beautifully. It doesn't take away from it."

It was hard to believe that a marriage could work like that, but I was currently experiencing a similar situation. One vagina. Two penises. Both Remington and John were in my life, and I had no idea what to do about it. I was pretty sure that neither of them would have been happy with a polyamorous relationship, however.

"Sid and Felicia were seeing each other for six months, and it was wonderful," Bunty continued. "It made him happy, and it gave him a newfound zeal for life. It spurred on our lovemaking. It fueled our excitement. I highly recommend the polyamorous lifestyle. I'm multi-orgasmic, you know."

"Bull hockey," Amy said afterward, while Frances drove us back into town. "I was married for ten years, and no way would that polyamorous thing have added to our marriage."

"She seemed pretty happy about it," I said.

"I agree," Frances said. "She didn't act like any scorned woman I've ever known."

Frances dropped me at the soup shop and drove off to make fudge for her office. Amy said goodbye, too, because she wanted to visit her cat customers who were recovering at their respective homes from the trauma of eating Donald's eyes.

I watched them recede into the distance, and I took a moment outside to breathe in the sea air and enjoy the moment of solitude. Moments alone were few and far between lately. My life was full of suspects and escaped suspects, a live man and a dead one, aunts, customers, and new friends who were also suspects. That was a lot for someone who spent most of her life working nights in a lighthouse.

Across the street, the bandstand was nearly finished being built. A crowd of knitters were standing near it, huddled in conversation. Every once in a while, one of their heads would pop out of the huddle to throw a dirty look at the Area 38 group, which was close by, preparing to be shot.

The group was standing in a line, holding hands, like a human chain. A man faced them a few yards away, and he pulled out a pistol.

Uh-oh.

This wasn't going to turn out well, I thought.

But for once, I would be nowhere near the action. I was across the street, and Remington wouldn't be able to blame me for the disaster. The armed man raised his gun high and shot into the air. The bullet went up and then back down, shooting a hole through a trash can.

Everyone screamed. Three of the Area 38ers ran for their lives right into the ocean. I supposed they were more afraid of getting shot than they were of raw sewage and flesh-eating bacteria.

"Close ranks!" one of the Area 38 group leaders shouted.

"Keep the chain tight! Bullets can't get us if we keep the chain tight!" another shouted.

Unbelievably, the man with the gun shot in the air again, just as the entire Sea Breeze Police Department arrived. The bullet went up and then down again, this time going through a tire of one of the police cars. Remington went after the armed man, who in turn dropped his gun on the ground and ran for it.

Remington was faster and caught him easily. He handcuffed the shooter, and that's when he saw me watching the whole thing. I could see his disapproving expression from across the street.

"That's enough!" Eddie Acid bellowed over a loudspeaker on the bandstand. "Knitters, unite! Get the conspiracy theorists before they screw up punk rock and knitting forever!"

The knitters complied and moved into action. They brandished their knitting needles and went after the remaining Area 38ers. The police ran to block the knitters. I noticed that Remington kept looking my way as he confiscated knitting needles from old ladies, who were intent on showing the Area 38ers who was boss. I was glad not to be involved for a change, and with Remington's attention on me, I decided I had had enough fresh air and snuck back into the soup shop.

For once, it was completely empty except for Mouse, who was sitting at a table reading a romance novel from one of the stacks.

"We're experiencing a weird lull," she said when I entered. "But a nice break."

"A lot's happening outside," I said. "Maybe they're all out there."

"More dead people?"

"I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. Maybe we should close up a little early. Do you smell that?"

Mouse closed her book. "Yes. I've been smelling it for over an hour."

"Something's burning," I said, checking on the cauldrons.

"I checked the cauldrons and the ovens. It's not coming from us."

I inhaled. "It's a weird burning smell. It's not like the lifeguard tower or a burned soup."

Mouse wrinkled her nose. "Metallic. Is it possible to burn metal?"

It was. "There isn't a blacksmith around here is there?"

"No, but there's a small artist studio next door in the back by the alley," Mouse said.

"What kind of artist?"

"He does a lot of drugs."

"I'm going to check it out," I told her and left the soup shop through the back door.

The alley was narrow and full of potholes. At least three homeless men were calling it home, and I sidestepped one man's small tent to get next door. There was a small metal plaque with Jesus Art and Utility written on the small metal door. I knocked on it.

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone in there? Is something burning in there?" I called and waited for a reply "Hello?" I put my ear to the door, but there wasn't a sound. I didn't think anyone was inside.

I tried the door handle, and the door gave way, opening. The smell was stronger with the door open. It was almost caustic, and my lungs rebelled, launching me into a coughing fit. I covered my mouth and nose with my sleeve and walked inside.

The studio was small and dark with high ceilings. It was dingy and dirty, and the smell was god-awful. The walls were covered with handcrafted metal tools. Squinting against the darkness, I took a closer look at them. Each tool looked like an antique. There were farming tools that looked like they had come out of the nineteenth century and household tools that looked like they came out of The Little House on the Prairie. And there were fishing tools.

And whaling tools.

I gasped in surprise, and inadvertently sucked in more of the caustic odor, which launched me into another coughing fit. When it finally died down, I took one of the tools off the wall. I had seen its exact twin, of course. It was identical to the antique whaling hook that I found in Rocky's van. Except for the goopy blood in the blade, it was exactly the same.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and goosebumps sprouted on my arms. I turned around in place, searching for an attacker. Odds were that I was in the killer's den. I clutched the whaling hook to my body to use as protection and backed up until I was against a wall.

I had a decision to make. I could make a run for the exit, or I could search the rest of the studio. As much as I didn't want my face ripped off, I wanted to finish my detective-ing. I wanted to solve the mystery. Find justice for the murdered.

So, instead of going toward the exit, I walked deeper into the dark studio. After each step forward, I paused, sure that the killer was going to leap out of the shadows and kill me. I giggled and clamped my mouth shut. It was almost fun to be afraid for my life, I realized. It was unfamiliar and thrilling, like a rollercoaster ride or eating very spicy food.

The further back in the studio I went, the messier and more cluttered it was, with discarded materials and trash. I took another couple of steps and tripped over something. The whaling hook flew out of my hand, and I braced myself for the fall, landing on my forearms.

"Ow!" I cried, and again expected a killer to jump out of the shadows and kill me. But nothing happened, and I was now convinced that I was the only one in the studio. I lifted myself up to a seated position on the floor and rubbed my bruised arms. My eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, and I looked down to see what I had tripped over.

"What the hell?" I said out loud, looking at it.

The door to the studio creaked, and heavy footsteps came closer. "Aggie, are you in here?" I heard. It was Remington.

"Over here!" I called. He clicked on his flashlight, and I watched as the light got closer to me. "Be careful. Don't trip."

"Mouse said you were over here. Just checking to make sure you weren't shot or run through with a knitting needle." Remington stopped by me and shined the light on the floor. "What on earth?" he asked.

"I think that's Jesus. He's the artist. Or he was the artist. He made antique whaling hooks, among other things."

"What the hell is on his head?" Remington asked shining the light on him.

That was a good question. Jesus's head was encased in a round helmet of molten metal. "Maybe lead?" I said like a question. "What a horrible way to die."

Remington scratched his chin. "Well, there's something you don't see every day."

# Chapter 16

"It's awfully easy to be in love in jail."

–Dashiell Hammett

"What did you do?" Remington demanded.

