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executed you with a single bullet to the head.
    Could this guy have been today’s shooter?
    “Hello, folks!” he said to us, in a rather jovial way for a cold-blooded killer. “I see the bridge club is still at it. Those women have some stamina, don’t they?”
    He huffed and puffed with the effort of removing his snowmobile suit over the girth of his stomach. As he hung each piece of gear in a closet by the door, he kept talking. “I’m David Mason, one of the chefs here. I ran out of butter, if you can believe that.”
    He held up a grocery bag heavy with several pounds of something inside. Square boxes were evident inside the thin plastic bag once he’d finished uncovering himself and moved toward us. Ordinary butter in a normal grocery bag. That’s all.
    “Hope you’re enjoying the food,” he said.
    “We are, very much,” George replied and he stood and shook David’s hand and introduced us. “Is Marc with you?”
    “Marc had a family problem to take care of.”
    “Nothing serious, I hope,” George said.
    “I’m not sure. He asked me to make you comfortable and say he’d meet you at the cottage,” he glanced up at one of the high windows. I followed his gaze. “You might want to get going soon. Weather’s a mess out there. In fact, I see the president of the bridge club over there sitting with my wife. She should be heading home, too.”
    “He’s right, George,” I said, rising from the table and gathering my gear.
    “Let me walk you out,” David said.
    On the way to the exit, we stopped at one of the tables where four women were playing bridge. David laid a hand on one woman’s shoulder. “George and Willa Carson, this is my wife, Molly. And her sisters, Maureen Richards and Madeline Trevor, and our good friend Jeannine Montgomery.”
    Madeline Trevor gave me a strange look I couldn’t decipher, but the others were friendly enough. We smiled and nodded all around before David explained the blizzard. “You might want to get folks to wrap it up and head home while they can still get there,” he said.
    We paid the bill and trudged out to the parking lot along with everyone else.
    I started the Jeep and turned on the heat while George used the snowbrush to sweep off the windows. David might not have been the killer, but he drove a snowmobile and was out of the building for a while. I wasn’t ready to cross him off my list of suspects just yet. At least I’d talk to Marc about him first.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

    As David had warned, the blizzard’s force had steadily increased while we were at the Cafe and now at least four inches of fresh snow covered the streets. Neither of us had driven on snow in years and no, it’s not like riding a bike.
    Marc Clayton lived in an historic Victorian mansion on Foxglove Street, not far from Eagle Creek. The mansion’s guesthouse would be our home for the week.
    George took it slow and easy and eventually, we reached our destination. Marc had said he’d be back later but had left the cottage door unlocked for us. We unpacked and tromped our way inside.
    I wandered around the charming cottage, examining everything, which didn’t take long. Two minutes to tour the entire place.
    A cheerful blaze burned in the fieldstone fireplace and freshly baked cookies scented the air. A single bedroom, small kitchen, one bath and an all-purpose room for everything else. The refrigerator had been stocked with my favorite Cuban coffee and the bar contained Glenfiddich scotch for George and Bombay Sapphire gin for me. Marc, an excellent host, had once again thought of everything.
    George had walked into the bedroom and plopped down on the bed. “Willa, this is supposed to be a vacation. I need a nap.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, but I was most definitely not in the mood.
    For the next week, George and I would have more time together than we’d spent in years. When we’d planned the trip, we’d expected a romantic getaway, but romance and murder rarely mix. So much