"That's a great description," Denise said.
"All we can do is love the girls and support them and hope one day they'll understand," I said. "At least that's what I tell myself when I don't hear from Caroline for a month and a half." I added chocolate chips, then set aside some of the dough and patted the rest into the pan, then put it into the oven. Once it was done baking, I'd pour condensed milk over it, then sprinkle it with toffee chips, chocolate chips, and the rest of the dough and bake it for another half hour. The result would be a decadent bar cookie I had a hard time not devouring all at once.
As the crust baked, I sat down and broke off the end of a scone, slathering it with clotted cream before popping it into my mouth. "This is divine," I told her after I'd washed it down with a swig of hot coffee. "I have no idea how you manage to stay so thin."
"Good genes," she informed me as she bit into her cream-covered scone. "By the way, I saw your author friend today."
"She's not my friend. Was my ex with her?"
"No." She shook her head. "She just ordered a skinny latte. While she was there, she had a run-in with some woman at the coffee house. I don't know what they were talking about, but it seemed pretty intense."
"What woman?"
"She's pretty. Big glasses, dark hair. Drives a fancy green car. She ordered an espresso and said her name was Deirdre."
"Oh," I said. "That's Cal's girlfriend. I met her there yesterday. I wonder if she came back?"
"They didn't seem to get along well at all. The Deirdre woman was practically screaming at Kirsten, something about it all being her fault, although the espresso machine was so loud I couldn't make out what she was talking about. Kirsten finally just got up and walked out on her, but she looked pretty upset."
"Weird," I said.
"Yeah," she agreed. "I saw her talking with Cal Parker the night of the book signing; it looked a little tense, but I didn't think anything of it."
"I saw them too," I said, remembering seeing him stop to chat in the signing line, "but she was talking to everyone. What's their backstory, do you think?"
"Let's look it up," Denise suggested. She pulled out her phone and typed in their names.
"Aha," she said. "Look; they were in a society photo in Portland about four years ago."
"So they dated," I said.
"Looks like it," she said. "For at least a year; here they are the previous fall, at a charity gig in Bangor."
"She was there the night Cal died," I said. "She could have taken the flatiron before the signing." I tried to remember if I'd seen it after we opened the store, but I didn't remember.
Denise put down her scone and looked at me. "Are you suggesting that your ex-husband's girlfriend murdered Cal Parker on the beach behind your store?"
"She had means. She had opportunity."
"What about motive?" Denise asked. "Chuck you in jail so that Ted couldn't come back to you?"
"That ship sailed long ago," I said.
"She doesn't know that," Denise said. "But it's still a pretty weak motive for murder. I mean, most small businesses don't make it anyway..." She opened her mouth wide and covered it with her hand. "Oh, my gosh. I can't believe I said that. I'm so sorry, Max... I just wasn't thinking!"
"It's okay," I said, even though it didn't feel okay. What had I been thinking, buying this place, not getting a title search, and putting all of my money into this store? And why did my heart still ache a little at the thought of Ted with another woman? "I know you were just thinking out loud," I said.
She leaned forward and put her hand on mine. "I promise I will do everything in my power to help you make things work."
"I just hope it will be enough," I said.
21
Once Denise had left, I finished making the chocolate toffee cookies (eating six of them warm) and spent a good bit of time on my computer, compulsively looking up pictures of Kirsten Anderson. She was very glamorous, very successful, and had definitely been an item with Cal Parker. If they'd broken up, why did he come to her signing?
A bad thought came to me, then.
Did Ted know about him, and about Kirsten's glamorous past with the rich selectman?
And was it possible that he'd killed the man out of jealousy?
No, I told myself. My husband of almost two decades—and the father of my daughters—wouldn't be capable of such a thing. I felt traitorous for even thinking it.
I was scrolling through images of Kirsten looking annoyingly gorgeous when the front door opened, and Ted himself walked into the shop.
I jumped, almost falling off my chair. Then I quickly closed the window on my screen—a head shot of Kirsten in a low-cut black V-neck blouse—and looked up, forcing a smile. "What brings you here?" I asked. He was so familiar, and yet there was a distance between us that was unfamiliar.
"We're staying at the Ivy Gate Inn. Kirsten's writing, so I decided to come check on you. I heard that you had a bit of a nasty surprise."
"You mean finding the dead selectman next to the shop?" I asked.
"Yeah. That," he said. "Are you okay?"
The concern in his eyes made my heart hurt a little. "I am," I said. "But that's only part of the problem."
"What do you mean?"
I told him about the title issues.
"I wish you'd told me what you were doing," he said. "I've got contacts; I could have helped you."
"I know you would have,