"Nothing. I just found him like this," I said, gesturing at poor Jesus's head, which was encased in a giant bubble of molten lead.

"You found him? Again? Do you have a dead body GPS in your pocket or something?"

"Hey, I can't help it if I find things." From my spot, sitting cross-legged on the floor, I had to crane my head to talk to Remington. Actually, I had to crane my head to talk to him when I was standing, too. But now it was like he was Zeus on the mountain top, and I was a doomed human waiting to get lightning bolted.

"Stop finding things," he ordered. "I thought we agreed that you would stop finding things. How am I going to keep you out of the slammer for this one?"

"You think I walked in here and poured molten lead over this unfortunate man's head? That's a little far-fetched."

"So are cats eating eyes and a woman's head in a shark's mouth," he said.

Remington had a point. I got on all fours and inspected Jesus's body.

"Don't do that," Remington ordered me. "Don't inspect his body."

"I'm not," I lied.

"Aggie, don't try to lie. I mean, don't try to lie ever. Know your talents."

"Fine. I'm inspecting the body. Shine the light down here."

"Okay, but don't touch anything," he said.

"I'm not an amateur, you know," I said.

Jesus's body looked unharmed except for his head. His fingers were blackened, though. "Do you think that's lead, too?" I asked Remington, pointing to Jesus's fingers.

"Could be."

"His watch is broken. The watch face has been shattered, and there are glass shards by the body. Oh, no," I moaned, looking at the watch.

"What? What is it?"

"It says two o'clock. That means that Bunty has an alibi. I was with her at two o'clock."

Remington shined the light on me. "What do you mean she has an alibi? Why does Bunty need an alibi? Who's Bunty? Why were you with her?"

"Bunty and Sid are polyamorous. Sid was having an affair with Felicia. I thought that Bunty killed her. She doesn't eat sugar, so she's mean, and I thought that she was mean enough to kill Felicia and Donald. But Bunty was with me."

Remington crouched down. "Aggie Bright, would you do me a favor, please?" he asked. He was calm and sweet and very handsome. My skin tingled, and I wondered if he was going to kiss me over the murdered body of poor Jesus.

"Of course. What do you need?" I asked and licked my lips to get ready for a kiss.

"I need you to...stop talking to suspects!" he roared, loudly. "Any person who would encase a man's head in molten lead is not a nice person. Do you understand me?" I nodded. "Do you really want to be eaten by cats? Do you really want your face ripped off? What's wrong with you? Are you pathological?"

"I'm not sure," I said.

"Stop finding things. Stop snooping. Stop talking to would-be killers. Chasing a glowing man is one thing, but you're risking your life here."

In all the excitement, I had forgotten about the glowing man. "Did the lab tests come back from the rock?"

"Not yet. Next week. Do we have a deal?"

"I don't know how I can make a deal about not finding things," I answered, reasonably. "I wasn't with the Area 38ers when they charged the man with the gun, you know. That's something, right?"

"Yes, although you were watching from across the street. I had my suspicions about your involvement."

"Hey, speaking of that, was anyone shot?" I asked.

"Yes. After I handcuffed the guy, a patrolman retrieved the weapon and dropped it. The gun went off and shot Eddie Acid."

"You're kidding. Is he okay?"

Remington slumped onto the floor and sat cross-legged. "I wish I was kidding. He's fine. Shot him right in the ass. From what I gather from Eddie, a punk rocker needs his ass, so he threatened to sue me again."

"Oh, no. Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes. We dropped the charges against the knitters in exchange for Eddie to stop all lawsuits. The other good news is that the conspiracy group has given up on Area 38. They no longer believe they're bulletproof, and they no longer care if the government is making men glow. They moved on to working on their cosplay costumes for the next Comic-Con."

"A lot's been going on," I noted.

Remington looked down at the dead body. "And we seem to have a serial killer in town. I'll bet money that Rocky is the culprit. Somehow, he escaped his watery tomb, and he's killing folks. Maybe I should have gotten transferred to Los Angeles. It's not as violent there as it is here."

"I don't think it's a serial killer, and I don't think Rocky's the culprit," I said honestly. "Molten lead is personal."

"How do you figure that?" Remington asked.

"Felicia's face, Donald's eyes, and now Jesus's head. The killer knew all three, and it's personal. Besides, Jesus knew who the killer was. He made the murder weapon for the killer, and the killer needed to bump off the witness."

Remington arched an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "You sound very sure of yourself."

"I've been reading Raymond Chandler. It's all there in his books."

Rocky was in a dark funk ever since I returned home and told him that there was another murder, and that he was the number one suspect.

Auntie Ida brought Rocky's hand to her ample chest. "That's okay, Rocky. You're more than welcome to stay with us forever."

"I'll make you pancakes," Auntie Tilly offered. "That'll perk you right up."

Rocky didn't look thrilled at either offer. His chin sank to his chest, and he sighed like he was exhausted.

"You know damned well that Rocky doesn't like pancakes," Auntie Ida scolded Auntie Tilly. "You just want to make the pancakes for yourself."

"You take that back," Tilly screeched. She pushed Rocky aside and got in Auntie Ida's face. They were the same height, and their noses almost touched as they faced off.

"I will not take that back," Auntie Ida yelled. "It's the truth. I've never seen a woman eat so many pancakes in all my life. It's a wonder that batter doesn't come out of your pores when you sweat."

Rocky sat at the kitchen table and put his hands over his eyes.

"Pipe down," I told my aunts. "You're scaring the guest."

They turned to look at Rocky. "How about we cook him a nice roasted chicken? That'll make him happy," Auntie Tilly suggested.

"With roasted potatoes and asparagus on the side?" Auntie Ida asked.

"Do you like roast chicken?" I asked Rocky.

He nodded. "I could go for a drumstick."

My aunts raced to the icebox and took out the ingredients. I sat next to Rocky at the kitchen table.

"I'm sure this'll get worked out soon," I assured him. "The killer has to get caught eventually. He's going to run out of people to kill and then it'll be simple deduction."

"I hope my customers don't go to another mobile knife sharpener while I'm away," Rocky worried. "And what about my van? I hope they didn't trash the van. It has a lot of good miles left in it."

"You want me to check on it tomorrow? I can do that."

Rocky's eyes widened, and he almost smiled. "You'd do that? Gee, Agatha. That would be swell."

"Here's the chicken and potatoes," Auntie Ida sang as they put the food on the table.

"How do they cook so fast?" Rocky asked me. "I've never heard of roasting a chicken in five minutes. Do you have one of those new speed cooker things?"

"Sure, that's it. Speed cooker thing," Auntie Tilly said and winked at me. She lifted a large blanket off a chair and tossed it onto the floor. "Ida and I are practicing our knitting," she explained to me.

"If the whole town's doing it, why shouldn't we?" Auntie Ida asked, flinging a knitted jumpsuit off a chair so she could sit down.

"Are you entering the competition?" I asked, surprised. My aunts were constantly telling me about the importance of maintaining a low profile. I couldn't picture them knitting with most of the town.

"No, but we want to be involved," Auntie Ida said, carving the drumsticks off the chicken for Rocky. "I'm going to make Rocky a whole set of knitted underpants next. I'll measure you after dinner, Rocky," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Uh," Rocky said.

"Way to be obvious, Ida," Tilly sneered, biting into an asparagus spear.

"I'm not sure there's going to be a knitting competition anymore," I said, spooning potatoes onto my plate. "Eddie Acid got shot in the rear, and rears are very important in punk rock."

