Free To Catch a Leaf by Kate Collins

that. She was miffed. But we both got hugs before she left, so I held out hope that once she thought about it, she’d see our side.
    After she left, we took our wine and went to Marco’s office to talk about Grace’s situation.
    In sharp contrast to the 1970s bar decor, Marco’s office was sleek and modern, with dove gray walls, silver miniblinds, black leather furniture, a black-and-chrome desk, and a TV mounted in a corner opposite the desk. While I made myself comfortable in one of the black leather chairs, he sat down at his desk, turned the television on, and tuned in to WNCN, the local cable news station, hoping to catch a report on Constance Newport’s death.
    â€œOkay, fill me in,” he said, lowering the volume.
    I repeated Grace’s account of finding the body without disclosing her startling revelation. Then I filled him in on the other people living on the property. Marco listened without interruption, rubbing his jaw as he absorbed the information, which is what he did when he was piecing things together.
    I ended with Grace’s request that we find Connie’s killer.
    â€œThe woman’s death hasn’t been ruled a homicide,” Marco reminded me.
    I didn’t want to broach the subject of Grace’s communication with her friend because I knew Marco wouldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it myself. So I tried logic instead. “Think about how Grace described the body lying on the basement floor. What’s your gut telling you? Because mine is saying to trust Grace’s assessment.”
    â€œI understand that you have a lot of faith in Grace, Sunshine, but she doesn’t have any experience in homicide investigations. Seeing a body sprawled at the bottom of the steps is shocking, to be sure, but it would take a skilled investigator to decide whether it was murder.”
    I couldn’t argue with that. “The problem is that Grace asked that we find her friend’s killer, and I volunteered to help in any way I could.”
    Marco rubbed his jaw. “Then why don’t you tell her that if Constance Newport’s death is ruled a homicide, we’ll investigate.”
    â€œYou get a kiss for that.”
    Marco’s attention suddenly shifted to the TV, so I swiveled for a look. He picked up the remote to turn up the volume as a photo of a distinguished older woman was displayed on the flat screen.
    â€œTragedy has felled a local hero,” the anchor woman reported. “Constance Newport, philanthropist, patron of the arts, and humanitarian, died today at the age of eighty-seven from unknown causes.”
    â€œNothing about police suspecting foul play,” Marco said.
    The news anchor continued. “Newport was instrumental in the creation of an art museum and gallery within New Chapel University, in the funding of the hospice center and the new wing on the public library. She was married to Burnett K. Newport, a prominent businessman, entrepreneur, and collector of Victorian art, for over forty years. Newport is survived by a son, daughter, and grandson. No decision has been made about funeral services, but Newport’s attorney said an announcement would be forthcoming.”
    As the reporter launched into a retrospective of Constance’s life, Marco lowered the volume. “Did I tell you how hot you look in that outfit?”
    I glanced down at my white blouse and dark jeans. “No, but go ahead.”
    He crooked his finger at me. “Come over here.”
    I loved it when he got that primordial glimmer in his eye.
    He turned his desk chair so I could crawl onto his lap; then he gathered me in his arms for a smoldering kiss. With his lips against my ear, he murmured, “What do you say we go back to your place, open that bottle of champagne we saved from our engagement dinner, and then . . .”
    He whispered the then part in my ear. “Does that sound like a plan?”
    I gazed into his deep