Should I leave the box of cookies on the porch? No, I’d hate for them to get stolen, or worse, have mice picking at them. Maybe I could just slip a note in her mailbox and come again tomorrow? Decision made, I hurried down the steps to grab a pen and paper from the car when someone rounded the side of the house and slammed into me.

“Ope!” I yelped as I grabbed the person to stop myself from falling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Lila?” The hooded figure peered closely at me. “What are you doing here?”

The voice was Mrs. Long’s.

I held up the box of cookies. “I didn’t have a chance to truly express my condolences. I remembered you liked my baking, so I wanted to stop by for a bit with my ube crinkles.”

She lowered her hood, eyes flickering to the treats I held out, then back to meet my eyes. “I was wondering if you were ever going to come over.”

I bit my lip. “Wasn’t sure if I was welcome. Your husband certainly doesn’t want me around.”

“Yes, well . . .” She turned away and stomped toward the front door. “It’s my home, too, and I’d like a chance to talk to you. So come on in.”

I followed her through the open door, expecting the usual warmth of a Midwestern home but was met with the chill of an unheated house. Guess they’d lowered the temperature before heading out to the funeral home. I took off my boots, but kept my coat on, trying—and failing—to suppress a shudder.

Noting my involuntary gesture, Mrs. Long hurried over to the thermostat. “Sorry about the cold. Ed likes to keep the heat as low as possible to cut costs.”

I smiled to reassure her. “Don’t worry, my grandmother’s the same way.” I mimicked my Lola Flor’s stern voice. “‘If you’re cold, put on a sweater, ha? You think it’s cheap heating up this old house?’”

I left out the part where she’d make some crack about how all my excess fat should be keeping me warm. And people wondered why I wanted to leave so bad.

Mrs. Long smiled. “That sounds like her all right. But your house is always so lovely and warm when I stop by.”

“That’s because Tita Rosie turns the heat back up to normal human temperatures.” Realizing what she said, I frowned. “Wait, you’ve been by recently?”

Her hands fluttered up toward her permed blonde hair, fingers fluffing up the curls. “N-no, I wouldn’t say recently. Maybe a few months ago? I stopped by to pick something up for a church function and your aunt invited me in. She fed me enough food to constitute a three-course meal even though I said I’d already eaten. Insisted it was just coffee and snacks.”

I smiled, slightly embarrassed. Tita Rosie’s warmth was genuine, but my family’s hospitality could be a little on the pushy side. “Yeah, sorry about that. Her innate need to feed the world can be a little overwhelming at times.”

She laughed. “It was the best meal I’d had in a long time, so I didn’t mind. Ed keeps me on a pretty limited budget when it comes to buying groceries, and I’m not very creative in the kitchen, so . . .”

She trailed off and glanced at the kitchen, eyes widening suddenly. “How rude of me, having you stand around without even offering you a drink! Let me just pop into the kitchen and I can make some coffee to go with those, um, how do you pronounce it?”

I held out the box to her. “Oo-beh. It’s like a mild sweet potato that we use for desserts in the Philippines.”

She picked one up clumsily in her gloved hands and took a small, timid bite. Her eyes bugged out and she popped the rest of it into her mouth, chewing vigorously. “Ohh, I remember the taste of these now! Subtle and sweet, and such a lovely color.”

I nodded. “Thanks. I love them, too.”

“They’re quite addictive.” She ate two more in rapid succession and urged me to have one as well, so I helped myself to a few.

They worked up quite a thirst, but I didn’t know how to signal to Mrs. Long that I was really craving that coffee she’d offered. I cleared my throat a few times as she worked on another cookie, but it took a fake cough to draw her attention.

“Are you OK, dear?”

“Sorry, winter doesn’t really agree with me. The cold gets into my chest and makes my throat so dry.”

“Oh, right, the coffee! Coming right up. Just wait here a moment.” She put the box down on a side table and scurried off to the kitchen.