"I bet," Auntie Ida said.

"If he knows what's good for him, he won't cancel the knitters," Auntie Tilly said. "If I know anything, I know that women with knitting needles shouldn't be crossed."

After dinner, I went upstairs and took a long hot shower. I had gotten filthy on the floor of Jesus's studio, and I was covered with metal shavings.

After the shower, I slipped on a nightgown and padded back to my bedroom in my bare feet. Sitting at my little table, facing the mirror, I started to comb through my long, wet hair. John appeared behind me.

"I don't think there's any greater pleasure than to watch you comb your hair," he said, gazing at me longingly through the reflection. He spoke of pleasure, but his face was the embodiment of pain. He was standing so close that I could almost imagine his breath on the back of my neck.

"I heard that you have been very active today," he continued after watching me comb my hair for a long while. "I heard that you found another murder victim."

"Yes, but I'm no closer to finding the killer. Each time that I'm sure I've figured out the mystery, it changes path, and I start back at zero again."

"Perhaps that's what you should do," John said. "You need to start at the beginning before the paths veered and before the complications appeared. Start at zero and go from there. Remember, with crime, it's usually the simple answer, not the complicated one."

There was a silence between us, and I stopped combing my hair.

"You mean like witches?" I asked, turning around to face him.

John locked eyes with me. "Yes. Like throwing accusations about witches."

We had never spoken about it. In all of the hundreds of years since Salem, we had never broached the subject. But now something had changed between us. I had gone out into the world. I had gone on a date with a living, breathing man. I had friends and a job, and people waved to me on the street.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I could talk to John about my mother. About it all.

"You wanted to be a prosecutor?" I asked.

"Are we going to talk about this history lesson now, my beautiful Agatha?" he asked, the contours of his face etched in pain. "It's been a very long time, and you've never wanted to talk about it before."

"Because I thought I knew the story, but I didn't know the story from your lips, so how could I know the story? It's like trying to understand the murder without talking to the killer."

John's face dropped, and he looked down at his feet. "Ah, so I am a killer now."

"No," I said, regretting that I had hurt him further.

"Yes, but of course I am. Fine. Let's discuss it." He looked back up at me. "You must know that I regret that I ever was a prosecutor," he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Of course, you are. We know that, but you wanted to be one back then?"

"I had been a military officer for king and country. When I settled in Salem, I was gifted certain positions of power because of my military service."

"You were a magistrate. A politician," I supplied. I knew this part of the story.

"And a businessman. With power, gets money, even in the so-called pious town of Salem in the 1600s. I was a very prosperous man, even in my young age."

"Thirty-five," I said. "That's how old you were when you hanged my mother." The words stayed in the air between us, like they had taken on a life of their own.

John nodded slightly. "Thirty-five when I ordered the hanging of your mother. The actual hanging was done by a man who wore much shabbier clothes."

"Did you believe she was a witch?" I asked.

"No."

"Did you believe that she was communing with the devil?"

"No."

"But you hanged her."

I expected John to stop the conversation or to pace the room or to evade the questions. But he stood still, his eyes never leaving mine. He was a brave man. A man of character that used to exist in the world, but has since disappeared from most men.

"I ordered her hanging because I was one of many, and when you are a prosperous man, you do nothing to jeopardize that prosperity. So, I did not go against the many. I was a coward, Agatha. A miserable coward with five servants and a fine house. I wanted for nothing, and I feared wanting."

The admission shocked me, but didn't surprise me. It was as good of an explanation as any.

"But my mother was pregnant," I said.

John nodded. "So, I allowed her a two-month reprieve, and she gave birth to you in the jailhouse. Your three aunts took you out, and your mother was hanged."

"But not before she uttered the words," I said.

"Yes, not before she uttered the words that bound me to you forever. As long as I would be in death, I would be with you in life. A curse that I have treasured all these years."

I wondered if my mother knew that I would grow to love John or that he would love me. That was something I would never know.

"Are you happier now that we've had this discussion?" John asked me, gently.

"No. You didn't come out very well in it."

"I could have told you that I was an unworthy man. I thought you already knew that. I was sure your aunts would have told you."

"They never got that far about you," I said. "I suppose they figured that you killing my mother was enough of a sign about who you were."

It was a terribly mean thing to say to the man that I loved. John had committed a terrible wrong, but he had committed it long ago, and he had paid his price over and over. The evil and greedy prosecutor that he once was was long gone, and in his place was a beautiful, gentle man whose only thought was my safety and happiness.

And besides, he had been wrong about my family not being witches. We had always been guilty of that particular crime.

"Tilly told me that I should go away and let you live your life," John told me, his voice barely audible.

"You mean go quiet?"

John nodded and began to pace the room with his hands clasped behind his back. "Yes. Go quiet forever."

"Don't do that. The last year without you was torture. I don't want you to leave," I said, but thoughts of Remington flooded my mind, and I wondered if John could read them. He studied my face for a moment and nodded sadly.

"I see. Well, this is something to be considered," John said and disappeared.

The next morning, I arrived early at the soup shop and finished preparing the soups before Doris and Irving showed up. When they arrived, Doris had a bandage wrapped around her hand, which she explained was due to a knitting accident.

By lunchtime, the shop was only half full. There was no Area 38ers anymore, and the knitters' enthusiasm had definitely waned, probably because of yesterday's jail scare after they tried to attack the Area 38 group. At one o'clock, I was surprised when Eddie Acid hobbled in with a walker.

"I can't pose because of my injury," he told me between clenched teeth. "I hate geeks, and if I ever see that glowing man, I'm going to kill him."

Two diners approached Eddie for a selfie, but he declined since he couldn't pose. "But the Punk Rock Knitting Championship begins tomorrow at sunrise!" he announced loudly so the entire shop could hear. "Spread the word. It's on, punk rockers! Remember to keep knitting. If you stop for anything, you're disqualified."

He stuck his tongue out and tried to pose, but his face contorted in pain, and he gave up. He waved us off and shuffled out of the shop with his walker.

"I'm going to win that damned thing, even with my injured hand," I heard Doris tell Irving when Eddie left.

"Nobody's better with a knitting needle than you," he agreed.

When the lunch rush was over, I left Mouse in charge of the shop, and I walked down Sea Breeze Avenue toward the marina. I was going back to zero. I had suspected Donald since the beginning, and for good reason. Donald had been suspicious. Very suspicious.

I had never figured out why Donald and Felicia owned an expensive boat while their house was about to be foreclosed. So, I decided to start there. I walked through the gate at the marina and into the marina office. It was good not to be hiding behind the door this time.

"May I help you?" the man behind the counter asked.

I decided to cut right to the chase. "I want to know about Donald White's boat."

"Too late. The government seized it for back taxes after he died. I've got other boats I can sell you, if you want."

"No, thank you," I said. "What can you tell me about Donald? Was he an avid sailor? Did he go out often on his boat?"

The man smiled and leaned forward with his hands on the counter. "Finally, somebody's out here asking about the boat. Wouldn't you think if a man gets eaten by cats, someone would think to inquire about his damned boat?"

No. It hadn't occurred to me at all. Not until now.

"What's the deal with the boat?" I asked, breathlessly, hoping that I would get the clue I desperately needed to solve the mystery.

"To answer your first questions, neither of the Whites were avid sailors, and they never went out on their boat. A few months back, they came out here and asked me to find them a boat to—get this. Are you paying attention, because this part's really good."

"I'm paying attention," I assured him.

