Mischief Nights Are Murder

Book 8: Poppy McAllister Mystery

by Libby Klein

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

It's spooky season, and gluten-free baker Poppy McAllister and her aunt Ginny are preparing some pranks for Cape May, New Jersey's, annual Mischief Night at their B&B. But jokes and games are pushed aside when a killer strikes . . .



Poppy is none too pleased when her B&B is coerced into participating in the Cape May Haunted Dinners Tour during Halloween season. Though her knack for finding dead bodies has given the place a spooky reputation, the Murder House is a completely undeserved nickname. At least it used to be . . .



While Poppy wrangles with some guests who can't stop squabbling with each other—including a paranormal researcher, a very quirky pet psychic who freaks out her portly Persian, and an undercover tabloid reporter eager to catch her staff in a lie—one of them winds up facedown in a plate of tiramisu. And now she has bigger worries than getting her house TP'd . . .

Release date: July 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

“I can’t promise you won’t be murdered.” I held the phone away from my mouth and made a face to my boyfriend across the peach-colored kitchen. “I also can’t promise that you’ll have a ghost sighting, the police will investigate, or that anyone in residence will receive a death threat during your stay.”

I could promise they’d find an inordinate amount of Figaro’s hair on their clothes, but I don’t think that’s the kind of pledge they’re looking for. I reached out and removed the smooshy-faced Persian from his forbidden perch on the counter next to my espresso machine. “Lots of people stay here and go home just fine.”

The caller on the other end of the phone rolled through several stages of irritation, but at least they hadn’t asked about the viral interview from a few months ago that someone had remixed to music. The phone went dead, and I shoved it back in my pocket. “Well, we can add requests for survival guarantees to the list of red flags when vetting prospective guests.”

My new house cleaner, Kenny Love—who kept begging me to call him my manservant despite my constant refusals—puffed the air out of his cheeks. “Well, did they mention the dinner tour?”

“No. But they hit our reviews on Facebook, Tripadvisor, and Yelp—the trifecta of doom. They want to think about it and get back to us.”

My onetime high school bully now reluctant assistant, Joanne, threw her head back. “Pass!”

Kenny’s orange eyebrows took a plummet. “Cripes, what do we have to do to attract some guests who aren’t flakes? I was sure being on the tour circuit would at least help bring in a higher quality of weirdos.”

Gia flashed me a grin over his coffee cup. He was my calm in the eye of the storm.

Joanne took a cookie sheet from the cabinet and slammed it on the counter next to Kenny’s hand. “Don’t act like you’re all fed up. You’ve been here for fifteen minutes.”

Joanne Junk was pushy in high school. Twenty-six years later she had taken it to another level. I wished she’d go back to working out her aggression in field hockey and be nicer to the rest of us. She’d been working here as a favor to Aunt Ginny for six months now. Six very long months.

Kenny had recently taken over the B&B guest room cleaning duties when Victory’s visa expired at the end of the summer. She’d returned to Ukraine to attend university for the fall semester. Aunt Ginny and I still missed her. We also had our fingers crossed that World News wouldn’t mention Victory’s name along with the words “meltdown” or “nuclear winter” on their nightly broadcast.

Her replacement was about my height, with flaming hair and a long face like Dr. Bunsen Honeydew’s assistant, Beaker. Kenny was the most enthusiastic applicant I’d ever interviewed, even though I worried that three redheads in the house was the hair color equivalent of summoning Beetlejuice. He shot a dagger of spite at Joanne that she masterfully deflected with her shield of scorn.

She had taken an instant disliking to him much in the same way she had a seething dislike towards me. One day I hoped to find out just what that reason was.

The timer on the copper double oven dinged and Kenny snatched the potholders from their hook. “Now come sit down for lunch. You are going to love this! My mother’s shepherd’s pie with mashed buttery rutabaga. If you love it like I think you will, we can add it to the menu for the gourmet tour dinners next week.”

Figaro’s eyes popped open like tiny suns, and he trotted over to call dibs with some strategically placed figure eights around Kenny’s ankles.

Joanne snorted. “People don’t want shepherd’s pie for a fancy do.”

“They’ll want mine,” Kenny shot back.

The front door slammed, and Aunt Ginny rolled down the hall in a grumble. Two yellow leaves stuck out of her spiky red hair. “That jack-o’-lantern is possessed.”

