“Girl, you’re not kidding. All that dark hair, muscle and swagger? Mmm-mmm-mmm.” She spun, put her feet on the floor and grinned up at Cassie. “You know, I never thought I’d say I was a fan of drama, but this whole murder debacle has its benefits.”

“Ha!” Cassie kicked off the black flats she’d paired with her khaki capris and black station polo shirt and padded to the kitchen. “You’re always a fan of drama.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Aunt Frieda, I called you four days ago and told you you had to leave your house because I’d caught the eye of a killer, and you responded like I’d invited you to take a weeklong vacation on the Riviera. By the time you walked through the door, you were practically dancing and flirting with Patrick. If that’s not a love for drama I don’t know what it is.” She jerked open the refrigerator door and studied the multitude of leftovers stored inside.

Frieda stood and headed her way. “So, I’ve got an adventurous spirit. What’s wrong with that? Plus, you know I’m a huge buttinsky with your love life. Do you really think I’m going to pass up an opportunity to get a front row seat while my future nephew-by-marriage sweeps my niece off her feet?” She slid in front of Cassie, grabbed an already opened bottle of white wine and shut the door before Cassie could grab anything. “By the way, no snacking. Dinner’s in the main house in thirty minutes.”

“Again? And drop it with the marriage stuff. We just started dating.”

“Trust me, kiddo. You’re way past dating.” Frieda snagged a stemless wineglass from the cabinet and unplugged the cork from the wine bottle. “And yes, dinner every night at six thirty is a standing engagement around here. Olga’s doing Mexican tonight. Enchilada casseroles—beef and chicken—frijoles á la charra and Spanish rice. I helped her practice on the churros for dessert this morning. Turns out they make for great breakfast snacks, too.” She turned and lifted her glass in salute. “The woman can cook.”

Cassie snatched Frieda’s wine before she could pull it out of reach, dragged a chair from the kitchen table and settled in. “You two are awfully chummy these days.”

Frieda harrumphed, turned for another glass and went about pouring another for herself. “What’s not to get chummy about? You wouldn’t believe some of the stories she tells. Chefs she’s worked with. Mob bosses she’s cooked for. Stuff she’s seen, but pretended not to.” She turned and leaned one hip against the counter. “Makes my time in New Orleans look like a trip to pre-K.”

It hit her all at once. A huge, weighted deluge of emotion that poured over her like cold molasses. Maybe it was the aftereffects of spending four hours in the afternoon heat, or just the cumulative stress of holding her shit together for more days than she could count, but suddenly she was just too tired for everything.

She shook her head, sighed and stared at her glass atop the table’s whitewash surface. “I don’t know how you do it.”