The woman nodded. She was short and plump, with dark-brown shoulder-length hair, big brown eyes and a pronounced dimple at the center of her chin. She had a handbag draped over her shoulder and was clutching an orange plastic bag with both hands. From the way she held it, Charlie deduced that it contained something important. It looked, through the semi-transparent bag, like books.

“Have a seat. She’ll come over and take your order—in between the verse and the chorus.”

Melissa didn’t sit down. She eyed Fortunata nervously, wincing when she hit a high note. “Shouldn’t we go somewhere quieter?”

“How about the police station?”

Melissa looked shocked, as if Charlie had suggested a brothel. “I told you, I don’t want to go there. Once was enough. I agreed to meet for a chat, not an official interview.”

Charlie nodded. She had no idea what Melissa imagined the difference was, but she didn’t intend to set her straight—not before she’d found out what was in the orange bag. “Then here’s as good a place as any. And they do the best cakes,” she said, pointing at the crumbs on her plate.

Melissa sat down opposite her, a defeated expression on her face. Charlie thought she recognized the personality type: obedient, afraid of authority, a tendency to repress resentment—something that grows ever harder, the more of it you do.

“So, let’s start chatting straightaway. I hear you don’t have an alibi for last Monday morning.”

“I do,” Melissa said. “I was working. At home. It’s not my fault that I work from home. Plenty of people do and they aren’t all murderers.”

“Between eight thirty and ten thirty A.M. you had no phone calls, sent no emails, no texts?”

“No, I didn’t. I was doing paperwork. Involving paper, not online. How do you know all this, anyway?”

“From speaking to colleagues,” said Charlie. “Sorry, is this not the kind of chat you wanted to have? What did you want to talk about?”

“Nothing. You asked to meet me, remember?” Melissa slid the orange plastic bag off her lap and onto the floor under the table. The harsher Charlie was, the farther away the contents of that bag were going to get. Time to be diplomatic.

“Fair enough. We have to ask these things, you know. I kind of got the impression you’d brought something to show me?” Charlie smiled.

“No,” said Melissa flatly.

Liar.

Mentally, Charlie kicked herself for being too confrontational too soon. Why had she made such a stupid mistake? Blaming it on Melissa was too easy, but . . . there was something about the woman sitting across the table from her that made Charlie’s skin prickle. She didn’t like her.

Because she trespassed, like Liv. She married her best friend’s brother. Psychology 101.