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  Diego ran his hand over his hair. “I wouldn’t call it a ‘habit.’”

  Shari sensed his frustration. She straightened from the visitor’s chair. “If this isn’t the first time she’s been in a situation like this, I wouldn’t call it an accident.”

  * * *

  “Are you Sharelle Henson?” The curt female voice with the British accent assaulted Shari’s back from her cubicle entrance later that morning.

  Shari completed the sentence she was typing into her computer before saving the file and rising from her desk. She took the four steps to the threshold and tapped the nameplate affixed to her exterior cubicle wall. It read SHARELLE HENSON, REPORTER.

  “I guess so.” Shari propped her shoulder against the doorway and crossed her arms. She had to tip her head back to meet the stranger’s eyes. “Who’re you?”

  The uninvited visitor was almost shaking with anger. Her blue eyes snapped with temper even as she stepped back to put more distance between them. “Bella Fortney. Roy Fortney’s wife.” Her British accent clipped her words—or maybe it was her temper.

  “Bella? As in the Twilight Saga?” Shari hadn’t read the young adult romantic fantasy novels—what was so sexy about a dead guy munching your neck and sucking your blood?—but she’d heard of the popular series.

  “It’s short for Isabella,” her visitor snapped.

  Shari had recognized the name Fortney. It was the surname of Autumn Tassler’s ex-husband, the prince who’d left her for a younger woman. And here was the younger woman. She was taller than Shari, perhaps six feet. Had she been a model? Her features were beautiful, practically perfect despite the ugly angry flush. Her light brown hair was parted in the center and fell in straight tresses down her back.

  Beneath her black fur coat—was it mink?—she wore a scarlet dress. Black leather boots disappeared beneath the dress’s ankle-length hem. The diamonds in her ears and around her neck looked real, as did her silver Gucci clutch. Even her perfume smelled expensive.

  “I’d use Isabella.” Shari gestured toward her guest chair, inviting the woman to sit. “What can I do for you?”

  Isabella stomped farther into Shari’s cubicle, her fur coat billowing around her, and threw herself on the proffered seat. She gripped her copy of the day’s Telegraph in her fist and shook it at Shari. “You can write a retraction for this libelous article!”

  Shari’s spine stiffened. Libel was a serious accusation, even when it was screeched by someone who appeared on the verge of a breakdown. And whose upper-crust British accent tuned in and out at will.

  “Well, now that everyone in the surrounding counties knows you’re unhappy with the article, can you explain why?” Since it was almost noon, hopefully most of her coworkers were at lunch and missed the banshee’s charge.

  “Where should I start?” She crushed the newspaper and threw it to the floor. Definitely over-the-top. “You wrote that Autumn worked two jobs to put my husband through business college, then he divorced her.”

  “That’s not true?” Shari had pulled that information from multiple sources, including court documents pertaining to Autumn’s divorce and interviews she’d granted other publications.

  “Yes, but . . . it didn’t happen that quickly.” Isabella stuttered.

  Shari wanted to roll her eyes. It took a Herculean effort not to. “How many years have you and Autumn Tassler’s ex-husband been married?”

  Isabella’s nostrils flared. “My husband and I have been married for almost six years.”

  “Autumn’s divorce was final five years ago.” Shari tilted her head. “So I guess the question is what’s your definition of quickly?”

  Isabella’s blue eyes shot daggers. “There wasn’t a connection between Roy’s getting his degree and the divorce.”

  “Says who?”

  “Roy!”

  “Uh-huh.” Shari leaned forward. “So the two of you weren’t seeing each other while he was still married? He never mentioned wanting to wait until after he graduated to tell his wife about you?”

  Isabella’s gaze wavered.

  “I thought so.” Shari sat back. “Is there anything inaccurate in the article?”

  Isabella considered the crumpled newspaper on the ground. “I suppose not.” Her tone was grudging. “But you’ve caused my husband and me a great deal of embarrassment by airing our personal affairs in this rag.”

