She looked toward the western hills, the lowering sun that showered them. “I love this place. I know I haven’t lived here long, but I love it, the look, the feel, the people. I know there’s mean under it, because there’s some mean under anywhere. But the mean’s why the Drapers are the next thing to outcasts here.”

She looked back at Zane, lifted her glass. “We’re going to be all right, Walker. We’ll paint over the mean. We know it’s under there, but we don’t let it win. To prove it, I’m painting my place Tangerine Dream.”

Zane opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t that be orange?”

“It would, and the door and trim? Tango in Teal. Bold, happy, up-yours-mean type colors. What’re you painting, your office building?”

“I bought white. A lot of white.”

“Come on!” She made a dismissive gesture, flicking white away. “You can do better.”

“It’s a law office, darlin’.”

She leaned closer. “Is the law boring?”

“I’m not painting it Tangerine Dream.”

“I was thinking more Nautical Navy, Mystic Gray for the trim and porch. I’ll show you on my paint fan.”

“I bought white.”

“I bet they’ll take it back, exchange it, because white. Take the opportunity mean gave you, Walker, make a statement. I’ll show you,” she said again. “After we take this wine and walk the dog.”

“White’s classy and classic,” he insisted as they got up, and Zod jumped to his feet as if an alarm had sounded.

“Yawn.”

“The painters are starting tomorrow.”

“And I bet they’d agree with me, if they have any taste.” She took his hand in hers.

He had a feeling she was leading him to more than dog walking.

Later, when she showed him her paint fan, as threatened, he saw himself exchanging the damn paint in the morning.

* * *

While they walked the dog, the man who’d come to Lakeview and done murder took himself for a walk as well. As he strolled by Zane’s office building, he made a point to stop, to gape.

“Terrible thing, isn’t it?”

As he’d hoped, one of the local yokels stopped to chat.

“Just awful!” He put shock in his voice.

“You visiting?”

“I am, yes.”

“My family lives in Lakeview. I can tell you this isn’t usual.”

“I should hope not.”

“Promise.” She smiled at him, a pretty young thing. Maybe he’d make a point to have a taste or two of Pretty Young Thing. Maybe he’d kill her after.

So many possibilities.

“And actually, I work there. Law offices. I’m an intern. Gretchen Filbert,” she told him, friendly as a puppy.

“Drake Bingley. Nice to meet you. But…” He looked back at the smears of paint, calculated how soon the sun would go all the way down, how long it might take to lure Pretty Young Thing. “Aren’t you worried?”

“I guess I would be, but the man who did it…” He watched her censor herself. “He won’t be back. It’s a nice town, Mr. Bingley. I hope you have a wonderful visit.”

“Oh, I already am. Say, I wonder if you can tell me the best place to have a good steak, a good glass of wine. I’m in the mood.”

“Oh, sure.” She beamed at him, into quiet blue eyes behind scholarly wire-framed glasses.

He knew he looked like a professor, one taking a few summer weeks to work on his novel. He’d spent considerable time cultivating that look—letting his hair grow, adding the professorial (to his mind) goatee.

He wore faded jeans, Birkenstocks, and an ancient Grateful Dead T-shirt he’d picked up at a flea market.

He even had the man purse, holding a well-worn paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath (as if) along with his wallet and false ID, a bandanna, and the 9mm Glock he’d stolen from his brother-in-law’s collection.

“You can’t go wrong with Grandy’s Grill—just down a couple blocks and across the street.”

“Sounds good. Say,” he began again, only to be cut off when another pretty young thing ran toward them.

“Gretch! Sorry, running late. Luca just texted. He and John are already at Ricardo’s, grabbed a booth. Sorry.” Like Gretchen, she gave him an easy smile. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, just letting Mr. Bingley know where Grandy’s is.”

“One day I’ve got to get Lucas to take me there for more than a beer and nachos. We gotta book.”

“Enjoy your steak!” Pretty Young Thing One called back to him as she rushed off with PYT Two.

Opportunity missed, he thought. For now.

Maybe next time.

He continued his stroll, decided he’d go ahead and have that steak. Maybe he’d strike up another conversation, find another pretty young thing.

