Free A Suspicion of Strawberries (Scents of Murder Book 1) by Lynette Sowell Page B

two have kept a convenient distance from each other long enough.” Di patted my hand. “So let life happen. Embrace what God has for you and make the most of it.”
    “Well, first of all,” I glanced around the room as I spoke, “I’ve got to save this business. Ben said sometimes I give up too easily. Well, I’m not going to. Tennessee River Soaps isn’t going down without a fight. We’re going to make an appointment with Charla’s fiancé and do a little digging and see what comes up.”
    “What about Mike Chandler? Didn’t you want to talk to him?”
    “I do,” I admitted, “but I thought maybe Charla’s fiancé might shed a little light on that lawsuit. I know, I know, there’s confidentiality and all, but cases in court are usually a matter of public record. Maybe he can save me the red tape of going to the courthouse and requesting a transcript of the proceedings.”
    “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “Plus, I’m chicken when it comes to talking to Mike. Angry men scare me, and Mike Chandler is one angry man.” I didn’t need to remind Di about the time I saw Mike throw a pallet of peaches across the farmyard last summer. Di and I had made our weekly pilgrimage to Chandler’s Farmer’s Market. I’d caught a glimpse of him by the peach groves, his face red as he shouted at an employee. Then, there were the bitter words at Honey’s.
    “So, you’re going to wait to go to Chandler’s until Ben gets home again?”
    “That’s the plan. And the longer the murderer thinks no one suspects what they did, the more relaxed they’ll get.” At least I hoped so.
     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
    The leather-covered loveseat squeaked underneath me as I crossed my legs. I’d donned a skirt and my favorite blouse on Tuesday morning, which was Robert’s first available appointment. The offices of Robert Robertson, Attorney-at-Law, extended to a twelve-foot ceiling, where a fan clanked and spun way above our heads.
    I’d never dealt with a lawyer, other than having Steve’s cousin Drew help me when I launched the soap business. The connection practically made Drew family in Greenburg genealogy, and we’d drawn the papers up one night after a fish fry at Di and Steve’s house.
    In contrast, Robert’s office screamed money and power. Was that what had attracted Charla to Robert? And Kaitlyn to Robert. . .and who knows who else? Even Kaitlyn hadn’t seemed impervious to Robert’s charms, and that was six months into another relationship.
    “Di, you didn’t need to come with me.” Although deep down, I was glad.
    “I didn’t mind tagging along. You can do the talking, and I’ll watch him answer. Then we can compare notes.” Di seemed more excited than someone ought to be in such a place. Soft music played somewhere, the sound of classical violins. It made me want to curl up on the squeaky leather and go to sleep.
    The door opened to Robert’s inner sanctum.
    “Mr. Robertson is ready to see you now, ladies.” His receptionist greeted us with a flat voice.
    I had told the receptionist I needed to speak with Robert about a legal matter concerning the store. This secured me a prompt appointment, without my lying to the man.
    Di’s eyes grew round as marbles, and I choked on my breath when we entered Robert’s office. We shook hands with him, and I tried not to stare too hard. Robert gestured to a pair of wing-back chairs facing his mahogany desk. I settled onto the leather chair, which groaned as if in response to Robert’s appearance.
    I should explain. Greenburg is not completely a hick town. We have a few urban touches, even on the Tennessee River. A few men like Robert get manicures (though they probably drive to Jackson to get one) and possibly wear pink shirts when they get a wild hair. But these men do not wear makeup of any kind. And today Robert wore it badly.
    The area under Robert’s left eye had been carefully covered with some kind of concealer, but I didn’t miss the hemorrhage