LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB by Susan M. Boyer

feed me right.”
    â€œ There are a great many things I don’t do to Mamma’s standards.”
    He moved behind me, lifted my hair, and kissed my neck. “ And yet you so spectacularly exceed all of mine.”
    I smiled, keeping my eyes on the pan with great effort.
    â€œ I suppose I’d best let you be…for now.”
    The promise in his voice sent shivers of desire through every fiber of me.
    He moved away.
    â€œ Tease,” I said.
    â€œ You know better.”
    I did indeed. I took a deep, slow breath, so as not to ruin dinner. I scooped the chicken onto a plate, then added chicken broth, white wine, and lemon juice to the pan, stirred to deglaze, and watched the liquid reduce.
    I turned off the heat, added spinach and halved grape tomatoes to the pan, then added back the chicken. Once everything was combined, I poured it over the pasta bowl, added parmesan cheese, and tossed it all together.
    Nate opened a bottle of Murphy-Goode pinot noir, poured us each a glass, and set them by our places at the farmhouse table. I took the pasta bowl and joined him there. Over dinner we flirted with each other, exchanged tidbits of island news, stared out the window at the ocean, and took time to appreciate the meal we’d prepared.
    Only after we’d cleared the table and taken our wine to the living room did we turn back to our case. In some ways I felt guilty, as I always did, setting the client aside for a while. But coming back to a case with a fresh perspective often yielded clarity.
    I grabbed Shelby’s address book and my notebook from my tote. We settled into opposite ends of the sofa, facing each other with our legs stretched out. I told Nate about my visit to One80Place. Like I was handling C-4 explosives, I passed him the photo.
    He stared at it, winced. “This could be nothing more than a picture of two dedicated volunteers enjoying time with the kids. Someone says, ‘Y’all smile for the camera.’ They move in close and pose. Nothing to it.”
    â€œOr…”
    Nate shook his head, a worried look in his eyes. “My opinion, they’re cuddled up tighter than was strictly necessary for a quick snapshot. It’s possible something was going on between them. We have to follow this down whatever rabbit hole it goes.”
    â€œI know.” The pressure in my chest grew, rose into my throat. I spoke sternly to myself. I had to remain objective. There was simply no other option.
    I filled Nate in on my interviews with Clint and Jane. Talking through the high points of what they’d said helped me feel like I had a better sense of things.
    â€œI’m as convinced as Fraser that Clint is innocent,” I said.
    â€œAll right. Why? Because he loves animals, volunteers with Habitat for Humanity, and hasn’t canceled his wife’s tulip delivery?”
    â€œIt’s not just that. He strikes me as an honorable man.”
    Nate grimaced. “That, Slugger, is an emotional response to what could’ve been a carefully orchestrated performance.”
    â€œI can’t see that being the case. He got very little notice I was coming.”
    â€œLet’s set Clint aside for now, why don’t we? What about the best friend whose husband mighta been having an affair with Shelby?”
    â€œI’d place Jane and Charles Kinloch on the highly unlikely but possible list for now.”
    â€œ I didn’t find anything remotely resembling a lead today,” Nate said. “ Everyone I talked to claimed everybody loved Shelby. They’re all in shock. But I don’t think we can rule out someone Shelby knew through One80Place—or potentially Tent City—or any of the other organizations she volunteered at for that matter.”
    â€œBased on what Clint described as the ‘protocols’ at their house, I don’t see our culprit being a client. Shelby wouldn’t’ve opened the door for one of