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Somehow he moved both Powers and Detective Jones toward the front hallway by simply shifting that way himself.
    The police detective paused mid-step. “You’ll let me know if you hear from Mr. Russell?”
    “The créperie, darling. I absolutely insist.” Powers pinned me with his green gaze. “Later this week? Promise?”
    “I promise.”
    Three unconvinced men stared at me. “I promise all of you.”
    How was I to know I’d regret every one of those promises?
    Five

      
    The thing about having the worst day ever is that you’re pretty much guaranteed that the next one will be better.
    The thing about glass half-full thinking is that it will bite you in the ass every time. Or it will stick out its leg, trip you, then laugh when you land on your aforementioned ass.
    I tripped. Then again, who expects to find a body on their front stoop? At least this one wasn’t dead. It moaned when I fell on it. Maybe because my knee landed in the near vicinity of the place men least like to feel knees. The body belonged to Roger Harper, Madeline’s husband.
    The smell of gin wafting from Roger’s body was enough to make my eyes water. The sight of his car parked on my hostas was enough to make me cry.
    I nudged him with the tip of my shoe, and I wasn’t gentle about it.
    He groaned.
    I nudged again. “Get up.”
    He groaned again.
    His wife was dead. Murdered. He was upset. That didn’t give him leave to sleep on my front steps—or crush my hostas.
    I stepped over Roger’s gin-soaked carcass and peered through the open window of his Jag. The keys were still in the ignition. The car stank of gin and cigarettes and grief. I got in, backed the car off my flattened shrubbery and parked it at the curb.
    When I climbed my front steps, Roger was still groaning and still not moving.
    A drunk man was draped across my front stoop. The homes association would disapprove—to put it mildly. My neighbors would have coronaries. They were probably calling to complain even now.
    I prodded again then tried a bribe. “If you get up, I’ll make you coffee.” I’d even make him my super-secret hangover cure. Although, if I told Roger what was in it, he might opt to spend the day heaped in front of my door. “Coffee,” I crooned.
    Roger muttered something unintelligible then choked on a sob.
    He was crying. I considered leaving him there. It would be so easy to get in my car and drive away from Roger’s grief and the drama it promised. I fingered my keys, gazed longingly at my TR6, but opened the front door instead.
    Somehow, with a combination of pushing, prodding, begging, and bribing, I got him inside.
    Max stared at us from the top of the stairs, his doggy eyebrows raised as if to say, Didn’t you just leave ? What in blazes are you doing back so quickly? I was planning on taking a nap on your forbidden but fabulously comfortable bed . Then his lips curled. He must have caught scent of Roger because with a snort of canine disgust he turned and disappeared down the hall.
    I led Roger to a stool at my kitchen counter, then made coffee. When Mr. Coffee finished dripping, I poured him a huge mug and began assembling the ingredients for my hangover cure.
    Roger took a sip of coffee, grimaced then dropped his head to his arms.
    He didn’t move when I started the blender—spinach, carrots, apples, raw ginger, five aspirin, Sprite, and a raw egg—the recipe for relief.
    When I put a glass of super-secret down next to him, he ignored it.
    “Drink it,” I directed.
    Roger lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. “What is it?”
    “A cure.”
    A small sip passed his pale lips and he looked like he might vomit.
    “It’s better to drink it quickly.”
    He glared at me with blood-shot eyes but took another sip. His green-tinged skin transitioned from a delicate celadon to the approximate shade of over-cooked peas.
    “Just do it,” I said.
    He drank. Drained the glass. Gasped. “Water.”
    I was ready with a glass.
    He gulped it