* * *

  At five o’clock I headed downstairs and said good-bye to Susan, who worked as my part-time assistant a few afternoons and evenings a week. I found her in the small room off our large meeting room painting posters to advertise our Adopt-a-Pet program in May.

  “Gorgeous!” I said, admiring the zany colorful poster she was working on, of two children petting a dog and a cat. “Let’s send this one to the local paper.”

  Susan’s thin face was wreathed in smiles. “You think?”

  “I certainly do.” I winked. “And it’s sure to boost your sales.”

  At my suggestion, Susan had paid a visit to the Gallery on the Green, which was a five-minute walk from the library. Ron and Martha Mallory, who owned the gallery, had taken one look at Susan’s watercolors of local scenes and immediately asked her to bring in several more to put up for sale. Next, they’d had her painting mugs, canvas bags, and polo shirts for the tourists who were expected to visit Clover Ridge as soon as the weather turned warmer. I feared it was only a matter of months before I lost my artistic assistant for good.

  Upstairs on the main level, I found Smoky Joe sniffing near the front door that faced the Green, a spot he’d never paid attention to until recently. I scooped him up in my arms.

  Andy Harlowe, a retired gentleman in his seventies, smiled at me as he pulled open the door. “Don’t worry, Carrie. I saw your sign and wasn’t about to let the little rascal run outside.”

  “He has spring fever,” I said. “Maybe I should leave him home until it passes.”

  “We’d sure miss him, but better safe than sorry.”

  I returned to my office, placed Smoky Joe in his carrier, and left for the day. Dylan called as I was driving home.

  “Tonight’s meeting is on after all,” he sighed, “which means I won’t get home till after ten. Sorry I won’t get to stop by tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, too. But I’m glad if it means another client for you.”

  “Lots of thieves roaming around,” Dylan said. “If things keep up this way, I’ll have to take on a junior partner sooner than I’d planned. Then my hours will be more regular.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Don’t forget to eat dinner.”

  Dylan laughed. “Rosalind makes sure of things like that. Sometimes I get the feeling she thinks I’m one of her kids.”

  “I’m glad she turned out to be such an efficient Gal Friday. Soon as I drop Smoky Joe off at home, I’m heading to the gym.”

  “Aha! Hoping to catch the eye of our handsome personal trainer?”

  “As if. And even if I wanted to,” I kidded, “Robby’s always swamped with paying clients.”

  “Have a good workout,” Dylan said. “Talk to you later. Love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, and disconnected the call.

  At home in my cottage, I fed Smoky Joe his dinner, then changed into yoga pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers and climbed back into my car. Dylan and I had joined Parson’s Gym in February, agreeing it was a good way for us to stay in shape. It was located in a strip mall a short drive from the Avery property, in the opposite direction from Clover Ridge. I loved the yoga and aerobics classes but occasionally worked out in the larger room crammed with treadmills and other machines. Tonight, I decided, would be one of those times.

  I grabbed a towel and put in a half hour on a treadmill at a brisk pace, then moved on to an elliptical machine, where I managed all of eight minutes before I started huffing and puffing. I climbed down still panting.

  “Great job, Carrie,” Robby said.

  “Thanks, Robby.”

  Pleased by his compliment, I flashed him a smile. Robby Dowd was handsome, with nice, even features and thick dark brown hair. He was just under six feet, had a great build, and moved as gracefully as a cat. His good looks and pleasant, caring manner made him the most popular of the gym’s three trainers. I wondered why he was checking up on me instead of working with one of his many clients.

  “You’re doing great, Carrie. Remember when you started out, you could barely do a minute on the elliptical?”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Dylan’s not here with you tonight?”

  I shook my head. “Late meeting. He’ll probably come in tomorrow morning.”

  Robby nodded as if he well understood late meetings. “Why don’t you work on your upper arms today?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll set the weights for you.”

  I followed him to a machine that would work my upper-arm muscles. Robby adjusted the weights and nodded.

