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Speaking of Haywood, I’d bet my witchy senses that he’d decided to float over to his house without me to see what was going on with the break-in. If so, I’d see him soon enough. I was headed there as soon as Dylan arrived.

Tsk
ing, she took another sip of coffee. “I think Avery knows him.”

“Him? Haywood?”

“Yes. He was standing in the hallway outside the powder room as though waiting for her to emerge.”

I recalled Haywood’s reaction at seeing Patricia and Avery arguing. He’d been disturbed by it, and until right this second I’d chalked up the way he’d behaved as deep embarrassment at the scene being made at a glamorous Harpies event.

But if he had personally known Avery Bryan . . . his reaction made perfect sense.

Aunt Eulalie might be onto something.

“And then the poor dear cried her eyes out all night long. Clearly she’s
grieving
.” Eulalie pointedly looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Do you think, perhaps, she and Haywood were . . . well acquainted?”

It was obvious what she was hinting. That perhaps Haywood and Avery were having an affair. A pretty younger woman. A handsome older man of means. It wasn’t out of the question; however, Haywood didn’t strike me as the cheating type, and I’d never read anything in his energy to support that theory.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

If Aunt Eulalie had so easily made a leap to an intimate relationship between the two, it made me question whether Hyacinth had witnessed the pair together and jumped to the same conclusion.

She’d already buried three husbands . . . all of whom died of natural causes.

Supposedly.

“Do you know of any bad blood between Patricia and Haywood?” I asked, then added, “It could be an old grudge.”

“There’s none that I know of unless there
is
a connection between him and Avery. Last night Patricia was madder than a wet hen in a paper sack, and I can absolutely see her taking out that rage on Haywood if he dared confront her about her deplorable behavior.”

I could see it too. “Do you know of anyone else who might hold any ill will toward him?”

“
I
certainly hold a smidgen of ill will toward the man.”

Shocked, I said, “What?”

“I’m personally offended that he has never shown an inkling of interest in
moi
.” She preened and batted her eyelashes. “Choosing to date Hyacinth Foster shows a distinct lack of good taste on his part. Perhaps, he’s had a death wish all along. Everyone knows the rumors about her former husbands. He might very well be alive right this moment if he had only looked
my
way. God rest his soul.”

Eulalie had never lacked for ego.

She finished her coffee. “No matter what potential relationship there was or wasn’t between Avery and Haywood, Avery’s tears have broken my heart. I know you’re in the midst of hibernating and all, but I was hoping you could sneak over for a visit with her, read her energy. If anyone is in need of a healing potion, it’s her.”

I wasn’t buying her broken heart nonsense. Eulalie wanted to know what was going on between Avery and Haywood.

Truthfully, I wanted to know, too. Not only because I was nosy, but because I could easily recall the desperation in Dylan’s voice the last time I spoke to him. He needed to find another suspect to take the heat off his mother. Perhaps if I could help find that person it would go a long way to bridging the gap between Patricia and me.

If you want Dylan you have to figure out a way to make nice with Patricia.

My daddy was a wise man.

With any luck the mysterious Avery Bryan might have some insight into Haywood’s life that she wouldn’t mind sharing. “Okay. Later, though. I have to go out with Dylan for a bit.”

Eulalie clasped her hands in glee. “Perfect! She went out for a walk a little bit ago, but I’m sure she’ll be back soon. I’ll call as soon as she comes through the door.”

She gave my hands a squeeze and headed for the door, her skirt swaying and her heels clacking.

As I watched her go, I thought about Haywood. Whether or not he was having an affair, it was becoming clear that he had been keeping some secrets.

Rounding up a few more suspects was just a matter of discovering who had known those secrets . . . and if Haywood had been killed because of them.

Chapter Seven

H
aywood Dodd had lived in a pretty teal green Queen Anne–style house that had a wraparound porch with beautifully crafted spindles and posts, a turret, and a big Palladian window on the first floor.

His landscaping was meticulously tended, the shrubs sculpted just so, the lawn cut to the perfect height. Despite the rain and the chill in the air, the pansies and mums that lined the front walkway were bright and cheerful.

There were only two items glaringly out of place in the serene setting: The yellow crime tape on the front door . . . and me.

I paced the length of sidewalk along the tree-lined lane, rain pinging off my polka-dotted umbrella as I waited for Dylan to arrive. He’d called and said he was running late and asked me to meet him here. I’d decided to take my chances and walk over instead of driving, which might have raised the suspicions of the neighbors with my Jeep parked in front of Haywood’s.

It was a decision I regretted. Turned out Dylan was running later than he thought, and I’d been waiting for close to ten minutes now.

Out here in the open.

I’d already spotted the ghost of Virgil Keane, who’d been a manager at the Pig before he’d died last spring. As he wandered by, I maintained my distance and he kept on going, seemingly oblivious to my presence. He appeared to be searching for something, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask what. Nope. I was going to stay on my side of the street, tucked under my umbrella and hiding behind my sunglasses.

I still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Haywood this morning, but every time I passed in front of his house, my head faintly ached, so I surmised he was inside surveying the damage done during the break-in, just as I had suspected.

