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“That’s interesting. Okay. Did she ever say or do anything that made you think she was suspicious of Malcolm?”

Dax’s brows shot up. “No. Suspicious of him why?”

“Of killing Tom.”

Dax seemed amused at the idea. “No.”

“Did she ever seem afraid of him?”

“Afraid ofGeorge?” Dax gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “Of what? Boring her to death?”

I let it go, but I was a little irked on Malcolm’s behalf. Whether Dax liked it or not, Astrid had valued her marriage and her partnership with Malcolm.

In fact, given how smitten Dax seemed, I had to wonder how he would have taken it, if Astrid had told him she was ending their relationship?

Still, he had no earthly reason—or means—of murdering Tom. Was it possible Astrid’s and Tom’s deaths werenotconnected?

What I said was, “If I’m right and Astrid didn’t commit suicide, can you think of—”

“It wouldn’t be an accident,” Dax interrupted. “You know how careful she was about things like mixing booze and pills or drinking in the hot tub or driving and drinking. She was smart. She wassensible.”

He made smart and sensible sound sexy. But then Astrid had been sexy, too. She had been the full package. So, yes, sometimes I too used to wonder why she’d chosen someone like Malcolm who, sure, was a little dull, a bit stodgy. But Malcolm was solid and dependable, and I think he made her feel secure. We’d faced a lot of insecurity growing up. Also, they did enjoy a lot of the same things: entertaining, hunting, riding, fishing. They enjoyed living well. They had the same goals and they made a great team.

Anyway, no one really knows what goes on behind closed doors. Especially bedroom doors.

Dax added suddenly, darkly, “If you’re right, if someone really did kill her, you don’t have to look any farther than George.”

I wasn’t surprised he thought so because he was jealous and because the husband is always the main suspect. “Why would he kill her, though?”

“Because somehow he found out about us.”

I nodded noncommittally. Malcolm had means and opportunity, of course. However, if he’d killed Astrid, it wasn’t because of her relationship with Dax.

But Malcolm was certainly one of three possibilities: Malcolm, the mysterious manager who had scheduled a secret meeting with Astrid, and, as much as I hated to even consider the idea, Dax.

I almost didn’t attend the Bredahl holiday party.

For one thing, it was bound to be stressful, and I had a very low stress threshold.

For another, I was afraid that “word on the street” might have spread, and Bredahl’s employees might not be feeling too friendly toward the person who was considering pulling the rug out from under them.

Not that I had any such intention, but even the discussion of bringing in a new director was liable to upset people. Traditions meant a lot in Little Copenhagen and at Bredahl Cakes and Cookies.

However, Malcolm phoned not long after I returned from speaking to Mike Baer at Baer, Baer and Baer, to ask if I felt “well enough” to attend.

Even though on Thursday evening I’d been telling him I didn’t think I was up to it, that particular phrasing and the kindly concern in his tone, put my back up. I was determined to go to that damned party if it killed me.

“Yep. Cocktail hour starts at six?” I asked.

“Yes, but there’s no need to push yourself when you’re struggling.”

I closed my eyes, counted to three, and said cheerfully, “Nope, not struggling tonight. I think it will do me good to get out of the house.”

There was a little pause. I knew exactly how Malcolm would look: pained, because it was an awkward situation, but determined, because he did not duck awkward situations, and kind, because I was Astrid’s kid brother.

He said, “You know, you don’t have to put a brave face on with me, Casper. I know the situation. I only mention this because I don’t want to hide things from you. Astrid was planning to have you placed on suicide watch.”

I opened my mouth but no words were within grabbing distance.