“Pineapple upside-down cake. It was Graham’s favorite. Misty served it Friday night.”

Liz refolded a perfectly folded shirt. "It wasn’t kind of us. And I’m not proud of what we did, but we didn’t kill Graham. Or Buffy."

“Thatch and Perry knew your plan?”

“Not Perry. I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know about Misty. And he has too much integrity to…” her voice petered out.

She thought Perry had too much integrity to hire Graham’s mistress as a caterer when it might hurt Sumner. I didn’t say that. “How did you find out about Graham and Misty?”

“Thatch told Willa.”

“How did Thatch know?”

“Every Thursday afternoon, Graham left work early. Thatch got curious and had him followed.”

Graham was an unpleasant man. Thatch wasn’t much better. He might be worse. It seemed entirely possible that he’d killed Graham, then roped Willa into killing Buffy.

Liz put the shirt she’d folded three times now into the suitcase. “What now?”

“I honestly don’t know.” The murders and the snake bite and the lies were all muddled in my head.

“Perry will be disappointed. In me.” Her gaze held a plea.

She wasn’t worried about the sheriff or his suspicions. She worried about her husband’s good opinion.

“He’s a smart man. He might already suspect.”

“Suspecting and knowing are very different things.”

She was right. “I’ll try to keep this quiet. But if it has anything to do with the murders…”

“I understand.” She hugged me. “Thank you.”

“I’ll let you finish packing.” As I walked away, our conversation niggled at me. I’d missed something. I was sure of it.

Chapter Fifteen

For the first time this weekend, the heat didn’t bother me. Inside, I was so cold, the soaring temperature couldn’t touch me.

I trudged to the gazebo, collapsed onto a bench at the deserted picnic table, and thought about Willa Cooke.

Had she lured Buffy to her death? Had she been the one to slide the knife into Buffy’s stomach?

The first tendrils of a headache sprouted in my brain. I couldn’t think about Willa. I couldn’t.

Instead, I put myself in Buffy’s shoes on the morning of Graham’s murder.

As Bill left, she'd slipped out of bed, pulled on clothes and boots (because she was as afraid of snakes as I was), and followed him.

She'd watched as he made his way to the clubhouse.

That much I knew. What then?

Had she hidden in the shadows in case he turned around?

Had the sweet morning air smelled bitter? Had she startled at each sound?

I bet she hated sneaking after him. Maybe even hated herself for doing it.

Bill hadn’t stayed long in the clubhouse. A few minutes. Just enough time to exchange a few words with Misty and a fill a thermos with coffee.