He nodded. “Why don’t you go to the cabin and rest in the air-conditioning?”

“Where are you going?”

“I have a call to make, then I have a few questions for Mel and Fred.”

“I bet. Motive. No real alibis. And the gun found in their cabin. Although, I think someone planted that gun.”

“It’s possible.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss across my lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

“It’s a date.”

“Be careful.”

“I always am.”

He chuckled. “We both know that’s not true.”

Chapter Eight

I left Anarchy in the clubhouse and walked toward the cabins. First came Mel and Fred’s. Then Buffy and Bill’s, where an enormous oak cast shade over the clearing. How was Sumner? And why was the cabin’s door half-way open?

Should I bother her?

The poor woman deserved some privacy, but leaving a door open was like air-conditioning the outside.

I hesitated.

Intruding on her grief was wrong, but hadn’t she heard of the energy crisis?

Decision made, I stepped onto the porch and knocked gently.

Sumner didn’t answer.

I peered through the screen door and saw two sets of bunk beds, knotty pine paneling, a couch similar to the one in Mel and Fred's cabin, and a breakfast table surrounded by four ladder-back chairs.

No sign of Sumner. Where was she?

“Sumner?”

No one replied. The cabin was empty. I frowned, pulled the door closed, and returned to the path, zig-gagging between trees to stay in the shade.

When I reached our cabin, I poked my head inside. The window unit sounded like a jet at take-off. Hardly restful. Hardly conducive to figuring out who killed Graham. I couldn’t stay here, not when the site of a murder was a mere hundred-fifty feet away. Not when questions scrolled through my head.

I walked on, rounded the bend to the last cabin, and spotted Sumner. She stood on the front porch, fingering the police tape that blocked her access to the cabin where her husband died.

Sumner and I weren’t close—she was eight years younger than me and seemed bored by talk of children or art. Then there was the whole eyelash issue. But watching her, I felt a moment’s empathy. I understood exactly what she was going through.

“Sumner?”

She turned at my voice. She still wore her running clothes, but she'd taken off her eyelashes. Without the spiders on her eyelids, she looked younger. More approachable and real. Maybe even prettier. And that was despite the redness and puffiness that surrounded her baby blues.

Not an observation she’d appreciate. “How are you doing?”

She shook her head, and her limp ponytail barely bounced. “I can't believe he's gone.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”