There was a shuffle and a creak, and the door slowly opened to reveal my gran’s BFF.

Hattie Estella Creston-Marteau was not much taller than my gran had been, barely coming up to my chin. She had a perfect puff of white hair that distinctly reminded me of a Q-tip. I smiled and resisted the urge to pat her on the top of the head. I’d done it once and she’d ignored me for a month.

Not a good thing when she was one of the best bakers in town. “Breena?”

“Hey, I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop in for a visit.”

Her smile cut through the years and she laughed as she tugged me inside. “Oh, my girl! What are you doing here? Are you visiting long? Or finally come to pay respects to Celia?”

I followed her into the house and tried not to wrinkle my nose in horror. The messiness didn’t faze me—the place had always been messy—but the smell was making my eyes water. The sharp tang of saltwater and something fishy that was brutally strong. Like the smell of burning oil, it clung to the inside of my nose. “Hattie, what is that?”

“Oh, I’m doing some canning. Fish.” She pointed at the kitchen and indeed I could hear the bubbling of water.

I grimaced, but followed her to her “sunroom,” which was really just a space off the side of the house where she’d put one of those cheap tents up as a roof. Another person waited for us there. My stomach clenched and I had to fight not to grimace through my words.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had company. I can come back.”

“No, darling girl, you stay. Missy here was just leaving anyhoo.” Hattie made a shooing motion to Missy. Not quite as aged as Hattie, Missy was the third in Gran’s trio of friends.

I put a hand to my butt cheek involuntarily. The fierce old lady had smacked me more than once with the sharp walking stick she carried around but didn’t actually need—always when Gran wasn’t looking, never hard enough to leave any evidence.

My eyes narrowed as I forced a smile to my tight mouth. “Missy. How lovely to see you on this side of the grave. I’m surprised.” That someone hadn’t killed her yet.

Missy returned the look in spades. Her hair hadn’t gone a solid silver, like Gran’s, or a perfect white, like Hattie’s. No, Missy’s hair was streaked, and the jet-black strands that made up most of it were still as dark as ever. Her eyes were a light brown that I’d always had trouble reading. “Funny,” she drawled, “I was thinking the same thing. Living in the big city must be mighty dangerous. Surprised a mite like you could make it out alive.”