Even not too young would do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Though he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced, Zane exchanged the paint. He worked through the morning while the paint crew covered Clint’s nasty art with primer.

He had to go through the story—an abbreviated version—with every client, accept their outrage on his behalf before getting to the business at hand.

He glanced up from his notes when Maureen came in.

“Your friendly reminder you have to leave for your appointment with Mildred Fissle.”

“And her cats. I’m gearing up for it, and today’s change in her will.”

“Her granddaughter in Charlotte sent her flowers for her birthday. So she’s back in. You’ve got two hours clear. Take a long lunch after.”

“I might do that.”

“Call Micah or Dave, see if they can meet up with you for lunch.”

He angled his head. “Worried about me?”

“I love you, Zane, almost as much as I love my new shoes I got in the Independence Day sale. You know Horace Draper made bail.”

“He’s not going to come into the Sunshine Diner gunning for me, Maureen.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Fine. I tell you, women are running my life.”

“We’re so good at it. And speaking of that, you should think about getting Gretchen on board for next summer. She’s just right, and when she passes the bar, she’d make you a nice associate.”

“I thought of it myself, so don’t go all smug thinking it was your idea.”

She only smiled, smugly. “I took Cubby and Mike out a cold drink a bit ago. Cubby showed me what they’re going to paint. I figured you’d stick with white.”

“I should’ve, right?”

“Only if you wanted to be usual and boring, which you were going to because Milly at the hardware told me you bought white, then brought it back when they opened this morning for that nice strong blue and that pretty gray.”

“Know-it-all,” he said, and began to load his briefcase.

“Darby nudge you there?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m giving you credit.” She waited a beat. “For having the good sense to hook up with a woman of vision and taste.”

“I’ll take it. Now get back to work. I don’t pay you to chat up the boss.”

Amused, she stepped to him, kissed one cheek, then the other. “Call Micah or Dave—or both. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, honey?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He left by the back to avoid the painters, and texted Micah—and what the hell, Dave—as he circled around for his car.

After he dealt with Mildred Fissle, her cats, her ever-evolving will, he wanted to drink his lunch. But refrained.

Since both Dave and Micah were available—he imagined Maureen had told them they’d better be—he decided on a manly lunch of meatloaf under the bright lights and within the orange walls—Tangerine Dream?—of the diner.

“Meatloaf, huh?” Micah considered the laminated menu as he gulped down some fizzy lemonade. “Cassie’s making noises about going vegetarian. Ain’t gonna happen. Make it two.”

“To be young and able to eat the meatloaf special midday. Screw it. Make it three, Bonnie.”

“Will do. Yours is on the house today, Zane. Show of support.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Done.” She tapped a sharp finger on his shoulder and left to put the order in.

“Some bennies from a wad of crap,” Micah said.

“And it saves me from paying for your lunch as my show.”

“Hey.” Micah waved a hand. “I’m still here. Just to finish up the wad of crap before we eat? Word is the other Draper boys are coming back for the, you know, funeral. The one’s getting a day pass, under guard, then it’s back in the slammer. The marine’s got bereavement leave or whatever.”

“Great.”

“And Stu Hubble showed up at the clinic last night with a busted-up face and a broken arm. Said he fell down the steps, but that’s bogus, man. You know Jed Draper gave him a beatdown.”

Dave shook his head, looked unsurprised. “Blaming Stu Hubble’s ignorant, illogical, and typical of the Drapers. We can hope Jed Draper got it out of his system.”

“But you don’t think so,” Zane said to Dave.

“That kind always blames someone else. He’s going to end up behind bars sooner or later. I can hope for sooner.”

“They gotta know it wasn’t you, bro.”

“Yeah, they have to know.”

But they had to know it hadn’t been Stu Hubble either, Zane thought. Then again, Jed Draper would find it a lot harder to give him a beatdown than he had Stu Hubble.

He didn’t like knowing a part of him looked forward to the attempt.

* * *

At the first patter of rain and grumble of thunder, Darby and her crew grabbed up tools and headed for their trucks.

Patsy Marsh popped out of her back door and gestured.