I grabbed four plates from the cabinet and handed one to Gia. “Oh, it is not. I told you that’s your imagination.”

The eighty-year-old dropped her purse on a loaf of bread next to the commercial refrigerator and pulled off her navy scarf. “It was smiling this morning. Now it looks like it wants to kill me.”

Gia snickered. “Maybe it is rotting.”

She ripped the leaves out of her hair and, with a glare in the Italian’s direction, crushed them to powder over the trash can. “We just put it out a couple days ago. I think the kids have started warming up for Mischief Night a week early.”

Mischief Night was prank night. And it happened the night before Halloween. Audacious kids got their egg-throwing, pumpkin-smashing trickery out of the way, then returned the next night to brazenly demand candy while dressed as Wonder Woman or Harry Potter. “I doubt they’ve started early. Have you seen how much toilet paper costs now?”

Kenny set my eggplant-colored Le Creuset Dutch oven on a trivet in the middle of the table. “I almost forgot the secret ingredient. Be right back.” He threw the potholders down and disappeared into the pantry to go up the secret back stairs to his room on the third floor.

Aunt Ginny inched over to give it a sniff. “What is that?”

Joanne frowned at the browned casserole. “He calls it shepherd’s pie. It looks like slop. You’re not going to eat that, are you?”

I took a serving spoon from the drawer. “Of course we are. Why don’t you try it?”

Joanne turned her back to the offending dish. “I wouldn’t touch it. It’s supposed to be made from an old sheep.”

Gia turned wide eyes to me and there was concern in those baby blues.

I shook my head. “It’s not sheep.” I don’t think.

Kenny burst through the pantry door holding a little red bottle. “Eww. I heard that. It is not an old sheep. It’s ground beef and a little ground lamb. Where do you think we are, Wuthering Heights?”

Joanne muttered, testily, “Well, if you’d made it right, it’s supposed to be mutton. That’s why they call it shepherd’s pie.”

Kenny ignored her and placed the red bottle on the table. “I had my mother send me this hot sauce from home. Wait till you taste it. Now, who’s ready?”

Figaro answered the invitation by jumping on the table next to the casserole and Gia shooed him away. The black smoke Persian gave him a swat on the hand in retort.

Aunt Ginny grabbed a plate and passed it over. “I’ll give it a whirl.”

Joanne, having lost her last ally, sucked in a breath and stomped from the room.

The rest of us took seats at the kitchen table to try Kenny’s newest masterpiece. He’d been making special lunches for us since he started. Some of them were good. Joanne had yet to try any that we knew of.

Aunt Ginny held up a forkful of the topping. “What kind of taters is this?”

Kenny drizzled hot sauce over his shepherd’s pie. “Rutabaga. On account that Poppy can’t have potatoes.”

Aunt Ginny glared at me like I was somehow responsible for ruining all her dreams and begrudgingly took the bite.

Gia nodded while he chewed. “Is very good, but hot.”

Kenny eyed me expectantly while I tasted the savory dish. I definitely picked up on the rosemary and thyme. I also picked up on the butter and wondered how many Weight Watchers points this meal would cost me. Then I was hit with the heat. Wow. That’s a lot of something. I reached for my water glass at the same time Gia reached for his.

Aunt Ginny started to fan herself. “Sweet Jesus.”

Joanne peeked through the crack in the door from the dining room, but I pretended I didn’t see her. “It’s delicious. I think this would be perfect for an Irish-themed weekend, but we may need something fancier to serve on the gourmet tour. You can make this for the four of us anytime.” I grabbed my water and took another gulp. I was starting to sweat through my leggings.

The door shut and Joanne’s disapproval could be heard by the china clattering in the hutch as she stomped through the dining room.

Kenny grinned. “Maybe you can convince Mr. Hansen to put a good word in with the East Lynne Theater Company to let me audition again? You know they’re doing that Sherlock Holmes production all month.”

Aunt Ginny surgically deconstructed her casserole into three piles to remove the corn from the middle. “Royce will be here later to watch Psych. You can ask him yourself.”

Gia laid his arm across my shoulders and mopped his brow with my napkin. “I thought your audition was last week.”

Kenny’s checks flamed.

Aunt Ginny put another pat of butter and a hefty shake of salt on her mashed rutabaga. “What happened this time? And why is this hotter than the Devil’s backside?”

