Love Can Be Murder

Roxann asked him through clenched teeth.
    "Having dinner—the scampi was great."
    Nell's hand tightened around Roxann's arm. "Is this the man you told me about?"
    She frowned. "No, this isn't Frank Cape. This is...an acquaintance of mine from Biloxi."
    "Oh." Nell looked back and forth between them.
    "Dr. Oney, meet Detective Capistrano."
    "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
    She nodded, then looked back to Roxann, as if waiting for a cue.
    Roxann surveyed his innocent expression, then sighed. "He's harmless. Where are you parked, Capistrano?"
    During the short drive to Nell's, Roxann sat in the middle of the front seat of his Dooley truck and exchanged glares with him in the rearview mirror. She was half furious at him for following her, half furious at herself for assuming he wouldn't.
    "Thank you," she said to him as he helped Nell down from the passenger side. He dwarfed the small woman, but seemed to handle her gently. At the porch, Roxann said, "I'll take it from here. Goodbye."
    "I need to talk to you." His head was so big, it obscured the moon behind him.
    "This isn't a good time."
    "It's important."
    She hesitated, then gave Nell an apologetic glance.
    "Take as long as you need," Nell said. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you girls at breakfast."
    When the door closed, Roxann turned, arms crossed.
    He gestured to her outfit. "You look plumb girly tonight."
    "Forgive me if I don't swoon."
    "I'm not crazy about black, though. You should wear white."
    "You are harassing me."
    "Funny, the last time I saw you, I saved your scrawny ass."
    "My ass isn't—" She scowled. "I thought you had to get back to Biloxi."
    He shrugged. "After you gave me the slip, I nearly said to hell with it and did."
    Her smug smile came easily.
    "But I had some time off coming to me and thought now was as good a time as any to take it." He leaned on the porch rail, as if he were planning to loiter.
    "How did you know where we were?"
    "Your cousin practically blurted it at the carnival, and when she said something about seeing a Dr. Carl, I figured it was either a medical doctor or a professor. I saw your diploma when I was at your dad's. Notre Dame is in South Bend. I just put two and two together. You'd make a terrible criminal."
    "When did you get here?"
    "I saw your crowning—very nice. Too bad your cousin outbid you for your old boyfriend."
    She gasped.
    "That's why you came back, isn't it? To see this Dr. Carl guy?"
    "You don't know what you're talking about."
    "Well, it doesn't take a detective to see the way you two were making eyes at each other. But he's a little ripe on the vine, don't you think?"
    She poked her tongue into her cheek. "What's the important thing that you wanted to talk about?"
    "Pistachio."
    "What?"
    "Pistachio ice cream. It's a weakness of mine, and I was hoping I could persuade you to join me." He splayed his hands. "Unlike Dr. Grandpa, I'm free of charge."
    "You're certifiable."
    "And you're hungry because you didn't get to eat dinner."
    "No I'm not." But her brain conjured up a picture of a big bowl of green ice cream and sent a prompt to her traitorous stomach, which howled into the silence.
    His laugh rode on the light breeze. "Liar. Come on, you don't have anything else to do tonight."
    She hesitated. "I'm not going to talk about Melissa Cape."
    He held up his hands in an off-limits gesture.
    She relented and stalked to the truck, but only because she couldn't bear the thought of spending an evening with Boots, Chester, Pumpkin, Buttermilk, and Pansy. She resisted his help climbing up, closed her own door, sat as far away from him as possible, and stared straight ahead.
    "Brrrr." He shook with an animated shiver. "There is a definite draft coming off you."
    "Go," she said. "Before I change my mind."
    He went, and soon they were seated at the crowded bar of an ice-cream parlor that brought memories flooding back.
    "This place used to be called Duck's," she said, mostly to herself.
    He handed her the chocolate malt she'd requested. He looked fair to middling in a black sport coat over dark jeans and a white dress shirt. "Used to come here a lot, did you?"
    "I worked here."
    He grinned. "No kidding."
    She surrendered a smile. "No kidding. Smock and apron and paper hat. The work was easy, and the tips were good."
    "Were you at Notre Dame on scholarship?"
    "No." She sipped her malt.
    "No offense, but how do you pay back school loans on the kind of money you make?"
    She glanced over. "That's absolutely none of your