down at her hand
resting comfortably on his larger one on the arm of the chair. She liked the
way it looked there.
The hostess smiled. “Newlyweds?”
“Huh?” Sunny’s head jerked up. Holding the smile,
the woman walked away.
Jonathan grinned as he sat down. “It shows.”
Her face warmed. “Something shows.” She buried
herself in the menu.
“My dear Sunny, I do believe I’m seeing a side of
you I never saw before.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I suggest you get used to the feeling, because the
activity which caused it might be happening again from time to time.”
His words gave her such a delicious—and
impish—feeling that she gave him a look over the top of the menu that made his
face go slack. He hitched in a breath. “Eat fast.”
They ordered waffles. His was plain and hers was
smothered in enough strawberries and whipped cream that she had to search for
the waffle.
Sated, in more ways than one, Jonathan pushed his
empty plate aside. Sunny had finished a long time ago, having barely made a
dent in the plate’s contents. His gaze moved to something beyond her, and his
eyes dulled. “Great. How far do we have to go to get away from the good
citizens of Chester?”
Sunny turned in her chair. “Oh, hi, Tom. Aren’t you
out of your jurisdiction?”
Tom pulled out a chair and sat down without being
invited. “Still my eating jurisdiction. They make good chili here.”
“For breakfast?” Jonathan looked appalled.
“It’s almost noon.” Tom gave him a curious look.
“Oh.” The younger man appeared slightly nonplused.
“Of course it is.” He rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair and managed
a surreptitious glance at his watch.
Tom directed his attention to Sunny. “Glad I ran
into you. I got the report back on that baseball bat, and the blood type isn’t
the same as your—oh, hi, Millie.”
“You ready yet, Tom?” The waitress put one check
face down in the middle of the table, and then poised her pencil above her
ordering pad.
“Your biggest bowl of chili, nuke it with cheddar
and onions, and bring me a box of crackers to go along with it. And a glass of
water and ice, leave the pitcher.”
“I could write this one on my own and bring it with
me. But if I did, you’re just ornery enough to order something else.”
Tom guffawed.
Although her gaze was on Millie as she walked away,
Sunny spoke to Tom. “You were saying the blood type isn’t Franklin’s.”
“Nope. Isn’t.”
Once Millie rounded the cashier’s station, she was
out of sight, but Sunny’s gaze remained on the corner of the stand. She asked,
“Then whose?”
“Now that is the question. A really good question.
All indications point to the fact that the bat walloped somebody real good. And
the prints on the base—there were two good ones—don’t belong to old Franklin
either. He was neither the victim nor the one wielding the weapon, but it was
found in his attic. When you figure that one out, you let me know.”
“Then someone else is missing besides Franklin,”
Jonathan reasoned. “Somebody’s going to have to go digging.”
Tom hesitated, gave him a squinted, are-you-serious
kind of look. Sunny had also caught what was most likely an unintended pun, but
she was too preoccupied to respond to it.
“What’s next, Tom?” she asked. “What do we do now?”
“Check the missing person’s file,” he paused and
gave Jonathan another squinty look. “And try to date the, uh, tissue on the
bat. But I don’t mind sayin’ we got more questions right now than answers.”
“But as far as we’re concerned,” Jonathan said,
“it’s...”
“Yep. Business as usual. Whatever that is.” He gave
each of them a thoughtful look. “Whatever that is,” he repeated. “Anything
going on I should know about? Something different about you, both of you, but I
can’t put my finger on it.”
Sunny stared at him. No way can it show that we
just got out of the same bed. No way, no how.
Then she
resting comfortably on his larger one on the arm of the chair. She liked the
way it looked there.
The hostess smiled. “Newlyweds?”
“Huh?” Sunny’s head jerked up. Holding the smile,
the woman walked away.
Jonathan grinned as he sat down. “It shows.”
Her face warmed. “Something shows.” She buried
herself in the menu.
“My dear Sunny, I do believe I’m seeing a side of
you I never saw before.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I suggest you get used to the feeling, because the
activity which caused it might be happening again from time to time.”
His words gave her such a delicious—and
impish—feeling that she gave him a look over the top of the menu that made his
face go slack. He hitched in a breath. “Eat fast.”
They ordered waffles. His was plain and hers was
smothered in enough strawberries and whipped cream that she had to search for
the waffle.
Sated, in more ways than one, Jonathan pushed his
empty plate aside. Sunny had finished a long time ago, having barely made a
dent in the plate’s contents. His gaze moved to something beyond her, and his
eyes dulled. “Great. How far do we have to go to get away from the good
citizens of Chester?”
Sunny turned in her chair. “Oh, hi, Tom. Aren’t you
out of your jurisdiction?”
Tom pulled out a chair and sat down without being
invited. “Still my eating jurisdiction. They make good chili here.”
“For breakfast?” Jonathan looked appalled.
“It’s almost noon.” Tom gave him a curious look.
“Oh.” The younger man appeared slightly nonplused.
“Of course it is.” He rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair and managed
a surreptitious glance at his watch.
Tom directed his attention to Sunny. “Glad I ran
into you. I got the report back on that baseball bat, and the blood type isn’t
the same as your—oh, hi, Millie.”
“You ready yet, Tom?” The waitress put one check
face down in the middle of the table, and then poised her pencil above her
ordering pad.
“Your biggest bowl of chili, nuke it with cheddar
and onions, and bring me a box of crackers to go along with it. And a glass of
water and ice, leave the pitcher.”
“I could write this one on my own and bring it with
me. But if I did, you’re just ornery enough to order something else.”
Tom guffawed.
Although her gaze was on Millie as she walked away,
Sunny spoke to Tom. “You were saying the blood type isn’t Franklin’s.”
“Nope. Isn’t.”
Once Millie rounded the cashier’s station, she was
out of sight, but Sunny’s gaze remained on the corner of the stand. She asked,
“Then whose?”
“Now that is the question. A really good question.
All indications point to the fact that the bat walloped somebody real good. And
the prints on the base—there were two good ones—don’t belong to old Franklin
either. He was neither the victim nor the one wielding the weapon, but it was
found in his attic. When you figure that one out, you let me know.”
“Then someone else is missing besides Franklin,”
Jonathan reasoned. “Somebody’s going to have to go digging.”
Tom hesitated, gave him a squinted, are-you-serious
kind of look. Sunny had also caught what was most likely an unintended pun, but
she was too preoccupied to respond to it.
“What’s next, Tom?” she asked. “What do we do now?”
“Check the missing person’s file,” he paused and
gave Jonathan another squinty look. “And try to date the, uh, tissue on the
bat. But I don’t mind sayin’ we got more questions right now than answers.”
“But as far as we’re concerned,” Jonathan said,
“it’s...”
“Yep. Business as usual. Whatever that is.” He gave
each of them a thoughtful look. “Whatever that is,” he repeated. “Anything
going on I should know about? Something different about you, both of you, but I
can’t put my finger on it.”
Sunny stared at him. No way can it show that we
just got out of the same bed. No way, no how.
Then she
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