“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“Lighten up, Ellison. Can't you take a joke?” Which was exactly what people said when they’d crossed a line and didn’t want to be held accountable.

I forced a pleasant smile. “What are your theories, Thatch? Who killed Graham?”

Thatch glanced around the table, then grinned. "One of us."

Misty, who’d appeared with a pitcher, refilled my glass. Water splashed the tablecloth. Her hand shook as she put Buffy’s beer on the table. Next she served Mel’s gin and tonic, and finally, the men their bourbon. Then, she hurried away.

Thatch took a sip of his drink, then called to the other end of the table, “Jones, do you have a suspect?”

“Still plenty of options,” Anarchy replied.

“Have you cleared anyone?”

The two men stared at each other, and Anarchy said, “Not yet.”

Thatch laughed as Mel spluttered gin.

“What does he mean?” She scowled at me. “Fred and I have alibis.”

“You’re married,” said Buffy.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your alibi would be worth more if someone else saw you.”

Mel twisted the napkin in her lap until it looked like a piece of rope. “It was barely dawn. We were asleep. Who else would see us?”

“Ellison saw Misty,” said Buffy.

Mel snorted. “That’s because Ellison has an unhealthy relationship with coffee.”

Hey, now.

“Bill saw Misty,” said Thatch. “Up early with the pretty caterer.”

Buffy’s face flushed a deep red.

Thatch was an ass. I glared at him. “Bill got coffee, then he went fishing.”

Perry took in Buffy’s complexion and said, “Ease up, Thatch.” His voice was quiet but firm.

“Sorry, Buffy. I guess we’re all a bit on edge.” Thatch’s unrepentant smirk belied his apology.

“We are,” said Buffy. “On edge.” She’d let him off the hook, but she looked as if she might cry.

“We’re not used to murder like Ellison,” said Perry.

I dug my elbow into his ribs. I would have jabbed him harder, but I sensed he was trying to distract Buffy.

“Oof!”

“Serves you right.”

“How did your elbow get so pointy?” He rubbed his side. “Gain some weight woman.”

“Liz,” I called. “Your husband says the nicest things. I’m keeping him.”

Anarchy raised his brows. “There’s no room in the cabin.”

“Sorry, Perry.” I held up my hands in apology. “Anarchy says I can’t keep you.”

He grinned. “Story of my life.”

“You’re very disrespectful.” Merit, who’d arrived late, wore a pinched expression.

“We need a break from sadness,” I replied.

“No one at this table is sad.” Merit made an excellent point. We were horrified or sickened or secretly glad. But no one grieved Graham.

“I should have said, we need a break from horror.” Because murder was horrible.

She sniffed. “Is there anything here I can eat?”