“What’s Cate’s specialty?”

“Eating.”

He snorted out a laugh as he set two mugs by the coffeemaker. “I like her already. I assume your dad is Irish?”

“Yes. First generation.”

“How did your parents meet?”

“In grad school in England. Mom was studying classical languages and literature, Dad was getting his degree in archaeology. Right now, he’s doing a visiting professorship at Cambridge. But he stayed close to home during our younger days. You’ll meet him at Cate’s wedding, if you’re still willing to subject yourself to a family event.”

“It’s written in ink on my calendar.” He motioned to the hall. “Would you like a tour of the house while the coffee brews?”

“Sure.”

She accompanied him through the rooms that were in various stages of completion.

“What drew you to this house?” Grace moved toward the large window in the master bedroom, skirting the king-sized bed that dominated the bare-bones, blank-walled space.

“The design will allow me to expand beyond three bedrooms if necessary, and I liked the big yard with the field behind it, where kids could play. The large kitchen was also a selling point. It reminded me of my growing-up years when we gathered for meals. A rare family occurrence these days, from everything I hear—more’s the pity.”

She smiled at him across the room. “I like how you think.” A spark of electricity zipped between them, but before it could ignite, she cleared her throat and waved a hand over the walls. “I like the soft dove gray. It’s restful.”

“That’s what the guy who recommended it at the paint store said.” But as far as he was concerned, gray was gray. His decorating skills didn’t extend to nuances like shades of color. “Let me show you my current project.” He motioned toward the hall and led her to the room where he’d deposited his painting supplies.

After he told her the story about the claw marks, she entered to examine the repaired drywall up close. “Don’t ever tell Eve I said this, but in a patching contest between the two of you, you’d win.”

“My lips are sealed.”

She perused his supplies, then bent down and picked up a jar, eyebrows peaking as she turned to him. “What’s with the formalin?”

Whoops.

He’d forgotten all about that.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Shoved his hands in his pockets. May as well own up. “I asked Russ for a few jars. I’ve been putting them around the room while I work. The paint smell offsets the odor somewhat, and I’m hoping the diluted scent will help desensitize me.”

“Is it working?”

“I haven’t lost my dinner yet.”

“Clever idea.”

“The real test will be at an autopsy, when I have to inhale the stuff at full strength.”

“You’re welcome to sit in on any of mine and measure the success of your experiment.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You ready for coffee?”

“Yes.”

They returned to the kitchen, where baklava and business awaited them.