equipment was safely stowed somewhere above their heads.
Ethan pulled her even closer. “Nope. This is a spontaneous shot.”
Kristine leaned her face against his and smiled, a big, cheesy, happy-to-be-going-to-Italy-and-sitting-in-first-class grin.
“Perfect.” Ethan uploaded the picture to a site. “Valiant wanted me to do a few social media posts, so this is our first one. The essay contest winners, living a life of luxury out on the tarmac.”
“I love it,” Kristine said.
Ethan went back to checking his email and she to reading. Eventually, the cabin got a little too warm and Kristine felt sleepy. She let out a yawn.
“Get comfortable,” Ethan said. “We’ve got plenty of time until Rome.”
After snuggling up with her travel blanket and pillow set, courtesy of The Places You’ll Go, Kristine dozed off with the fans whirring overhead. Eventually, the plane started to taxi toward the runway, rocking like a big ship. By the time the wheels lifted off, she was fast asleep.
Twenty-nine
June was sitting at the wrought-iron table in her garden, just finishing up a piece of toast with raspberry preserves, when Charley’s back door slid open. Before such late evenings with Rose, the man had been in his garden every morning at eight o’clock on the dot. Today, it was nearly nine.
Not that she was paying attention.
As June took a sip of tea, she heard a sudden clank of metal.
“Ahhh,” Charley cried. “Help. Help!”
For heaven’s sake, what had happened? June leapt up and rushed over to the fence. Charley was lying on his bricked patio in a crumpled heap.
The blood drained from her face. “Charley,” she cried. “Are you alright?”
At the sound of her voice, he lifted his head. June practically collapsed against the fence with relief.
“I tripped over that darn rake.” He pointed at the very same rake she had knocked over the night before, when she’d crept into his garden to spy on him and Rose. “I can’t believe it.”
In an effort to not look as guilty as she felt, June stuttered, “Well, why . . . why on earth do you keep a rake lying across your patio anyway?”
“I don’t.” His face was etched with pain. “Squirrels must have knocked it over.” Gingerly, Charley pressed his hand against the top of his white socks. “Ooph.” He flinched. “I think I might have twisted my ankle.”
“Stay right there,” she clucked. “I’ll be right over.”
Gathering up her breakfast plates, June rushed inside. She dumped everything on the counter, grabbed her keys and rushed out the front door. She practically sprinted (a feat she had not accomplished in years) down the front steps.
“Hold on, Charley,” she shouted. “I’m on my way.”
June ducked into the alley along the far side of the house, where he kept his garbage and recycle bins. The alley was rocky and cool and led to a rusted wrought-iron gate. She had to shove hard against some overgrown ivy, but eventually the gate opened right into his backyard.
“Huh,” he grunted. With every step, her boots squished in the dew of the grass. “I should’ve known that you would know how to break into my garden. I haven’t used that gate in years.”
“Break into your garden?” June echoed. “Why—” She had half a mind to leave the man for dead, until she saw the rake lying next to his injured ankle. Eyeing it, she said, “Squirrels knocked this over? Are you sure it wasn’t a raccoon? It looks pretty heavy.”
In the mystery novels she read, it was not uncommon for the criminal to return to the scene of the crime. With a flash of glee, she suddenly understood why. There was something very satisfying about committing a crime and not getting caught.
Charley shook his head. “I’m not so sure about all that. My bucket’s missing, too.”
“Oh.” Her glee faded. “Well, that’s unusual.”
The night before, June had set the smashed bucket next to her trash can. Kristine grabbed it, saying, “You at least have to make an effort to hide the evidence.” She then shoved it in her trunk, like a body.
Pressing a hand against the brick patio, Charley attempted to get to his feet. He groaned, sinking back down to the ground.
Considering June had been the cause of his accident, it was within her best interest to ensure he made it indoors alive. Petty theft was one thing but murder? Quite another. “Grab my shoulder,” she instructed, bending down. “Can you do that?”
Awkwardly, Charley wrapped his arm around her shoulder. June was startled to feel how strong it was. Even though she had seen