The table was decorated with a white runner, which was graced with three mercury glass vases packed with white roses, boxwood twigs, and sprigs of fresh-scented evergreen. It was simple and lovely, and it spoke of winter’s beauty and the promise of new beginnings. I wasn’t the type to make resolutions, but New Year’s Day had always been special in my eyes. It signaled a fresh start and an adieu to the disappointments of the old year.

I sat next to Gilroy, now every bit as ravenous as he as I eyed platters of chocolate croissants, plates of bacon, bowls of fruit, and a mountain of scrambled eggs in a jade green tureen.

Dalton Taylor smiled politely and sat on my other side.

As much as being sociable with strangers went against my grain, Gilroy and I had agreed to venture outside our small circle of friends now that we were married. The idea was to make more friends, married ones, though in reality we were content with the friends we had, single and married.

But we’d agreed to go forth like explorers once a month. It was a reasonable goal.

“Brunch with the Blackwells scratches January off the calendar,” Gilroy had said.

“All right,” I’d replied, “as long as there’s nothing else until February.”

We were reluctant explorers.

With a mystery writer’s eye, not to mention the eye of someone who was still pondering Mary’s cryptic note, I took in the faces around the table. I still didn’t know who half the guests were.

Mary was studiously avoiding me. In her mid-forties, she was behaving like a furtive teenager. Clay strutted briefly about the room, taking great pride in the table and the food before sitting next to his wife. Isak and Shasta Karlsen were whispering like kids, Shasta smiling all the while with those brilliant teeth of hers, shining like sunlight on snow.

Dalton was inspecting his fork, holding it ridiculously close to his face. Finding it wanting, he buffed it with his cloth napkin. Across from me, Laura Patchett eyed Dalton with a look of disapproval and then turned that disapproving eye on a large painting to her left. She was in her late fifties, I thought, with a round face, tousled gray hair, and barely-there eyebrows.

Gilroy asked me for my plate, dropped a scoop of scrambled eggs on it, and handed it back. “Heads up, bacon coming.”

“I forgot the coffee.” Clay bounded from his chair, fetched a carafe from the kitchen, and on his return began to fill our cups, starting with a spiky-haired man in his early thirties sitting next to Laura.

I watched him, watched Mary, spooned some fruit onto my plate, watched him again.

The spiky one caught me looking. “Aren’t you Rachel Stowe, the mystery writer?” he asked.

“I meant to introduce you,” Clay said. “Rachel, this is Brodie Keegan, news editor at the Juniper Grove Post.”

“You work with Mary, then,” I said.

Finally Mary looked me in the eyes.

“Different departments, but yeah,” Brodie said.

I looked back to Brodie. “How long have you been at the Post?”

“Almost eight months. I used to work at the Lincoln Daily News in Nebraska.”

“And this is Laura Patchett,” Clay said as he worked his way around the table pouring cups of steaming black coffee. “She made the brunch invitations—in her studio, I mean.”

Laura greeted me with a gentle lift of her cup.

“You know the Karlsens,” Clay went on, motioning toward the other end of the table, “and this extraordinary young lady is Charlotte Wynn.”

Charlotte put a hand over her cup. “None for me, thanks.”

“Charlotte works downtown as a legal assistant. And sitting next to you”—Clay began to fill Dalton’s cup—“is Dalton Taylor.”

Dalton smiled at me and nodded at Gilroy.

“That stunning work is his.” Clay gestured to the wall on my right, to the painting Laura had scorned moments before.

I angled in my seat for a better look. It captured a scene of small-town life in the folk-art fashion: bold colors, flattened perspective, houses and figures drawn in a primitive style. Apparently size signaled worth in Clay’s world. The painting was at least three by four feet, and in my un-arty opinion, its size was its sole virtue, if virtue you could call it.

“Part of my Hidden Little Town series,” Dalton said. “Number 5.”

“Ah,” I said, as if I knew what he meant.

Laura snorted.

“Yes?” Dalton said.

“How many in the series now?” Laura asked.

“Nine finished.”

“At least it’s in a faintly modern. style But it’s amazing you’ve found so much to gossip about.”

Dalton responded with a tiny smile. “Artists notice everything. They observe intensely, if they’re capable of observation. Capable of truly seeing the world around them. Some people who fancy themselves artists can’t see a thing.”

I slid my coffee cup toward Clay so he could pour more easily, and Gilroy did the same. Gossip? What was Laura talking about?

“Rachel and James are newlyweds,” Clay said. “Married less than a month ago.” He finished his waiter duties and sat on the other side of the table next to Mary.

“So I heard,” Dalton said. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“You suppose?” Charlotte said. “What a way to put it.”

Mary reached out for the carafe and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Charlotte, dear child.” Dalton palmed back wisps of gray hair and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “Considering how difficult marriage is, congratulations should be carefully dispensed.”

“Here’s an idea,” Laura said. “Why not say congrats like a normal person?”

“And marriage increases in difficulty the older you get,” Dalton went on, tearing the curved end from a croissant. “You get used to living life your way, not compromising. Everyone knows that. Still, I wish you both luck and happiness. I’m sure if anyone can make a go of it, you can.”

“Oh, brother,” Shasta said, exasperation in her tone.

“Wait a minute.” Charlotte sat straight, set down her fork, and turned her blue eyes on me.

“I just figured it out. You’re the writer in the painting. I thought so when I saw it at the Christmas party. Did you know that according to Dalton you’re a murderer?” She jabbed a thumb toward the living room. “In one of his paintings. You’re killing a woman. In someone’s front yard, with a knife.”

Clay forced a laugh. “It’s like that old game. Colonel Mustard, in the parlor, with a knife.”

“Me?” I turned to Dalton.