“It’s Gilroy now,” I reminded her.
“Of course it is!” She’d waved us inside and asked for our coats. “It’s because I read your mystery novels. You know, with Stowe on the cover. So it’s Rachel Stowe-Gilroy? You added a husband and a name.”
“No, I didn’t add—”
“Chief Gilroy, Mrs. Stowe!” Clay had sped across his living room, a wide grin on his long, angular face. “Happy New Year!”
“She’s Mrs. Stowe-Gilroy now,” Mary had said. “Ignore the book covers.”
I’d been momentarily tongue-tied by Clay’s new black-framed glasses—the lenses so large he looked rather insect-like—and by the time I’d recovered my power of speech and was ready to untangle the name mess, Mary was taking our coats and Clay was asking us what we’d like to drink.
Now, several minutes after giving me the note, Mary was heading back to the kitchen, focusing her attention on nonexistent crumbs or lint on her black sweater. She didn’t grant me so much as a glance as she sped by. It seemed to me I deserved some explanation, if only via facial expression.
“You’re stalking her with your eyes,” Gilroy said. He took a sip of his mimosa. In the fifteen-plus months I’d known him, I’d never seen him drink a mimosa. Or anything from a champagne flute. He wore flannel shirts, barn coats, and cowboy boots, for goodness’ sake. I, on the other hand, was drinking plain water from a glass tumbler.
“What’s with her?”
“Never mind about the name thing. You know I don’t care.”
Having been married a whole three and a half weeks, I was proudly and happily Rachel Gilroy, but my publisher insisted I remain Rachel Stowe. The sudden change to Gilroy would confuse my readers, they said. So to the reading world, I was Rachel Stowe, but to my friends, to my husband, and to the small Colorado town I called home, I was Rachel Gilroy.
“When you were talking to the woman by that enormous painting—”
“Laura Patchett.”
“Mary handed me a note about putting some papers in my coat pocket. She told me to call her later and not tell anyone.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I don’t think she meant you. Well, maybe she did, but tough.”
“What papers?”
“No idea. Why wouldn’t she just give them to me? Have you noticed how distracted she is? She didn’t introduce us to anyone.”
“She probably figures I’ll do that.”
That made sense. Being Juniper Grove’s police chief, Gilroy knew everyone. “You’ll have to introduce me. Clay and Mary, and now Laura, are the only names I know. Oh, and Isak Karlsen. I saw him come out of the kitchen with a glass of orange juice.”
Gilroy took another sip of his mimosa.
“All the times Mary and I have talked, I’ve never been inside her house,” I mused.
“I was once, a long time ago,” Gilroy said. “They’ve added more paintings since then.”
“Why wouldn’t Mary just talk to me? She won’t even look my way.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want the other guests to know she’s got a secret.”
I shrugged. “I’m itching to find out what’s in my coat pocket. In the meantime, I’m keeping my eyes peeled for suspicious activity.”
“You’re a mystery writer, Mrs. Gilroy.”
“You’re a police chief, Mr. Gilroy. Keep your eyes peeled.”
He chuckled softly and dove once more into his mimosa. Those icy blue eyes, that dark hair with growing touches of gray. In his late forties, he was calm and confident, tall and trim, smart as they come. Kind. Good. The sort of man that just two years earlier I wouldn’t have dared to imagine in my life.
I knew that in time, inevitably, we’d have our first rip-roaring fight, but for now we were newly husband and wife, and I was still enraptured not only by everything about him, but by the idea of being his wife. The windows had been thrown open, the light had streamed in.
With eyes peeled, I took a writer’s note not only of the guests, but also of the furnishings and general layout of the living room. Though it was fair to call it cavernous, the room was comfortable and welcoming. A crackling fire in a stone fireplace, an eclectic mix of landscape, portrait, and abstract paintings cheering its chalk-white walls, leather couches flanking the fireplace, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and, beneath a grandiose wall of windows, a long, kilim-upholstered sofa in shades of rust, ivory, and brown. I’d coveted that thing the instant I’d seen it.
Would it be rude to make an offer on it? I wondered.
My attention thus captivated by the sofa, I didn’t see Isak Karlsen until he’d planted himself in front of Gilroy.
“Chief, didn’t know you’d be here,” he said. “Good to see you.” Addressing me with a tip of his chin, he added, “Congratulations on your marriage. Didn’t we meet at the Farmers’ Market Festival in September?”
“We did,” I replied. “I still have some of your apple butter.”
He frowned. “Months later? Is that a good thing or bad?”
“I bought four jars and I’m trying to make them last until I can buy more at the next festival.”
Isak laughed. “Glad you like it.” He swung around, searched the room, then turned back to Gilroy. “I’m starving. Let’s get this party started.”
In his late thirties, with short blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and clear hazel eyes, Isak was a good-looking man, though he sported a fledgling paunch that would no doubt grow with time. Not that I was one to talk, with the extra twenty-plus pounds I’d been carrying for years. I told myself that one day, in my seventies, maybe, I’d be glad for the don’t-break-a-hip padding.
“Is it too much to hope they’ll serve cream puffs?” I wondered aloud.