“Is it?” Kenny doused his plate with more hot sauce. “There was a theater mishap. I might have improvised something that was mistakenly applied to the director’s wife.”

I held back a laugh. Kenny gave worse auditions than I’d had in the ninth grade, and I only got to sing one line of “I Feel Pretty” before the director gave me the cut sign.

Kenny glanced at me for just a moment. “Well, how was I supposed to know she wore a girdle? I was just trying to freestyle some lyrics with the music.”

Gia snorted and I gave him a playful jab in the ribs.

Joanne waltzed back in the kitchen with her chin in the air and clanged together the aluminum mixing bowls like she was playing cymbals for the New York Philharmonic.

Kenny ignored her and raised his voice over the passive-aggressive symphony. “I don’t think he really banned me from the theater until Sugar Babies gets a revival. That’s probably just an expression.”

Aunt Ginny had that look in her eye that told me she had a zinger prepped and ready to launch, so I knew I’d better change the subject quick to save Kenny’s feelings. “I’m going to call Linda at the Inn of Cape May to discuss next week’s dinner tour. I think there’s been some confusion about our part in the event.”

Aunt Ginny pushed her plate to the side. “What confusion? We’re making fancy dinners for a week of tour groups. What’s to discuss?”

Figaro’s ears slowly rose behind the abandoned plate, then his eyes and his flat nose. His whiskers twitched in the direction of the gravy. He slowly descended back under the table.

I took a breath. “The event on the tour website says a little more than that. In addition to the five-course gourmet dinners every night . . .”

Joanne rhythmically smacked the metal sifter against the mixing bowl and raised her voice. “Gourmet dinners that I’m making.”

“That you’re helping with,” I corrected. “Well, it seems that we’re supposed to entertain the guests with stories.”

Kenny shook his head and shrugged. “Okay. Stories about what?”

I steeled myself. “Um. Our ghosts.”

Aunt Ginny gave me a droll look. “You said I couldn’t do that anymore. That I was taking money under false pretenses.”

I squirmed in my seat. “I told Linda we don’t have ghosts.” I didn’t mention that we may not believe in them.

Gia pulled up the tour website on his phone while I talked. He cocked his head to look at me. “Bella, their website says this is a Halloween Week Package including a paranormal breakfast, a nighttime scavenger hunt, and a week of Haunted Dinner Tours. Why did the Inn ask you to be a part of that?”

I picked up my glass of iced tea and tried to drown myself through my answer. The room got very quiet.

Aunt Ginny wouldn’t let me off the hook. “I’m sorry, what was that?” She eyed me so hard I thought she was going to pull out a gooseneck lamp for an interrogation.

I swallowed. “They’re calling us the murder house.”

After a moment, Joanne started laughing so hard that she had to cross her legs. “The murder house. Oh, that’s awesome!”

Figaro took advantage of the distraction, and a gray paw appeared to swipe at Aunt Ginny’s plate and got a pawful of rutabaga. He licked it, spit it out, shook off his paw, then went in for swipe number two to try it again.

If it were possible, Kenny’s chin slid even lower. “I thought you said no one was murdered here.”

I nudged Figaro off the bench seat to the floor before he could go in for swipe number three. “They weren’t. And I told Linda just that. Right after I found these on The Hotel Macomber’s front desk when I delivered those gluten-free muffins.” I pulled two tickets for the Cape May Haunted Dinner Tour out of my pocket. “The manager tried to hide them under a box of mints, but I’d already seen them. I told her I wasn’t aware of the haunted part of the dinner tour, but she insisted we’re just a fun new stop they’ve added to their annual Halloween event. She said it’s all in good fun.”

Gia’s new iPhone vibrated. He looked at the screen and turned it over. He squeezed my shoulder. “Do you want to back out?”

Aunt Ginny snatched the tickets from my hand. “Back out? No way. If anything, we need to ask for a bigger share of the pot. Don’t you give me that look, Missy. Those tour organizers knew what they were doing when they got you to put the Butterfly Wings on the route. People are fascinated by the fact that you keep finding murder victims. No wonder the week sold out so fast.”

I gave Gia a pitiful look. “I thought it was because of my baking.”

Joanne muttered, “Well, that shepherd’s pie will put a stop to that. Maybe you should serve it after all.”

Kenny got up from the table and banged the lid onto the Dutch oven. “If you’re so offended by my mother’s comfort food you can stop drooling over it like the Wasp Woman.”

