by Cathy Pegau
“For a woman who was possibly poisoning her husband,” Charlotte said, “Carmen was convincing in her grief. She even fainted when we first discovered Stanley in the crevasse.”
“Well, she was an actress, wasn’t she?” Michael unwound his scarf and tossed his hat on a nearby chair. Since there was no reason to run back out again, it looked like he’d decided to stay for a bit.
“I never suspected her to be anything but a grieving widow when I interviewed her,” James said, shaking his head. “And I look for that sort of odd behavior.”
Charlotte settled back against the cushion. “Maybe there should be some sort of award for that kind of talent.”
James and Michael stared at her as if she’d grown another head.
“An award?” James asked, incredulous. “For acting?”
“Sure,” she said, warming up to the idea, though she suspected pain and fatigue were playing tricks with her thoughts. “They could throw a big party and hand out medals or statues.”
“You have some odd ideas, Sis.” Michael headed to the kitchen.
“You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
“True,” James said. His head rested against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, and his long legs stretched out. He was comfortable there in her house, with her.
And damn it, she was comfortable with him as well. Perhaps more than comfortable.
Charlotte nudged his leg and laid her right hand palm up on the cushion between them. His eyes barely opened, but she saw him glance down at her offered hand. He smiled and covered her palm with his, entwining their fingers.
“Staying for supper?” she asked.
“Sure. I’ll even wash the dishes.” James squeezed her fingers. “Whatever you want, Miss Brody. You just let me know.”
Charlotte scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh, I will, Deputy. You can count on it.”