LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 6

      From my kneeling position, I noticed something else on the ground behind the bar—a long-handled cast-iron skillet like the one that Nina and I had rehung the night before in Rich’s cottage.

      I stood, yanked my phone out of my apron pocket, tapped 911, and gave the dispatcher Rich’s address. “There’s a man here without apparent vital signs. Please send an ambulance and police officers.” I glowered at the skillet. “I think the man might have been attacked.” My voice cracked. I wanted to be outside that tent. I wanted to be far away. I wished I had never agreed to bring donuts to Rich’s party. I wished I hadn’t come....

      A paddle banged against a canoe again, maybe farther away than the first time. Even if mist hadn’t concealed any boaters who might be out on the lake, I wouldn’t be able to identify a boat or a person through the tent’s vinyl windows. They blurred and distorted everything.

      “The officers and ambulance are on their way,” the dispatcher said. “Stay on the line, please.”

      “Okay.” My phone against my ear, I bent to study a piece of paper near Rich’s hand. The paper was wrinkled, as if Rich had been clutching it when he fell. A black felt-tip marker lay nearby.

      Without touching the paper, I read what I could. It was a to-do list written in thick marker like the printing in the rental notebook at Rich’s cottage. Items were checked off in the same black ink: turn on electricity to tent at ten twenty-five, check; send Terri away at ten twenty-eight, check; caterers preliminary visit ten thirty to eleven, check; donuts and coffee at eleven fifty-five, blank; guests begin arriving at noon, blank; caterers return with last-minute food by twelve twenty-five, blank.

      The top of the list was too wadded up to be readable, but I knew not to disturb what I strongly suspected was a crime scene, and I didn’t dare touch the list or smooth it to decipher it.

      I moved to the tablecloth where the guest list was taped. With the back of one fingernail, I lifted the bottom of the piece of paper. Nothing was written on the other side. Why did the guest list have only about twenty names while there was seating for thirty-six people around tables in the back of the festive tent?

      I had clearly heard Rich invite Cheryl and Steve, but their names were not on the list. Had Rich gone around inviting people at the last minute? Maybe he had ordered food and seating for more people than had accepted his invitation, which could have been why he’d been eager to invite Cheryl and Steve although he barely knew Cheryl and had merely been introduced to Steve.

      The guest list was in an airy, feminine handwriting that was nothing like the dark printing and check marks on Rich’s to-do list and the printing in his rental notebook. The first name on the guest list was Terri Estable. The curlicued top of the T swept, tentlike, above the entire length of her name.

      Hoping to catch a glimpse of the canoe I thought I’d heard, I eased out of the tent. I kept the phone next to my ear while I walked across the flat lower section of the lawn to Rich’s high-tech dock. Setting my sneakered feet down as quietly as I could on the synthetic planks, I made my way to the end of the dock. Ripples tapped at its supports. Out on the lake, thick mist hugged the surface of the water. The air smelled cold and watery. Beyond the cloud-like fog, I could see only the tops of trees around other sides of Lake Fleekom. Mist filmed the neighbor’s dock and the tall cedar hedge separating that property from Rich’s.

      I turned around. Maybe if I stared hard enough to bring the hazy forest beyond the tent into focus, my hearing would sharpen also, and I would be able to distinguish the subtle sounds of a possible attacker slinking away through the underbrush.

      A car door slammed. My heart racing and the soles of my sneakers pounding the dock, I ran back to land. The police already?

      In a lacy pink dress and shiny black patent heels, Cheryl was mincing down the hilly part of the lawn toward the tent.

      I called out, “Stay there!” I hadn’t run far, but I was out of breath.

      The 911 dispatcher asked, “Are you all right?”

      My hand hurt from clutching my phone. “I’m fine. The deceased was throwing a party that was to begin at noon, and a guest has arrived. I’m going to try to keep her and the others away from the deceased.”

      “Excellent. If there might be an attacker around, don’t take risks.”

      I promised that I wouldn’t and went up to meet Cheryl, who had obediently stopped when I told her to and was gazing uncertainly at me. “The party is canceled,” I explained.

      Those usually benign and grandmotherly blue eyes could be shrewd. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it, Emily?” She reached out and gave my free hand a consoling squeeze.

      I closed my eyes for only as long as it took to inhale. “I can’t talk about it, but I need to stay here. Would you mind telling anyone else who arrives that the party is canceled, and they should leave? That doesn’t include first responders but does include any caterers who might arrive. Tell the caterers not to unload anything.”

      “I’ll do my best.” She was still holding my hand. “You take care, Emily.”

      I thanked her. We let go of each other, and she started up the hill toward Rich’s driveway.

      Feeling sorry for myself because I couldn’t have kept the empathetic woman with me for company, I returned to the doorway of the tent and stared at the beautiful setup for a seventieth birthday party that would never happen. The inside of the tent was silent except for occasional burbles from the slow cooker of Boston baked beans.

      Earlier, those beans had smelled delicious. They no longer did.

      “Need a hand?” someone asked behind me. I whipped around. It was Cheryl’s date, Steve. Like Cheryl, he was dressed for an afternoon garden party. He was wearing new-looking loafers, black slacks, and a dark burgundy dress shirt.

      Doing my best to dissuade him from coming closer, I walked a few steps away from the tent’s entryway. “Can you help Cheryl?” She was up on the driveway beside the driver’s window of a white van with the Cat’s Catering logo on its side. She shook her head. More cars pulled into the circular driveway, and I thought I heard a motorcycle. Its engine revved and went quiet. “She looks a little frantic up there,” I said to Steve. “She’s trying to send the caterers away and tell other people that the party is canceled.”

      “Why?”

      I didn’t know how much Cheryl had told him about what I’d said, so I gave him only a short answer. “I’ll explain later.”

      “Okay.” He turned around and sauntered up the hill.

      Wearing

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