In defense of artistic endeavors everywhere, I said, “It wasn’t the pottery itself. Or the location, the instructor, or”—I took a deep breath and made myself face the brutal truth—“or even the other people taking the class. It was what I brought, the baggage I carried in with me, that turned it into a poor experience.”

My aunt looked up from the bowl of batter she was stirring and smiled. “How wise and mature of you.”

“Won’t last,” I said. “I’m sure of it.” To demonstrate the short-term length of my maturity and wisdom, I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue.

Aunt Frances shook her head and went back to stirring. Otto smiled and said, “Speaking of mature things, guess what your aunt has decided to do about her retirement plans?”

Fear clutched at me, sending an icy-cold shiver down the back of my neck. What next? Please don’t let her want to form a quilting circle. Sewing was so far outside my wheelhouse it would be on another boat altogether. Same with needlepoint, knitting, crocheting, or anything with needlelike and cloth-like objects. They were all wonderfully satisfying, beautiful, and rewarding pursuits for billions of people, but the thought of sitting down with a pair of needles and a pile of yarn made me break out in a sweat.

“Whatever it is,” I said, as bravely as I could, “I’ll be right there with you.”

My aunt eyed me. “You look a little pale. What is it you think I want to do? Cross-stitch? Well, maybe someday, but don’t worry. I know how you feel about all things sewing. Dragging you to a quilting bee wouldn’t be fun for anyone.”

I took a long sip of wine. “Good to know. What’s your new plan, then?”

“To not have any plans at all.” Aunt Frances smiled at my blank expression. “Yes, I know I was intent on finding things to occupy my time, and afraid I wouldn’t have any human contact all day other than this one.” She gave Otto a light hip check as he passed behind her. “But you know what? I was doing what I’m always telling you not to. I was worrying too much. It’ll work out.”

“It will?”

“Things tend to, if you stop poking at them with sticks. Far better to let things develop at their own pace. Forcing things rarely gets good results.”

I nodded slowly, recognizing wisdom when I heard it.

And then I tried to apply it to the problem of Ryan and Pug’s killer. Was I trying to poke that with sticks? Because it certainly seemed as if I was getting poor results. Maybe what I needed to do was let things develop at their own pace.

But . . . if I did that, what was going to happen to Ryan?

Chapter 18