“That night. She paid her tab and went upstairs, at well before last call. She didn’t even drink that much. Said something about needing to be sharp the next day. She made it sound like she had a big meeting.”

Sam squints. “Did she say with who?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“No. She was alive and eating breakfast the next morning when I left, around eight or so. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since. I swear.”

Sam scribbles everything onto his notepad. My heart thuds as I stare across the island at the paper, trying to read the words upside down. Something about the security cameras—a reminder to check the feed? I look at Chet, who’s turned back to the pans.

“She had a blow to her head,” Sam says, “a good-sized lump and a fresh concussion. It wasn’t what killed her, but it was hard enough to knock her out. Her lungs were full of lake.”

“Which means?” I say.

Micah answers for him. “Means she was still breathing when she went under.”

Sam confirms it with a nod. “The official cause of death was drowning.”

Micah’s gaze latches on to mine, and I must look as traumatized as I feel because he says, “She wouldn’t have felt anything, if that makes you feel better. She would have been unconscious.”

No, it doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it’s almost worse. That woman was alive when she slid into the lake. Somebody could have fished her out, given her mouth to mouth. She didn’t have to die.

“Micah’s looking for a murder weapon with a long, flat surface,” Sam says. “Most likely an oar.”

Micah makes a frustrated sound. “Good thing there aren’t many of those around here.”

Sam gives him a tight smile, but I can’t find an ounce of humor in Micah’s wisecrack. Whoever killed that poor woman did it twice—first with a whack to the head, and second by watching her sink. Whoever did it must have really wanted her dead.

My gaze creeps to Chet, but it’s just not possible. Flirting, I can believe. Clobbering her upside the head and shoving her into a freezing cold lake? No way.

I look back and Sam’s watching me. “What about Mr. Keller? Is he home?”

“No. He’s out scouting properties.” It’s an excuse I come up with on the spot, mostly for lack of anything better. Vague enough it could mean anywhere, realistic enough to be believable.

“He’s not answering our calls.”

Welcome to the club. “He’s probably out of range or something. If it makes you feel any better, he’s ignoring me, too. But I’ll make sure to tell him to give you a call the next time I talk to him.”