Inspired and suddenly free of the debt she’d braced for, Cassie shut the car door, dug her keys and her phone out of her purse, then fired up the engine. She thumbed up Aunt Frieda’s number, tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled out of her parking space.

Aunt Frieda answered on the second ring. “Please, sweet Jesus, tell me you’re calling with lurid details on what happened last night instead of needing bail money for killing the reporter.”

“Neither. But I am giving you a heads-up—I’m on my way over.”

“You are? How? Your car’s on the fritz.”

“Not anymore it’s not. And better yet? I only owe fifty bucks for the repairs. Now what I need is a cocktail, a sounding board for something I’m trying to figure out, and someone to help me hash out outfit options. You game?”

As she’d hoped, Aunt Frieda shifted gears on a dime. “Sweetheart, I’m always game. I’ll be ready before you get here.”

Chapter Eight

The parmesan chicken and mushrooms had been cleared away. Only one serving of the blackberry cobbler remained on the dining room table’s whitewashed surface and everyone but Emerson was on their second cup of coffee. Kir traced the line of his mug’s handle with his thumb, nuancing the words he’d tossed around in his head all day and waiting for the right time to drop his proverbial bomb.

Emerson, who’d been on a roll for thirty minutes about the big mid-month competition in his archery class, snatched his sweet tea off the table. “Bobby thought for sure he had the whole thing wrapped up and was gonna get first prize, but then this girl, Maggie, swooped in and got three bull’s-eyes in a row. She was amazing!”

Roman grinned.

Sergei chuckled.

Evette just shook her head. “Mmm-hmm. See what happens when you underestimate the women? We slide right in outta nowhere and catch you with your pants down.”

“She speaks the truth,” Kir said. Unfortunately, there must have been a little too much sarcasm in his tone, because every head snapped his direction.

Kir picked up his coffee and tried to play it off. “What? It is a very truthful statement. Women should never be sold short. Nor should you assume you know what they’re thinking.” Especially witty, funny and charismatic ones like Cassie.

Evette pursed her mouth, just a touch of a wry grin tugging the corners. “You say that like a man who’s recently had a brush with one, Vasilek.” She planted her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “Do tell.”

It was the opening he needed and an easy one at that. All he had to do was walk right through it.

He cleared his throat and set his mug on the table. “Cassie McClintock.”

Roman, who’d been mostly silent all night, finally let loose a satisfied snigger.

“Oh, now this sounds juicy,” Evette said.

Emerson smiled big enough to show teeth and scooted close enough to the edge of his chair it was a wonder he didn’t fall off. “Oh, yeah. For realz.”