"To get them to Mexico. He wanted a boat that could get them out into deep water, international waters, and then back into Mexican territory. His wife was talking about getting a new wardrobe in Cabo San Lucas."

"They were going to Mexico on vacation?" I asked.

He shook his head. "If you go on vacation to Mexico, you don't buy a boat that'll get you around the Coast Guard. You know what I'm talking about?

"Were they smuggling in drugs?"

"Lady, have you ever seen a movie?" he asked me. "You don't smuggle drugs into Mexico. It works the other way around. They were going to flee to Mexico."

I sucked in air. "Like criminals?"

He pointed at his eye and then to me. "Yep. Just like criminals."

I left the marina and walked aimlessly as I tried to make sense out of the new information. Why were Donald and Felicia fleeing to Mexico? Were they escaping their creditors? Why not just declare bankruptcy, if that was the case? Living in Mexico was cheaper and was therefore an alternative for many people, but those people didn't need to evade capture by the Coast Guard.

What was going on?

"Yoo-hoo! Agatha! Yoo-hoo!" Frances was coming down the street toward me at a fast clip. Her tan pumps click-clacked on the sidewalk, and I could hear the faint rustle of her pantyhose-covered legs rubbing together. "Yoo-hoo!" she called one more time before she reached me.

She put her hands on my shoulders and urged me to stop walking. She huffed and puffed as she caught her breath. "I'm so glad I found you," she said. "I heard that you poured molten lead over Jesus Alvarez's head."

"No, I found Jesus Alvarez with molten lead already on his head. People have a hard time telling the difference between finding a dead body and being responsible for a dead body."

"Oh, good. I had figured he must have been the killer and that's why you did it. But, this way's better."

"I haven't found the killer yet," I told her with a fair amount of shame.

I gave her the rundown about Jesus and his handmade antique whaling hooks and the conversation with the marina worker.

"Wow, you've been busy," she said, impressed. "I've only been making fudge and trying to sell houses, and I've missed all the excitement. I heard that Eddie Acid got shot in the ass, and he mooned the whole town. You know how much I would have paid to see that man's buttocks?"

"A lot?" I asked.

"A lot! Anyway, I'm not missing anything anymore. I'm sticking like glue to you, since all the interesting stuff in this town happens around you."

"That's what Remington says. He thinks disaster follows me."

"Oh, gee, I hope so," Frances said. "So, what's next? Are you planning on finding any more dead bodies today?"

"I've been thinking that Bunty has an airtight alibi for Jesus's murder, but what about Sid? We've never actually questioned Sid, and we're only a couple blocks away from his house."

"You're right, Agatha!" Frances said, obviously impressed with my detective skills. "Let's ram bamboo shoots under his nails and make him talk. Maybe he'll try and kill us. That'll bring some excitement into my life, for sure."

# Chapter 17

"You poor, simple fools, thinking you could defeat me. Me! The mistress of evil."

–Maleficent, "Sleeping Beauty"

There was no answer, so Frances and I climbed through the office window again. "We need to find his real hiding place," I said.

"Someplace that Bunty wouldn't find," Frances agreed.

"The garage," we said in unison.

We found the garage, and it was full of workout equipment.

"They sure like to exercise," I noted.

"Men like women with no fat. That's why I haven't had a date in donkeys' years. So I get puffy this time of year. The days grow shorter, and I need comfort food. Is that a crime?"

"Let's focus on Sid right now," I said.

"I wish he was here. We could jam the bamboo shoots up his nails, and he would tell us everything."

"Do you have bamboo shoots?" I asked.

"No, but I could order some on Amazon, I bet."

"Over here," I told her. Past the workout equipment in the corner were Sid's tools. He had quite a bit of equipment, and something told me that Bunty never touched any of it, no matter if she was a women's studies professor.

We started searching through it, and Frances found a stack of letters under a sander. She raised them high in triumph. "Eureka! Look at this, Agatha. Old-fashioned letters. I guess Sid's a romantic."

We sat on a nearby weight bench and opened the letters one by one, organized by date. They were all written to Felicia by Sid, but never mailed. I guessed he never had the nerve to send them.

"This doesn't sound like a polyamorous situation," Frances said, reading. "It sounds like he was gaga about Felicia and didn't give a fig for his wife."

The letters started out talking a lot about Felicia's breasts and her eyes and various other body parts. Then in time, they moved on to re-living their sexual escapades. Then, they turned full on to Robert Browning to Elizabeth Barrett Browning kind of letters.

Frances wiped at her eye. "This so romantic. I love love. Love is the best. Have you ever been in love?"

"Let's keep reading," I said, changing the subject.

It was a good thing we kept reading. A few letters in, they turned dark and angry. The love and romance turned to stalking and obsession.

"Holy crap. This is just like when Harold the stalker kidnapped Brooke on All My Children. He's really angry."

"I don't think this was a casual relationship," I said.

"I'll bet you Felicia was less into him than he was into her. That'll drive a man crazy every time."

"It's like when a kid gets a smaller piece of cake than their sibling. Total meltdown," I agreed.

"Look at this letter. He threatened to burn down her house with her in it," Frances said. "That's worse than Harold the stalker."

There were other threats of violence. "But he never sent these," I noted. "He was angry, but he didn't act on the threats. He might not be the killer."

"I think he's a better suspect than the shark. He didn't burn her house down, but maybe he did rip her face off."

"We need more proof."

Frances held up another letter. "Look here. This one threatens to stab her in the face. Isn't that proof enough?"

I pocketed the letters. "We need proof on the other side of this relationship. There must be more clues from Felicia's life. You up for breaking into another house?"

"Sure!" Frances said, excited. "It's better than making fudge."

"Call Amy. We're going back to Donald and Felicia's house. We need to go back to the beginning. There have to be the answers there."

Amy met us at Donald's house with two crowbars and a chainsaw. She handed out the tools when we arrived. "I didn't know what we'd need, so I brought it all," she explained.

"Let's go in the back before we're seen," I said, urgently. Amy and I each took a crowbar, and Frances took the chainsaw.

"We don't need to get in back," Frances said, fishing a key out of her purse. "I own this house. Remember?"

I didn't remember. I had forgotten that she now owned the house. Frances had come out well from Felicia and Donald's murders.

She unlocked the front door, and we walked in. We decided to break up and search the house separately, searching for clues.

By the time we were finishing searching the bedrooms, I had given up hope of finding anything. With all of Donald and Felicia's secrets, they sure knew how to hide them.

They probably hid their secrets on a computer, and I wished we knew something about computers and clouds. But I didn't find a computer in the house, so even if we were technological whizzes, there was nothing to whizz about.

"What's that?" Amy asked, pointing at the ceiling in the hallway.

"That must be the attic," Frances said.

"The attic," I breathed. I ran to the bedroom and brought back a chair. Stepping on it, I pushed the attic door open and climbed up through the opening.

Scanning the dark attic, I found that it mostly empty except for a small mattress, a pillow, and blanket which were strewn all over in addition to a trash bag, which was full of empty water bottles and paper plates with bits of food on them.

Then, my eyes were drawn to the tiny, far corner of the attic, and I sucked air through my teeth in surprise and fear.

"Frances! Amy! Come up here. You need to see this," I called.

They climbed up and joined me. "What did you find?" Frances asked, and I pointed to the corner.

"Oh. My. God," Amy said.

"It's glowing," Frances said.

"Blue. It's glowing blue," Amy said. "What is it?"

