“No, Mother.” I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands. “This is Sheriff Bascom. Sheriff, meet my mother, Frances Walford.”

The sheriff stood, and Mother looked up at him and blushed. Blushed.

He raised a brow. “The doltish deputy?”

“Deputy Kincaid,” I replied.

“Ah. Married to the mayor’s daughter.”

“That explains so much.” Not the poor woman’s taste, but it did explain how someone like Sheriff Bascom tolerated Deputy Kicked-in-the-Head. The sheriff had no choice. “Mother, I’m delighted to see you.” I really wasn’t. “But what are you doing here?”

“Grace and I were worried. We drove down.”

“Grace is here?”

“She's talking to Libba in the gazebo.”

I rose from my chair. “The killer could be in the gazebo.”

“Oh?” She lifted her brows. “You’re worried about your daughter hanging around a killer? I believe I know how that feels.”

Touché. “Grace is a child.”

“Libba will keep an eye on her.”

Libba was marvelous and funny and naughty and gorgeous and my best friend and the last person on earth who should look after an inquisitive teenager.

I looked at the sheriff. “I need to head back down to brunch.”

“I’ll join you,” said Mother. Then she smiled at the sheriff. “Are you coming with us?” Was she flirting?

“I need to make a call. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

We left him in the clubhouse, and Mother said, “Remind me who's on this trip from hell.”

“Liz and Perry Brandt.”

“Lovely people.”

“Willa and Thatch Cooke.”

“She’s a nice woman.”

“Merit and Tommy Dodson.”

Her lips pinched. Her nose wrinkled. The expression said far more than words.

“Mel and Fred Paige.”

“Have you gone shooting with her? I hear she's very good.”

“She is. Libba and Charlie.”

“Go on.”

“The Gellers.”

“Poor Bill.”

“The Landinghams.”

“What goes around, comes around.”

I stopped on the path and stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“He was a horrible man.” Mother had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead, not if she thought they deserved it. “He cheated on his first wife with that woman.” She paused and shuddered. “Those ridiculous eyelashes. Did she kill him?”

“I think she was better off with him alive.”

“You’re probably right. Graham spent money like it grew on trees. She needed him alive to make more.”

We resumed walking.

“She’s here?” Mother pointed at the gazebo. “She's at brunch? Her husband died yesterday.”

“Don’t point at her.”

Mother’s hand dropped.

“She’s got to eat. And you just finished telling me how horrible Graham was.”

Mother sniffed. “That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t mourn.”

“It looks to me like she’s mourning.” Even from a distance, I could see that Sumner's skin was sallow. Dark smudges marked the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair hung limp. “She looks like ten miles of bad road.”

Mother side-eyed me. “You may be right.”