Page 57 of Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

“Iaminvestigating a mystery,” I said, “but it’s not for my show. It’s for a client.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion. “I thought that was all just for the show.”

“Summer is a working PI,” Dixie said with a little bit of attitude. She was fed up with people thinking that I was a joke, and part of me couldn’t help thinking that it was because people thoughtshewas a joke too, only for different reasons. “We brought you cookies.”

Then she thrust out the plate.

“Sorry,” the woman said as she took the plate. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve seen your office in town. I just didn’t…” She took a breath and gave me a resigned smile. “How can I help you?”

“Are you Rachel Swan?” I asked.

She nodded, only her smile disappeared and she looked more wary. “Iwas,” she said, hanging on to the still-open door. “I’m Rachel Lyons now.”

“Would it be all right if we came in and talked?” I asked, trying to look over her shoulder and get a look at her living room, but she blocked the opening. “We’re looking into a murder that happened around here.”

“Oh dear,” she said, her hand lifting to her chest as she leaned her shoulder into the doorjamb. “I’m more than happy to answer any questions you have, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you. I pretty much just stick to my farm and keep my nose out of everyone else’s business.”

“Actually,” I said, “this is about something that happened several years ago. Forty, to be exact.”

“More like forty-ish,” Dixie quipped under her breath.

Rachel froze and her smile became wooden. “Oh?”

“Would you be willing to sit down and tell us what you know?” I asked.

Her gaze darted from me to Dixie, then back again. “Would you like some lemonade?” she asked. “I think it’s gonna be a hot one today. We can take it on the front porch and have ourselves a nice chat.”

“That would be lovely,” I said, and Rachel turned around and went back into the house, shutting the door behind her.

“You think she’s coming back out?” Dixie asked.

I frowned. “Yeah, I think so, but she obviously doesn’t trust us if she’s not letting us in her house.”

“Well, to be fair,” Dixie said, her mouth twisting to the side, “I’m not sureIwould trust us.”

“It’s not like she doesn’t know who we are,” I said. “She knows I’m Summer Butler.”

“Which is maybe why she won’t let us inside,” Dixie said. “She’s hiding something.”

I turned toward her, hiking up my brow. “What on earth could she be hiding? We’re asking about something that happened over forty years ago.”

Dixie’s gaze drifted over the front yard. “Back when people thought I started the barn fire and killed my parents and Pawpaw, I didn’t want to talk to people about anything having to do with the fire or really, to be fair, about anything else either. Maybe she’s hiding something, and that makes her shut down. Maybe that’s why she’s off at this farm by herself. Or…” Her mouth twisted to the side. “Maybe she just doesn’t like to talk to people period.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, but I wasn’t so sure. She’d been married for twenty years, after all, which meant she’d been close tosomeone. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to go aboutquestioning her. If she was this closed off already, then I was beginning to doubt that I’d getanythingout of her.

“All I know,” Dixie said dryly, “is that I’m not sure I’m going to be havin’ any of that lemonade. I’ve seenOzark.”

I had to admit that she had a point. A couple of minutes later, the front door opened, and the woman came out, carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade and the plate of cookies Dixie had shoved at her.

Rachel motioned to a porch swing and two wicker chairs that formed a seating area to the left of the door.

Dixie and I both sat in the wicker seats as Rachel set the tray on a coffee table in front of our chairs. She handed us each a glass, then took the remaining glass and sat down on the swing.

“We’ve been told that your family moved to town in the middle of your junior year,” I said. “Where did you move from?”

Instead of answering, she said, “If you’re here asking about something that happened about forty years ago, then you have to be asking about Bethany’s murder.”

“Yes,” I said. “I have a client who wants to know about what happened to her. I’m sorry that we can’t tell you anything more about them. We’ve promised to protect our client’s identity.”

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