I said. Wayne didn’t answer me. He was looking down at the table again. I felt my pulse pop into gear and accelerate. “But you didn’t kill her,” I stated again, loudly this time. “Right?” Wayne looked up at me, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t, did you?” I asked, an involuntary tremor creeping into my voice. “Of course not,” he answered brusquely. His eyebrows dropped back into frowning position. “Wayne, listen to me,” I said, once my pulse had slowed again. “Killing someone and wanting them dead are two different things.” His eyebrows sank even lower. “Very different things,” he growled in assent. “Very different.” And that was the end of that conversation. I headed into my office to do some paperwork while Wayne resumed brooding. I had a feeling I’d better do what I could now. If we were going to be poking our noses into Vesta’s death, I was bound to lose some work time in the next couple of weeks, and I couldn’t afford it. In my business, October counted as the Christmas season.
