Page 43 of My Blind Date is a Ghost

I pause and think back, trying to remember if he explained why he had shown up almost an hour before the agreed upon time. “I don’t know. He just said he wanted to take Joseph, our son, to the park while there was still light out.”

“What time did it get dark?” he asks. “Was it winter, like it is now?”

I shake my head. “It was summer. It got dark between 8:30 and 9:00.”

“Then why did he feel the need to show up early?”

I scoffed. “I don’t know. He was my husband. Did he need a reason?” I didn’t like this line of questioning. Edward and I had our problems, but he certainly didn’t have anything to do with my death. He wasn’t a werewolf, after all.

“What did you eat or drink that day?” Beckett asks, changing topics.

“I…I’m not sure I remember. I made biscuits and eggs and bacon for breakfast that morning. I had lunch… I think I went to a café. I usually ate at a café when I worked all day. I had tea.”

“Did you eat or drink anything unusual that day?”

“No,” I say. “Why are you asking this?”

“Veronica Robbins was the mortician at the time,” he says. I nod. I knew that. “She did not think that you’d been mauled by a werewolf. She thought you had been poisoned.”

“That’s preposterous!” I say with a scoff. “I couldn’t have been poisoned. Who would want to poison me?”

“Who, indeed?” Detective Dawson asks. “Are you sure you didn’t eat or drink anything unusual that day? Could the eggs have smelled funny? Did the tea taste off?”

I shake my head. “I…I don’t think so. I don’t remember anything strange. I was careful with the food at home. Nothing was spoiled. I ate at the café several times a week and was friends with the owner. The tea was from my usual supplier.”

“Did you ever leave your food unattended?” he asks. “Could someone have tampered with it?”

“I…I suppose I could have left my teacup unattended at some point,” I begrudgingly admit. “But I don’t see how someone could have slipped into the shop and poisoned my tea without me knowing.”

“Tell me more about your husband,” he says.

“Why?”

“In a homicide, we always look at immediate family first,” he says.

“But my husband didn’t kill me,” I say. “I was killed by a werewolf. He was hanged for it.”

“I know,” he says, his voice softening. “I know that this is hard for you. But we have to come at this from a whole new angle. I want to investigate this like a new case. And the first thing I would have done is learn more about your husband.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. He was a teacher, but I think he had ideas about becoming a politician. America was still new then, you know, so a lot of men were going to Philadelphia to make a new life for themselves.”

“What did you think about that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Like I said, it was just something I’d suspected. We didn’t talk about it much. I had no interest in going to Philadelphia. I was happy here, in Mystic Cove.”

“Did your husband ever physically assault you?” he asks.

“What?” I nearly shriek.

“I’m sorry to have to ask, but I’ve heard that it was more accepted back then for men to beat their wives.”

“That’s preposterous,” I say, crossing my arms.

“You can just say no,” he says.

“No.” I’m really about done with this conversation.

“Did you know your husband remarried after your death?”

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