Love Can Be Murder

sporting straw gardening hats and lingering in the aisle to say their farewells. Roxann ducked back to dish up the étoufée for Helen, her stomach growling at the tangy aroma of shellfish and cracked pepper.
    She didn't have a clue who the man might be. That one call Melissa Cape had made to Roxann's cell phone still had the potential of landing them both in the bayou if the woman's private investigator ex-husband made the connection. But in truth, any of the men in Roxann's life would have elicited the same gut-clutching response as Frank Cape.
    Her father? The sole reason Walt Beadleman left his La-Z-Boy in the tiny living room of the tiny house in Baton Rouge was to cast for channel cats in the Mississippi River. He'd never think of floating on down to Biloxi to see his only child who was such a monumental disappointment, unless someone in the family had dropped dead.
    Her most recent lover? The last time she'd seen Richard Funderburk, he was spitting mad that she'd dare to confront him about his drinking. Then he'd simply disappeared—to a twelve-step program she'd hoped. Wasn't there a step about seeking forgiveness from those you'd wronged? He still owed her fifty bucks, the mooch. And at least as many orgasms.
    Her neighbor? Mr. Nealy had been hovering ever since her roommate and Rescue coworker Elise had wigged out, forcing Roxanne to ask Elise to move out. Roxann cringed when she imagined what the old man had picked up with his hearing aid pressed against the kitchen wall. Any doubts that he'd overheard Elise's stunning proclamation of passion had been erased when Mr. Nealy had "run into" Roxann at the trash Dumpster and proceeded to spin an unlikely tale whose moral seemed to be that just because a woman was a tomboy, it didn't mean that all her neighbors thought she was "you know."
    Of course, none of those men resembled Steve McQueen even if she'd swallowed the worm at the bottom of a bottle of Mezcal.
    At last the chatty garden ladies dismantled, giving her an unobstructed view of the dark-haired stranger sitting alone at table nine. Relief pulled at her shoulders—according to Melissa Cape's description, her ex was a slim blond. This fellow was fortyish and brawny, with a jutting profile. His blocked jaw was clean-shaven, and his hair well shy of his collar. His khaki shirt was J. Crew sturdy and dry-cleaner-starched. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips as he moved the saltshaker and aluminum napkin dispenser, probably looking for an ashtray. Finding none, he frowned and settled back against one of the hard wooden bench seats Rigby's teenage son's shop class had made over the summer, and opened a worn paperback. An obscure thriller that she'd already read—quite good.
    Helen reappeared at her shoulder. "New boyfriend?"
    "No."
    "Old boyfriend?"
    "No." And not at all her type—although granted, she could barely remember her type.
    "So where do you know him from?"
    Her memory for names wasn't keen, but she was certain she'd never seen this man's pensive face. And the agency always let her know when to expect a client—not that this guy looked as if he needed help from anyone. In fact, he looked about as approachable as a Doberman. He might be a reporter who'd tracked her down from that Clarion-Ledger expose of the Rescue program—one failed relocation in the hundreds she'd facilitated over the years, and she'd made the front page. Or rather, the description of her disguise had. She squinted. Frankly, though, the man didn't look like a reporter.
    Then one side of her mouth slid back in a wry frown. Of course—he was a cop, chock-full of questions for her about something or someone having to do with the Rescue program. Nervy, considering the organization would gladly dismantle if the police would do their jobs.
    "Roxy?" Helen probed.
    "I've never seen him before."
    "Want me to tell him you won't be in today?"
    "No—he'll just come back. I'll see what he wants."
    "Holler if you need backup." The older woman spoke casually as she rang up a sale, but Roxann knew Helen had noticed the handful of nervous women who had shown up with shaky kids in tow, asking to be seated in Roxann's section.
    "You running some kind of charity?" Helen had ventured once.
    "I don't know what you mean," she'd said, and Helen hadn't pressed.
    Roxann slipped around the divider, instantly bombarded by the low roar of diners talking with their mouths full. Forks clinked against stoneware plates, and glasses scraped