Chapter Seven
It was much later in the afternoon when Sam headed over to Aiden’s house.
As instructed, she brought Arlo with her.
The evening air was cool as they walked the few blocks to Aiden’s house.
The craftsman bungalow glowed with warm light from within, and smoke curled from the chimney.
Even from the sidewalk, Sam could smell something delicious cooking.
Aiden opened the door before she could knock, as if he’d been watching out for them. He wore jeans and a navy Henley that brought out his eyes, his dark hair slightly damp as if he’d just showered after school.
“Right on time,” he said with a smile that made Sam’s stomach flutter in a way she chose to ignore. “Come on in. It’s getting cold out there.”
Arlo trotted inside immediately, making himself at home. Aiden crouched down to greet him, producing a dog treat from his pocket. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t forget about you.”
Arlo took the treat from him politely, carefully putting his teeth on it so he wouldn’t accidentally nip Aiden’s hand. He settled in front of the fire with it.
Sam smiled at Aiden. “It smells amazing in here.”
“I hope you like chili. I made cornbread, too.”
Sam followed him through the living room, taking in all the details she’d been too polite to study on previous visits.
Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, packed with an eclectic mix of crime novels, local history, teaching materials, and what looked like poetry collections.
Black and white photographs of Sunset Ridge’s historic buildings decorated the walls—his own work, she remembered.
The kitchen was warm and inviting, with original cabinetry painted a soft sage green and a farmhouse table by the window. He’d set two places with simple pottery bowls and cloth napkins.
“Can I help?” Sam asked.
“Absolutely not. You’ve been interrogating suspects all day. At least, that’s what I’m guessing. Just sit.” He poured her a glass of red wine without asking if she wanted it, then fixed himself the same. “How did it go today?”
Sam settled into a chair. “It was good. I ran into Nora when I was walking Arlo. Unsurprisingly, she had ideas about how I should do my investigating. One of them was actually helpful, though. She told me Gerald’s usual lunch habits.
” Aiden looked confused, and Sam clarified.
“Sorry. That’s Gerald Parker. He’s one of the book club members and works as a bank teller. ”
“Was it a good conversation?” Aiden ladled chili into bowls and brought over a basket of warm cornbread.
“It was a strange one. He seemed both reluctant to talk with me and very nervous. He spent half the conversation trying to implicate Charlotte.”
“Really? That’s interesting.”
“Right?” asked Sam. “Because killing a book club member wouldn’t exactly be a good way to drum up business for the store.” She took a bite of the chili and closed her eyes. “Wow. This is amazing.”
“Family recipe. My grandma would disown me if I didn’t make it properly.” Aiden sat across from her, his long legs stretching out under the table. “So Gerald’s deflecting. What’s your gut say?”
Sam said ruefully, “My gut is kind of going back and forth. I think he’s hiding something, but I don’t think it’s murder.” Sam wrapped her hands around the warm bowl. “I’m not sure what it is. He also mentioned Sofia, saying she’d been very nervous around Margaret lately.”
“Sofia?”
Sam said, “She’s apparently a fairly new member. A grad student at Western Carolina.” Sam took another bite. “What would you do next, if you were still a detective?”
“I’d start out with background checks on everyone, starting with whoever’s acting most suspicious.” Aiden studied her across the table. “But you’re not a detective, and I’m pretty sure Chief Hawkins wouldn’t appreciate you running criminal checks.”
“Probably not,” agreed Sam. “He didn’t seem especially happy to see me at Twice-Told Tales yesterday morning. I guess he thinks I have a nasty habit of discovering bodies. He’d like me to back off.”
“But you won’t.”
“Probably not,” agreed Sam cheerfully. “Do you miss it? Being a detective, I mean?”
Aiden considered this, cutting his cornbread into pieces. “Sometimes. I miss the puzzle-solving and the moment when everything clicks into place. But I don’t miss the darkness. Or the things people do to each other.” He met her eyes. “Teaching is better for my soul, I think.”
“That makes sense.”
“Besides,” he added with a slight smile. “I can still help solve the occasional murder. Just from a safe distance.”
