Claudia nodded, her expression glum. “You can say that again. The icing on the cake was getting a call from the manager of a car dealership regarding an order for a Jaguar.”

“Jaguar, hmm.” I toed off my loafers, stretched my legs out on the ottoman, and wiggled my stocking feet. “I thought Lance loved his vintage Camaro.”

“He claimed a Camaro no longer fit his image, whatever the hell that meant.” Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “His hopes were set on being discovered by some hotshot in Atlanta with Hollywood ties. He was convinced Forever, My Darling would be snatched up and optioned for a screenplay-starring none other than Lance Ledeaux, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

“It irked Lance to be called a ‘has-been,’ or ‘second banana. ’ He yearned to be a leading man. Said he was tired of people remembering the face, but never the name.”

I sipped my no-longer-hot hot chocolate. “Yeah, it must’ve been rough on his ego.”

“His ego knew no bounds.” Claudia nodded thoughtfully. “He was happy only when in the limelight-or gambling.”

“You mentioned the Super Bowl. Was he into sports gambling?”

“You name it; he bet on it. Vegas was his version of heaven on earth.” She set her cup down on the glass-topped table. “That’s why I was surprised when all of a sudden he wanted to leave Vegas and come here.”

“Whatever the reason, all of us were glad you came home.”

I stared out the wall of windows overlooking the fairway. The green, green grass of summer had changed into the brittle beige of winter. The afternoon had turned overcast with the high only in the low fifties. Only a few hardy duffers, bundled in fleece jackets and hats with earflaps, braved the course. I have to admit I haven’t played much golf since four of us Babes made a grisly find on the eighth hole some months back. Maybe this spring…

“I’ve always loved this spot,” Claudia said, looking around at the profusion of greenery that rimmed the room, the same Boston ferns and various houseplants I manage to murder on a regular basis. Suddenly she lowered her head into her hands and burst into tears. “Kate, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I’m sent to prison and have all this taken away.”

I went over, put my arms around her, and patted her back. “There, there, Claudia, everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”

When her sobbing finally subsided, I handed her a box of tissues.

“I didn’t deliberately kill Lance. I could never kill anyone.” Sniffling, she blotted her tears. “I’ve thought about that night over and over again. There’s only one explanation, one person to blame.”

“Who’s that, sweetie?”

“Bill Lewis.”

“Bill…?” I echoed, stunned by the accusation.

“Think about it, Kate. Bill didn’t like Lance. Remember how the two argued just before Lance was shot? You can’t deny Bill knows his handguns. Polly told me he’s the newly elected president of the Rod and Gun Club. And,” she concluded, “it was his Smith and Wesson.”

After leaving, I drove around aimlessly. Claudia certainly couldn’t have meant my Bill Lewis. Not my sweet, shy hunk of a handyman with the killer blue eyes. Yet she seemed convinced he was responsible for Lance’s death-either accidentally or accidentally on purpose. Was Bill equally convinced the chamber was empty when he’d loaned Lance his gun?

And if Bill wasn’t responsible, who was?

I wouldn’t be able to rest until I knew the answer. Before I lost my nerve or changed my mind, I decided to pay Bill a visit. I spotted his pickup in the drive and parked behind it. I felt a little nervous as I traipsed to the front door and rang the bell.

Though I’d been there before, I wasn’t in the habit of dropping by unannounced. Did this make me a shameless, man-chasing trollop? Back in the day-my day-it was taboo for a woman to even phone a man. A lady waited for the gentleman to call her. She might grow old and wrinkled in the process, but she never, ever, phoned him. Times may have changed, but I’m still on the low end of the learning curve.

No one seemed to be home. I rang the bell a final time and was just about to leave when the front door opened. And there he stood, my own personal version of Mr. February. A pair of safety goggles dangled around his neck; a tool belt hung low on his narrow hips. A gray waffle-weave Henley peeked from a plaid flannel shirt, and a spattering of sawdust covered his faded jeans. Suddenly I felt transported back to fourth grade and my first school-girl crush on Joey Trapani. I still have the Valentine he gave me at recess tucked away somewhere.

“Kate!”

Bill actually sounded happy to see me. I took this as a good omen. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I can see I’m interrupting your work.”

“Nonsense. Feel free to interrupt anytime.” He held the door wide. “Come in, come in.”

Still feeling a bit nervous, I trailed after him through the foyer. I glanced around, unobtrusively I hoped, but didn’t see any changes since his return from Michigan. Simple and uncluttered. Neat as a pin. Some might even call his style of decorating Spartan. A card table and four folding chairs made up his dining room set. A leather sofa, recliner, and flat-screen TV were the only furnishings in the great room. It was a home in dire need of a woman’s touch. I bit my tongue to keep from volunteering. Down, shameless hussy, down!

“How about I put on a pot of coffee?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Great. May I take your coat?”

“I’ll just keep it here,” I replied. Shrugging out of my lightweight jacket, I draped it over the back of a kitchen bar stool. “Looks like you’re in the middle of another of your woodworking projects.”

“I’m making a gun rack.” He tugged off his safety glasses and tossed them on the counter. “The guys in the Rod and Gun Club asked me to make one as a sample for them.”

Making a gun rack? Swell. A perfect segue. “Do you own a lot of guns?” I asked with the studied casualness worthy of a seasoned detective-at least my version of a seasoned detective. I’m no Lennie Briscoe from Law & Order, but I’m learning.

Bill moved about the kitchen, his movements efficient and economical. He filled the carafe with water, then carefully measured coffee. “I have a rifle for hunting and a couple handguns I use for target shooting.”

“Including the one you loaned Lance?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a concealed weapons permit. Took a class the sheriff’s department offered.” He took a partially empty bag of Oreos from the cupboard and heaped them on a plate, which he set in front of me.

Now, some men might ply women with alcohol, but they should take a page from Bill’s book. I say, ply them with chocolate, gentlemen. They’ll be putty in your hands. First hot chocolate at Claudia’s, now Oreos with Bill; the chocolate gods were smiling on me. I must have been a good girl to rate this kind of treatment.

“Bill,” I said, nibbling a cookie, “there’s something I need to ask.”

“Shoot.”

Shoot as in bang-bang? Another segue I couldn’t ignore. “Since you brought up the subject of shooting, is it possible you might’ve left a bullet in the gun you gave Lance?”

He turned, looking as unhappy as I’d ever seen him, a half-filled mug in his hand. Oh dear. Was I about to hear a confession? If so, what next? Turn him in to the sheriff? Wave as he was hauled away in a squad car?

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself the same question,” he said at last.

The cookie in my mouth turned tasteless. “Is there even a remote possibility?”

“I’ve gone over this a thousand times, Kate.” Resuming his role of host, he finished filling a mug for me, then poured another for himself. “As I told the sheriff, I cleaned the gun that morning before handing it over to Ledeaux. If there was a bullet in the chamber, there’s no way I could have missed it.”