Piper banged in the back door. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurrying over to where her apron hung on the wall. “Tom likes to sleep in on Sundays, and I forgot to set my alarm.”
“It’s alright,” Mrs. Olecki said, still whisking vigorously, and not batting an eye at the mention of Tom. Not anymore, anyway.
“Mrs. Olecki?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I think that batter is . . . mixed.”
“Oh! Well, it sure is,” she said, pulling the whisk out and tapping it on the side of the bowl. The waffles certainly wouldn’t be as fluffy as usual, but she hoped they didn’t come out like bricks. “Could you warm up the vanilla maple syrup?” she said, looking over her shoulder only to realize Piper was already headfirst in the fridge, pulling out the fresh berries and then the syrup.
Pearl turned back to her batter, opening the waffle iron next to the bowl, the metal hot and ready. But just as she lifted the ladle to pour the first scoop, she heard it.
A scream.
And not just any scream. A high-pitched, toe-curling shriek that forced her hand to drop the ladle back into the bowl and her feet to sprint out into the dining room, where she half expected to find a young girl being hacked to death with an ax, blood everywhere—some kind of scene from those awful horror films Harold loved to watch every Halloween.
What she saw instead when she burst into the room, Piper at her heels, was the Mormon, his face white as his shirt, standing feet away from where he had been sitting at the table, his chair toppled over behind him. The two other guests sat at the table, eyes wide, toggling their gaze between the man and his empty plate. Well, not quite empty.
Mrs. Olecki bent at the waist and narrowed her eyes. And upon this closer inspection, she saw what looked like a small bug.
“What the devil?” Mr. Olecki said, drawing everyone’s attention as he, too, appeared through the swinging door into the dining room and nearly collided with Piper.
“Everything’s fine,” Mrs. Olecki said, waving generally in Mr. Olecki’s direction and closing the gap to the table in two long strides, quickly grabbing the nearest juice glass and flipping it on top of the critter to confine it. “We just had a little visitor at the table this morning.”
“A visitor?”
Piper and Mr. Olecki both leaned closer for a better look. Trapped in the clear tumbler was an insect the size of a quarter, its gray wings freckled with black dots.
“Well, Pearl, that’s just a little ol’ moth,” Mr. Olecki said. “What are you screamin’ and carryin’ on for?”
Mrs. Olecki cleared her throat, her eyes darting to the man, still standing.
As if on cue, the bug fluttered its wings, clearly trying to escape its enclosure, and the man flinched. And Mr. Olecki’s eyebrows climbed closer to his receding hairline, as it dawned on him who had been doing the screaming. He shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “Coulda sworn that was a woman.”
“It landed on my plate,” the man said defensively. “I wasn’t . . . It was . . . unexpected.”
But Mrs. Olecki noticed that his pallor had quickly transitioned from ghost white to a few shades past the pink Double Knock Out roses she worked hard to keep alive on the bushes out front. And his gaze was no longer locked on the bug—it was locked on Piper.
* * *
—
Anders stood there, not believing the clash of his fortune and misfortune all at once. He had planned to spend the morning trying to find Piper, and here she was, right in front of him. But she was right in front of him because he had screeched—like a woman, apparently—at the sight of a tiny insect, and brought everyone within earshot running. And for the second time in the span of mere weeks, he stood red-faced in front of her.
Not that he necessarily cared how he looked in front of her. But still. He may have overreacted about the bug. And it was embarrassing to have so many witnesses.
Piper’s eyes flitted to his, but if she recognized him, he couldn’t tell.
“Well, no harm,” Mrs. Olecki said gaily. “I’ll just be taking this outside. Anyone need more—”
“No!” Piper said, and everyone joined Anders in looking at her. She frowned. “You can’t release it.”
“What?”
“It’s a spotted lanternfly. I think. Caught one last week. The book said it’s an invasive species—no natural predators. Not sure what one’s doing out here, though.” Piper squatted until she was eye level with the glass. “There are no crops here, silly bug. Did you get lost?”
Anders stared at her, eyes wide. He watched, trying not to flinch again, as Piper, in one swift motion, tipped the glass and plate over 180 degrees so that the bug remained trapped inside. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and turned to go.
“Wait!” Anders shouted. He was afraid she wouldn’t come back, and then what? But now he wasn’t quite sure what to say, what with everyone’s eyes on him. Do you have reason to believe your husband was murdered? It wasn’t exactly something you shouted across a dining room, was it? He’d prefer to have a more private conversation.
Piper stood clutching the plate and the glass, waiting as he had requested, and he had to say something. He quickly scanned the table and spotted the empty mug, now grateful, instead of annoyed, that he had inadvertently been skipped this morning.
“Could I have some coffee, please?”
“What?” It was Mrs. Olecki, not Piper, who responded. And quite forcefully, as if Anders had asked for something outside the norm of polite social graces, like an erectile dysfunction pill.
Anders looked at her. “Uh . . . coffee? I’d love a cup if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Oh,” she said, her forehead pleating in confusion. “It’s just, I thought your . . . your . . . people . . . don’t drink it.”
“My people?”
“He’s a Mormon,” Mrs. Olecki explained to the room, as if Anders wasn’t standing right there.
“I’m sorry—what?”
She brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. Is that not the proper way to say it?”
“I don’t know the proper— I’m not a Mormon,” Anders said, flustered. “I’m a reporter.”
A collective gasp broke out around the room. Mrs. Olecki clutched her lemon-dotted apron.
“Are you undercover?” She peered at him with new eyes, and added in a near whisper: “As a Mormon?”
“What? No!” Anders said, but he caught Mrs. Olecki glancing at his shirt, and that was when he remembered what he was wearing. And what his sister had said about it. He sighed. “I’m just here as a reporter. Well, a podcaster, really.” He glanced at Piper when he said it, the thought occurring to him that perhaps she was the one who had reached out to him. If she did have her own suspicions about her husband’s death, she’d likely want someone to look into it. But then, he reasoned, why wouldn’t she just go to the police? Or come outright and say what she suspected? Regardless, Piper just looked pleasantly back at him. “I’m researching a story on global warming,” Anders continued. “Its effect on the island.”