Once the woman was buckled in, she circled the car, slid behind the wheel, and shifted the conversation to more innocuous subjects during the short drive.

As she swung onto the street Kimberly directed her to, she slowed. It was a modest neighborhood of small, older, tidy houses, where children played in the yards and the smell of grilling meat permeated the air on this Sunday afternoon.

Not the type of place a man who was quietly amassing an illegal nest egg would live—if money was the motive in the deaths of Fred and Mavis.

“It’s the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The white one with green shutters.”

Grace pulled into the driveway of the ranch home, built in the same basic design as the rest of the houses on the block.

But the lush, English-style cutting garden along the front set it apart.

“Your flowers are gorgeous.” She gave the colorful blooms filling the beds on either side of the front door an appreciative sweep. “I feel like I’m at the botanical garden in St. Louis.”

“Thank you. It’s a labor of love.”

“This is your handiwork?”

“Yes. The maintenance takes me longer than it used to, but I . . . enjoy every minute. My doctors say all the . . . bending and stooping is beneficial. Do you like flowers?”

“Love them, but I don’t have your green thumb. I also live in a rental house. There isn’t much incentive to beautify the yard. I always swing by the floral department during my grocery shopping each week, though. I like having fresh flowers on my table.”

“Let me cut you a bouquet before you go, as a thank-you for the ride.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I have several errands to run on the way home. I’m afraid the flowers would wilt in the car.” As she spoke, the wind picked up and a few drops of rain splashed on the windshield.

“With the storm coming in, it’s cooling off. They should be fine in the car. Let me give you . . . a small bouquet. Please.”

If repaying the favor placated Kimberly, why not acquiesce? “If you’re certain you can spare them, I accept. Your flowers are head-and-shoulders above store-bought stems.”

“I have plenty, as you can see.” Kimberly swept a hand over the garden. “I often take a bouquet to someone who could use a little . . . cheering up. Let me go inside and get my clippers.”

Grace followed her to the porch but waited outside while Kimberly retrieved the cutters, several damp paper towels, and a plastic bag.

Five minutes later, she was pulling out of the driveway with a magnificent bouquet of summer flowers on the seat beside her.

As the woman lifted a hand in farewell, Grace smiled and waved out the window, praying Nate’s tip was wrong.

Kimberly Mullins didn’t deserve any more heartache or pain in her life.

But if her husband was somehow involved in the deaths of Mavis and Fred, another wave of trauma was about to crash over his wife, leaving destruction in its wake.