  Shari again stiffened. “If you don’t want your personal affairs aired, you shouldn’t have had one with a married man whose wife was working two jobs to support him. Or is that the reason you wanted her dead?”

  Isabella reared back on her seat with shock. “My husband has many lawyers on retainer. I can have any one of them sue you.”

  It was getting harder not to roll her eyes. “That’s a weird response, Isabella, although it’s not a denial.” Shari channeled her inner Sister Lou as she studied the other woman. The fur. The jewelry. The shoes. Money meant a lot to her. “What did you and Autumn argue about?”

  Isabella gasped. “How do you know we argued?”

  “It’s a small town.” The response had worked for January Potts.

  “That woman was bleeding us dry with her ridiculous demands.”

  “Her ridiculous, court-ordered alimony demands?” Shari shook her head as though in pity. “That sounds like a motive for murder.”

  Isabella popped out of her chair. She turned her most fearsome glare yet on Shari. “If you publish anything of the kind, my husband and I will sue you and this paper into ruin.”

  Shari rose to her feet although she was still at a significant height disadvantage. “Is that a confession?”

  “It’s a promise!” Isabella screeched, making a dramatic exit from the cubicle.

  Shari considered the empty threshold. Despite being given multiple opportunities, Isabella hadn’t once denied her involvement in Autumn’s murder. “What was that about?”

  Shari turned back to her desk, muttering to herself, “And what’s up with her accent? If she’s British, I’m the queen of England.”

  * * *

  “For an innocent human-interest article, you’ve had quite a few attacks for it.” Chris made the comment after Shari had filled him in on her busy morning.

  They were enjoying a late lunch at the Briar Coast Café. It was almost one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon but the establishment was still packed. They’d been lucky to get the last open table toward the front of the café even though they were hit with a blast of cold air each time the door to the popular eatery opened.

  The café was fragrant with the scents of soups, savory meats, and sweet pastries. The scents wafted out through the ventilation. The aromas were perfect marketing for the dining establishment and explained why the café was always crowded with carry-out and dining-in customers.

  Chris studied his companion. Her thick hair framed her heart-shaped face and partially obscured her silver dangling earrings. Her vivid lemon yellow sweater more than made up for the gray mid-November day.

  She’d made her encounters with the mayor and Autumn’s ex-husband’s new wife into dramatic and amusing anecdotes. But those confrontations must have been brutal. Nevertheless, she’d stood her ground and defended herself well. Chris scowled when he recalled that the mayor had offered to help Shari get a position with a bigger newspaper. It almost made him regret voting for her.

  Shari gave him an exasperated look as she swallowed a spoonful of New England clam chowder. “I don’t get it. I know the mayor doesn’t want voters to know people get murdered in Briar Coast, but we can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And Isabella Fortney doesn’t want people to know she’d slept with her husband while he’d been married to someone else, but Autumn already told that to every newspaper that ever interviewed her.”

  “‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’” Chris bit into his roast beef and Swiss on whole grain sandwich.

  “I admire that abou
t Autumn.” Shari gave him a cheeky grin. “She didn’t fade into history after her divorce. She made the cheating scumbag pay, then dragged his dirty laundry across the media.”

  Shari’s reaction was in keeping with what Chris was learning about her. She was a fighter, a survivor. Fearless. “I could see you doing something like that, getting your pound of flesh. Have you ever taken revenge on an old boyfriend?”

  Shari paused with her glass of iced tea halfway to her parted lips. “What makes you think I wasn’t the one who did the dumping?”

  Chris considered her reckless cocoa eyes, bow-shaped mouth, and mass of wavy raven hair. “I can see you leaving a string of broken hearts behind as you crisscrossed the country.”

  She arched a winged eyebrow as she sipped her drink. “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “No, I’m not.” Even the thought of her leaving Briar Coast could hurt his heart. Chris stopped thinking about it.

  “You’ve probably broken more than your fair share of hearts yourself.” She lowered her glass and captured his eyes. “You’re smart, well established, and attractive. I bet the young women at the college can’t volunteer fast enough to help with your phone-a-thon fund-raisers.”

