The prospect lightened my heart, and I bounded out of bed, into the shower, and down the stairs with an energy that I hoped would last the rest of my life. In the kitchen, I displayed my cooking skills by pushing the button on the coffeepot with one index finger and the start button on the microwave with the other index finger at the exact same time. “Ta-da!” I said. “See what I did there?”

Eddie, who was sitting in his new favorite spot on the wide kitchen windowsill, yawned in my general direction.

Rafe’s attention was ninety percent focused on yesterday’s sports section, five percent focused on his bowl of cereal, and one percent focused on Eddie, leaving about four percent for me. “What did you do?” he asked vaguely.

He hadn’t looked up during my culinary accomplishment, so I felt free to make a face at him. “Never mind,” I said loftily. “It was a one-time thing. Not to be experienced again in your lifetime.” The microwave beeped. I took out my oatmeal, added a small spoonful of brown sugar, then another because if I wanted my energy to continue I had to feed it, and topped the whole thing with blueberries.

I added cream and coffee to my mug and took mug and bowl to sit next to my beloved, whose face was still buried in the newspaper. “Hey,” I said, poking at the newsprint with my elbow. “Pay attention to me.”

“Me who?” he asked. But he tossed the paper aside. “What’s your plan today?”

“Well . . .” I glanced at him sideways. “You still planning to work on drywalling the basement?”

He nodded. “I can do the walls myself, but I need help with the ceiling. Once trout season starts up, we’re out of luck for getting help.”

That “we” was a little inclusive for my taste. Though I enjoyed doing most home improvement projects, drywalling was a notable exception. I did wonder, given that fishing season dates were set in stone and therefore completely foreseeable, why Rafe had waited until two weeks before the trout opener to buy drywall. Then again, there were things I was better off not knowing, so I nodded and said, “Since you’re not going to need my help, I think I’ll head up to Breece Farms.”

“Minnie—”

I cut across Rafe’s objections. “Last night when I told you what I’d learned about Ian Breece, you said that no way could he have killed anyone. That he was too nice a guy. So how can you say I shouldn’t go up to the farm and buy some fresh . . . um, some fresh . . .” I tried to think of something a northern Michigan farm might sell in mid-April. “Maple syrup. And maybe they have some early lettuce. We should eat more greens, right?”