The glowing man. I was sure it was him, even though all I could see was a blue glow coming from the corner.

"I forgot my crowbar downstairs," Amy whispered.

"I left the chainsaw downstairs, too," Frances whispered.

"Get out from there!" I yelled at the corner. "We have you surrounded, and we have big weapons!"

"Yeah, surrounded!" Frances yelled. "Weapons!"

Nothing. There wasn't a sound. No glowing man jumped up from the corner. No glowing man attacked us.

"Maybe he's dead," I whispered. Oh, no. I had found another dead person. Remington would never let me live it down.

I tiptoed toward the glow. "Wow," I said, when I reached the corner. Frances and Amy ran over.

"What is that?" Amy asked, looking down.

"It's a necklace," Frances said.

"It's a turquoise necklace," I said. It was the necklace that Sid had bought Felicia. "Why is it glowing?" And why was it in the attic?

Frances took a silk scarf out of her purse and picked up the necklace with it. "It's glowing all right," she said, wrapping the scarf around it.

"What else is up here?" Amy asked and shined her cellphone light around the attic.

"Stop," I told her as she lit up the blanket and pillow. "What is that?"

I leaned over them to take a closer look. They were covered in dried blood. So was the mattress.

I slumped onto the floor and took stock of the situation. I was pretty sure I knew what had happened in the attic. I was pretty sure I knew what happened to Felicia, Donald, and Jesus and who was responsible. Mostly sure, anyway.

But I couldn't tell Frances and Amy yet. Not here.

"I need to close up the shop, and then I'm going to spend the evening in the lighthouse alone, thinking about all this," I said.

"Do you know who the killer is?" Amy asked me.

"I have an idea, but like I said, I need to spend time in the lighthouse alone this evening to work it out." I let my eyes drift to Frances, and then I looked down at the floor. "You should tell Remington about this, but maybe wait until tomorrow."

"Will do," Frances said.

While I closed the shop, I told Mouse that I was going to spend the evening alone in the lighthouse, detective-ing, and that I knew who the killer was but was waiting to tell the police until tomorrow.

"Good for you," Doris said, who was waiting for Irving to turn out the gas lights. "I think you're ready for some Sherlock Holmes next."

"Maybe tomorrow, Doris," I said.

I went home and told my aunts that I would be handling the lighthouse for the night. Tilly seemed relieved to hear it. Then, I climbed to the top of the lighthouse, gave it permission to allow what was about to happen, and I waited.

I didn't have to wait long.

There is a sense of calm serenity that washes over a person when they are sure. Gone are the questions and uncertainties, replaced now with tranquil certainty. It had been a long road for me since Auntie Prudence died, I started to run the soup shop, John returned, I met Remington, and Felicia disappeared. They were all life-changing events, and my life was definitely changed by them. I was changed by them. But where the changes once gave me anxiety and worry, I now was comfortable in my new self. My new life. My new reality.

I was stronger, more self-assured.

I was ready.

As soon as it was dark, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I waited by the light that guided ships at night and looked out at the ocean through the glass. The door opened behind me.

"I knew you would come," I said, surprised that my voice came out strong and steady. "That's why I said I was coming here to be alone. I wanted to draw you out."

"Yeah, right," she said. "Like you had any idea."

I turned around to face her. "It took me a long time to figure out that you were the killer. I went down so many different paths. But someone told me to go back to the beginning, and that's how I figured it out."

"Good for you," she sneered, pointing a gun at me.

"There were other suspects, of course. You planted the whaling hook in poor Rocky's van. The police think that he's still alive and on a murder spree."

"I'm a little sorry about Rocky," she said. "I wanted him to die by lethal injection, not by drowning."

"Then, Amy Hawthorne's cats made her a suspect for Donald's murder," I continued. "She had access to knitting needles just like everyone else in town, and her cats ate the victim. That was clever of you to plant the cats."

"It was a pain in my ass, herding those stupid cats," she said.

"And Frances Finkelstein seemed to acquire the Whites' house in a suspect way. Benefiting from his death made me have second thoughts about her."

"I don't know anything about Frances," she said, smiling. "That was just a happy accident."

"And the last suspect was Doris."

"Doris? Doris Lansing? Irving's wife?" she laughed, as if I was the insane one in this conversation and not her. "Why would you think that she was a killer?"

"She had a bandage on her hand today, which made her a suspect for Jesus Alvarez's murder, and right before the whaling hook was found in Rocky's van, she was carrying a large, long half-duffel, perfect to carry a whaling hook in order to plant it in poor Rocky's van."

"I don't know anything about her duffel, either." She continued to smile, as if it was fun for her to finally talk about the murders. I noticed that she never lowered her gun. It was aimed right at me.

"Why would you? You were busy that day. I saw you, too. You were wearing your perspiration coat. A nice long coat to make you sweat off pounds but also to hide a whaling hook so that you could plant it in Rocky's van."

Bunty Black cocked her head to the side and nodded, as if she was impressed with my detective skills. "See? Women should never be underestimated. Very perceptive of you, Agatha. The perspiration coat. Do you know what kind of torture it is to wear the perspiration coat? The things I've done for that miserable sonofabitch."

"I don't know much about marriage, but I imagine it's hard," I said. "Especially a polyamorous marriage. I'm assuming that was—what was the word you used? Oh, yes—bullshit."

Bunty waved the gun at me. I had made her angry. "A polyamorous marriage works. At least it does in most cases. It did with us for years. And then that bitch came between us."

"Sid was head over heels for her," I said. "I saw the letters. I can understand that you wanted to kill her. It's a normal reaction for a wife, even for a women's studies professor polyamorous wife. I guess you didn't know that Felicia didn't love Sid."

"Like that matters. You really don't understand a thing about marriage."

Boy, that was true. "I didn't know a thing about Donald and Felicia's marriage, that's for sure. Felicia was fooling around on Donald, and yet they were both plotting to fake her death, grab the insurance money, and flee to Mexico. Am I leaving anything out?"

Bunty's mouth dropped open. "How did you find that out?"

"The question is, how did you find out," I said, pointing at her. "Here's what I think, but it's mostly a guess. Sid stopped working out with you. It was the one thing in your marriage that you did together, and then he abandoned you. His muscles started to shrink, and his clothes got baggy. He was only interested in having sex with Felicia, and rejected you in bed, no matter what you claim about your sex life."

Bunty's face tightened, and she was gripping the gun a little too tight for my comfort. The truths hurts, even for killer women's studies professors. It was playing out on her face. I had found her soft underbelly, and she was feeling the pain.

"When she went missing, you went over to her house for some reason, probably to tell Donald all about the affair in order to ruin his life, or maybe you suspected the disappearance was fishy at that point, and you wanted to dig information out of him," I said. I was on a roll. I knew that everything I said was true. "But he wasn't there. He was preparing to become rich and move to Mexico. And you heard something. Something in the attic."

"She was hiding in the attic," Bunty sneered. "What a dipshit place to hide. I can't believe the police didn't look for her there. Well, I found her. And the whaling hook? That was in her house. In her bedroom. I picked it up and took it with me into the attic. Felicia tried to stop me. She offered to share the life insurance with me. Have you seen my car? I'm loaded. I don't need more money."

"All of your weightlifting came in handy then," I said, moving the story forward. "You managed to lug her body to the pier in the middle of the night and somehow fished a shark out of the ocean. That's pretty impressive, Bunty."

