“Humor me.”

“It’s a common business practice.”

I lifted my brows.

Perry huffed his displeasure. “Fine. The policies were Thatch’s idea.”

Of course they were. “The amount seems excessive.”

“A million dollars?”

“A million?” I shook my head. “Thatch told the sheriff that you, Gregory Frasier, and Graham were insured for five million. Each.”

For a long second, Perry didn’t move. Didn’t react. “I must have misunderstood.”

“A four-million-dollar misunderstanding?” That seemed highly unlikely.

“We approved a budget for insurance. Maybe he got a deal on the premiums and could afford more coverage.”

More wishful thinking.

The headache bloomed inside my skull. “Do you think he might have killed Graham?”

“Of course not.” Perry was a loyal friend. Better than Thatch deserved.

I wasn’t nearly as convinced. It was too easy to imagine Thatch shooting Graham. “Then who?”

“I don’t know. I sat at the brunch table earlier today and wondered who among us was the killer. I could hardly eat.” He offered me a rueful smile. “And Misty’s food is always amazing.”

Misty. I should have found her immediately after I talked to Liz. I stood. “Perry, would you please excuse me?”

“Did you figure something out?” He rose from the bench.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He looked curious, as if he wanted an explanation.

But I wouldn’t betray Liz’s trust, not if I didn’t have to. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I hurried to the clubhouse kitchen, where I found Misty scrubbing the porcelain sink with Comet and a yellow sponge.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jones.” She turned on the tap and rinsed.

“Where is your staff?” They ought to be helping her.

“They left within thirty seconds of the sheriff giving his permission. Not that I blame them.”

Nor did I. They hadn’t hired on for a weekend of murder. “Do you have a moment?”

“I’m almost done cleaning. Is there something wrong?” She squeezed the sponge, tossed it into the sink, and faced me.

“I wouldn’t ask, but two people are dead.”

She gave me an I’m-well-aware look and leaned against the counter.

Sweat trickled between my breasts and beaded at my hairline. Was there a tactful way to ask?

Misty tilted her head. “What’s your question?”

“You and Graham Landingham?”

She didn’t move. Not a muscle. Then she found a fascinating spot on the ceiling and stared at it. “What do you mean?”

“You had a relationship?”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing. Instead, she stared at the ceiling as if her life depended on it. Long seconds passed.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and waited.

Finally, she nodded. “How did you find out?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t suppose it does.”

“For how long?”