Page 98 of Jack

She used the cedar as a base, then started with calla lilies, then the roses, then carnations. She added the anemones last and put the bouquet into the vases.

“Don’t you think I know that? Sheesh!”

She’d missed, also, the drop in his voice, the tremor.

Still,hello,they were partners.

“Rule three. I work alone.”

So apparently, she’d ignored that.

“Those are beautiful, Bee.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at Mama Em’s voice. “Thanks.”

“I could always count on you to get these right.” Mama Em leaned in. “You have just the touch.”

“They need the baby’s breath, and maybe a raffia ribbon around the vase.”

“Perfect.” Mama Em put her arm around her. “I’ve missed your touch around here. You’ve always been a part of the team.” She let her go and headed back to her cake.

And now Harper’s stupid eyes decided to water. She blinked back the burn, added the final touches, then picked up a vase. “I’ll deliver these to the rooms?”

“Perfect.” Mama Em had started added the frosting to the second layer of cake.

“I’ll go with you,” Boo said, and walked over to get the second vase. She picked it up and followed Harper from the room.

The door closed behind them. “Okay, so what’s up?”

Harper glanced at Boo. “What?”

“You and Jack. Inseparable for the last two days, and then . . . what? You’re here? Alone?” She led the way up the wide mahogany stairs. “And by the way, where is Penelope?”

Harper followed her down the hallway on the second floor. Boo went into a room, the Gatsby suite, decorated in the black and gold of the era—long black curtains with gold tassels, and on the four-poster bed, a red brocade coverlet, again with gold fringe, and a green chaise lounge. Boo set the flowers on a black lacquered dresser.

Then she looked at Harper and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Harper said. “Jack is . . . looking for her.”

“Jack, whose schoolie was torched today?” Boo put her hands on her hips. “What am I missing here?”

Harper sighed and headed to the next room, the Fitzgerald. A carved four-poster bed in rich mahogany with a navy coverlet, pale-pink art-deco wallpaper, gold velvet drapes, and a love seat facing the candle-filled hearth. Harper set the vase on a writing desk, next to a vintage gramophone.

She turned to go, but Boo grabbed her hand. “Harp.”

Shoot,now her eyes burned again. She met Boo’s gaze. Swallowed. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but Penelope is . . . maybe in trouble. We tracked her down to a coffee shop, where she met with a guy named Kyle Brunley?—”

“The friend of Sarah Livingston.”

“Yes—I didn’t know you listened to the podcast.”

“Of course I do.” Boo pulled Harper over to the love seat. “He’s a suspect in the murder.”

“Except he’s dead.”

Boo’s mouth opened.

“And Ty Bowman was shot.”