Murder by Page One Olivia Matthews (best e ink reader for manga .txt) 📖

and D.C., but Peach Coast has always been home. I knew I’d come back.”

He put additional butter in the skillet with the sautéed garlic and onions. Then he added the cooked green beans, red wine vinegar, chicken broth, cilantro, and salt and pepper. He turned the burner on low and covered the pan.

He caught me setting my cell phone’s alarm for the fifteen minutes the green beans needed to cook. This was according to my previous research on the Georgia green beans side dish. He raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. It went against my nature to not help.

I put down my phone. “A strong sense of community seems to be in your family’s DNA.”

“It could be.”

“I think that’s why all your holdings are named after the town rather than your family.” I studied Spence’s broad back as I expounded on my theory. “It’s The Peach Coast Crier, not The Holt Daily News. The Peach Coast Inn, not the Holt Hotel. And it’s the Peach Coast Community Bank, not the Holt Benjamins or something like that.”

Spence smiled at me from over his shoulder again. “We’ve never discussed it, but you do make a good point.”

Yes, I had, and I was sticking to it. “Is that also the reason you started hosting these dinners, to keep in touch with the community?”

“And because I enjoy cooking.” He turned from the oven. “It seems like a waste to make these meals for just one person.”

“It’s very generous of you. The library team is excited.”

“It’s my pleasure. And for dessert, we’re having peach cobbler.”

My jaw dropped. “You bake too?”

Spence laughed. “I picked up the cobbler from On A Roll. I know my limitations.”

There was something about watching a man taking over the cooking in the kitchen. It was almost exotic. Granted, my father and brother had cooked meals for our family. But with them, the vibe in the kitchen had more of a sense of cooking-for-survival. With Spence, the kitchen was a joyful place.

The sweet scents of the chicken and peaches, and the spicy aroma of the Georgia green beans, filled the room. I inhaled deeply as my appetite woke up. “Are these recipes your favorite?”

Spence shrugged his broad shoulders. “They’re easy to make and familiar to me, but I don’t really have a favorite. I enjoy cooking regional meals. They keep my Southern roots alive.”

“If they taste as wonderful as they smell, you may have converted me.”

His warm chuckle rolled across the room. “I guarantee this meal will convert you.”

“How long have you been cooking?”

“According to my parents, all my life. All of the men in my family were amateur chefs.”

My eyes widened with amazement. “The women in your family must’ve loved that.”

Spence’s smile didn’t come as easily this time. He’d mentioned his father had died several years ago. At times, I could tell he was still grieving. “My mama loves to cook too. My parents were pretty competitive in the kitchen. They were always trying to outdo each other with complicated dishes, which was great for me. It inspired me to try new recipes. And I never missed a meal. I struggled with my weight for years.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Although I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, I was sincere. Spence looked quite fit in his onyx shirt and steel-gray slacks. He was about the same height as my brother. It was hard to picture him with excess weight. “Do your siblings cook too?”

“I’m an only child. What about you?”

“I have an older brother, DeAndre. He’s married to one of my favorite people, Kaylee. Their four-year-old son, Clayton, is one of the great loves of my life.”

“You’re very close to your family. Moving away from them must’ve been hard.” Spence filled a cup halfway with cold water, then added a tablespoon of cornstarch to it.

An image of my parents came to mind. They were in their early sixties, but their smooth brown features and still-dark hair helped them look at least fifteen years younger. Regular exercise kept them fit. I shook off my sudden homesickness.

“It was.” I didn’t recall the cornstarch ingredient for either the chicken or the green bean dish. “What’s that for?”

“I’m going to add this to the cooking juices from the chicken to make a sauce.”

My stomach growled its approval. My face heated with embarrassment. “I guess that soup I had for lunch wasn’t quite enough.”

“It won’t be much longer.” He appeared to check the time on the silver wall clock behind me. “Luckily, there are only six of us for dinner. It’s easier—and faster—to cook for smaller groups.”

“And you thought the dinner party would be impossible to pull off in such a short time. I wish I could’ve helped, though.”

“I appreciate your company—and your restraint.”

“You’re welcome for the company. Don’t get used to the restraint.” Although, recalling his obstinacy when I’d attempted to pay for the supplies for the dinner I’d volunteered him for, restraint seemed to be the better part of valor. That experience had taught me to pick and choose my battles with the bossy amateur chef.

Spence leaned back against his kitchen counter and folded his arms. “Marvey, what makes you think we can solve a murder? Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to help with this investigation, but I don’t know how.”

“I’m not trying to solve a murder.” I met his solemn midnight eyes. “I want to gather enough information to clear Jo as a suspect. Candidly, I don’t know if I can do that, either. But I know I need to try.”

“And you’re certain she’s innocent?”

“Aren’t you?” The question shocked me, especially coming from him. My faith in Jo was rock solid. I needed Spence to feel the same; otherwise, we couldn’t work together on this.

“Of course.” His response was fast and firm, much to my relief. “But Whatley and Cole have put her at the top of their suspects list. Are we missing something we need to identify in order to clear her name?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure the deputies are. How