  “I’m not in charge of the phone-a-thons.”

  “Ah, well, I’m sure they find that disappointing. More broken hearts.” Shari gave him a saucy look as she returned to her soup.

  She was doing it again. Every time he tried to get to know her better, she turned the conversation to him. Why? What was in her past that she wanted to keep buried there?

  Chris finished his sandwich and brought his roast chicken and vegetable soup closer. The spices that flavored the dish made his mouth water even before his first spoonful. “When you broke up with these boyfriends, did you let them down gently or were there a lot of tears and pleading?”

  Shari chuckled. “Are you breaking up with me? I hadn’t realized we were dating.”

  “I’m just curious.” Chris met her amused gaze, giving the impression of boundless patience as he waited impatiently for her response.

  Shari tilted her head as she considered him. “If you divorced your wife and married your mistress, would you resent having to pay alimony?”

  He frowned. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “In her interviews, Autumn admitted that she was livid that Roy had cheated on her, then divorced her to marry his mistress.”

  “She had every right to be angry.”

  “Of course.” Shari leaned into the table in her excitement. “But he never fought the terms of the alimony, which are very favorable to her.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t think her ex killed her?”

  “I don’t.” Shari shook her head. “But I do think Roy’s willingness to pay the alimony made Isabella crazy. She loves his money and didn’t like him sharing it.”

  “That moves Isabella higher on our list of suspects.”

  “Isabella never denied killing Autumn. I think we should ask Roy about his wife’s attitude toward his ex.” Shari gestured toward him with her half-empty glass. “Let’s run this by Sister Lou.”

  “I think she’ll agree with you.” Chris also thought Shari’s evasiveness about her past was masterful.

  He wasn’t willing to give up on his quest to get to know the secretive reporter better. There were other avenues his investigation could take, including questioning his aunt. She and Shari were close. What the reporter resisted sharing with him, perhaps she’d already confided in his aunt.

  Chapter 21

  Sister Lou pulled into a parking space in the front lot of the Sleep Ease Inn Hotel Wednesday evening. The budget accommodations were located on the opposite side of Briar Coast from the congregational offices. The hotel held sad memories for Sister Lou. This is where her friend Dr. Maurice Jordan had been murdered.

  It’s also where Autumn’s cousin, January Potts, had banished her husband, Sherrod, to until he made amends. Only she seemed to know what those amends entailed, though.

  “Will you be all right?” Shari’s question drew Sister Lou from her grief. “I could get Chris to interview Sherrod Potts with me another day, if you’d rather.”

  “I’ll be fine, and Mr. Potts is expecting us.” Sister Lou climbed from her orange compact sedan, feigning a confidence she was far from feeling.

  Shari joined her as she crossed the parking lot to the hotel’s front entrance. She paused in the hotel lobby, reacquainting herself with its ivory and orange carpeting, walls, and furniture. She hadn’t been back to the establishment since Maurice’s murder had been solved.

  The hotel’s restaurant was on her left across the spacious lobby. As she recalled, its dimly lit interior took her back to the 1970s with its polished maple wood and red velvet décor. It also was the last place Sister Lou had seen Maurice alive.

  “Sister Louise LaSalle.” The hissing sound came from a distance in front of her.

  Sister Lou followed the noise to the bony man hurrying toward her from the registration desk across the lobby. He smoothed his thinning red hair and adjusted his dark suit as he scurried her way.

  “How are you this evening, Alvin?” Sister Lou folded her hands in front of her hips.

  Alvin Lyle was the hotel’s general manager. Their relationship had gotten off to a complicated start when Sister Lou had called the sheriff’s office after finding Maurice’s body in his hotel room.

  “I was just fine.” His nasal voice was never far from a whine. “Are you looking for more bodies?”

  Shari looked at the fussy man in surprise. “Does your hotel attract a lot of corpses?”

