Free Permanent Sunset by C. Michele Dorsey

what the hell she was going to do with them, when she heard the sound of the van. A little fuzzy from a couple of vodkas, she could sure use some help from Henry, although the sounds of Sean sobbing had pretty much sobered her up.
    “Holy crap, what are we supposed to do with all this food?” Henry asked, flinging the two lost-and-found bags onto the floor.
    “I was hoping you would know.”
    “You’re the one who grew up in a diner. But I suppose we can figure it out. How’s it going here?” Henry asked.
    Sabrina filled him in, explaining that Sean had a total meltdown at sunset and that he and the rest of the family were resting until she let them know dinner was ready.
    “How did it go with Gavin?” Sabrina asked.
    “All right. The guy’s not my favorite Keating, shall we say. He didn’t seem overly upset about Elena’s murder, but got kind of maudlin when he talked about her and the business. Weird,” Henry said, lifting covers off of dishes to see what had been delivered. “I think he’s been roughing up Lisa. I saw bruises on her arms this morning.”
    “Oh, that’s not good.” Sabrina thought there was already enough drama in the Keating family without adding domestic violence to the mix.
    “I say we just serve half the food and put the rest in the refrigerator for another meal. Who knows how long the police will keep Villa Nirvana off limits.”
    “That won’t work. Some of this stuff won’t keep well, but at least we don’t have to worry about reheating anything. I guess Elena’s insistence on a cold menu ended up being a good idea after all.” Sabrina remembered reviewing the menu with her and Sean at a meeting with Zeus’s chef, Carlos Holmes. Chef Holmes had urged Elena to include at least one hot item, but Elena resisted.
    “It will be warm at sunset,” Elena had proclaimed. “An elegant, cold meal will be perfect, and we won’t have to worry about timing things around food.” A proud Sean had beamed at her brilliance while Sabrina and Carlos had demurred.
    Feta and watermelon salad. Beef carpaccio. Shrimp cocktail with avocado and grapefruit. Lobster tails with mango puree. Artisan rolls. Island-churned butter. Twocases of chilled Veuve Clicquot. It had turned out to be the perfect menu.
    “Shall we serve them out by the pool or inside?” Henry asked, beginning to pull plates out of the kitchen cabinets.
    “I’d say inside. Then we don’t need to worry about no-see-ums.” Sabrina often marveled how insects so tiny that they were almost invisible could cause vacationers such misery, arriving at dusk just in time for happy hour. By the next morning, people were itching bites that were ten times the size of the bug that got them.
    “Bad enough we had the skinny-dippers here. Gave a little comic relief before it got really heavy,” she added. “I just hope they don’t come back. The Keatings need privacy. Sean is a mess. Everyone seems to be avoiding the suggestion that Elena may have been murdered. Why would someone kill her?”
    “Other than because she refused to sign the prenup? I have no idea, except people didn’t seem to warm to her,” Henry said.
    They set the table in the dining area overlooking the other tropical garden that bordered the front walkway. Moonlight had begun to filter through the trees and shrubs while a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves. Sabrina couldn’t help but think that it was a perfect Caribbean evening for a wedding.
    Henry knocked on everyone’s doors, except Sean’s, to let them know dinner was being served.
    Heather was the first to enter the kitchen.
    “Would either of you know where I might find some aspirin? I never drink in the afternoon and now I remember why.” Heather rubbed her temples, groaning.
    “Of course, sweetie. I have some in my backpa—oops, I don’t have my backpack. It’s at Nirvana. Maybe there’s some left in one of the medicine cabinets,” Henry said as Kate and Jack entered the kitchen.
    “I’d