BooksBarbecue
Back We Were Killers Once
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

Was I doing this to, in a way, thumb my nose at Jane’s ghost by summoning her? Or did part of me want to watch how Carlo responded, what other memories the dessert would reveal?

While a small voice in my head kept telling me to have some self-respect, I set about making the meringue clouds. My goodness, they really did look like little clouds. I put the pan in the oven and closed the door.

Felt satisfied.

Remembered that I had neglected to add sugar. That couldn’t be good.

I took the pan out of the oven, scraped all the meringue into a bowl, added the sugar, and remixed it. I was feeling less satisfied as I spooned the white crap onto the cookie sheet again, and put it back in the oven.

When they came out, they didn’t look bad at all.

The nights were chilly now even at our elevation, and Carlo made a fire in the pit on the back porch. We sat there wearing sweaters, getting extra warmth from the hot chili. We didn’t talk much. We had already talked out all the logic behind me going to Florida, how Hickock’s letter had me interested once again in the Walker case and how I could kill at least three birds with one stone, showing the letter to Meadows to see if he had any leads on where the confession might be and what it might have to do with the Walker case, finding more about Jeremiah Beaufort’s activity in Florida, and visiting Abbot Franklin. No, around 5:30 P.M. we were just a couple of old farts eating chili out of cracked ceramic bowls. No candles, no white tablecloth, no fancy dress. No romance. Who needs it?

Denial is highly underrated.

When we had finished the chili I took in the bowls, told Carlo to stay put because I had a surprise, and pushed two of the clouds onto their own dessert plates. I was glad the meringue didn’t break apart when I pushed them. That should have been my first warning.

“Want coffee?” I yelled through the open back door.

“No thanks,” he yelled back.

Romance, ha. Better this way.

I took the plates out to the table and set his down with a flourish. I admit that I watched his face to see if I could tell whether he thought of Jane. Why did I do any of that? Why would I do that to myself?

He didn’t look nostalgic for times and loves past, if there is a look for that. After commenting that it looked really good, he picked up the dessert fork and applied it to the meringue.

The meringue didn’t budge. I thought back about how I had mixed the stuff twice, once without sugar and then after I had added some. Does that do something bad?