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“I eat batter all the time. Germs be damned. I’m not choosy.”

“That is the golden milk cupcake batter,” Gram explained.

Celia’s wide eyes and pale face didn’t bode well. Panic still thrummed off her. “Right. Golden milk.”

The description sounded kind of delicious. I’d have to lick it off the floor to find out. Any other day, definitely. “Which means what?”

“It’s made with milk mixed with cinnamon and ginger,” Gram said.

That didn’t sound like a recipe for poison. And the answer didn’t clear up my confusion. The good news was that they didn’t want me sucking down potentially contaminated batter, which I appreciated.

“It also has turmeric and you’ve had an issue with turmeric in the past. An intolerance.” Celia visibly calmed down. Her jerky movements smoothed out and her eyes returned to their normal size. “Belly discomfort.”

“Last time you ate something with turmeric you threw up for a half hour.”

Thanks, Gram. As if I didn’t know what Celia meant.

Celia continued. “It’s too dangerous to take the risk. You can eat something else.”

They possessed a lot of turmeric information all of a sudden. But they weren’t wrong. The memory of the turmeric chicken and rice dish haunted me. Seven years ago. I came home from college during spring break. One of Gram’s friendshad brought over a one-pot meal for us to try. It smelled delicious and had this pretty yellow tint.

So much vomiting. At first I blamed the fact I ate three full plates of food in record time, but no. So, it was true. The turmeric wouldn’t be great for me.

Neither would poison.

All their talk sounded plausible, but they might be saving me and themselves by making up a story. Proving that struck me as impossible now that Gram had mopped up the evidence. I could sneak the spoon out of the kitchen and have the batter remnants tested. The thought floated through my mind then back out again. As if I knew how to test for poison or who was qualified to do it.

“Tea?” Celia smiled as if the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.

I looked at my batter-stained shoes. Looked at Gram. Tried to believe this was how my day had turned out. Then shrugged. “Sure.”

Time for a showdown. Right after I ate a non-poisoned muffin.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Before I could take another step Harlan came in. Harlan. Of course, Harlan. Apparently the man didn’t have a job other than to show up wherever I was in Winston-Salem and make me miserable.

He smiled. “Good afternoon.”

Friendly. Warm. His expression put me on the defensive. In graph form, Harlan and the concept of genuine charm were two nonoverlapping circles.

“I thought it might be teatime and I could join you.” He gestured in the direction of the table Celia and Gram had set up for the break. “May I?”

It was a table set for three, but sure. Celia and Gram wouldn’t kick him out. Actually, Gram might. She didn’t possess the play-nice gene like Celia did. What likely saved him from a one-way ticket out of the annex was his friendly tone. No pontificating. No self-congratulatory bullshit. His usual punch of ego and fake chivalry mysteriously had gone missing.

Until I knew what game this was and what his sneaky little plans were, I would watch and wait.

Gram looked as skeptical as I felt. “This is new. You stopping by in the late afternoon for no reason.”

A major slip-up on his part. Do not come uninvited andexpect to be fed. I hoped Gram’s narrowed eyes meant she planned on ushering him out of the building soon.

Through it all, his smile didn’t waver. “We’re family, after all.”

Hell, no.

Gram looked ready to spit. “Actually—”

Celia stopped Gram’s incoming lecture with a hand on her arm.