  “Three sets of ten reps,” he said, as he walked away to oversee someone else’s routine.

  When I’d finished, he reappeared and led me to another upper-body machine that worked a different set of arm muscles.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said between pulls. “Usually you’re busy with your clients.”

  “Marcia’s just finishing up, so I have some free time. I’m happy to make sure you’re using the right weights.”

  When I was done, I went over to the stretching area.

  “Stretching is essential to every workout,” Robby said.

  I finished my stretches and decided to call it a night. “Good night!” I called to Robby, and waved to the few people on the treadmills.

  “See you soon!” he answered as I exited the gym.

  I climbed into my car and realized I was famished. Eating ASAP was an appealing idea. I glanced at the other stores in the strip mall. At the far end was an Italian restaurant where Dylan and I had gotten a pizza one evening. Closer, just three doors down from the gym, was a sushi restaurant. I decided to have dinner there.

  I’d finished what I’d managed to eat of my sashimi dinner and was waiting for the waitress to pack up the rest to bring home when Robby slid into the booth opposite me.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not, but I’m about to leave.”

  He smiled. “Have a cup of tea and talk to me.”

  I must have looked surprised, because he laughed. “Carrie, I’m not hitting on you. I simply want to have a conversation with someone that has nothing to do with abs or weights.”

  I laughed, relieved. “In that case, converse away.”

  The waitress arrived with my boxed food and my bill. Robby ordered a tuna-and-avocado roll and a tea for each of us.

  “I eat here pretty often when I work evenings, but I’d like some recommendations—restaurants where you and Dylan like to eat.”

  “Sure. Due Amici’s one of our favorites. It’s a ten-minute ride past Clover Ridge.”

  Robby nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “I didn’t realize you were new to the area.”

  “Kind of. I moved to Merrivale six months ago.”

  “Do you have a wife? A sweetheart? Parents in the area?”

  “None of the above.” He sounded bitter.

  “Then what drew you to this part of Connecticut?” I asked.

  Robby shrugged. “I tend to move around and thought this was as good a place as any—for a while. I find that gyms can often use another trainer. At least, I’ve been lucky so far.”

  Our waitress brought our tea. I sipped mine, then said, “I must have come to Clover Ridge only a few months before you.”

  “Really?” He seemed surprised. “You and Dylan strike me as a solid couple.”

  “I sure hope we’re solid. I also have family here. My great-aunt and uncle live here, and I’ve got Singleton cousins galore—most of whom I’ve yet to meet.”

  “Lucky you.” When his roll arrived, Robby used chopsticks to bring a piece to his mouth.

  I glanced at my watch. “Well, I think it’s time—”

  “I’ve heard that you’ve solved a few murders.”

  I chuckled. “Somehow I’ve managed to get involved in a few homicide investigations. But I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  He cocked his head. “How can you be so certain?”

  I stood and slipped on my jacket. “Because I’m determined to lead a quiet life and focus on my work and the people I love.”

  Robby laughed as if I’d just said the most amusing thing he’d heard all day. “Sometimes things work out very differently from how we planned.”

  As I drove home, I couldn’t help but wonder what it really was that Robby Dowd wanted to ask me.

  Chapter Three

  My cell phone’s jingle jarred me awake. I glanced at the clock as I reached for the phone and groaned when I saw the time. Who had the nerve to call me at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning?

  My annoyance turned to fear. Did Uncle Bosco have a heart attack? Did Aunt Harriet?

  “Carrie dear, good morning!”

  “Mom?” I yawned. “Do you know what time it is?

  “I hope I didn’t wake you. I figured there was a good chance you had to get up to go to work, and if you weren’t working today, you must have a slew of errands to run.”