She smiled and flexed her bicep. "I've been fishing my whole life. I fished it out and beat it a few times with a bat. Then, it was nothing to put her head in the shark's mouth. I created a live tableau just like an artist."

"You mean a dead tableau," I said.

"You could stand to lift some weights, Agatha. But you don't have to worry about that now or ever again." She punctuated her words by gesturing with her gun, keeping it aimed at me.

"It must have been a nasty surprise when Donald caught on and started to blackmail you," I said. "I heard him on the phone with you. From what I gather, you were complaining a lot about paying him, even though he was giving you an installment plan. He was very happy then. He got rid of Felicia, and he had money coming out the wazoo."

"Donald deserved what he got. Killing him was not a crime in any book. Do you know what the bastard had planned? While Felicia thought they were faking her death and escaping to Mexico, Donald was planning on really killing her and taking all of the insurance money for himself. Men. Who needs 'em?" she said.

That fit with what I knew about Donald's character. He was scamming the scammer. Either way, Felicia was going to wind up dead. Bunty had just beaten him to the punch.

"There're only two things that I can't figure out," I said. "How did you kill Jesus Alvarez when you were with me at the time he was murdered?"

Bunty threw her head back and laughed, loudly. "That was some good luck. I never knew the guy. I never even touched him. I have no idea how he wound up with a helmet of molten lead. But it gave me a great alibi, and it took my name off the suspect list. At least I thought it did until today."

"Until you heard that I was going to be by myself in the lighthouse to think about the murders. I'm guessing Doris and Irving told you. They like to talk," I said.

Bunty nodded. "Bingo."

"The other thing I can't figure out is the glowing man and the glowing necklace in the attic. Did Felicia and Donald have something to do with Area 38?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Bunty said. "I hate to call this short after our nice conversation, but I have an alibi to get to. Come on. Get down the stairs," she ordered, gesturing with the gun.

"I'm not going to let you kill me."

"You don't have much of a choice, Agatha."

I stepped around Bunty, just as the gun flew out of her hands as if it had wings and fell down the winding staircase to the floor below.

"I can do this on my own, John," I complained to the air. "Don't help me."

Bunty ran down the stairs after her gun, and John appeared next to me. "It's too dangerous, Agatha," he said. "I've called in your aunts."

"I can do this on my own," I insisted and walked down the stairs. "I worked out who the killer was. I lured her here. I will capture her and send her to the police on my own."

Below, Bunty searched the floor for her gun. She found it just as my aunts walked into the lighthouse with Rocky. "Agatha, hold our hands, quick," Auntie Tilly ordered me.

"I can do this myself," I complained, but I did as I was told. The three of us stood in a line and held hands. Bunty lifted the gun and aimed it at me. I was reminded of the Area 38ers and their efforts to evade bullets. It didn't work for them, but they didn't have the special talents of the Bright women. My aunts and I squeezed hands, and the gun flew out of Bunty's hands and fell on the floor.

Bunty screamed with rage. "What the hell's going on?" she yelled.

"It's over," I said.

Bunty grabbed a hammer from the wall and threw it our way. My aunts squeezed my hands hard, again, and the hammer stopped midair and dropped to the floor.

"This is actually fun," Auntie Ida said. "I haven't done this in ages. It's like going for a walk on a spring day after a long winter."

Bunty's eyes were wild as she tried to understand what was happening. I worried that we would pay for this later, that word would get out about flying guns and hammers. But it was unlikely that Bunty would be believed, since she was a crazed killer.

And besides, I was tired of hiding my skills and talents.

Bunty knew when she had lost. She sank to the floor and put her hands up in surrender. My aunts and I let go of each other. It was over, and we had won.

The door to the lighthouse opened and Remington entered. "Aggie, are you all right? Frances told me that you were here...Rocky?" He froze when he noticed the escaped fugitive, and so did Rocky for a moment. Then fear took over, and Rocky bolted. Remington ran after him in the small room. It only took a second to catch him, but it was a half-second too long. "Rocky, freeze! Police!"

While our attention was on Remington and Rocky, Bunty had picked up her gun and aimed it right at me.

The shot rang out, hurting my ears. Remington, who had moved in front of me, fell to the floor with a loud crash and blood pooled under him as he bled out from the bullet wound. Bunty took aim at me again. My aunts and I didn't have time to do anything, but the gun flew out of her hand so forcefully that it crashed against the wall and broke into pieces.

John had saved me.

Defeated, Bunty tried to run, but Rocky stopped her. He jumped on her and pinned her to the ground. "Not so fast, lady. I'm not taking the rap for you," he told her.

I sank to the floor and cradled Remington in my arms. He was no longer conscious, so he wasn't aware of me. He had lost a lot of blood, and I could feel the life running out of him.

"Auntie Ida, Auntie Tilly, help him, please," I said with tears running down my face.

"We can't, sweetie," Auntie Ida said. "He's gone already. I can feel it. There's nothing that we can do for him."

I knew she was right, but I pleaded with her to save him, anyway. In my arms, I could feel Remington's heart beat slower and slower as he drifted away forever. He was beyond medical care or magical care. Remington was young and strong, but none of that would save him, now.

John appeared at my side. His expression was sad and mournful, but I knew he wasn't mourning for Remington. It was my tears that hurt him.

"I can bring him back, Agatha," John said.

"You can?" I asked through my sobs. "Please John, do it. Please."

"I can do it, but it will mean that I go away forever," John explained. "Not just go quiet. Leave. In exchange for his life, I will be gone. Do you understand me?"

"No," I said. "I can't let you do that."

"Let him," Auntie Tilly urged. "John's been gone for hundreds of years. Remington is still clinging to life. Let John do this for you. Let him do it for Remington."

"I can't make that choice," I said, crying.

"Then, let me make it for you," John said, softly.

He disappeared, and Remington began to convulse into seizures. I held him tight. "Are these the death throes?" I asked my aunts.

"I don't know what this is," Auntie Ida said. "I've never seen this before."

Remington's seizures continued. His body flapped uncontrollably as I tried in vain to keep him still. It seemed like he was dying a second time. His body was rebelling in a violent way, torturing poor Remington. I was powerless to stop it. Powerless to help him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his body relaxed. He was still unconscious, but he gulped air. He was breathing.

"It's done," Auntie Tilly said. "Remington will live, but he needs to get to a hospital. I'll call an ambulance."

I put my hand on Remington's chest and felt his heartbeat. It was strong and healthy. Alive.

"John?" I called out, hoping that he had been wrong about having to leave in order to save Remington.

But there was no answer.

# Chapter 18

"Very few of us are what we seem."

–Agatha Christie

Somehow, I managed to sleep. John was gone. Not just quiet. There was no sense of him in the house anymore. No ghostly presence. He was gone forever. It was a terrible loss. I didn't know how to process it.

So, I slept.

I slept like the dead and woke up before the alarm went off. I got dressed in the bathroom and checked my reflection in the mirror for John, but he wasn't there.

Auntie Tilly was just going to bed when I went downstairs to leave for the soup shop. Auntie Ida greeted me in the entranceway. She was wearing her welder jumpsuit, and she handed me a basket of mini coffee cakes and strawberry scones.

She kissed my forehead goodbye. "It will be fine," she said, but she didn't sound convinced.

"I'm going to visit Remington at the hospital today. I might not be home for dinner," I told her.

"I'm experimenting with spore reproduction in the slow cooker today, so it might be a good idea to skip dinner tonight."