I followed her, figuring it was time to stop stalling and talk to her about Derek. “Mrs. Long, I’m sorry but—”

For the second time that day, I bumped into her. She was barely my height, which wasn’t all that impressive to begin with, and a wisp of a thing, but the rigidity of her body and the shock of the sudden stop nearly knocked me down.

“Whoa! Mrs. Long, what’s—” I peered past her into the kitchen and gasped as I saw what had caused the abrupt motion.

There on the floor lay Mr. Long. If the pool of blood that had inched its way toward the kitchen entrance wasn’t proof enough that something was wrong, the knife embedded in his chest was.

“Oh, dear Lord,” I said, crossing myself. What in the world was going on?

“Lila,” Mrs. Long said, keeping her eyes on her husband’s still form, “would you be a dear and call the police?”

Chapter Thirty-six

I have to say, Ms. Macapagal, you either have the greatest intuition or worst luck when it comes to stumbling across crime scenes,” Detective Park observed as he finished taking down my witness account.

After years of living in Chicago, I still wasn’t used to the speed at which the Shady Palms Police Department arrived. I’d called less than ten minutes ago, and in that time, a full team had arrived to take pictures of the crime scene, search for evidence, and take down my and Mrs. Long’s statements.

I was going to make a flippant remark about some girls having all the luck, sarcasm being my preferred defense mechanism, but bit my tongue when I caught the look on Mrs. Long’s face. She still hadn’t taken off her winter coat, scarf, or gloves, and all that puffy black material seemed to swallow her up as if it were a physical manifestation of her grief. This woman had lost her only child as well as her husband in less than a week.

No, “lost” wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the unfairness of it all. It wasn’t some freak accident that took these men away from her. Their lives had been stolen.

My mind swirled with questions at this revelation. Was the person who stabbed Mr. Long the same one who poisoned Derek? Bludgeoned Janet in her office? Vandalized our restaurant? How many would-be killers and criminals were running around quiet little Shady Palms? And if the Long family was being targeted, did that mean Mrs. Long was next?

I asked Detective Park as much. He nodded, not in agreement, but to acknowledge he’d been thinking along the same lines. “So you noticed that connection as well. Don’t worry, Mr. Long’s sister is staying with her, so she won’t be alone in the house. And we’ll have patrol cars coming by every hour.”

I looked around the room but didn’t see the woman from the wake. “Where is his sister? What’s her name again? Cate?”

“Yes, Cate Long. According to Mrs. Long, Cate stayed at the funeral parlor to greet anyone who stopped by to pay their respects.”

“That’s strange. She didn’t seem particularly close to Derek. Why wasn’t Mrs. Long the one to stay behind?”

Detective Park cleared his throat. “Seems she needed to get away and clear her head for a while. I can’t blame her. Couldn’t have been easy for her to have to stare at the body of her son for hours on end.”

I winced, catching the rebuke in his voice. “That makes sense. What about Mr. Long though? Did he leave around the same time as her? I could understand her needing some time alone, but you’d think he’d be there in case anyone else showed up for the wake. He knows the people in this town; his sister doesn’t.”

He checked his notes. “According to Mrs. Long, she wanted to be alone but her husband insisted on accompanying her home. The last time she saw him alive was when he dropped her off at the house. He told her he was going to see his friend Craig Nelson and he’d pick her up in an hour. After he left, she went for a long walk to clear her head and bumped into you.”

“Was Mrs. Long actually walking for an hour? Or did Mr. Long get home early? Maybe he surprised a burglar who thought the family would be out at Derek’s wake and killed him in a panic? Is it silly to think everything that’s happened recently all ties to Derek’s case?” I spat out these questions as they came to me, one after another, not sure if Detective Park would actually answer me, but needing to get them out.

“Mrs. Long isn’t sure how long she was out for. She’s not wearing a watch and she didn’t have her phone during her walk. Until we talk to Mr. Nelson, we won’t know what time he headed back home or if that’s even where he went.”

“What about the murder weapon?”