IT WAS THE CAT!

Within twenty-four hours, Ms. Pierce had gone from the most hated teacher in the history of Pinewood High to its most revered. Students clustered in the hallways before the morning bell, declaring their reverence and respect for the substitute teacher Genevieve knew they’d all detested. Suddenly Ms. Pierce was no longer a crabby old sub but a helpless old woman who’d loved children and simply believed in instructing them with strict, old-school discipline, like a lovable granny.

Genevieve gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the hypocrisy, focusing instead on her renewed hopes that, if the suicide was staged, perhaps Miss Love was still alive. The dragging of the lake had been called off due to the inclement weather—they’d had lightning storms all afternoon and into the evening—and the young teacher’s body had not yet been found.

Genevieve’s hopes were quickly dashed, however, when she herself was called in for questioning by Detective Christie the day after Principal Mattison had been questioned and released.

“You can refuse, you know,” Brandon said.

“Why would I do that?” Genevieve had retorted. “I’m not afraid of her. And besides, maybe I can learn something about the investigation.”

The police station in Pinewood was a red brick building with a terraced flower garden bookended by a pair of maple trees. The charm ended once you stepped inside the sterile front reception area, but Genevieve didn’t have long to wait before she was ushered through a narrow hallway and into the detective’s office.

Detective Christie wore the same tight ponytail and sharp blue gaze as the last time Genevieve had faced her. Was that only a week ago? It seemed like a year. Her workspace looked the way Genevieve would have imagined—uncluttered, with dark wood furniture, leather chairs, and shades drawn.

“Miss Winterland,” the detective said, nodding curtly. “Thank you for agreeing to be here on short notice. I’d like to ask you a few more questions about the other night.” She gestured for Genevieve to sit. “Would you like a coffee?”

Genevieve said, “Is it true that Ms. Pierce was murdered?”

The detective looked at her evenly. “We have reason to believe the suicide was staged, yes.”

Genevieve was caught off guard—she hadn’t expected a straight answer. Sitting back in her chair, she let the confirmation sink in. Ms. Pierce had not chosen her death. She was a victim, and someone had not only murdered her in cold blood but tried to pin the blame on Ms. Pierce herself. Doesn’t seem fair, Genevieve thought.

Ms. Pierce had by no stretch of the imagination been a kind person or an effective teacher, but she had not deserved to die. Genevieve remembered her own flash of sympathy as the substitute spoke of having no children, the naked remorse on Ms. Pierce’s normally bitter features that had stripped her down to someone real and vulnerable.

“Miss Winterland?”

Genevieve focused again on the detective, and when she spoke there was a hard edge to her voice. “Someone killed her and strung her body up.”

“Yes, and that someone is on the loose. We need your cooperation to find him.”

“Him?”

“It took a very strong person to stage Eloise Pierce’s hanging.”

Genevieve paled. “I was there, in her home...”

“You were lucky.”

“How long…?”

Detective Christie chose a pen from a mesh desk organizer and began doodling on a yellow legal pad. “Ms. Pierce had been dead at least twenty-four hours before you found her. A witness—one of the deceased’s neighbors—has given a statement that a man she didn’t recognize visited Ms. Pierce on the night she died. The neighbor happened to be standing near her kitchen window when the figure walked past, and she heard the person knock on Ms. Pierce’s door and enter the premises.

“This exchange stood out to the witness because, according to her, Ms. Pierce rarely had visitors.”

Genevieve nodded along, picturing what came next—a struggle, probably brief considering the strength of the intruder, a smothering, or a broken neck, and then... She shivered involuntarily. It was awful, of course. The poor woman was dead, but there was another possible victim who might not be. She leaned forward.

“Detective, I don’t mean to be insensitive toward the, uh, deceased, but shouldn’t you be concerned about locating Miss Love? I mean, if the suicide note was a fake...”

