Beach Blanket Homicide (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 1)

“Abby was loaded, wasn’t she?”

He frowns. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess?”

He shakes his head as if to clear it. “I should be getting back on patrol. Thanks for the coffee and the muffin.”

“Right.”

I follow him out of the kitchen and back through The Bistro. He stops at the front door and turns to look at me. Boy, he’s tall. His green eyes still radiate snark, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes me feel even warmer than when we were in the kitchen.

“Even though it was a bust, thanks for talking to Sebastian. But no more pretending to be someone else. Got it?”

“Got it.” I mentally cross my fingers, because how on earth can I make a promise like that?

“And if you don’t mind, can you let me know what happens tomorrow with the dog? I’d really like to know if Abby had a legit claim to him.”

I bat my lashes at him. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Yikes, that sounded kind of flirty too. What’s wrong with me? Maybe Will is right. Maybe I have been inhaling too much batter fume.

“As a matter of fact, there is something you can do,” he says. “Make sure to lock your door.”

“Sure, but you know, that’s not really necessary. Whispering Bay is the safest city in America.”

We both look at each other for a second, and in that tiny iota of time, I’m struck with the eerie realization that neither of us really believe that.

Chapter Twelve

After the morning rush slows down, I call the number Lanie gave me for Susan Van Dyke’s lawyer. He isn’t available, so I give the receptionist my name and information and ask that he call me back as soon as possible. I have to admit, a part of me is relieved because I’m just not ready to give Paco up.

I don’t think he’s ready to give me up either. The little minx seems perfectly content in his new surroundings. Last night he slept in my bed again (I should probably nix that). He happily trots up and down the stairs between my apartment and The Bistro (the customers think he’s adorable), and right now, he’s napping on my living room couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Because I stayed up late baking and then had to take Benadryl to keep from itching, I feel like I’m dragging. Combined with the tension of the last few days, I think some exercise is in order. I decide to go to the new rec center and check out the classes.

It’s the first time I’ve been in the building since the opening day celebration. After Abby’s body was found the indoor facilities were sealed off for the rest of the day and the tours were rescheduled for Sunday with the center going operational on Monday. Today is Tuesday, and the place is packed.

I check in at the front desk and peruse the schedule. I’m an hour too late for Zumba and two hours too early for Brittany’s Pilates class (not in the least bit sorry about that), but there’s a yoga class for active and mature adults taught by Viola that starts in two minutes. It probably won’t be much of a challenge, but it’s better than nothing.

I sneak in through the back door to the room and grab a mat. The rest of the class is made up of the usual suspects—Betty Jean and Gus, Phoebe’s brother Roger who co-owns the local paper and some more of the Gray Flamingos. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jim Fontaine talking to Gus. I’m glad Jim is making friends.

Everyone looks at me curiously as if I’m in the wrong class. I’ll have to tone it down some so that I don’t stand out.

Viola waves to me from the front of the room. “Lucy! We’re so happy to have you join us this afternoon.”

“Thanks! Happy to be here!”

Viola proceeds to lead a dozen senior citizens and me through an hour of deep breathing, stretching and yoga-ass-kicking positions.

Even though I’m about four decades younger than the average student, I’m the only one who’s wheezing at the end of class.

Viola drapes a towel around her neck. Her skin is glowing with vibrant health. I, on the other hand, am sweating. Not perspiring, but drip-all-the-way-to-the-floor sweating like a construction worker in August.

It’s embarrassing. Who knew that active and mature are really senior citizen code words for really in shape?

“How did you like the class?” Viola asks.

“It was great,” I pant before taking a big swig of my bottled water.