To Beth’s humble abode.
Adjusting my sleuthing hat, I ring the doorbell and wait.
Shortly thereafter, Beth’s husband, Edgar, greets me, filling the doorframe with his broad, tall form. “Oh my,” the elderly man murmurs, running his fingers through thick strands of salt-and-pepper hair. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Sherlock?”
Flicking the rim of my hat, I stare at the blue-eyed man. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Edgar. Probably at least a year. Thefew shifts I’ve been taking at Bear’s this summer haven’t aligned with when Beth and her husband come out on the town.
Now, however, I find myself staring at an oddly familiar face.
Edgar waves his hand in front of me. “August?”
I blink out of the daze. “Um. Hello.”
“Yes.” His brows furrow—the expression familiar. “Hello?”
I swallow. “I was wondering if Beth was home?”
“Beth, love?” Edgar calls through the quaint cottage abode. “Someone is here to see you.” He steps back, welcoming me in. “She’ll just be a moment. Can I get you something to drink?” He scans me, from my sleuthing hat down the khaki ensemble I threw together for the occasion. “Wine or a whiskey and soda, perhaps?”
Friendly, I smile. “No, thank you. I brought my own spirits.” I lift my bag. It possesses a frozen water bottle and a snack, in case I grew peckish while I was on the hunt for clues. Retrieving my case notebook now, I clear my throat and say, “If I could, I’d love to ask you a few questions as well, sir.”
“Well, well.” Edgar folds his arms. “Where was I the night of the murder, you say? Let’s see…”
I fix my disapproval on the man. “Sir, please. This is serious business. We’re discussing the case of The Mysterious Millionaire.”
“Oh?” His gaze drifts. “Why, I’m afraid I don’t know anymysteriousmillionaires…”
After hesuspiciouslysays as much, Beth comes down a short set of stairs opposite the entryway, sees me, and gasps. Eyes going wide, she pales, lifts her skirts, andbustlesthe rest of the way up the hall. “August!” Her smile shakes. “Whatever are you doing here, dear?” Forcibly, she takes her husband and utilizes his broad form like a wall, sequestering me at the end of the foyer with my back to the front door.
Edgar beholds his wife. “Don’t tell meyou’rethe murderer, my love.”
Beth’s gaze could cut diamond when it slices toward her husband.
Innocent, Edgar tucks his hands in his pockets and begins to peruse the ceiling.
Clicking open my pen, I scribble. “So…Beth…”
She gulps.
“I was just wondering…” I inch forward.
She inches back.
“…why exactly are you, my grandmother, and everyone else so supportive of Dominic?”
“I’m sure I don’t…know what you mean? He seems a fine gentleman, doesn’t he?”
“If he were a complete stranger, I doubt anyone but my grandmother would be so gung-ho about this whole scheme. Therefore, I’ve deduced that—somehow—Imust know him. But that alone doesn’t quite explain how he conned my brother into helping him, now does it? No. For that, I think there’d need to be more history between him and the people in this town that Wynn already tolerates. As far as I know, you’re the least involved, which means you must be hiding something.”
She refuses to meet my eyes. “He’s…become friends with Wynn?”
“Friends… Accomplices… Semantics. Are you aware he’s currently guilty of committing arson?”
Beth hardens, and her attentionfliesto me—square. “He’swhat?”
“Is that ano, then?”
“August, what in the world do you mean my—” She flinches. “—that manhas committedarson?”