Outside, the weather had turned cooler, and the sea breeze was heavenly. The town was peaceful. It was the quiet after the storm. There was no glowing man running down the street, and I didn't have to step over any dead bodies on my way to the soup shop. I was even looking forward to the day at the soup shop. It was a good day, all things considering.

Doris and Irving were waiting for me at the door. "Oh, good, you're early," Irving said. "We came for a quick breakfast, before we go to the knitting championship. We want a good seat."

"Irving's been practicing his knitting," Doris explained, as I unlocked the front door.

"I can make a vest with three buttonholes in twenty-five minutes," Irving boasted. "I'd like to see any of those old biddy knitters beat that."

We walked into the shop, and Irving started to light the gas lights. "I'm an old biddy knitter, Irving," Doris said. "Don't bad-mouth the old biddies."

I filled the coffeepot and served Irving and Doris an assortment of mini coffee cakes and scones. "Did you hear about Jesus Alvarez?" Doris asked me.

"He was murdered."

"No! It was an accident," Doris told me, delighted to be the bearer of new information. "He was using the molten lead for something, and there was a big bubble. That did it, you see."

"A bubble of lead. What will they think of next?" Irving mused. "Cordless internet?"

"Irving, they already have cordless internet," Doris said. "It's called Wi-Fi. We have Wi-Fi at the house."

"We do not have Wi-Fi, Doris. We haven't had Wi-Fi since the cassette player was invented."

"You're talking about hi-fi. Cordless internet is Wi-Fi. Wi-Fi, Irving."

"I hate cassettes," Irving continued. "The damned tape twists and then everything goes to hell."

"Not hi-fi, Irving! Wi-Fi! Wi-Fi!" Doris yelled.

"What were you saying about a lead bubble?" I interrupted.

Doris blinked. "Huh? Oh, yeah. It can happen with lead when you heat it too hot. A large bubble forms and kapow! it blows up. This was a big bubble. It exploded over Jesus, and that's all she wrote."

"A bubble the size of Jesus's head," Irving said.

"It was an accident?" I asked.

Doris nodded. "An accident."

That explained one of my questions. Bunty didn't murder Jesus because Jesus wasn't murdered.

"We better get going if we're going to get a good seat," Irving said with a mouthful of mini coffee cake.

"You're right," Doris said. "We want to stay clear of the gum chewers, or they'll distract us. If we stop knitting, we're disqualified."

"Eddie Acid's got punk rockers as sentries. It's going to be like Checkpoint Charlie or the receipt checker at Costco," Irving explained to me.

Doris gulped down the last of her coffee and slung her knitting bag over her shoulder. "Not to mention, that I'm angling to sit next to Judge Gilmore," she said. "He's presiding over Bunty's trial, and I'm determined to get on that jury. The competition will be fierce, though. Everyone wants a seat for that."

Bunty had been arrested only a few hours ago, and they had already picked a judge, and they were about to pick a jury. The entire town knew about Bunty's guilt, and it wasn't sunrise, yet. That's how it went in Sea Breeze. Big news in a small town spread like wildfire.

Once Irving and Doris left, I began to prepare the soups of the day. When they were simmering in the cauldrons, Mouse came in through the back door, and her lips were attached to the flour deliveryman.

She was half his height, and I watched, curious to see how the kissing was done.

"You say goodbye," Mouse squeaked when they finally broke the kiss.

"No, you say goodbye," he said.

"No, you say goodbye."

"No, you say goodbye."

I lost interest after the fifth, "No, you say goodbye," but I was happy to see that Mouse had sealed the deal with her big crush. Maybe now she wouldn't order flour every day.

Frances stormed into the shop through the front door, out of breath. "You'll never guess what just happened," she announced.

"Not another dead body," I moaned.

"No, that's your thing, Agatha, not mine. The Men in Black came to my house and took the glowing necklace from me."

I gasped. "How did they know about it?"

"I have no idea," Frances said and looked at her nails.

"They took the glowing necklace you found in Felicia's attic?" Mouse asked.

Frances and I locked eyes. "Okay, fine," she said. "I might have told a few people about the necklace. That's probably how the Men in Black found out about it."

"They're Homeland Security," I said. "I wonder if we'll ever find out the truth about Area 38."

"What're you talking about?" Frances asked. "We'll get Amy, and the three of us will do our investigating together just like always. Nothing can stop us. We're like Charlie's Angels, but without the hair and with more cats." I liked that idea. It was nice having two friends who would drop everything and spy on a secret government facility with me.

"Gotta go," Frances said. "I want to get my seat for the knitting competition. If I get stuck next to the gum chewers, I'm doomed."

She hugged me goodbye and ran out of the shop.

I told Mouse that I was going to watch the knitters for a while, and I stepped outside. The sun was just rising. There were about one hundred knitters sitting on beach chairs by the bandstand, clutching knitting needles and ready to start. Punk rocker sentries kept watch, making sure that no one got a head start. Eddie Acid was helped onto the bandstand with his walker, and the sound system screeched into action.

"Hello, punk rockers!" he shouted into the microphone. There were cheers from the knitters in response. "The day is here! The sun has risen again, and so has punk rock! When I give you the punk rock scream, you'll commence your knitting. If you stop for anything—and I mean, anything! —you'll be disqualified. Ready! Get set!..."

Eddie screamed, and the knitters started to knit.

It was hard to believe that it was going off without a hitch. But it was. It had been a long road to get there with almost-deaths and almost-arrests, but now they were all sitting and knitting happily in silence. There was something magical about the quiet community activity with the ocean in the background.

I was about to go back into the shop when an octogenarian knitter screamed in the group. "I did not stop! It was the gum wrapper! The gum wrapper!" she yelled.

A punk rocker sentry was tugging her knitting needles away from the screaming knitter, but she was putting up a valiant fight.

"It wasn't my fault! The gum chewer rustled a gum wrapper! It distracted me!" she yelled.

"If you stop knitting for any reason, you're disqualified," Eddie announced, angrily on the microphone.

With the fight breaking out between the eighty-year-old lady knitter and the punk rocker, about half of the knitters paused in their knitting to watch the action. The punk rocker sentries ran to confiscate the knitting needles from the stopped knitters, and that's when all hell broke loose.

It was a free-for-all.

Punk rockers against elderly knitters.

"Punk rock knitters!" Eddie urged over the loudspeaker. "Calm down! This is for charity! This is for punk rock! Hey, you, lady! You're not allowed to put him in a chokehold!"

Oh, well, I thought. At least it lasted a few minutes. About two minutes. That was better than nothing.

Rocky's van drove down the street, and he stopped in front of me. He opened the passenger window. "I got my van back," he said, happily.

"Congratulations," I said.

"The police gave it back to me free since I didn't kill anyone."

"That's great," I said. "Could you give me a ride to the hospital? I'm going to visit Remington."

"Sure," Rocky said. "It's on my way to a job. I've got an emergency paring knife situation."

I told Mouse that I would be out for a while and returned to Rocky's van and climbed into the passenger seat. Across the street, the knitters and punk rockers were still going at it.

"You ungrateful knitters!" Eddie yelled into the microphone. "You're giving punk rock a bad name!"

Rocky drove away from the curb toward the hospital.

"I'm lucky that my customers haven't moved onto another mobile knife sharpener while I was away," Rocky said.

"That's good that they're loyal to you. It's because you're good at your job, Rocky."

"I once sharpened a cleaver that had been buried in the mayor's yard for three years. When I got through with it, it was ready for Iron Chef. I bet nobody else could do that," he said.