Gia’s iPhone vibrated again. He picked it up and frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

It continued to buzz while he shook his head. “Nothing that cannot wait. Your baking is delicious. I think it is time we put a sign in La Dolce Vita that the gluten-free pastries come from the Butterfly Wings. You could get more business.”

Aunt Ginny looked as though she was about to hyperventilate. “Are you going to answer that?”

Gia’s phone went silent, and he smirked. “Answer what, signora?”

My cell phone rang from across the room, and I looked at him. “I think someone is determined to find you.” I walked across the kitchen and dug it out of my purse. “Hello? . . . Yeah, he’s right here. Hold on.”

I held Gia’s eyes as I walked to him and handed him my phone. “They found you.”

He took it with a sigh. “I am not free. I will call you back when I am ready.” The blood drained from his face. “Are you sure? . . . Do not lie to me, Daniela. . . . Okay. I am on my way.” He handed me my phone. “Daniela says Momma had a fall. Ambulance is taking her to hospital.”

Like the real hospital? Or like she’s watching General Hospital and faking it again?

Aunt Ginny put her hand on Gia’s arm. “The poor thing. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

Gia took my hand. “What do you think?”

“It’s been three months since she’s faked an emergency. And your sister Daniela doesn’t usually do your mother’s bidding. That’s more Teresa’s MO. I think you should take it seriously.”

He rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. “I am not so sure. But they have left us alone for weeks.”

I grinned. “Well, you didn’t give anyone but Karla your new number after you destroyed your phone.”

Gia smiled. “Si. I will check. This better not be a fake.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Or I could eat a cactus instead?

Joanne choked. “Are you trying to kill her? The woman hates you.”

She’s not wrong.

Gia waved me off. “No. You do not need to worry. I am sure it is nothing.”

He pulled me against him, and Aunt Ginny and Joanne groaned and made uck noises. “I will come back soon.” He ignored them and kissed me slowly. “Ti amo, cara mia.”

Bells were ringing, and bluebirds flew around my head as they often did when Gia kissed me, and I had to watch him leave.

“Oh, fer Pete’s sake. Snap out of it!” Aunt Ginny was standing next to me holding out the kitchen phone. “I called Linda at the Inn of Cape May for you. She says they’ve had an unprecedented number of bookings for the tour, so they decided to add a few nights. Our first dinner isn’t next week. It’s in two days.”

“You can’t just commit me to a five-course dinner in forty-eight hours, Linda.”

The gravelly voice coming through the phone balked like I was turning down a free vacation to Tahiti. “I don’t know what the big deal is, honey. I’m doin’ you a favor so you can make some money before the off-season. You don’t exactly have the best reviews in town.”

I paced the library while Figaro chased the dangling belt on my sweater.

“You know those reviews are fake. And once you get one bad review people love to pile on. I literally just found out about the ghost stories this morning. I have no idea what I’m doing on this tour. We’re not haunted.”

Linda softened her voice. “It’s no big deal. Ya just make a little dinner, tell some stories, and give a little house tour—easy peasy.”

I stopped short and a ball of gray fur flopped at my feet. “What do you mean, give a house tour? I didn’t agree to that.”

“Sure, you did, hon. When you agreed to be part of the Haunted Homes Tour.”

“I didn’t agree to be part of the Haunted Homes Tour. I only agreed to a week of gourmet dinners.”

I heard someone in the background talking and Linda put her hand over the mouthpiece. She said something I couldn’t make out over the muffle. When she returned, her voice was all sweetness and light. “Huneee. It’s no big deal. You just walk them around and show off that beautiful house of yours. And while you’re at it, tell them about Siobhan. We’ve all heard the rumors. It was on that lady’s blog who stayed with you. Being haunted’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Oh, my Lord. Elaine Grabstein is still plucking my nerves two months after checkout. “I’m not embarrassed because it isn’t real. That guest had a very vivid imagination.” And I suspected day drinking, but I kept that thought to myself.

“Look, we could have asked any number of bed and breakfasts who would jump at the chance to be on this tour for the promotional opportunity, but we asked you—to help you out for your first season. We already got the Victorian hearse lined up. Everything is a go.”

“What in God’s name is the Victorian hearse?”

