Secrets to the Grave by Tami Hoag

haunt. Vince, who came from—by his own description—a big, loud Italian family from Chicago, knew good food and wine. Anne loved the ambience of casual elegance—dark wood and white table linens, exposed brick walls, a fountain gurgling in a corner. They dined here at least once a week.
    The owner himself, a transplant from Tuscany, brought her a glass of wine and a broad smile.
    “Signora Leone! What a pleasure, as always.”
    “Thank you, Gianni. It’s good to see you.”
    “Where is your husband?” he asked, looking around. “He lets you out of his sight? All the young men will be looking and saying ‘Who she is?’”
    “I’m here to protect her,” Franny announced.
    Gianni Farina rolled his eyes comically, patted Franny on the shoulder, and muttered something in Italian.
    “No tip for that!” Franny called after him.
    Anne laughed and took a sip of her wine as the front door opened and Vince walked in, greeted by no less than three people before he made it past the maitre d’ stand. He traded a few lines of Italian with Gianni, an exchange that ended in laughter and a big grin from Vince.
    “Are you keeping an eye on my bride, Franny?” he asked as he slid into the booth next to Anne.
    “I can’t be held responsible for how she looks.”
    Vince ran a hand back over her hair, his eyes shining as he looked down at her. “She looks beautiful.”
    “You’re in love.”
    “I am.” He leaned down and gave her a sweet little kiss that filled her with a soft, warm glow. “You look tired.”
    Anne mustered a smile. “Long day. What’s your excuse?”
    His head was hurting him. He wouldn’t say so, but she had learned to read the signs: the tightness around his eyes, the deepening of the lines across his forehead. He needed to lie down. She needed to take care of him.
    “The same,” he said. “I told Gianni we’d take something home with us.”
    “And ditch me,” Franny complained.
    “Three’s a crowd,” Vince returned.
    “Do you have any leads on the case?” Anne asked.
    “Some interesting possibilities,” Vince said evasively.
    “What case?” Franny asked. “Peter Crane?”
    Franny was obsessed with the prospect of the Crane trial. The idea that his dentist—the person he allowed to put his hands in his mouth, for God’s sake!—was a serial killer. And that Crane had abducted and hurt Anne made him all the more rabid on the subject.
    “Somebody murdered Marissa Fordham, the artist,” Anne said.
    “What?”
    “Marissa Fordham,” Anne said again. “She did that beautiful poster for the Thomas Center.”
    “Oh my God!”
    “Did you know her?” Vince asked.
    “I’ve met her a few times at social events. She just brought her little girl to school for the pre-kindergarten Halloween party. I liked her. She’s a cool lady. We talked about her coming in for a visiting artist day. What happened?”
    “She was found dead this morning,” Vince said, giving no details away. “We’re trying to find out who her friends were in the hopes they might be able to turn the investigation in the right direction.”
    “People aren’t supposed to get murdered here,” Franny said, getting angry. “Do we really have to go through this again? This is unbelievable!”
    “People who kill other people don’t tend to stop and think how it’s going to impact the community,” Vince said. “They don’t stop in the heat of the moment and think Oh my God, there were all those murders here last year. Maybe I should wait. ”
    Franny ignored the edge of sarcasm in Vince’s voice. His mind was racing to try to make some kind of sense of a senseless act. “Was it a robbery or something?”
    “No.”
    “Oh my God. Someone just went to her home and killed her? At random?”
    “We don’t think it was random,” Vince said. “In fact, I would say it was very personal with a lot of rage behind it. She managed to piss someone off to the point of no return.
    “I remember you once telling me you