There was a familiar-looking truck waiting at the stop sign. I was sort of sure it was the same truck that had been in the driveway when I’d stopped to talk to Lindy the first time. And as we drove past, I took a hard look at the driver.

Bob. Bob Bernier.

Once again, Bob was spending time with the newly widowed Lindy. Was he just being a good brother-in-law, trying to help? Or was he trying to worm his way into her affections? And if so, had he killed his own brother to clear the way?

I didn’t want to think so, but the possibility seemed to be getting more and more real.

*   *   *

Kristen eyed our foursome with a grim countenance. “I suppose you want to look at menus.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Aunt Frances said.

Otto smiled. “Can’t think why we’d bother.”

“Haven’t done in years,” I said.

We all looked at Rafe, who actually opened his mouth.

“Can I—”

“No,” Kristen snapped, “you can’t. You’ll eat what I order and you’ll like it.”

“But—”

She whipped around and stalked off.

“Huh.” Rafe watched her go. “Is it just me, or does The Tall Blonde seem more irritable than usual?”

I’d been wondering the same thing. “She wasn’t cranky during Sunday dessert. Maybe it’s just you.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, nodding.

He absolutely did not. Rafe had to be on the top ten list of Easy to Work With. Kristen and I were pretty much the only two people who found him occasionally annoying, and that was because the three of us had been friends for so long, which created special circumstances.

“Not sure what I did this time,” he said.

Aunt Frances smiled. “Your mistake is thinking that you did something. It could just as easily be something you didn’t do.”

“Or something you didn’t do quite right,” Otto added.

Kristen, though she’d originally waited on us, was now sending the wine steward in our direction. As I was immune to the intricacies of wine-food pairing, I quickly tuned out the sommelier and, instead of paying attention to her descriptions, surreptitiously looked around to take in the restaurant that my best friend had created.

Three Seasons was the former summer residence of a long-gone wealthy family. It had been a bed-and-breakfast when Kristen had snapped up the five-thousand-square-foot building and converted it into what it was today. Kristen had championed the farm-to-table movement before it had been given a name, and she’d stayed true to her original vision. The result was more than a restaurant; it was a destination. It was a sort of community. It was becoming intertwined with the identity of Chilson, and I was so proud of Kristen that I could get all sniffly thinking about it.