After they’d finished eating, Sam spotted a book on the kitchen counter. She recognized the cover right away.
“You’re reading Middlemarch? That’s our book club selection this month.”
Aiden said, “I saw it on Charlotte’s website. I don’t have time to do the book club meetings during the school year because I’m usually grading papers, but I thought maybe we could read the same books and talk about them.” He looked almost shy. “I hope that’s not weird.”
“No, it isn’t, it’s . . . ” Sam searched for the right word. Sweet? Thoughtful? Slightly overwhelming in the best way possible? “It’s really nice, actually. What do you think of it so far?”
“I’m liking it more than I expected to.” Aiden leaned back in his chair. “I mean, it’s dense. I’m only on page sixty-something, but Eliot’s prose is gorgeous. And the way she writes about provincial life, with all these people trapped by their circumstances and expectations feels almost modern.”
“Yes!” Sam leaned forward, animated now. “And Dorothea is so idealistic, but you can already see how that idealism is going to trap her. The dramatic irony is painful.”
Aiden smiled. “You’re further along than I am, aren’t you?”
“Early 200s,” Sam admitted.
“Of course you are.” But his tone was affectionate. “Are you going to keep reading at that pace, though?”
“I don’t know. It’s 880 pages. I just want to be prepared for the discussion.”
“Sam, the book club meeting is weeks away.”
“I know. But I’m enjoying it, too. That’s keeping me reading. And I’ve been busily writing notes in the margins as I go when different thoughts pop into my head. It’s the sign of a good book for me.”
“You write in the margins?”
Sam flushed. She felt like it was another very Type-A thing she did. She couldn’t even enjoy a book without marking it up with notes. “I know. It’s kind of excessive.”
“No, it’s not. It’s you engaging with the story.” Aiden’s voice was gentle. “I’d love to see your copy of the book after you’re done. I bet your notes are fascinating.”
“They’re probably just neurotic,” said Sam dismissively. But she was smiling. “I track character development, note any inconsistencies, and sometimes have full arguments with the author in the margins.”
“It seems more passionate than neurotic. Did you ever think about teaching? Maybe literature?”
“No, I’m too Type-A for that. I’d have wanted to control how the students interpreted the text.” She laughed at herself. “Which is, I realize, completely the opposite of what good teaching should be.”
They talked about books for another hour, their conversation ranging from favorites to guilty pleasures, to the books they’d been assigned in school and hated.
Aiden told her about trying to get his students excited about things he’d enjoyed reading in high school, even though he was a technology teacher.
“Maybe I should have been an English teacher, after all.”
“I really enjoyed my high school English classes. Although I never finished Moby Dick.”
“It’s okay,” Aiden said solemnly. “No one actually finished Moby Dick. We all just pretend.”
“Thank you,” said Sam with mock seriousness. “I’ve been carrying that shame for years.”
The fire had burned down to embers, and Arlo was snoring softly on the rug. Sam realized she’d been there for nearly three hours, but it felt like minutes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this comfortable with someone.
“I probably should go,” she said reluctantly. “It’s getting late.”
“Or,” Aiden said, then paused. “Sorry. I was going to suggest we could watch a movie or something, but I might be keeping you from something you need to do.”
Sam laughed. “Oh, I’ve got lists waiting for me at home. I always do.”
They both stood, and suddenly the space between them felt smaller, more charged. Aiden carefully reached out and gently touched her arm.
“Sam,” he started. Then Arlo chose that moment to wake up, giving a huge, noisy yawn and stretch, breaking the tension.
They both laughed, and the moment passed. But the warmth remained.
Aiden walked them to the door. “Thanks for coming over. For the company, I mean. Not just for talking about what happened at the bookstore.”
“Thanks for the chili. And for reading the book with me.” Sam clipped Arlo’s leash on. “That was really thoughtful.”
“Anytime.” He meant it, she could tell.
As Sam and Arlo walked home, she found herself smiling.
Arlo looked up at her, his expression knowing. “Don’t say it,” Sam warned him. “We’re just friends.”
Maybe.