No Gravestone Left Unturned (A Jane Ladling Mystery 2)

“I remember that,” Jake said with his customary smile. “You accidentally hung up on me. I was so worried about you.”

“What happened next?” Jane asked, trying to decide if the story was rehearsed.

Tiffany hiked her shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing. Robby ran off, and Ana peeled out.”

Jake set his empty glass aside. “Does Robby continue to deny the encounter?”

The widow nodded. “Yes, but that is understandable. The encounter makes him look guilty, even though he’s innocent.”

Was he innocent? What happened before Tiffany broke up the pair? The poisoning of Ana’s coffee? “You’re sure it was Robby you saw? You got a good look at him?” As much as Jane liked blaming Robby, she had to wonder… What if the real thief dressed up as Robby to frame him?

“Oh yes.” Another nod from Tiffany. “He was wearing his favorite ball cap and sunglasses. Anyway. Enough about that. Let’s focus on positive things tonight. Like love.” She brightened. “Why don’t we take a photo to commemorate this night?”

Jane wanted to protest the subject change. She was still torn. If the thief wasn’t Robby, but someone pretending to be him, the thief wasn’t Jake, who’d been on the phone at the time. Unless it was Jake. Somehow. Argh!

“What you want, you get.” The man in question winked at his fiancée, then withdrew a cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I’m happy to take the photo, babe.”

“Babe.” The other woman stomped her foot, zooming into bridezilla mode. “You know I like you to be in the photos with me.”

“All right, all right.” He laughed, lifting the cell as everyone squeezed together. “One. Two.” He kissed Tiffany’s cheek and snapped the shot. “Three.”

Darn! Jane had probably shut her eyes.

“I’ll be sure to tag you when I post, Jane,” Tiffany said.

“I don’t have a social media account.” Though she should get one, probably. For the Garden. “I’d love a copy texted to me, though. Right away.” And Jake’s phone number. Beau might be able to gather intel with it. Like where he’d been when he made that fateful call. She rattled off her contact information. “That way, you won’t forget.”

Jake shrugged. “No problem.”

Her phone dinged only seconds later. And yes, she’d closed her eyes. Conrad hadn’t kissed her cheek, like boyfriends tended to do apparently, but he had peered directly at her for the photo and oh, was that far better. And much worse. He looked as if he’d found what he wanted more than his next breath.

He couldn’t want her that much. No one could. He must be acting for the sake of their companions. Yes, yes. Acting.

“How do I look?” he asked, rubbing his stubbled jawline.

“Like a tasty snack,” she blurted truthfully. Her eyes widened as soon as the words registered. Hmm, maybe he would think she acted too.

“A snack, hmm,” he replied, his irises alight with humor. “Tell me more.”

Danged peach julep!

The butler rang a bell to signal the arrival of the first course. The best time to launch a search-and-see.

“May I use your restroom?” Jane asked. “To wash my hands before we eat.”

“Of course. I’ll show you where it is,” the other woman offered.

Oh. Well. The next best thing, she supposed. Alone time with Tiff.

“Miss me,” Tiffany said, kissing Jake’s cheek.

He smiled at her as if she had hung the moon. “Don’t stay away too long. My heart won’t survive.”

“Jane.” Exasperation and dread filled Conrad’s tone. His irises blazed. Do nothing you shouldn’t. “Don’t forget, sweetheart. Killers like to hunt their prey. Come back to me quickly, or I will go hunting.” His warning was clear, but his husky voice sent a thrill down her spine.

“I’ll think about maybe considering possibly missing you.” Jane had no idea why she did what she next did—no, not true. She had an inkling. The peach julep. High on bubbly, she pressed a soft, lingering kiss into his lips.

When she met his gaze, his eyes blazed with another message. One she wasn’t ready to decipher.

“This way,” she muttered, showing Tiffany the path out of her own dining room.

“Slow down,” the hostess said with a little laugh. Then she never stopped talking, relaying wedding planning highlights. The stories—never—ended. How Jake agreed with her color scheme, how he loved her choice of flowers, and how he trusted her vision, blah, blah, blah.

Was Jake too good to be true? Sure sounded like it. If Jane were to plan a wedding with Conrad—not that she would. Dang, dang, dang. Ignore the flare of longing. She would never ever never dare risk the curse, would she?

“Is Abigail Waynes-Kirkland a bridesmaid?” she interjected, needing a distraction.

“She’s the maid of honor. Why? Are you upset that she got swept up by the rumor of riches buried in the cemetery and briefly considered digging up a grave? You should forgive her, Jane. She’s close to bankrupt, and she’s desperate, but she realized her mistake. Knows how disgusting it would be to handle a body and decided not to do it. Oh! Did I tell you about the caterer?”