“One of the carriage tours is going to do transportation for us. They got a pair of black stallions pulling the tour groups in the wagonette draped in black bunting to each of the locations. Didn’t you read the contract I gave you two weeks ago? It outlines all your duties including your agreement to pay for a fifth of the advertising costs.”

That shepherd’s pie was about to make an encore appearance right there in the library. I ran to my desk in the hall to see if there was a contract I had missed. “What advertising? I haven’t approved anything. And how much is a fifth?”

“Don’t worry, it will be taken off the top before you get your cut from the ticket sales.” Her voice turned a little threatening. Much like Aunt Ginny trying to playfully tell you not to touch her whiskey truffles at Christmas. “Unless you back out. If you back out or do anything to publicly make the tour look bad, you’ll pay a penalty to offset our cancellations.”

I moved the candy corn–scented candle and flipped through the disheveled stack of papers on my desk. I didn’t come across anything that looked like a contract. “I’m not trying to back out; I just don’t want to lie to people.”

“Honey, with everything that’s happened to you in the past year, you will have plenty of stories to entertain the guests without having to tell one lie. Trust me.”

Aunt Ginny’s copy of Garden & Gun magazine peeked out from under a crossword puzzle, and I moved it out of the way. A fat white envelope with the Inn’s green logo fell from the center. My heart rate started heading up the on-ramp of the panic freeway.

“Tell you what, hon. The tour starts here tomorrow night. We have a phenomenal chef, so adding days was no problem for us.”

I was only half listening to Linda at this point. The envelope had already been ripped open. I slid out the folded document and Figaro jumped on the desk and swatted it like it had a feather and a bell. I unfurled the paper and scanned it for the signature line.

“Why don’t you come to the Inn and see how we run our tour? Maybe you’ll be more comfortable for Saturday night after you see how it’s done.”

Aunt Ginny came around the corner from the kitchen drinking an iced coffee, took one look at the contract in my hands and the look on my face, and did a one-eighty back to the kitchen. Ginny Frankowski was clearly scrawled on the dotted line.

“I’ll take you up on that. By any chance did you receive the signed copy of the contract from us?”

“I got it right here. Ginny signed it while I waited.”

I narrowed my eyes in the direction of the kitchen. “Oh good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”

I stood under the archway leading from the hall to the kitchen. Aunt Ginny was seated on the banquette hunched over her glass, a striped pink straw caught in her mouth. Her eyes darted back and forth from Joanne to Kenny. Neither of whom would make eye contact with her or me.

I took a step into the room. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you forgot to tell me?”

Her face was as passive as Lake Lily on a still day. “The Inn of Cape May sent over a tour contract. I took care of it for you.”

Kenny slowly sucked air in through his teeth and emitted a low whistle.

“Did you happen to read it before you signed it?”

Aunt Ginny gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “Boilerplate stuff.”

“Like the part where we agree to give guests a paranormal house tour? Or how the Inn can extend the event dates all the way to Christmas without warning? Or maybe the penalty we pay if we cancel for any reason?”

Joanne blew out a breath and focused on her pan of maple bars.

Aunt Ginny gave me a weak smile. She looked like she was just about to apologize when the doorbell rang. “You’d better get that. It’s probably Dr. Rodney here to check in.”

I gave her one last look of exasperation before I headed to the front door. Figaro had beaten me down the hall and was in pre-flop position. “At least let me get it open before you hit the floor, Fig.”

My pinecone wreath clattered against the front door in a burst of cinnamon. A delicate-looking man with a pale complexion and a ten-dollar haircut stood on the front stoop holding a weathered brown suitcase. He was wearing frumpled Dockers and a baggy yellow sweater that had seen better days.

“You must be Dr. Rodney. Welcome.”

He pulled at the neck of his sweater, nervously. “Oh dear. You have a cat.”

If he’s allergic, Figaro will never leave him alone. “We’re a pet-friendly B&B. I hope that’s okay. It is mentioned in your contract.” My face flamed at the hypocrisy of the situation.

He put his suitcase down and took off square-rimmed black glasses. He searched his clothing for some corner with which to clean them, found only his fuzzy sweater, and disappointedly returned them to his face. “I’m not allergic.”

Did I say that out loud?

“I was just hoping for some quiet this week.”

I held the door open wider to reveal Sir Figaro Newton, the picture of decorum, with one leg in the air, tidying his nether regions. “This is Figaro.” In all his glory. “He’s a very quiet cat.”

