“Sir,” Genevieve shouted, “is your wife at home?”

The man waved an arthritic hand. “The wife died years ago, kids. It’s just me and the goldfish now.”

Genevieve thanked him and backed out of his doorway.

“You’re welcome, anytime!” he yelled after her.

They climbed the steps to the third floor and had barely knocked on the first apartment when the door flew open, as if the tenant had been expecting them. “You’re looking for someone with information on the murder?” the woman asked brusquely.

Genevieve blinked. “How did you⁠—?”

“I don’t have a hearing problem,” she said pointedly, jabbing her finger to indicate the floor beneath them. “Come on in.”

Brandon and Genevieve followed the woman—who was dressed in yellow slacks and a flowery green blouse—into the home. She had a fussy look about her, Genevieve thought—every silvery curl in perfect place, her false nails polished to perfection. A quick appraisal of her sitting room reflected the same meticulous habits: sparkling clean surfaces, carefully arranged throw pillows, and bookshelves that looked recently dusted yet somehow unused, as if the books on them were merely decorative.

“Have a seat, please,” the woman said, gesturing to the sofa and settling into the armchair across from it. Genevieve sat, careful not to disturb the pillows, although Brandon sank luxuriously back into his. He better not fall asleep, she thought.

“Thank you for inviting us in, Mrs.—?”

“Dixon.”

“Mrs. Dixon. This is Brandon, and I’m⁠—”

“Genevieve Winterland, yes,” Mrs. Dixon cut her off impatiently. “As I said, I do not suffer from hearing loss.” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly at Genevieve. “You’re the one who found her.” She heaved a sigh that seemed awfully exaggerated. “That was a bad business.”

“Yes, it was,” Genevieve said. There was a weighty silence into which Genevieve assumed the woman expected her to supply her with details. What Mrs. Dixon didn’t know was that Genevieve was well accustomed to dealing with gossips. She waited her out with a polite smile.

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Dixon said, “I heard she wasn’t exactly a favorite of you students at Pinewood. Not that I can blame you. She wasn’t exactly the friendliest of neighbors either.” Her penciled brows knitted together, and Genevieve heard Brandon clear his throat.

“Right, so we⁠—”

“Not that she deserved what she got; of course I’m not suggesting that,” Mrs. Dixon continued, with an airy laugh. “I’m just saying, they’ll have a hard time narrowing down the suspect list if⁠—”

“That’s why we’re here,” Genevieve interrupted. “We’d heard you told the detective on the case that someone had visited Ms. Pierce the night she died.”

“Of course, it’s not like me to meddle in my neighbors’ affairs.”

“Of course not,” Brandon said warmly, and she looked at him as if she’d just noticed he was there.

“Would either of you care for tea?”

“No thank you,” Genevieve said at the same time Brandon said, “I’d love some!” Genevieve shot him a sideways glance, half exasperated, half amused. Brandon hated tea.

Mrs. Dixon smiled winningly at Brandon and rose with the air of royalty. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Genevieve gave him a shoulder bump. “So smooth,” she said.

“What can I say?” he drawled. “I got a way with the ladies.”

Genevieve smothered her laughter with a coughing fit.

When Mrs. Dixon returned, she was balancing a tea tray laid out with dainty china cups, a sugar bowl, and a plate of tiny tea cakes. She set the tray on the coffee table between them. Genevieve politely took one of the cakes.

“So, that night,” Mrs. Dixon said, stirring sugar into her cup, “I happened to be standing at my kitchen window, and I saw the man walk up the drive.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Genevieve asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Good enough, to be sure. He was dressed just as I described to the police. All in black, with one of those knitted caps, what do you call them—?” She snapped her fingers several times.

“A beanie?” Brandon suggested helpfully.

“A beanie!” She beamed at him.

Genevieve and Brandon looked at each other ominously, and Genevieve nodded. Brandon set down his tea cup, pulled the photo of Tyler from his jeans’ pocket, and handed it to Mrs. Dixon. “Did the man look like this?”

Mrs. Dixon gave the photo a cursory glance and handed it back, shaking her head. “No. That’s not him.”

“But you barely looked!” Genevieve cried. “How can you be sure?”

The woman turned her gaze slowly toward Genevieve. In an icy voice, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing or my sight, young lady. Although you seem convinced I am a useless old woman⁠—”

“Please, Mrs. Dixon, Ma’am,” Brandon said, “if you could just tell us why he’s not the one.”

The woman, still glaring at Genevieve, said, “Because the boy in this picture is far too tall, and he is too heavily built. The man that night was no more than five foot ten, and of average build, slender even.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Besides, the boy in this picture is named Tyler and I’d know him anywhere. I used to babysit him while his father taught high school, many years ago. And now, if you’ll excuse me.” She stood.

“Of course,” Brandon said graciously. “Thank you for your time.”

She tipped him a courteous nod, ushered them to the front door, and closed it firmly behind them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

GENEVIEVE KNOWS THE TRUTH

The next morning, Genevieve once again woke to the sun streaming through her window. She vaguely remembered disabling her alarm at five forty-five and throwing the covers back over her head, not ready to face the day, even to run. She had rarely felt so discouraged.

She’d been wrong about everything. She was no closer to solving the mystery of the Pinewood High killer, and she was growing increasingly afraid of the possibility that she was simply distracting herself from her own problems after all.

The problem that lay folded in thirds, tucked inside an envelope on her dresser.

Sighing, Genevieve kicked off her covers and swung her legs out of bed. She showered, brushed her teeth, and threw a few beach curls in her long dark hair, then spent some quality time in front of the vanity mirror applying mascara, her signature Cherry on Top lipstick, and hooking in a favorite pair of earrings. Then she grabbed the envelope and headed downstairs.

Her dad was still sleeping—he always slept till nine on Sundays—so Genevieve made a quick cup of strong tea, poured it into a thermos, and headed out the door. She needed someone to talk to and knew just the person.

On Sunday mornings, downtown Pinewood was sleepy and tranquil. Some of the stores stayed closed, some kept normal hours, and some, like Sweet Dreams Ice Cream Parlour, were closed to the public but were still a bustle of activity inside.

Genevieve opened the shop using her key and felt instantly transported by the wonderful warm scent of waffle cones and vanilla bean. Like always, stepping into Sweet Dreams was like stepping back in time, into the best memories of childhood. She took a few moments to appreciate the pink-and-white striped wallpaper, the shimmering polka-dot floors, and the cozy pink and green booths before walking into the kitchen where she knew Aunt Mellie would be making cakes.

“Hi, pretty!” Mellie said, her dark eyes sparking with pleasure. She set down her frosting spatula and stepped around the worktable to embrace her niece. “What brings you here this morning? You should be enjoying your day off.” She pulled back and studied Genevieve’s face attentively. “I see you. What’s wrong with my girl?”