Back in Chilson, Rafe abandoned me in favor of watching football with friends, and I went to spend my Sunday evening in the normal way, by hanging out in Kristen’s office at Three Seasons, having crème brûlée served to us by Harvey, her loyal sous-chef.

Kristen, who had been oddly cranky all Friday evening, seemed to have recovered her normal good spirits. “Harvey!” she shouted into the phone. “Where are they?”

“Right here, milady.” Harvey swept into the small room, a tray balanced on one upturned hand, carrying a tray stand in the other, a white linen towel draped over his upraised arm.

Over the years, Harvey’s crème brûlée presentation had evolved to be a Downton Abbey version of dessert, and tonight he’d upped his game, having changed from his normal white jacket and black-and-white-checked pants into black pants, black cutaway jacket, striped vest, white shirt, and black bow tie.

Where he’d come up with the costume I did not know, but the fit was so good it could have been custom ordered. Well, other than the pants being a bit short, but I mentally gave him a score of ten for the effort.

Kristen, much like the Dowager Countess, didn’t bat an eye as Harvey set up the stand, placed the tray, and delivered the desserts. “Thank you, Harvey,” she said. “If we need anything else, I’ll ring.”

“Yes, milady.” He bowed and swept out, closing the door behind him so softly it made no sound.

I tapped the crystallized sugar with the back of my spoon, enjoying the dull thud, and tipped my head toward the door. “I think he’s maxed out. What can he do to top this?”

Kristen laughed. “Can’t wait to find out. What he wants is for me to break, and you know I won’t do that.”

“You won’t want to, anyway.” I plunged my spoon through the sugar layer and into the delectable custard. “One of these days he’ll come up with something that’ll crack that stone face of yours.”

“Not a chance.” She eyed the dessert as critically as only a restaurateur can and picked up her own spoon. “But what I really want to know is if you’ve done anything about finding Brown’s killer.”

I frowned. “If I recall correctly, not so very long ago, you were telling me to stay out of murder investigations. That we have law enforcement officers for a reason, and that they’re highly trained whereas I am not.”

“Did I say that?” Kristen squinted at the ceiling. “If I did, it was before and not now. This is different. Brown was a friend of my dad’s. Besides, you know you want to prove Ash wrong.”