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“Toujours l’amour, archie.” That was one of Tosh’s catch phrases from back in the day. It was a quote from a book called theThe Best of Archy and Mehitabel, which no one but Tosh had read.

“Seriously? You think she’s in love?”

“With Hollywood stardom. Yes.”

“Chelsea?She always scorned the idea of Tinseltown.”

“Did she, though?” Again, that certain dryness in Tosh’s tone. “Well, she doesn’t scorn the idea of working steadily. Or getting paid a living wage. Plus, Freddie’ssopro Hollywood, so pro West Coast.” Tosh got a couple of wine glasses out of the cupboard and poured the merlot.

“He’s probably lonely out there.”

“Freddie?I seriously doubt Freddie’s pining for company.”

If it was true about past being prologue, then she was probably right.

Ellery closed the oven, admitted, “I haven’t really talked to Freddie in a while.”

“Well, you kind of fell off the grid, Ell. Plus, it’s not likeyouneed Freddie’s help.”

No. It wasn’t. Still.

“To be honest, I’m not sure Chelsea would tell me if therewassomeone.” Tosh handed a glass of wine to Ellery.

“Really?”

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They clinked glasses.

“We don’t talk like we used to,” Tosh admitted. She met Ellery’s gaze. “No big drama. Our lives, our careers, are going in different directions now.”

That was the challenge for friendships formed in college. Tosh and Chelsea had always been the odd couple in their little circle, but they had seemed genuinely close. Ellery changed the subject. “What’s in the box?”

Tosh brightened. “Photos. Our misspent youth in living color.”

“Uh oh.”

Tosh started to reply, but they were interrupted by the appearance of Watson, who trotted into the kitchen proudly dragging a long burnt-orange wool scarf behind him.

Ellery gasped and jumped to rescue the scarf. Watson, naturally, assumed they were playing an impromptu but delightful game of tug-o-war. He growled ferociously, chomped down on the scarf, and dug his little heels in.

“No, Watson,” Ellery said severely.

Watson growled again, wagged his tail, pulled harder on his half of the scarf.

“Watson,drop it.”

That was a tone Watson had rarely heard, and he dropped the scarf at once. His wounded expression was disconcertingly humanlike.

Ellery snatched the scarf up, scanning it for—and finding—tiny toothmarks. He groaned. “Cashmere.”

“Cashmere blend,” Tosh said. “It’s Chelsea’s.”

Ellery glanced up in surprise. “Meow.”

Tosh blushed, protested, “No. It’s just…it’s Chelsea’s scarf.”

Ellery gazed sternly down at his woebegone little pal. “Thanks a lot, Jaws.”