  Sister Lou covered her laughter with a cough. “You’ve met my friend Sharelle Henson. She’s a reporter with The Briar Coast Telegraph.” As Sister Lou recalled, Shari and Alvin’s first meeting hadn’t gone very well.

  “Yes, I remember.” Alvin considered Shari through suspicious little brown eyes. “What is she doing here?”

  Shari was more amused than offended. “She’s here to speak with someone, but she’s not going to tell you who because she doesn’t think it’s any of your business.”

  Alvin tried but failed to look down his nose at Shari. Unfortunately for him, her three-inch stilettos lifted her at least one inch above him. Instead, he aimed his glare at Sister Lou before spinning on his heels and stalking back to the registration desk.

  “That’s one fragile ego.” Shari observed Alvin’s theatrics.

  Sister Lou started toward the elevators. “Some people are desperate to prove their worth while others are more secure in theirs.”

  “That’s deep.”

  They boarded the elevator with a young family who seemed to be guests of the hotel. The space was a little tight until the harried parents herded their boisterous brood off a couple of floors before Shari and Sister Lou’s destination.

  At the sixth floor, Sister Lou led Shari off the elevator and glanced around. The shadowy hallway was dim, musty, and eerily empty. The hotel showed its age in the faded striped wallpaper and worn ivory and orange carpeting.

  “Well, this is creepy.” Shari lowered her voice. “Are you sure we didn’t detour onto some horror movie set?”

  “If we have, I’m pretty sure this is the scene where the audience yells, Don’t get off the elevator.” Sister Lou followed the instructions of a sign mounted to the wall that directed them to turn left to find Sherrod Potts’s room.

  It was at the end of the hall. Sister Lou knocked on the door, then waited for his answer. Although the last time she’d knocked on one of these hotel doors, she hadn’t gotten the answer she’d expected.

  * * *

  Sherrod Potts shook their hands, then stepped back to let them into his hotel room. His piercing bottle green gaze seemed to sum up Sister Lou and Shari in short order. “It’s good of you to stop by to express your condolences about Autumn.”

  Shari had shared with Sister Lou pages and pages of information on Sherrod that she’d gathered from the Interne
t, including his picture. It didn’t do the man justice. He was tall, perhaps Chris’s height at a few inches over six feet, with a swimmer’s lean, broad-shouldered build. His chestnut hair was on the verge of needing a barber’s visit. Even in casual clothing—dark blue slacks, sage green knit sweater, and shiny black shoes—he exuded the aura of authority and wealth associated with captains of industry.

  Sherrod directed them to the armchairs in front of the window across the room. “Can I offer you some coffee? I’m afraid that’s the only refreshment I have.”

  Shari accepted his offer, but Sister Lou declined. She was already getting a residual caffeine buzz from the scent of coffee permeating their surroundings.

  The room was more spacious than the one that had been assigned to Maurice. Still, it was quite a step down from the comfort of the Craftsman-style home he shared with his wife.

  The standard hotel room chill didn’t seem to bother Sherrod or Shari, but Sister Lou kept her coat on as she settled onto the chair closest to the writing desk. She followed Sherrod’s movements as he prepared the single-serving hotel coffee machine for Shari. As the coffee brewed, he lowered himself to the desk chair. Behind him, his laptop was open on his desk. The monitor had gone dark.

  Sister Lou settled her navy blue purse on her lap and rested her hands on top of the soft vinyl. “Autumn was helping my congregation plan our annual Advent retreat.”

  “So I understood from Ms. Henson’s article in the Telegraph.” Sherrod inclined his head toward Shari. “It was a good piece.”

  “Thank you.” She seemed surprised by his praise. Shari had shrugged out of her emerald green wool winter coat and folded it on the back of her chair. Her massive olive bag was beside her feet. “You can call me Shari.”

  “Sherrod. The Telegraph has come a long way in a short period of time. I enjoy reading it again.”

  Sister Lou smiled at Shari before addressing Sherrod again. “We were surprised when January told us you’d temporarily separated, especially since she said the morning Autumn was murdered, she was cooking breakfast for you.”