“He wasn’t a leader. He was a lawyer. And some of those decisions hurt people who thought he was their friend.” I thought of Charlie, then Perry.

“He didn’t deserve this.”

“No one deserves this.” We walked on, and I asked, “Are you headed back to the clubhouse?”

“I am. Like I said, lunch won’t fix itself.”

We continued our slow walk, as if there were a thousand places we’d rather be than our destination.

“How did you get into catering?”

“I’ve always loved to cook. Enough so that I found a way to make a living. I struggled at first, but I landed some corporate accounts, and they’ve made all the difference.”

“Like Graham’s firm.”

“Exactly. I started by catering a few small parties for them, and some of their clients asked for my name. The business has grown organically.”

“It sounds like lots of hard work.”

“Worth it.” She smoothed the front of her t-shirt and glanced briefly at the Misty Eats logo above her left breast. “The firm is still one of my biggest clients. We cater lunches almost every day and cocktail parties several times a month. One of the lawyers had me cater his daughter’s wedding.”

“You must spend a lot of time there.”

“At first I did my own deliveries. As the business has grown, I’ve added staff.”

“And that’s how you got to know Graham?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“There you are!” Willa stood near the door to the clubhouse with her hands planted firmly on her linen clad hips. She sounded annoyed, but I couldn’t tell if her ire was directed at me, the wife of the man investigating a murder, or Misty, the caterer who was late serving lunch.

I waved.

Willa glanced at her watch and pinched her lips into a tight line. And I had my answer.

Misty hurried her pace, leaving me behind. “I’m sorry Mrs. Cooke, I just needed a few minutes to myself.”

“Everyone is hungry.”

Not everyone. The thought of food made me feel vaguely nauseated.

“It won’t take long to serve. Give me fifteen minutes.” Misty slipped past Willa and disappeared into the clubhouse.

Willa tsked. “She’s usually so reliable.”

“She’s upset about the murder.”

She ceded my point with a tiny nod. “We’re all upset. But she’s being paid. Generously.”

I didn’t argue. “How’s Sumner?”

“Buffy gave her a sedative. She’s resting in the Geller’s cabin.”

When I’d counted suspects—Charlie, Merit, Perry, Liz—I’d forgotten Willa’s husband. Graham had wanted Thatch’s job as managing partner. “So terrible.”

Willa nodded. “Awful. To think, someone snuck onto the property and did this.”

I was the queen of wishful thinking, but not even I believed a random person wandered into Graham’s cabin and shot him. “You think a stranger did this?”