Murder By Muffin (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 3)

“Oh, so that makes him an expert, huh? Still, I’m going to agree with Fontaine on one thing. Let the cops handle this. Eventually they’ll get it right. Use this time off to relax. Sleep in. Read a good book. I’ll come over tomorrow after work, and we’ll catch up on our show.”

“On a Monday night?”

“Yeah, on a Monday night.”

This is tempting, all right. Usually on Mondays (our busiest day at The Bistro), I collapse into bed too tired to even get into my PJs.

Will is right. I’m going to let the cops take care of this. I’m sure it’s all some kind of freakish misunderstanding. Once Tara’s autopsy results come back with the real cause of death, we’ll all have a good laugh.

“Okay, sounds good,” I say.

“It’s a date,” Will says, emphasizing the last word meaningfully. “Tomorrow night at six. I’ll bring the pizza.”

It’s Monday morning, and I’m so used to getting up at four that my body automatically wakes up then, but I force myself to stay in bed till six. I get dressed and put on my sneakers to take Paco out for his first morning walk. The restaurant is eerily quiet. Plus there’s that yellow crime tape still around the building, making it all seem ominous (the cops put it right back up after Mom took it down).

After walking Paco and having my morning coffee, I make out a to-do list. It goes like this:

Do NOT think about the fact that Will used the word “date” regarding tonight.

Absolutely do NOT attempt to investigate any aspect of Tara’s death. After all, that’s what the police get paid for.

Look up the word “date” in the dictionary.

Experiment with a new version of my coconut mango muffin recipe.

Scratch number four. You’re supposed to be taking it easy, remember?

Since number five cancels number four, and number one and two are things not to do, that only leaves me the option of number three. I open up my computer and go to the online dictionary. There are three definitions for the word date.

Definition number one refers to a fruit.

“So it’s a brown, oblong edible fruit of a palm,” says Will. “Tomorrow night at six. I’ll bring the pizza.”

That sentence is completely illogical, so Will couldn’t have been referring to the fruit.

The second definition is: the time at which an event occurs or the period of time to which something belongs.

No, that’s not right either.

The third definition is the one that I’m most interested in. Date: a social engagement between two persons that often has a romantic character.

This is the only one of the three that makes sense. I think I have a date with Will tonight. Even though pizza and TV are something we do every Friday night, he’s never once used the word “date” when referencing it. I wish I had more experience with this kind of thing, but I don’t, so I’m going to have to go with my gut instinct.

I’m so nervous, I can’t think straight. I need to blow off some energy. I clean out my closet, reorganize The Bistro pantry and try hard not to think of either Will or what’s going on with Tara’s autopsy. You’d think in this day of Netflix and Amazon Prime and all the other forms of instant gratification, they’d find a way to get autopsy results back faster.

In between all this, I reread the contract that Sarah and I signed for the show. It’s gratifying to discover that The Bistro can only be kicked off the show pre-filming if we’re notified in writing. And since we weren’t, technically, we’re still part of the competition. That is, if there still is a competition.

Between worrying about Tara’s investigation and what I’m going to wear tonight, I’m a wreck. It’s been a while since I worked out, and an exercise class will be just the trick to take my mind off things. It’s already three. By the time I get back from the class, I’ll have just enough time to shower and get ready for my date with Will.

I give Paco the same instructions I do whenever I leave him alone in my apartment.

“Okay, Paco, I’m heading out now, so you’re in charge. Be a good boy while Mommy is gone.”

He looks at me and yawns as if to say, Of course I’m in charge, and I’m always a good boy.

Walking inside the Whispering Bay rec center still makes me feel a bit odd. I found my first dead body here, but you wouldn’t know that just a few weeks ago it was a crime scene because the place is packed. When I check the class schedule, the only thing available is a yoga class for fit and active adults, which is code for seniors yoga. I took the class once before and I could barely walk afterward, so it’s right up my alley.

Viola Pantini, who’s a regular at The Bistro, is the instructor. “Lucy, you’re back! Pull up a mat,” she says, welcoming me to her class, which is mostly members of the Gray Flamingos.