Page 11 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

“Oh, right.” His phone chirps again, and he glances at the screen with such obvious relief that alarm bells start ringing in my head. “Ah, this is them—uh, again.”

He reads from his phone. “Preliminary findings indicate the presence of taxine B in the victim’s system—and in the remnants of her drink. Consistent with yew poisoning. Full report to follow.”

“Yew poisoning?” I repeat. “As in the plant?”

“Apparently. Highly toxic if ingested. Symptoms include abdominal pain, cardiac arrhythmia, and respiratory failure. Death can occur rapidly after consumption.”

“So, someone definitely murdered her,” I say, feeling a chill despite the restaurant’s cozy warmth. “Someone with knowledge of poisonous plants.”

“Looks that way. Which means I’ve got a homicide on my hands.” He runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up in a way that normally makes my heart skip, but now just adds to my unease. “What did you learn at the bakery?”

I fill him in on Meredith’s revelations about Vivian’s upcoming meeting with Autumn Harrington and the apparent history between Vivian and Oliver.

“Sounds like I need to have a chat with both of them,” Killion says, slipping into detective mode so completely I can almost see the badge glowing on his chest.

“We’ll need to talk to Autumn first,” I say automatically.

His eyebrow rises. “ We ?”

“It’s a figure of speech.” I backpedal, though we both know it wasn’t. “I meant you . You will need to talk to her.”

His expression makes it clear he’s not buying what I’m selling—and you had better believe he looks hotter than heck doing it.

“And you won’t be conducting any amateur investigations on the side?” he asks. You could practically hear the doubt in his voice.

“Would I do that?” I bat my lashes at him.

“Is water wet? Do bears do their business in the woods? Does Rookie have an unhealthy attachment to that teddy bear?”

I mock-gasp. “Leave Jolly Beary out of this. He’s sensitive.”

Killion’s phone chirps a third time. He glances at it, and something flickers across his face too quickly for me to interpret.

“Another update from toxicology?” I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.

“Something like that,” he mutters, tucking the phone away without responding to the message. “Look, Hattie, I?—”

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by the arrival of our food. Tiffany sets down plates heaped with enough calories to fuel a marathon, then disappears with the efficiency of someone who knows not to interrupt what looks like the beginning of a serious conversation.

But Killion doesn’t restart whatever he was going to say. Instead, he picks up his burger and takes a bite that suggests he’s trying to avoid talking by keeping his mouth permanently full.

I spear a piece of grilled chicken as my thoughts begin to swirl.

Killion is hiding something. Something that has him jumpy and distracted, something that keeps lighting up his phone, something that has him creating a mental static shield against my abilities.

Or someone.

A flash of auburn hair and a predatory smile swim through my memory. I push it away, focusing instead on the case. Yew poisoning. A planned murder. Autumn Harrington and her restaurant by the sea, where Killion conveniently couldn’t be found today.

I’m about to ask him another question when his phone chirps yet again.

“Someone is popular tonight,” I observe and my tone is sharper than the steak knives on the next table.

He doesn’t respond, just checks the screen then sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I have to go. There’s a situation I need to handle.”

“A situation? Involving yew trees, perhaps?”

“It’s—complicated.”

“That seems to be the theme of the day.”

He rises, drops a quick kiss on my forehead, and pulls out his wallet to leave enough cash to cover dinner. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

And then he’s gone, striding across the restaurant like a man with a four-alarm fire to extinguish, leaving me with a half-eaten meal and a fully formed suspicion.

Cricket leaps onto his vacated chair, her green eyes fixed on mine. That man is hiding something bigger than the hairball I left in your slipper last week.

“Thanks for the analysis,” I mutter, pushing a fry around my plate.

Something is definitely off. Killion never leaves in the middle of dinner. Never checks his phone repeatedly during a meal. Never shields his thoughts from me so completely.

And while part of me wants to chase after him, demanding answers, another part knows that I need to focus on the Maple case. One mystery at a time.

Besides, if Killion is hiding something—or someone—I’ll find out soon enough. I didn’t become the unofficial head of the Brambleberry Bay murder club by overlooking clues, even when they lead to places I’d rather not go.

I collect my things to leave. My appetite may be gone, but my determination is growing by the second.

Autumn Harrington, you’re next on my list. And something tells me you’ve got secrets worth spilling—possibly with a side of pumpkin spice.