  I grimaced. As usual, my mother had an excuse for everything she did. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course—relatively speaking.” My mother sounded peeved. “I thought you’d be happy to know that Tom and I are here in Clover Ridge. We arrived yesterday afternoon. There were so many problems to take care of, I didn’t get a chance to call you sooner. For one thing, the car rental place didn’t have the model I specifically asked for. And they’d assured me …”

  I tuned out her litany of complaints about the rental car and then the house they were renting as I tried to wrap my head around the fact that my mother and her husband were in Clover Ridge a week earlier than expected. That meant they’d be here seven days in addition to the weeks or months it would take to shoot the movie Tom was in.

  “But why did you come so early?” I asked, when she finally finished. “I thought you were arriving next week.”

  “Shooting begins a week from Monday. Most of the cast is arriving next weekend, but Tom thought it would be good to run through his lines in the locations where they’ll be filming his scenes. I convinced the rental agent to let us have the house a bit earlier, and it’s a good thing I did. I read him a list of the glitches I’ve discovered. He promised to send over a handyman to start repairs tomorrow.” She made a scoffing sound. “We’ll see if he follows through.”

  “Well, I’m glad everything will be taken care of,” I said. Smoky Joe jumped on the bed, and I stroked him absent-mindedly. “Now that I’m awake, I should start getting ready for work.”

  “Tom and I would love to see you tonight. I thought we’d go out for dinner—unless you already have plans.”

  “Dylan’s working today—in his office in New Haven. We were planning to go out tonight, but I have no idea what time he’ll be getting home. He might not be up for company.” I knew I sounded as uncooperative as I felt. Describing my mother as difficult was like saying Mount Everest was a bit of a hike. Spending time with her always left me wrung out and unhappy.

  “Carrie dear, why are you turning this into a problem? I’m your mother. Don’t you think it’s time I met your boyfriend?”

  “You met Dylan when we were little. He and Jordan used to play together when we spent summers on the farm.”

  “That’s not the same thing and you know it. After all, your father knows Dylan quite well, I understand.”

  I sighed, exasperated. “That’s right. Dad knows Dylan because Dylan got him his job.”

  “Helping to catch thieves instead of being one,” my mother jeered. “The perfect new career for Jim Singleton.”

  “Mom, please don’t start. We’ll go out for dinner with you and Tom tonight. I’ll call or text you with the name and address of the restaurant. Say seven fifteen?”

  “Perfect. I look forward to seeing you,” she said. “Now I must go. Tom’s calling me.”

  I exhaled a deep sigh of frustration as I padded to the bathroom. My mother’s call had put a damper on the day. I knew better than to get pulled into her machinations, but somehow she always managed to make me feel guilty or wrong-footed. I knew I hadn’t been very welcoming just now, but that was the result of our past history.

  As I got dressed for work, I thought about my mother. She’d had a hard time of it, raising Jordan and me practically as a single mother. My father had come and gone. He was the greatest father when he was around—showering attention on my brother and me, the fun parent to be with—but unfortunately that wasn’t very often. I had been grateful to have Jordan in my life, the one and only stable older person, though he was just four years older than me.

  I had to face the fact that my mother—who used to be Linda Singleton and now went by Brianna Farrell—had never been maternal. She’d seen to it that I had food to eat and clothes to wear, but she’d never nurtured me the way my friends’ mothers nurtured them—listening to their worries and hurts, cooking special dishes simply because they liked them. She’d made me feel I was a responsibility she was obliged to deal with, a responsibility she didn’t much want.

  I was glad when she met Tom a few years after divorcing my father. Tom Farrell was nice and easy on the eyes, with blond Tab Hunter-type looks. He was twelve years younger than my mother and apparently adored her. He liked being the center of her attention and allowed her to manage him to a large degree. She relished taking care of her handsome hubby. Tom had originally worked in finance, but when an uncle died and left him a considerable amount of money four years ago, he revved up his acting career—which until then had been limited to local acting productions—with a vengeance. They moved to Hollywood, where Tom’s good looks had snagged him a few small roles.

