Free Trimmed With Murder by Sally Goldenbaum Page B

concern.
    The popping and crackling of the cheery fire at the other end of the room belied the grim silence that settled over them.
    Sam spoke first, his words tentative. “Hey, man, what do you think? We’re here to help. Do we need to call the police? The chief’s a friend of ours. He’d be discreet. Could Amber have taken off, gone back to wherever she came from?”
    And taken your BMW with her?

Chapter 8
    A nd the silent answer was
Of course she could have
.
    The rattle of the deck doors rescued the moment. It saved them from saying what was on all their minds, words they’d regret—a stolen car, Charlie’s poor judgment. A missing girl.
    Amber stood on the deck, her breath fogging the glass and one gloved hand tapping insistently.
    The sigh of relief was audible.
    Nell reached the French door first and ushered Amber in out of the cold. They walked together into the steamy kitchen, the chowder now warming on the stove, the oven readying to crisp the French bread.
    Amber brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and looked around until she spotted Charlie on the other side of the kitchen. She dangled his keys in her hand. “I didn’t want to leave these on the doorstep back there. It’s so windy. But your car’s in the drive.” She dropped the key chain on the island and looked around at the others. Then looked slightly awkward. “Thanks,” she added.
    The relief on Charlie’s face was clear, his anger dissolving in an instant as his eyes met hers. He looked down at the keys in her hand.
    Amber glanced at the others. “You must think I make a habit of barging in on you—like a bad penny.” Her words came out slowly, with a slight catch to her voice.
    At first Nell thought it was because she was truly embarrassed about coming in the way she did. But when she suggested to Amber that she warm up with a glass of wine and walked over to take her jacket, she realized it wasn’t embarrassment that was causing the catch in her voice—at least not because she had barged in on them.
    Amber had been crying.
    Her narrow face was swollen with leftover tears, their tracks still visible on her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy. In the bright overhead lights of the kitchen, she looked sad—and as vulnerable as a small child.
    â€œMay I use the restroom?” she asked Nell, allowing her hostess to take control, first by helping Amber with her jacket, then by leading her out of the limelight and down the shadowed hallway to the bathroom at its end.
    Ben looked over at Charlie, but Sam had already recruited him into refilling martini glasses and Charlie seemed relieved to have a job. They were laughing together, an unspoken relief coloring their mood.
    It was a muted celebration for the safe return of Charlie’s car. But they could tell that to Charlie it was something more.
    By the time Amber and Nell returned, the music had been turned up a notch, an old Beatles medley filling up the room. In the background, a lively fire crackled as if keeping time with “Hey Jude.”
    Amber drifted over to Charlie’s side, her slender frame smaller in the shadow of Charlie’s broad shoulders. She had washed her face and was more composed, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. She looked over at Ben.
    â€œEsther told me you were going to be at the meeting today. I’m sorry I missed it. I didn’t intend to mess anything up. I . . .” She stopped, as if her explanation wouldn’t matter, then said softly, “I hope it went okay.”
    â€œWe canceled it. It’s been rescheduled,” Ben said.
    Amber looked surprised. “Why?” She accepted a glass of wine from Sam and sipped it, color slowly returning to her face.
    â€œLydia Cummings attached a stipulation to the will that all those mentioned in it be present when it’s read. That’s one of the reasons the lawyer—Rachel Wooten—was so