“Exactly, the gun went missing. You couldn’t have used it.”

“We could be lying.”

“Perry! This isn’t a joke. Graham was murdered. Stop acting like you enjoy being a suspect.”

Perry grinned. “This is the most exciting thing to happen to me in years. Ellison, you understand.”

I did. Perry fancied himself the third Hardy Boy. He was enthralled by the mystery, the thrill of the hunt. It was what kept Anarchy at his job. But Perry had lost sight of the dead man. Anarchy never forgot the victims.

“Who do you think killed Graham?” I asked.

“No idea,” Perry replied. “Not a random stranger. It was definitely one of us.”

“Thatch insisted that Graham be invited.”

“Did he?” Now Perry’s tone gave nothing away.

I did not, for one second, believe Perry was ignorant of that fact. "Were there any problems between Graham and Thatch, aside from vying for the managing partner job?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“How long has Thatch been managing partner?”

Perry tilted his head and frowned. “Three or four years.”

That long? “You’d think he'd want to step down.”

“I know I would,” Perry agreed.

“So why not let Graham have a turn?”

“You'd have to ask Thatch.”

“More wine?” asked Liz.

My glass was empty a second time. How had that happened? “No, thank you." I stood. "I need to clean up before dinner.”

“So you’re going?” asked Liz.

“Aren’t you?”

She glanced at her husband.

He grinned. “We wouldn’t miss it. The killer might crack under pressure and confess.”

I wasn’t holding my breath on that.

Chapter Nine

The mouthwatering scent of pork ribs and slow-smoked brisket lured Anarchy and me to dinner. We arrived at the picnic table at the same time as Liz and Perry and Willa and Thatch.

The women oohed and aahed over each other’s dresses. I wore an off the shoulder maxi dress embroidered with a garden’s worth of flowers. The frock would have looked like ten million dollars with strappy sandals. I didn’t care. My boots protected my feet and ankles from snake bites.

Liz wore white (a brave choice when barbeque was on the menu). The cotton dress had a square neckline and angel sleeves. Those flowing sleeves were another brave choice. Two words. Barbeque sauce.

Willa, who wore a seersucker shift, had caught her hair into a cool, elegant French twist. She leveled a stern gaze at the men in the group. “There will be no men at one end of the table, women at the other, tonight. Thatch and Perry, you sit with Ellison down there.” She pointed. “Liz and I will sit with Anarchy.”

We did as we were told.

A patchwork plaid cloth covered the picnic table and sweating mason jars filled with ice water waited at each setting. Fresh Queen Anne’s lace and daisy made up the centerpieces.

I sat and reached for my water.