Page 85 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

“Maybe.” Brec’s smile was as hard as his eyes.

Molly seared Brec with a warning glare. “I’ll trade cups with you—how ’bout that?” She pulled a chair out next to hers and tapped on its back while shooting another killer glare Brec’s way. “Sit, Detective Kennedy, and Mr. McGill will be happy to serve you while I fetch cookies.”

A slow grin eased across Sloan’s lips. “Sounds good to me.”

“Thanks, Brec.” Miss Lilly flashed a bright—albeit tired—smile first at Brec while he carefully set a steaming cup of tea in front of her, then to Sloan. “Good afternoon, Detective. I’m sorry you couldn’t make the luncheon today. We missed you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Brec mumbled when Molly scurried into the kitchen to put cookies on a plate, earning another scathing glare from Molly, who knew Miss Lilly couldn’t hear, but hoped Sloan hadn’t either.

A hope lost when Sloan slid Molly a subtle smile and wink while she set the cookies on the table and sat down. He leaned close. “Is it wrong that I rather enjoy getting under his skin?”

Molly’s gaze flicked to Brec and back, grinning outright at his deep frown. “Not at all. He deserves it for being so nasty,” she said loud enough for Brec to hear, but hopefully not Miss Lilly, whose lack of good hearing was sometimes a blessing.

“Well, speaking of ‘nasty,’” Sloan began under his breath, turning to Miss Lilly with a point-blank stare. “I’m sorry I missed the luncheon, ma’am, but something came up at headquarters, and I wanted to share it with you and Molly privately.”

At the omission of his name, Brec practically dropped Sloan’s teacup onto the table, splashing hot tea into the saucer with a clamp of his jaw.

Molly immediately traded her cup and saucer for Sloan’s puddled one with a crook of her brow for Brec and a scrunch of her nose for Sloan. “Just in case.”

“What is it, Detective?” Miss Lilly asked, and Sloan’s smile died a quick death.

“It turns out that Pete didn’t have cancer, ma’am, like he said in his suicide note.” He exhaled a long and arduous breath as his gaze flicked from Miss Lilly to Molly and back. “We believe he was murdered.”

“What?!” Both Miss Lilly and Molly sat straight up in their chairs, their shock stealing all further words.

“I suspected as much when I arrived on the scene because the lividity of Pete’s skin was turning yellowish-brown rather than the cherry pink we usually see with carbon monoxide. Normally with carbon monoxide deaths, we don’t do an autopsy, but my suspicions were so strong, I requested one and just got the forensics back this afternoon.” He sucked in a full breath, which he quietly released once again. “He actually died of phosphorus poisoning.”

“Phosphorus poisoning?” Miss Lilly’s brows dipped low.

“Arsenic,” Sloan explained, “which accounts for how sick Pete was the last few months. I suspect Harley has been slowly poisoning him, which I will admit, surprises me somewhat. I knew Harley was rotten, but Pete and he always seemed to get along. But then jail has a way of hardening a man, so maybe he was hoping to get Pete’s house or funds, I’m not sure. But as soon as the lab called after the service today, I searched Pete’s cottage and found arsenic in his sugar bowl, which I suspect Harley put there. Enough to make him sick and eventually die, although a larger final dose would have had to be administered to kill him outright. Which … maybe Harley decided to do in the end, then fake it as a suicide. After all, he knew all the details to put in the letter.” He gave Molly’s hand a quick squeeze. “Pete may have already been dead, Molly, when you took him the cookies, catching Harley by surprise.”

Molly shivered, thinking that had probably been the case.

“Dear Lord,” Miss Lilly whispered, eyelids flickering closed, “when will it all end?”

Sloan paused as his gaze slowly traveled the table, finally settling on Miss Lilly. “Maybe it already has, Miss Lilly, although we may never really know for sure.”

“What do you mean, we may never know for sure?” Brec said with a scrunch of his brows. “Once you find Harley, can’t you force him to tell you all you need to know?”

Mouth thinning, Sloan gave a slow nod. “Yes, we could, if we found him. Trouble is”—he pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to ease a headache before looking up with a face lined with fatigue—“somebody else found him first.”

Molly froze for the umpteenth time in as many days, wondering like Miss Lilly, just when this nightmare would come to an end.

“What do you mean?” Molly asked, hers and everyone else’s tea remaining untouched.

Sloan laid a hand over Molly’s once again. “I mean Harley’s dead, Molly, so he can’t hurt you anymore. He was found in an alley outside a bar in Tuscaloosa Saturday night, a suspected knife fight gone bad, the bartender thinks, so your worries are over.”

Molly’s eyelids drifted closed, wondering why she wasn’t more relieved. Swallowing a knot of anxiety, she felt the gentle press of Sloan’s hand cupped over hers.

He said her worries were over, but deep down inside, she couldn’t help but wonder ...

If they really were.