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Laughter bubbled around the table, harmonizing with the clatter of cutlery on china.
As the meal continued, the conversation ebbed and flowed, punctuated by appreciative “mmms” and the occasional request to pass a dish. They were a tableau of satisfaction, a family forged not by blood but by circumstance and shared toil.
Once the meal began to wind down, Mick wiped his lips and sat back. “So, are you guys ready to talk about what I discovered?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Sam said.
Jo started clearing plates. “Yeah, spill. We’re dying to find out.”
Mick leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him on the table, the dim light from the overhead fixture casting deep shadows on his face. His voice was low but clear, a storyteller’s cadence that held everyone rapt.
“I dug into the Duchamps—or the Woodsons, as they’re known now,” Mick began, his eyes scanning the faces around the table. “And there’s a branch on that family tree that reaches right to the Websters.”
Jo turned from the sink, her expression sharpening. Sam’s chair creaked as he leaned in, his brow furrowed. They exchanged a knowing look.
“Ricky Webster keeps popping up in our investigations,” Jo said.
“Ricky’s just a kid, though,” Sam interjected, his voice firm yet thoughtful. “Can’t tie him to Tammy’s case, not realistically.”
Mick nodded in agreement. “Exactly, but family ties can be telling. It doesn’t imply guilt but perhaps a path to explore.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the next piece of the puzzle.
“And there’s more,” Mick continued, reaching for his glass and swirling the liquid contemplatively before taking a sip. “April Summers? Well, she hasn’t always been April Summers.”
Bridget, who had been quietly refilling water glasses, paused. “Who was she?”
“She was Mary Madden not too long ago. Lived in White Rock. And she was married to Hank Madden.”
Jo’s eyes widened. “Hank Madden? Could that be H.M. from the day planner?”
“Could be. And if it is, then April’s ex-husband might have been the last person to see her the day she died.”
“That’s not all,” Mick said. “April or Mary also had ties to another person in town.”
“Who?” Jo half-expected Mick to say Ricky Webster.
“Lily Dunn. She’s her niece.”
Jo was shocked. “You mean the artist?”
Mick shrugged. “I don’t know who she is. Just have the name.”
Jo glanced at Sam. “Maybe that’s what Lily was hiding.”
“And I can see why. Her bandana was found near there. But why would she lie?” Sam asked.
“Most liars I know are guilty of something,” Holden said.
Sam nodded. “You got that right.”
Jo looked around the room. “Well, that was enlightening on many fronts. Thanks, Mick.” She gave a scrap of chicken to Lucy. “Eat good, girl, because we’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
The next morning, Jo and Sam went to visit Lily Dunn at her art studio. Wyatt had done some research on Hank Madden and found out he worked for one of the construction crews building a house up on mountain road. They decided to catch him when he got home later that afternoon instead of showing up at his work.
As Lucy, Sam, and Jo entered, the bell above the door announced their presence with a cheerful jingle.