Detective Christie looked up from her drawing and fixed her blue gaze on Genevieve. “I realize Haylie Love was a beloved teacher,” she said gently. “The fact is, Miss Winterland, while we have yet to locate her body, we are quite certain Miss Love is dead.”

Genevieve’s heart sank. “But how?” she persisted. “How do you know for sure?”

“The blood on the clothes found in Ms. Pierce’s home matches Miss Haylie Love’s.” She paused and then added, “And, as you know, there was a copious amount of it.”

A painful silence stretched between them. Genevieve stared at the detective and then looked away, exhaling a shaky breath. So, someone who was not Ms. Pierce had murdered Pinewood’s favorite teacher. It didn’t make sense. Who could possibly have hated Miss Love enough to kill her? Unless she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? But then there was the issue of the protected address... Genevieve remembered what Brandon had said when Miss Love had first gone missing—that she could be at the police station filing an order of protection. Obviously she hadn’t been, not then, but what about before?

She looked at Detective Christie, who was waiting patiently as Genevieve absorbed the news. “Have you checked to see if Miss Love ever filed an order of protection? Maybe in Mountain Ridge, where she used to live?”

The detective’s gaze sharpened. “Why would you think she’d sought police protection?”

Genevieve hesitated. She couldn’t admit to knowing about the protected address and risk getting herself, or Dillon, into trouble. “Just a hunch. I mean, you always do that, right? Check police records.”

Detective Christie sighed. “Of course we do. There were no records of the sort on Haylie Love, not here, not in Mountain Ridge. Now, if you know of something⁠—”

Genevieve had never been a good liar; she quickly changed the subject. “Why did you suspect the suicide was staged?”

The detective considered her for a moment, and then gave a little shrug. “It was the cat,” she said.

“The cat?”

“Devoted pet owners like Ms. Pierce rarely leave their pets behind like that. They tend to make sure their pets are taken care of if they die, and are unlikely to leave them voluntarily. When you mentioned the cat that night, I was immediately suspicious.”

Genevieve said nothing. The image of the abandoned cat and the memory of his lonely cries once again struck pity in her heart for the substitute teacher. She was glad that at least the cat had gone on to a good home.

“Miss Winterland? Whoever is responsible for Ms. Pierce’s death is likely the person responsible for Miss Love’s. You can see how important it is to locate this person immediately. I asked you here today because we need your help to bring a murderer to justice.”

As clear as sunlight, Genevieve could see the face of Miss Love smiling before her, framed by her spunky pink curls. She heard her laughter tinkling like the bells of Sweet Dreams, and saw her bright eyes as she led her students in a lively class discussion, encouraging them, believing in their future success, the way all good teachers do. The senseless loss took Genevieve’s breath away.

“I understand,” she said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Then the first thing,” Detective Christie said, flipping her legal pad to a fresh page, “is to tell me everything you know about both women.”

“But who would want to murder a pair of Pinewood High teachers?” Brandon wondered. They were sitting in The Coffee Corner at Hidden Treasures, drinking hot chocolate (the rain still had not let up) and sharing a plate of assorted pastries. Brandon glanced disdainfully at a pumpkin spice muffin and tossed the entire thing to Butterscotch, who dove for it like a canine quarterback.

“You’re going to spoil her,” Genevieve chided, patting her thigh and watching with affection as the dog trotted over and rested her warm, golden-brown head on Genevieve’s leg. “And anyway, all your bribes won’t work, see? She prefers me.”

Brandon scoffed. “That’s just because I smell like roasted coffee beans—not very appealing to a dog—and you smell like a hot-fudge sundae.”

Genevieve looked at him mischievously. “You could always come work for me at Sweet Dreams⁠—”

Brandon shuddered. “Yeah, no. You get way too many customers, especially the miniature ones. And anyway, it’s too bright in there.”

Genevieve laughed and wrapped her hands around her mug of cocoa. “You’re going to grow up to be one of those grumpy old men with a NO SOLICITING sign in his window.”

Brandon looked highly offended. “I am not,” he said firmly, “ever growing up.”