“Undines.” He ran a hand over his chin. I couldn’t help but notice that his stubble was gone. “God help us. That’ll stand up in court.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, Chief says we ought to have the autopsy report tomorrow. Hopefully, that’ll give us something more substantial to go on.”

My stomach grumbled. “Can we still get dinner?”

“Yeah.” Cody’s expression eased into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I think we’d better. I’m starving.”

“Me, too.” Unable to resist, I brushed the line of his jaw with one fingertip. “Plus, you shaved, didn’t you?”

“I might have,” he admitted.

“And you smell good.” I did successfully resist the urge to sniff his neck. Yay for me! “Is that aftershave? What is it?”

“Ralph Lauren’s Polo.” Cody made a face. “It was a gift, okay? No special occasion—I just didn’t want it to go to waste. Don’t read anything into it.”

“I won’t.” I paused. “A gift from a lady friend?”

He wagged a finger at me. “None of your business, Pixy Stix. C’mon; let’s get a bite to eat.”

It was a nice piece of lighthearted banter and a welcome counterbalance to the day’s grave revelations. And on that note, both of us exited the Honda and headed for the door of Callahan’s . . .

. . . just in time to encounter Jen and her friend Greta Hasselmeyer standing on the sidewalk and staring at us, having just emerged from the café.

Oh, crap.

“Hey!” My voice came out overbright and chipper. “Oh, hey, Jen!” I cleared my throat. “I’ve been trying to call you. Did you get my message?”

She continued to stare at me for a long moment, then slowly and deliberately shifted her gaze from me to Cody and back. “Yeah.” Her tone was flat. “Thanks. I got it. Loud and clear, Daise.”

I winced. “It’s not—”

Jen held one hand out. “Whatever.”

“It’s just work!” I protested.

She walked away without a word, her dark, shining hair hanging down her back and swaying like a river. A pissed-off river. Greta Hasselmeyer, who worked alongside Jen in the Cassopolis family industry of caretaking and cleaning for the privileged and wealthy, folded her arms over her chest and shook her head, voicing her disapproval in equal silence.

I probably shouldn’t have stroked Cody’s jaw.

Crap.

We entered the café and took seats across from each other in a corner booth. “Sorry,” I muttered.

“Not your fault.” Cody studied the menu, although, like me, he probably had it memorized. “I called her. She wasn’t too thrilled by the ‘it’s not you; it’s me’ routine.”

“I know.”

He glanced up at me. “Oh?”

I pretended to study the menu, too. “It is my fault. I shouldn’t have intervened.”

“You did it for the right reasons.”

I coughed. “Not entirely.”

“Oh?”