  My mother loved being married to an actor. I had gathered as much from the few notes and emails she’d sent me. It led me to believe that she’d changed. Had grown warmer. More family minded. And so a year ago I’d asked if I could come and stay with her and Tom for a short while. I’d been feeling blue and needed some downtime in a safe environment. I thought spending time with her and Tom would be ideal. Her response was brief, almost to the point of curtness, and cut me to the bone. She was sorry, but it wasn’t a good time for them to have company. Company? Feeling even worse, I asked Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bosco if I could stay with them. They welcomed me with open arms. And I had been in Clover Ridge ever since.

  I called Dylan.

  “Hi, babe. I had a great workout at the gym and I’m about to leave for the office. Everything okay?”

  “I just got off the phone with my mother. She and Tom have moved into their rented house in town.”

  “Already? I thought they were coming next week.”

  “Exactly. But they’re here now and want to have dinner with us tonight.”

  “Sure. Shall I make reservations? Someplace elegant?”

  “Casual’s fine. I was thinking Bernie’s Bistro would be a good choice, since it’s on the Sound. I said seven fifteen. Let me know if they can take us then and I’ll call my mother.”

  “Sure, but … Carrie, are you okay with this? You don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m not, but we have to get together with them sooner or later. May as well do it tonight.”

  “All right. I’m looking forward to meeting your mother and her actor husband.”

  “Really? Didn’t you meet her a long time ago in the summer when Jordan and I came to stay at the farm?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  I laughed. “That’s not surprising, given how much she hated coming here. Which makes me wonder why she was so eager to suggest Clover Ridge as the perfect setting for this movie.”

  * * *

  At six fifteen Dylan and I were on our way to have drinks at my mother and Tom’s place before the four of us set out for dinner. She’d invited us when I’d called to give her directions to the restaurant. The small ranch house my mother and Tom were renting was located a few blocks off the main road I took each morning on my drive to work.

  Tom opened the door, a cocktail glass in his hand, and bussed my cheek. “Carrie! So nice to see you.”

  “Thank you. Nice to see you, too. This is Dylan Avery, my boyfriend. Dylan, Tom Farrell, my mother’s husband.”

  Dylan and Tom shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Two good-looking, fit men. One dark, one fair—ten years apart in age, by my reckoning.

  Then why did Tom seem more boyish? Dylan’s expressions varied, of course, but he always struck me as focused, resolute, and confident while Tom came across as—bland. His expression—wistful. Hopeful?

  “I thought I heard the doorbell. Hello, hello! So nice to finally get to see you!”

  My mother approached, a broad smile on her lips. She, too, held a glass in her hand. Her short, blonde hair perfectly framed her face, which for a woman of fifty-six was amazingly devoid of any wrinkles. Of course! A facelift. I almost burst out laughing to see we were dressed exactly the same—tunics over black leggings and knee-high boots.

  “Carrie!” She air-kissed both my cheeks. “You look wonderful.”

  “So do you,” I said, meaning it.

  “And you must be Dylan!” He warranted a hug and a real kiss. “Jordan’s dear childhood friend. So serendipitous how things work out.”

  “Nice to meet you …”

  “Brianna.” She laughed, showing white-capped teeth. “A new name for my new life. Tom, dear, why don’t you take their jackets. Alas, there’s no room in the hall closet—so small. Leave them in the spare bedroom.”

  Dylan and I shrugged off our jackets and handed them to Tom, who disappeared and returned as my mother was ushering us into the living room. I sat on the beige sofa next to Dylan, while my mother perched on one of the two armchairs covered in a garish orange-and-brown fabric.

  “You just arrived yesterday,” I said. “You didn’t have to have us over for drinks.”

  “It’s our pleasure, isn’t it, Tom?”

  “Mmm,” Tom said, as he leaned against the outer wall.

  “What would you like to drink?” my mother asked. “We’ve Scotch sours, which we’re drinking, and a bottle of red wine.”

  Dylan asked for a Scotch sour and I opted for the wine. Tom disappeared into what I imagined was the kitchen to fill our requests.