“Food is made to be eaten.” Kristen leaned forward with a fork in hand. With one firm swoosh, she sliced through my dessert from top to bottom, then made another cut to create a bite-sized wedge. “There. Now can you eat it?”

“You are the best friend ever.”

“In the history of the world, yeah, yeah, I know.” She snorted. “If I was really that good a friend I would have been taking better care of you. That ring finger of yours is still empty and you’re still on that haven of seasickness you call a houseboat. Yet I bet you will come to Rafe’s defense if I even hint at criticizing him.”

“Naturally. Now you have to be quiet while I eat,” I said, and took a bite of the new dessert. Taste, texture, presentation—it had it all. I chewed, swallowed, frowned. Took another bite and repeated the process. After the third sequence, I sat back and gave her a long look. “People will drive a hundred miles, one way, to eat this. Best ever.”

She blew out a huge breath. “You did that on purpose. Drawing it out so I had to wait for your opinion.”

“That’s what happens when you criticize my fiancé without me criticizing him first.”

Laughing, she said, “Fair enough. Say, have you made any progress finding out who killed Brown?”

I’d moved to the back of my brain the knowledge that Brown and Kristen’s dad and been poker-playing buddies, and that I should have been keeping her up to date with what Tabitha and I had found out. Bad Minnie, for assuming Kristen had too much going on with closing the restaurant for the year to want to hear about an amateur murder investigation. “In some ways, no. In lots of ways, yes.”

Kristen made wiggling motions with her fingers. “Talk to me, Hamilton. You know saying stuff out loud helps you think through things.”

She was right; it did. Or at least it usually did. But when our plates were empty and our after-dessert coffee gone, I’d told her everything, and not a single spark of an idea had come to life.

*   *   *

Later, back at the houseboat, Eddie and I sat side by side on the dining table’s bench seat. I looked at him and said, “You know, there is one thing I didn’t tell her.”

“Mrr?”

I rubbed him behind the ear because he was tipping his head to the side in a way that could only mean, Rub my ear, please. Although I was probably imagining the “please” part.

“When Mitchell cornered me yesterday, something he said made me wonder if the connection between the murders of Brown and Emily is more than the bike club. What if it’s because both of them recently retired? What if—”

“Mrr!”