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“Just to tell you that…that thing I was looking into doesn’t appear too promising right now.”
Which means Brittany hasn’t found any dirt on Catfish Cove. Which means we should pretty much kiss Battle of the Beach Eats goodbye. Not that I’d held out any real hope, but still…
A timer goes off in the kitchen. Mom calls us all to dinner, and we migrate to the dining room table. Paco settles on the floor at my feet, chewing on a bone.
Mom passes around the salad. “I only have one rule at my dinner table. No politics.”
Dad grins. “I guess that just leaves religion.”
“Speaking of which, I heard at the Piggly Wiggly that Mrs. O’Donnell got doused during the nine a.m. mass last week.” Mom looks to Sebastian for confirmation.
He groans. “The church roof is leaking.” St. Perpetua’s Catholic Church, where my brother is pastor, is ancient. The roof has been leaking for years, but last Sunday it rained buckets bringing the situation to crisis proportions.
“Can’t the bishop do anything about it?” asks Mom.
“The diocese is willing to help, but we have to raise at least half the money ourselves.”
“Which means you need to get your sermon on,” Will says.
Sebastian makes a face. My brother gives wonderful sermons, but he hates asking for money, and I don’t blame him.
“You can count on your mother and me to contribute our fair share.”
“And I can give you a dollar fifty,” I joke. Which isn’t funny at all because that’s about how much I’ll have in my checking account after I pay this month’s bills.
“What’s the status on that Cooking Channel show?” asks Will.
“Zip,” I say.
Brittany glances around the table. “I’m afraid that Whispering Bay is currently out of the running due to that incident at The Bistro today.”
“But that’s not anyone’s fault,” says Sebastian.
“Oh, I agree, but, unfortunately, Tara Bell, that’s the producer in charge of the show, and her cameraman were at The Bistro when Lucy discovered the body. I think the notoriety associated with that might be too much.”
Even though Brittany has worded that carefully, there’s still a tiny thread of implication that somehow this is all my fault. As if I had any control of this El Tigre person!
Dad scowls. “So, the cops have no clue who this dead guy was or who might have done this?”
“Nope,” I say, then rush to add, “But even if they did, I’m not sure they’d tell me. I mean, why would they?” Then I do this thing that I hate. I laugh snort. It’s something I do when I get nervous like I am right now because I hate lying to my family, but if they knew I was going to be helping the Bureau catch a notorious hitman, they’d probably lock me up in my old room and throw away the key.
Time to change the subject.
“I can’t believe how quickly the two of you put the house back together. It’s like you never left.”
“If you lived here then you could watch the place while we were gone,” Mom says. “A young unmarried girl like yourself. No reason you can’t live with your parents. We aren’t even here half the year!”
This is a point my mom likes to make whenever she can. My dad backs her up by nodding.
“I love living over The Bistro in my own place.”
Mom’s forehead scrunches up. “Even after that horrible woman nearly killed you in the kitchen and now this dead body?”
Not this again. “How about we amend that rule to no politics and no dead bodies?” I semi-joke.
There’s a moment’s awkward silence.
I give Will a look that says I need help here.