Figaro peered under his leg at Owen Rodney. His eyes grew twice their size and then he sprang up and did a weird sideways double hop down the hall.

What in the world was that?

“Oh dear. I’m afraid he is very uncomfortable with my visit.”

I looked down the hall where one ear and an eye poked out from around the corner in the sunroom. “I’m sure he’s fine. Fig is used to guests. He won’t trouble you any.” I guess the lying starts now.

Dr. Rodney picked up his suitcase and took a tentative step into the marble foyer. He took his time examining the chandelier and sniffing the spider plant on the foyer table. “Do you have any other guests staying this week?”

“We do. We aren’t fully booked, but—”

He pulled at the neck of his sweater and cut me off. “Are they aggressive?”

Aggressive? “We don’t allow aggressive pets. We only . . .”

Dr. Rodney pushed his glasses back on his face. “I mean are the human guests aggressive.”

“No. I don’t believe so.” They tend to be sleepwalking, snack-hoarding portrait thieves—but not aggressive.

He sniffed the coatrack. “I know there are no other animals in the house. I don’t like to be around a lot of people.”

I sniffed to see what he was picking up on. Do I need to change the air freshener? “So, far, there is only one other lady who has checked in. She’s a retired librarian who collects teapots. She seems very sweet.”

He squatted down and looked under the sofa in the sitting room.

I followed suit and squatted down to see what he was looking at. “She has the room across the hall from you, but she’s out for a stroll. You’ll probably meet her at breakfast. Shall I show you to your room and get you checked in?”

He picked up his suitcase and looked down the hall. Figaro’s ear disappeared around the corner. I led Dr. Rodney up to the Adonis Suite and he touched every rosette on the banister as he walked up the stairs.

“Are you here for the ghost tour, Dr. Rodney?” I held my breath waiting for his reply.

He stared at the framed painting of Hughes Street on the landing. “Call me Owen, please. And no. I have no interest in ghosts or any of that weird stuff. I’m just a regular guy, and I want a quiet week, away from the voices.”

“Where did you get that Owen Rodney guy from?” I came down the stairs from taking our new visitor to his room.

Joanne was setting out the tray of maple bars and hot cocoa on the library coffee table for the guests. She fanned orange and black napkins into a graceful arc. “Ginny booked him.”

Aunt Ginny reclined on the sofa, conveniently close to the afternoon snacks. “He passed all the tests. Why? What’s wrong with him?”

Where do I start? “Did you ask him how he heard about us?”

Aunt Ginny nodded. “I followed your script exactly.”

Joanne rolled her eyes. “Why you always so uptight, Buttface?”

Probably because of this hostile work environment.

Aunt Ginny took a maple bar. “He said he found us on the Internet.”

That could mean anything. We could be on a website called murder houses dot com. “Did he say anything else?”

Aunt Ginny shrugged. “He didn’t mention my interview from last summer. And he didn’t have any accounts on social media for me to check what bizarre groups he belongs to. Why?”

I pointed to Figaro, who was peeking out from under the cherry cabinet where we kept the board games. “The cat is freaked out by him for one. And he seems like someone familiar with taking a psych eval.”

Aunt Ginny brushed a crumb from her lap. “You’re too suspicious. He’s a doctor. I’m sure he’s harmless.”

“He sniffed the room key.”

Aunt Ginny paused. “Maybe he’s a psychologist. They’re always crazy.”

Joanne stuffed her hands in the pockets of her pink camo fatigues. “You said you wanted to talk to me before I went home today. Can we get this over with? I have a life.”

Oh good. Time for my daily argument. I glanced at Aunt Ginny, who was pouring herself a cup of hot cocoa and settling in, then back to Joanne. “Why don’t we go in the sitting room?”

I stalled for a few minutes and stoked the fireplace. Then I fluffed the fuzzy pumpkin pillows. I couldn’t find anything else to fuss with, so I sat on the edge of the wing chair opposite Joanne and drummed my fingers against the stack of acorn coasters on the side table.

Joanne crossed her arms over her belly and scowled in preemptive disgust.

I took a breath and dove in. “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done to help me these past few months. I could never have gotten through the summer without you.”

Joanne snorted. “You couldn’t have gotten through the tea party without me.”

“True. But I also don’t want to keep you here when I know you were . . .