I replaced the receiver and considered calling Mother. I owed her a debt of gratitude. But little-to-no sleep and two massive adrenalin jolts had left me feeling jittery and weak. And that was no condition for dealing with Mother. Then there was the shaking in my hands, which had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the amount of coffee I’d guzzled while waiting for the police and talking to Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head.

Something solid in my stomach wouldn’t be amiss.

I’d call Mother when I felt better.

Bear and I headed to the kitchen, where Misty was taking a sheet pan from the oven. She looked at the dog, raised a brow, but withheld comment.

“Whatever that is, it smells divine.”

“Thank you. I made biscuits. Would you like one? I have honey butter and homemade strawberry jam.”

“Yes, please.”

She nodded at a long pine table surrounded by mismatched chairs. “Coffee?”

“Tempting, but I might have heart palpitations if I drink more caffeine." I sat at the table and breathed the heavenly aroma of Misty’s baked goods.

Bear dropped on the floor next to me.

“A glass of water?” she asked.

“That would be lovely.”

She poured my drink, put it on the table in front of me, then glanced out the window at the parking lot. “Two deputies, today.”

“One for each murder.”

She stiffened. “Two murders?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head had been in and out of the clubhouse, and he was neither quiet nor discreet.

“I didn’t know. Who?”

“Buffy Geller.”

She pulled out a chair from the table. “Do you mind if I sit? What happened?”

“My husband and I found her this morning. She'd been stabbed.”

Misty gasped and pressed her fingers to her suddenly pale cheeks.

“Is something wrong?”

She glanced at the counter, then her worried gaze found mine. “One of my knives is missing.”

That wasn’t good. “When did you notice it was gone?”

“When I came in this morning.”

I glanced at the tray of cooling biscuits. “You came in and checked your knives?”

“I chopped peppers and mushrooms for a strata.”

“Is anything else missing?”

“Not that I can tell.” She stared at the table’s scarred surface. “Randy keeps the place locked at night. There’s a display of antique shotguns that are apparently quite valuable. But, when I arrived this morning, the back door was unlocked.”

I made a mental note to ask Randy about that. “Do you normally leave your knives in the kitchen overnight?” Aggie’s beau, Mac, was also a professional chef, and he was a bit obsessive about his knives.

“I figured they were safe, and I don’t need them at the lodge.”

“Are they a set?”

“Yes.” That meant the handles to each blade would look alike.

“You’re sure the missing knife was with the others last night?”

“Positive.” She gulped. “You don’t think the killer used my knife?”