No Mark Upon Her

was looking overly warm and flushed.
    “I think we’re going to have a birthday-girl meltdown soon, if we’re not careful,” Kincaid said. “Has Wes gone for the cake?” They hadn’t trusted the children not to find the cake in the house, so Wesley had left it at Otto’s café.
    Gemma nodded, puzzled, not sure he had heard or understood her question.
    Then he turned to her, meeting her eyes. “It’s my watch now, running this show.”
    “What about the case?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “There’s nothing more I can do about Angus Craig. It’s out of my hands. I have no evidence that will link him directly to Becca Meredith’s murder. I’ve no other viable suspects.” There was a slight tick of a frown, quickly erased, as he went on. “I’ve been warned off the Hart case, and I’m obviously out of the loop as far as any developments there.” He paused, watching the children, and she felt him trying to master his frustration.
    “But no matter what’s happened with either of those cases, I am unavailable as of Monday. Because”—he met her eyes again and smiled, the broad grin that lit his face and that she loved so—“I have promises to keep. To you, and to a certain little Alice.”
    Before she could reply, the bell rang.
    “Speak of the devil,” Kincaid said, glancing out the sidelights in the hall. “Or devils.”
    It was Melody and Doug, both in jeans and sweaters, looking oddly unprofessional, and both red-cheeked and bright-eyed.
    “Have we missed the cake?” asked Doug as they came in. “Do say we haven’t.”
    “I need some reward for lifting boxes like a navvy,” Melody said.
    “It was only a few CDs,” protested Doug.
    “Right. Just a few CDs.” Melody looked at Gemma and rolled her eyes. “Ha. I need refreshment. I seriously deserve refreshment. We left the car back at my flat so I wouldn’t get done for drink-driving.”
    “It’s a children’s birthday party, for heaven’s sake,” said Doug, but the scold seemed mock.
    “It may be a children’s party, but the grown-ups are provided for. There’s mulled wine on the Aga.” Kincaid waved them towards the kitchen.
    Gemma heard the beep of a horn. That was Wesley’s signal. Looking out, she saw the café’s white van maneuvering into a parking spot.
    “The cake’s here,” she whispered. “Positions, everyone.”
    I t was everything Wesley had promised. The round layers of lemon cake—Charlotte’s favorite—were swathed in intricately scalloped white icing. And in icing sugar on the top, a perfect rendition of Alice in a blue dress, but this Alice had pale brown skin and a mass of light brown curls. Just within her reach, nestled at an angle, was the little pharmacy bottle Gemma had found at the market.
    “Oh, my God,” Gemma had whispered when Wesley centered the cake on the dining room table. “It’s perfect. Wes, how did you—”
    “I made the cake. It was Otto who did the decorating. You know he trained as a pastry chef.”
    “Where am I going to put the candles?” asked Gemma, feeling suddenly frantic. “I can’t ruin it. It’s a work of art.”
    “We’re going to eat it, remember,” said Wes, laughing. He took the three swirly candles she’d bought and placed them strategically round the edge. “Hurry. I’ve got the camera. You light the candles. Here she comes.”
    Hazel and Tim brought the children trooping in from the garden, along with the dogs, who’d been allowed out of confinement, and the room was soon filled with a pandemonium of barking and a more than slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
    Gemma thought she would never forget the expression of wonder on Charlotte’s face when she saw the cake.
    Then, with encouragement from Kit, and some unsolicited help from Toby, Charlotte blew out her three candles and promptly burst into tears.
    Before Gemma could go to comfort her, Duncan scooped her up and whispered something in her ear. With her head against his chest, Charlotte nodded in answer and peeked at the cake again.
    Duncan reached down and lifted out the little brown bottle. Wiping the icing from the bottom, he licked his finger clean with an exaggerated “Yum” and handed Charlotte the vial.
    “What does it say?” he asked, pointing at Gemma’s little homemade label.
    “Drink me,” she whispered, her fingers closing tight round it.
    “See what a big girl you are now that you’re three? You can even read!” He set her down with a hug. “Let’s