Free Murder Crops Up by Lora Roberts Page B

preschool teacher that he had a perfectly adequate vocabulary when he needed it.
    Moira was conducting an art project on the high chair tray, involving swirls of spaghetti and sauce, tastefully ornamented with garlic bread crumbs. She had been using her face as a palette to mix her materials. “More,” she demanded. For a toddler, her voice was surprisingly strong.
    “Not until you eat some,” Bridget said. “How about a green bean?”
    “No want.” Moira’s little mouth snapped shut.
    “It’s not a great time for Amy to visit,” I said, keeping an eye on Corky, who was keeping an eye on me. “But she has an unexpected school holiday and she really, really wanted to get away. Renee’s even agreeing to let her come. They must really be mixing it up lately.”
    Corky sucked up a few stray strands of spaghetti. “Is Amy gonna stay with you again? Is that what you’re talking about?”
    “She’s coming for a few days.”
    “Cool!” He nudged Sam in the ribs. “Amy’s coming. Did you hear that?”
    “Amy with the purple hair?” Sam looked up from his plate. “She baby-sat us.”
    “She taught us that cool card game, remember? Seven-card stud,” Corky said with relish. He helped another massive forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, rendering him speechless while he tried to contain it.
    Bridget and Emery appeared unconcerned at this revelation of their offspring’s corruption. Emery even smiled. “How’s she doing with her stock market investing?” He leaned back, pushing the lock of red hair out of his eyes. In the past few months, I’d noticed more and more gray in his hair, though he wasn’t forty yet. An aura of energy surrounded him, even when he was sitting down with tired-looking eyes. “She’s quite the go-getter for a high school student. Girl’s got a jump on her future already.”
    “I didn’t ask her how the investing goes. She was pretty overwrought, really. That’s why I couldn’t say no.” I met Bridget’s worried gaze.
    Corky had seized on the word overwrought. “She’s not, like, rotting or anything?” His eyes were filled with dread.
    “No, hon. It just means too emotional, like you get when you’re tired and something happens that you don’t like.”
    “Oh.” Corky thought it over, stuffing in the last of his spaghetti. “CanIbescused?” He was sliding off his chair before Bridget nodded.
    Sam followed him, and Mick, staring at his dad, said, “Me, too,” and slid off the booster seat. Moira set up a screech.
    Emery had to shout to make himself heard. “You boys wash your faces and hands before you touch anything, especially the TV.”
    At the sink, Bridget passed a washcloth ruthlessly over Moira. She was done before Moira even started to howl about it. I marveled at this. When I tried, ever so gently, to wash her, she screamed like a banshee. Bridget’s no-nonsense approach really seemed to work. She put the baby down, and Moira made a beeline for the living room.
    Bridget finished rinsing out Moira’s bib and came back to the table with the bottle of Merlot we’d been working on. “Here’s to college,” she said, topping off our glasses and lifting her own. “A mere sixteen and a half years until they’re all gone.”
    “I won’t last that long,” Emery said. “What are they watching?”
    “Aladdin. Should be okay.” Bridget turned to me. “I didn’t want to ask in front of Corky, but how are you doing? What have you heard since this morning?”
    “I’ve heard nothing.” I sipped the wine, admiring its dark, rich color. “However, Lois came to see me this afternoon. She’s in a swivet.”
    I filled them both in on Lois’s visit, and they agreed it was strange. “But not any stranger than someone getting killed at the garden,” Emery added.
    “Strange is one word for it.” I shivered.
    “Actually,” Bridget said, “the gardeners aren’t as bad as sports parents.” She and Emery exchanged looks. “The soccer coach and a couple of