As I made my eighth pass down the street, I spotted someone bundled in a black raincoat creeping around the side of Haywood’s house, testing windows to see if they were unlocked.

I loudly coughed to get the person’s attention and a head snapped up. Mayor Barbara Jean Ramelle let out a nervous laugh and came over to me.

“Carly? I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with those big ol’ sunglasses on a rainy day like today?”

“Sensitive eyes,” I lied, not daring to remove the glasses when Virgil Keane was somewhere nearby. I adjusted my umbrella to cover her as well and said, “Were you trying to break in?”

She winced, then laughed. “I suppose I was.”

Barbara Jean was what my mama would call “plain of face.” She was perfectly average; none of her features stood out in a good—or bad—way. Average blue eyes, narrow forehead. Shoulder-length dark brown bob with golden highlights. Thin lips, round cheeks, small chin. She was a bit on the curvy side, heavier through her hips and chest, which gave her an hourglass shape.

What stood out, however, was her voice. Full and rich, it flowed like hot honey. It was truly mesmerizing and gave her the ability to rule over town meetings without one constituent nodding off during the dull proceedings.

Her laugh was like a ray of molten sunshine on this dreary day.

“I suppose I should have just waited for the sheriff to open the place up to me, but they’re currently busy with their investigation, and I didn’t think anyone would care a whit if I just popped inside for a moment to grab some Harpies paperwork.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Haywood—God rest his soul—was our historian and kept all the group’s important documents here at his home. General stuff, nothing terribly important. It’s of no use to anyone but us, but I’m afraid with no known next of kin that it’s going to get lost in the shuffle of whatever becomes of his estate. I’d hoped to collect it and take it home. No one would even notice it was gone. No harm, no foul.”

Two things of import struck me at that moment. One was that Mayor Ramelle was trying mighty hard to convince me that she was acting on the Harpies’ best interest and that whatever papers were inside Haywood’s home held no importance. The second was about Haywood’s next of kin.

“Haywood had no living relatives?” I asked, playing along with her excuses for now.

She stuck her hands into her coat pockets. “He’d been an only child raised by his grandparents after his mama died in childbirth, and they’re both long dead. No siblings, no aunts or uncles. He’d had a brief marriage some twenty-odd years ago, but that’s long over and they didn’t keep in touch after she moved away. I know he and Hyacinth were talking about marriage, but hadn’t reached the point of an engagement. But”—she tapped her chin—“now that I say that, I recall her mentioning recently that she was named as a beneficiary in his will so perhaps all I have to do is be patient to get those papers back.”

Hyacinth was Hay’s beneficiary? Interesting, considering her history with men. He must have really trusted her, but I figured her addition to his will was a little bit like his giving a pyromaniac a match. Just how much was his estate worth?

Lifting her eyebrows she said, “Have you had any news from Dylan about Patricia? We’re all on pins and needles waiting to hear what’s going on.”

“Not really,” I said, deciding not to tell her what Patricia had told the police about someone shoving the candlestick into her hand. If they were good friends, she’d know it soon enough. “I haven’t seen him yet today.”

Her voice hardened. “It’s an embarrassment to our whole community that the sheriff is even considering her a suspect. Personal feelings aside for her, you must agree, Carly.”

On the contrary.

“She
was
holding the likely murder weapon,” I said. “And I heard she and Haywood didn’t get along that well. Do you know why?”

Blue eyes flashed for a moment, before she blinked away her surprise.

Surprise because she hadn’t known they didn’t get along?

Or because
I
knew they hadn’t gotten along?

I wasn’t sure.

She said, “I’ve always known them to be perfectly civil toward each other.”

Hers was a honed politician’s answer, and I realized she’d known all along how Patricia felt toward him.

“But she didn’t like him,” I pressed.

“She wouldn’t have killed him,” she answered in her melodious voice, evading like a pro. Checking a slim gold watch, she added, “I should be going. I’ll check with either Hyacinth or the sheriff about getting the papers after all. I suppose as mayor I should set a good example.”

She laughed again, but this time it didn’t feel like sunshine.

It felt like evasion.

“See you later, Carly. Stay dry.” She waved as she hurried down the street and around the corner.

I was trying to figure out what kind of paperwork would be so important to Barbara Jean that she’d break into Haywood’s house the day after he was killed when Dylan’s cruiser turn the corner and pulled up to the curb. He lowered the passenger window and leaned across the seat. “If you were going for inconspicuous, Care Bear, I think you missed the mark.”

Wipers pushed the rain off his windshield as I bent down and glanced at him through dark lenses. “You’re late.”

“My mother was brought in for questioning again this morning, and I think the sheriff is going to charge her with Haywood’s murder. And I’ve been officially pulled off the case because of it.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Thanks,” he said wryly. He shut off the engine and came around the car, dressed for work in nice pants, a button-down, and a tie. As an investigator for the county, he didn’t wear his uniform much at all anymore, and I missed it. “Her prints were on the candlestick, which has been determined to be the murder weapon, and a witness came forward claiming to have heard Mama and Haywood arguing right before the murder took place.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Not sure. The sheriff isn’t telling me much. And,” he added with a rueful tone, “her lie detector results were inconclusive.”