Free Maid of Murder by Amanda Flower Page B

you think Mark is? Really?”
    I picked up my own plate and fanned myself. “How does he look? Why does everyone think that I know Mark so well? He’s your brother too.”
    “Yes, but you two are so much closer in age.”
    “Carmen, you’re only three years older than Mark.” Carmen always thought the three years separating her and Mark, not to mention the five years separating her and me, were the equivalent to four eons. Mark and I were born only eighteen months apart.
    Carmen shrugged.
    “Food,” Dad declared and wheeled over to the end of the table.
    Chip followed with a platter of fake meat. Mark got up from his lawn chair and went into the house. My mother moved to follow him.
    Dad grabbed her arm. “Leave him alone, Lana, he’ll come out when he’s ready.”
    Mom looked uncertain, but sat at the table with the rest of the family. After passing the pasta salad, Mom raised an eyebrow at me. “India was just about to tell us how she learned about Olivia’s wedding.”
    I pulled the piece of watermelon away from my mouth. “I was?”
    “Yes, you were,” she said, spearing a piece of tofu with her fork.
    When Carmen wasn’t looking, Nicholas grabbed the watermelon from my plate.
    It took all my power not to roll my eyes. “She called me a few months ago to let me know. Happy?”
    “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Dad asked.
    I took a new piece of watermelon. “I was going to—”
    “I’ve decided to eat more protein during the third trimester of the pregnancy,” Carmen interrupted.
    I smiled my thanks at her.
    “That’s a good idea,” Dad said.
    Mom was suspicious. “What kind of protein?”
    Carmen forked a cucumber from her salad. “Oh, you know, beans, nuts, a little chicken, peanut but—”
    “What?” My father bellowed.
    I thought I heard the Stripling High School bell tower, three miles away, echo at his cry. But it could be my imagination. My mother followed with a more colorful exclamation that would turn the church elders’ heads.
    “I have to think about the girls.” Carmen defended herself.
    “I can’t believe this. Alden, do we even know our children anymore?”
    Did you ever know them? I thought to myself.
    “Mother, be reasonable.” Carmen said.
    Good luck.
    “Don’t you want the babies to be healthy? They need protein.”
    Dad’s face was turning an impressive shade of red. “Hello, soy. It has a higher—”
    “I never ate meat during any one of my pregnancies,” Mom said.
    “I know, Mom,” Carmen said sensibly. “And maybe that shortage of animal products contributed to Mark’s depression and India’s fear of commitment.”
    I did roll my eyes that time, and Carmen gave me an apologetic smile.
    “I understand your concern, Carmen, but you’ve never eaten chicken yourself. How do you know how it will affect you, let alone your fetuses?” Mom asked.
    “Well, I . . .” She paused and then confessed. “I have had chicken before, and fish, too.”
    Shock registered on my parents’ faces. Chip slouched down on the bench. I was willing to bet he was her chicken and fish supplier. My quiet brother-in-law hid a grin behind a napkin, and Nicholas—weaned to these types of shouting matches—chomped on a carrot. I, however, knew it was a matter of milliseconds before I was enlisted to support one side of the argument or the other.
    “Nicholas,” I raised my voice over the indignant declarations flying across the picnic table. “Let’s play tether ball!”
    “Yeah,” My nephew agreed, and we ran away to a far corner of the backyard where a tetherball pole stuck out of the ground. We whacked the ball around the pole. I took care not to hit it too hard and hurt little Nicholas. He, unfortunately, was in a competitive take-no-prisoners state of mind and whipped the ball and rope back at me, nailing me in the forehead.
    I was sitting on the grass and Nicholas was rubbing my forehead, saying, “Sorry, Dia,” when Mark and Theodore ambled out of the house. My