“Can I bring anything?” Autumn offers.
Only your best theories on what happened to Gemma.
“We’re hosting Tippy, Autumn, and Shep in your home? On purpose? What’s going on with you?” Nora gives me a sideways glance as we push through the door and into the sunshine.
“Did Marcus seem weird to you?” I say. “Like, why aren’t we allowed to watch the news?”
“Probably because the crime happened behind his restaurant?”
“But he seemed weird back there, right?”
“Everyone’s going through it.”
I’m so frayed I nearly tell Nora about the pocket square and the jar of tees I just lifted from Marcus’s employee break room. But I can’t. I can’t risk incriminating Beau. So I hope Nora doesn’t hear the rattling in my bag.
“Come on,” I say instead. “I’ll drive you home.”
I text Beau from the car.
1:07 P.M.
Hey. Are you home?
There’s a pit in my stomach. I’m going to have to ask him about the bloodstains on his pocket square. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I have to go home and get ready.
I’m hosting my very own murder-mystery dinner party tonight.
Chapter 11
“Este?” The sound of Beau’s voice cuts through the house, loud enough to make me jump.
I’m in my closet, sitting on the floor. After I emptied out the jar of tees—counting them, inspecting them for logos, and checking to see if there was anything else in the jar—I put the tees back in and hid the jar in my underwear drawer.
I’d keep it in my purse with the bloody pocket square, but it makes too much noise.
Now, I’m freshly showered and staring at my shoes. My eyes skim over a box of Jimmy Choos. They’re the ones Gemma admired before I gave her a pair in the same style and color.
“Hey,” he says, appearing in the doorway with a baffled expression. “Marcus is here.”
I curse under my breath. I can’t talk to Beau with Marcus here. But I’m relieved he made it. He’s a saint for cooking on such short notice.
Someone knows something. And I’ll drown this table in Pinot if that’s what it takes to flush out a secret.
“Did you let him in?”
“Yeah. He’s in the kitchen,” Beau answers, scanning my features for more information. “What’s going on?”
“Long story.” I cock my head at him. “Hey, are golf tees collectible things?” I ask, recalling the tees tucked under the cups of one of my bras.
“Maybe some are? If they’re from a well-known course? Orif they have a distinctive logo, a golfer might hold on to them. But you usually see people collect ball markers,” he says. “Golf tees break all the time. I go through a handful of them whenever I play. Why?”
Because Ford McGinnis declined to answer police questions, and Gemma was maybe carrying around a jar of golf junk.
“I saw some somewhere,” I answer vaguely. Then, I shake my head. I don’t have time to think about the jar. Which, of course, means it’s all I’m thinking about. “Get dressed,” I say to Beau. “We’re having a dinner party.”
His head quirks in surprise. “When?”
“Like, right now.” I glance at the clock on my vanity. “Everyone will be here soon. Where were you, by the way?”