"How are you, otherwise?" I asked. "After everything that happened in the lighthouse last night, I mean."

Rocky rubbed the back of his neck. "I think I must have had an allergic reaction or something because I've got some weird memories. Stuff I can't explain."

"That's probably it. An allergic reaction."

"Ida and Tilly invited me to dinner tonight," he said. "They said I forgot some belongings at your place, but I never had any belongings at your house. I guess I'll figure it out when I go."

In a moment of loyalty to my aunts, I decided not to warn Rocky about Auntie Ida's spore experiment.

Rocky dropped me off at the hospital. At the reception desk, I was given Remington's room number, and I rode the elevator to his floor. I found him in his room, sitting up in bed. For some reason I was unaware of but grateful for, he wasn't wearing a hospital gown. It was the first time that I had seen him shirtless, and I was struck mute. He was all muscles and tattoos and a large bandage where he was shot.

He smiled when I entered. "This is a pleasure, Aggie," he said and got out of bed.

"I'm not sure you're supposed to be standing," I said.

"There's no way I'm not going to stand when you come in, and besides, I need to walk around. It's supposed to clear my lungs."

He was wearing short shorts and his legs were as strong as tree trunks. It was hard for me not to look at his body, which triggered the familiar feeling of guilt that I got when I lusted after Remington.

But now the feeling of guilt was accompanied by a feeling of sadness and loss. I wondered if it would ever go away. I didn't know what the timetable was for recovering from grief after the loss of a lifetime's relationship.

Remington slipped his arm around my waist. "That feels good," he said.

He was right. It felt really good.

"You want to walk with me?" he asked, and I nodded.

He kept his arm around my waist and pulled me close, as we walked down the hallway.

"Are you sure it's not flesh-eating bacteria?" I heard a patient ask a doctor, as we passed a room.

"I don't remember much of what happened last night, but I'm under the impression that I should thank you," Remington told me.

"No. I didn't do anything. Don't thank me."

"Oh, by the way, Homeland Security came to visit in the middle of the night," he said. "They said they confiscated the rock."

"It doesn't matter. Frances, Amy, and I are going to investigate."

"About that," he started.

We turned the corner and stopped dead when we saw the two Homeland Security agents escorting a man toward the elevator. The man was dressed, but his head was glowing.

"It's the glowing man," I breathed.

"Yeah, funny thing about that," Remington said. "It turns out that he's been here the whole time. He's a chemist, and he was making a new cleaning solution that's supposed to clean tile grout like nothing else."

"Oh, that could come in handy," I said.

"I think the government agrees. They're keeping it under wraps for now. Maybe they're going to use it for some kind of chemical warfare."

"Grout warfare?" I asked.

Remington shrugged. "Maybe you and your friends can investigate it."

"We're planning to," I said.

We finished one lap around the floor and headed back to his room. "Or, I thought maybe you'd investigate something more exciting."

"There hasn't been another murder, so I think we're stuck with glowing grout," I explained.

"What about your Aunt Prudence? She died under mysterious circumstances."

That was true, but how did he know? "How did you hear about that?" I asked.

"I hear things. It might be better to focus on her, rather than chemical warfare. Just thinkin' out loud."

We returned to his room, and Remington closed the door. He grabbed me and pulled me close so that the length and width of me was touching him. He walked me backward until I was leaning up against the wall.

"Aggie Bright, how I've longed to hold you," he whispered in my ear. His body was hard, and it sank into mine. "How I've longed to touch your hair," he whispered and freed my hair from its holder, letting it fall down my back in a wave.

Remington ran his hand down my hair, and at the same, his lips gently touched my neck. He devoured my skin as his mouth traveled up my neck to my ear. My skin tingled, and my body ached for him. I was on fire, like someone had lit a match and turned my insides into hot lava.

I dug my fingers into the hard flesh of his back and pulled him closer. He moaned, as he continued to kiss and tug at my ear with his lips. It occurred to me that a nurse might walk in, but I didn't care. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. And I didn't want to.

And then his mouth was on mine.

My first kiss.

I had dreamed of having my first kiss for centuries. I had imagined and fantasized this moment countless times, but I wasn't prepared for the intensity of it. I snaked my arms around Remington's neck, and he pushed forward so that no air could pass between our bodies. His lips were hot, and the stubble on his face scratched my cheek, heightening the erotic sensation.

Remington thrust his tongue into my mouth, and I gasped with pleasure and surprise. I met his tongue with mine, and I was rewarded with a delicious bout of dizziness. He feasted on my mouth, like he had been starved for centuries, and I welcomed every second of it.

I was overcome by arousal. I was hot and wet, and I squirmed against him, where I could feel his arousal, too. The kiss went on and on, and it was electric, full of unbridled lust and mutual attraction.

And there was something more.

There was something behind the kiss that promised bigger things than physical pleasure. Something more than lust.

It was deeper. Through Remington's kiss, I could feel his love for me. There was no other word for it. It was no mere kiss. It was no mere attraction.

This was a soulmate kind of kiss.

This was a forever kind of moment.

I was hit with a moment of clarity and realization. I mustered all of my strength, and I put my hand on Remington's chest and urged him to back away. He did so immediately, breaking the kiss.

We were both out of breath. Remington's eyes were big and dark, and his skin was flush with excitement.

I put my hands on either side of his head and pulled him down to me. I looked deeper into his eyes, and that's when I saw it.

"John?" I asked. "John, is that you?"

THE END
Continue the story with Some Like It Shot, book two in the Agatha Bright Mysteries. Sign up for my newsletter to be the first to know when it's released.

https://bit.ly/2PzAhRx

# Also by Elise Sax

Matchmaker Mysteries Series

Matchmaking Advice from Your Grandma Zelda

Road to Matchmaker

An Affair to Dismember

Citizen Pain

The Wizards of Saws

Field of Screams

From Fear to Eternity

West Side Gory

Scareplane

It Happened One Fright

The Big Kill

It's a Wonderful Knife

Ship of Ghouls

Matchmaker Mysteries The Complete Series

Goodnight Mysteries Series

Die Noon

Doom with a View

Jurassic Dark

Coal Miner's Slaughter

Wuthering Frights

Goodnight Mysteries The Complete Series

Agatha Bright Mysteries Series

The Fear Hunter

Some Like It Shot

Fright Club

Partners in Crime

Partners in Crime

Operation Billionaire Trilogy

How to Marry a Billionaire

How to Marry Another Billionaire

How to Marry the Last Billionaire on Earth

Operation Billionaire Trilogy

Five Wishes Series

Going Down

Man Candy

Hot Wired

Just Sacked

Wicked Ride

Five Wishes Series

Three More Wishes Series

Blown Away

Inn & Out

Quick Bang

Three More Wishes Series

Standalone Books

Forever Now

Bounty

Switched

# About the Author

Elise Sax writes hilarious happy endings. She worked as a journalist, mostly in Paris, France for many years but always wanted to write fiction. Finally, she decided to go for her dream and write a novel. She was thrilled when An Affair to Dismember, the first in the Matchmaker Mysteries series, was sold at auction.

Elise is an overwhelmed single mother of two boys in Southern California. She's an avid traveler, a swing dancer, an occasional piano player, and an online shopping junkie.

Friend her on Facebook: facebook.com/ei.sax.9

Send her an email: elisesax@gmail.com

You can also visit her website: elisesax.com

And sign up for her newsletter to know about new releases and sales https://bit.ly/2PzAhRx
