A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection: Books Seven - Nine (Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries) by Shéa MacLeod

Author:Shéa MacLeod
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: whodunnit, small town, murder mystery, crime caper, humorous mystery
Publisher: Sunwalker Press
Published: 2024-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 2

After dinner, Lucas and I took a walk through the park. The sun was setting, painting the sky in purple, gold, and pink, and a cool breeze ruffled the dark leaves of the oak trees. The moon was a pale half-disc low on the horizon. Nearby an owl hooted, and overhead a bat swooped to catch its dinner. Probably a mosquito. Go, bat.

It was the perfect time for a proposal, and I still had no idea what to say. I loved Lucas and wanted to say yes, but I wasn’t ready and worried a no would drive a wedge between us. Should I bring it up? No, I didn’t want to look stupid, so I braced myself.

Nothing happened.

Okay, something happened, but it wasn’t a proposal. It was just a romantic walk, complete with a few passionate kisses that led to an early night.

I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Not by the early night—that was fun—but by the lack of proposal. I loved Lucas with all my heart, but I’d been married once before, when I was in my twenties, and it hadn’t gone well. Being forty something meant I was older, wiser, and more likely to make a relationship work—I hoped—but I was reluctant to rush into anything permanent.

The next morning dawned bright and early. By 9 a.m., it was already nearly seventy, and the sky was a cloudless, washed-out blue that only comes with days on the edge of being too hot. In my opinion, any day over seventy-five fit the “too hot” category.

I’d brought a couple sundresses and a pair of comfy sandals. This was Oregon; we don’t get fancy to go winetasting.

Lucas was particularly tasty in a loose white, cotton button-down shirt that contrasted nicely with his olive-toned skin, a pair of cargo shorts, and black Havaianas flip-flops. There was no way I’d wear white to a winetasting. I’d probably end up with red splotches on my boobs.

Cheryl invited me in to check out their trailer. “It’s a little cramped,” she said, leading the way, “but really cozy.”

The Shasta was much smaller than the Airstream. There was no separate bedroom, but simply one space with everything crammed into it. The interior was done in pine wood from wall to ceiling, so it had the feel of a wilderness cabin. Like ours, the bed had a white comforter, but the pillows were red. The couch at the front was also red, as were the curtains and area rugs.

“It’s got a nice vibe,” I agreed.

“It’s awfully early to be drinking wine,” Cheryl said as we joined Lucas and Bat outside.

“You’re not supposed to drink it,” I said. “You’re supposed to swish it around and spit it out.”

“Seems like a waste of good wine.”

“It is if the wine is good,” I agreed. “If not, it’s a great excuse not to drink it.”

A car pulled up. It was the ’57 Chevy I’d seen on the website. The driver’s side window was rolled down in deference to the heat, and the driver popped his head out.

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