cases—as well as a couple of deaths that would have slipped under the radar as either suicide or accident if I hadn’t followed up on my gut feelings. Figuring out whodunit was satisfying, though the process was often frustrating. But it appealed to my sense of justice, making things tidy in the world.
I loved my life. It was full and satisfying, and only seemed to be getting better and better. And part of that was because it had been occasionally punctuated by the excitement of a murder investigation. But I could still get that vicariously through Barr, right?
Maybe.
Besides, if Barr didn’t get some help, he’d be working so many hours there wouldn’t be any time at all for making babies.
I sighed and took the temperature of the lye, then pulled the thermometer out of my pocket and took my own.
98.1°.
Six
A light wind rustled the maple leaves outside the open bedroom window, a constant shushing that would have normally lulled me right to sleep. The temperature had dropped so the room was cool, but I was snug under the quilt.
Snug and alone.
Barr had called around ten o’clock to let me know he’d still be a few more hours. By that time I’d poured the lavender-basil soap into molds to harden and cleaned up the workroom. Upstairs I stopped by Erin’s bedroom to find she’d fallen asleep with one arm draped around a snoozing Brodie. I turned off her light and moved on to the living room where Meghan and Kelly were watching a movie. One look at them cuddled together on the sofa told me they’d appreciate a little privacy, so I’d gone up to our digs to wait for my hubby.
After a few minutes watching television in our little sitting room, it became apparent not even the Food Network could hold my attention. So I sat at the bistro table in our shiny kitchenette and doodled ideas for new Winding Road products. I already had soaps and milk bath, bath salts, and melts and teas. Lip balms and lotion bars were mainstays, as were foot scrub, facial cleanser, and air fresheners. At this point adding new items could only increase sales. Maybe a line of herbal salves? Or perhaps an assortment of fragrant body oils—effective and cost efficient with the added benefit of aromatherapy. I could attest to that because I already made several types for my personal use, as well as providing Meghan with custom blends for her massage clients.
Okay, body oils it would be. I’d order the raw materials in the morning.
That decided, I stood and stretched, glancing at the clock on the microwave. Almost midnight. Usually I’d have been in bed at least an hour ago, Barr or no Barr. Tonight I wanted to know whether they’d identified the compost lady, as I thought of her somewhat embarrassingly. But there was no telling how late my husband would be.
Enough. I had to get some sleep.
So I changed into my jammies, crawled between the sheets, and turned the lamp on Barr’s nightstand to low.
I should have known as soon as I shut my eyes the image of a dirty green-and-blue striped sock would fill my mental movie screen. I’d been doing my best to distract myself all evening, but now it was just me, the shushing wind, and that damn sock.
After fifteen minutes, I switched on my light and opened the suspense novel I’d been gradually working through. Better to read about fictional serial killers than think about real-life dead bodies.
The door to the stairs at the end of the hall was open so I could hear the front door. At a little after one it opened and closed. Moments later footsteps sounded on the stairs, then quieted on the carpet. I stuck a bookmark right in the middle of a steamy love scene and waited.
Barr came into the bedroom, tugging at his tie. “Oh, hon.” He stopped and looked down at me apologetically. “I didn’t really mean for you to stay awake. I’m exhausted, not quite up for—”
“Like I could have slept. Don’t worry—I’m not exactly in a sexy mood, either. Have you eaten?”
He shook his
I loved my life. It was full and satisfying, and only seemed to be getting better and better. And part of that was because it had been occasionally punctuated by the excitement of a murder investigation. But I could still get that vicariously through Barr, right?
Maybe.
Besides, if Barr didn’t get some help, he’d be working so many hours there wouldn’t be any time at all for making babies.
I sighed and took the temperature of the lye, then pulled the thermometer out of my pocket and took my own.
98.1°.
Six
A light wind rustled the maple leaves outside the open bedroom window, a constant shushing that would have normally lulled me right to sleep. The temperature had dropped so the room was cool, but I was snug under the quilt.
Snug and alone.
Barr had called around ten o’clock to let me know he’d still be a few more hours. By that time I’d poured the lavender-basil soap into molds to harden and cleaned up the workroom. Upstairs I stopped by Erin’s bedroom to find she’d fallen asleep with one arm draped around a snoozing Brodie. I turned off her light and moved on to the living room where Meghan and Kelly were watching a movie. One look at them cuddled together on the sofa told me they’d appreciate a little privacy, so I’d gone up to our digs to wait for my hubby.
After a few minutes watching television in our little sitting room, it became apparent not even the Food Network could hold my attention. So I sat at the bistro table in our shiny kitchenette and doodled ideas for new Winding Road products. I already had soaps and milk bath, bath salts, and melts and teas. Lip balms and lotion bars were mainstays, as were foot scrub, facial cleanser, and air fresheners. At this point adding new items could only increase sales. Maybe a line of herbal salves? Or perhaps an assortment of fragrant body oils—effective and cost efficient with the added benefit of aromatherapy. I could attest to that because I already made several types for my personal use, as well as providing Meghan with custom blends for her massage clients.
Okay, body oils it would be. I’d order the raw materials in the morning.
That decided, I stood and stretched, glancing at the clock on the microwave. Almost midnight. Usually I’d have been in bed at least an hour ago, Barr or no Barr. Tonight I wanted to know whether they’d identified the compost lady, as I thought of her somewhat embarrassingly. But there was no telling how late my husband would be.
Enough. I had to get some sleep.
So I changed into my jammies, crawled between the sheets, and turned the lamp on Barr’s nightstand to low.
I should have known as soon as I shut my eyes the image of a dirty green-and-blue striped sock would fill my mental movie screen. I’d been doing my best to distract myself all evening, but now it was just me, the shushing wind, and that damn sock.
After fifteen minutes, I switched on my light and opened the suspense novel I’d been gradually working through. Better to read about fictional serial killers than think about real-life dead bodies.
The door to the stairs at the end of the hall was open so I could hear the front door. At a little after one it opened and closed. Moments later footsteps sounded on the stairs, then quieted on the carpet. I stuck a bookmark right in the middle of a steamy love scene and waited.
Barr came into the bedroom, tugging at his tie. “Oh, hon.” He stopped and looked down at me apologetically. “I didn’t really mean for you to stay awake. I’m exhausted, not quite up for—”
“Like I could have slept. Don’t worry—I’m not exactly in a sexy mood, either. Have you eaten?”
He shook his
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