My aunt regarded me over the rim of her spectacles.
We’ll never sell all of these muffins before closing time. Are you planning to force-feed your customers, Noreen? I waved an arm around the half-empty café. I dumped it on the counter and wiped the back of my hand over my damp brow. On the Tuesday after I’d caught a killer, I schlepped a tray laden with blueberry muffins from the kitchen of the Movie Theater Café. All things considered, my time on Whisper Island hadn’t been the restful vacation my aunt Noreen had promised, but I’d had a blast. In that time, I’d learned to bake scones without burning them (okay, I still scrape off scorch marks), rescued a kitten trapped in a drainpipe (well, I’d helped), and solved a murder (that one really was me). Five weeks ago, I’d given my cheating ex and crumbling career in the San Francisco PD the proverbial middle finger, and moved to the Wild West…of Ireland.
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