Tristan St. James had grown to rely on two things: His wits and his movie star jawline. He was at the end of the former; the latter was the only card he had left to play as he flirted with the small town diner waitress.

“I understand that the berry cobbler here is a must have.”

Madge stopped chomping her Dentyne long enough to give the handsome stranger a smile. “It’s the second-best thing you’ll find in this place.”

Tristan returned the smile. She was maybe twenty years older than he, wearing orthopedic shoes and the traditional white-on-blue uniform that looked like it might have fit better thirty pounds ago. She spoke with the raspy confidence of someone familiar with both unfiltered Marlboros and last calls. ‘You aren’t going to marry her, you just need her car and enough money to get to Portland,’ he reminded himself.

“You want me to throw a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side for you? Makes all the difference.”

He winked and said, “Absolutely.”

“You keep lookin’ at me like that and you might just get an extra scoop.”

Tristan wanted to shower. His hair smelled of smoke and, ironically, Electric Youth perfume. (“It was on sale. Debbie Gibson. Do you like it?” He had lied.) No time to get cleaned up, though, he needed to get out of town as soon as possible. Silently, he took the night’s tips from Madge’s wallet, along with the keys to her Chevy Celebrity, and stuffed them into his Jansport. He could hear her snoring in the next room, the whole operation almost coming to an abrupt end when the screen door almost slammed shut, saved only by a quickly placed and now-throbbing finger.

Tristan opened the car door and put the keys in the ignition, shifting it into neutral so he could silently push it a half block or so down the road before hopping in and turning it over. The mid-sized 4-cylinder might have been an F-14 for as loud as it seemed in an otherwise silent early morning in that tiny coastal town.

He let himself feel only the slightest hint of relief for the first time in nearly 36 hours as he saw the bridge out of town off in the distance. He had been so careful, so calculated. Everything had been planned down to the smallest detail; He’d played it over and over in his head, changing things, adding variables, adapting. Nothing had been left to chance. The only way they would even know what to look for was if the poison was suspected. But how could it be?

He had committed the perfect crime.

Or so it seemed, until that damn woman stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. That geriatric biddy who started asking all the questions, probing all over town.

Ironically, she was supposed to be out-of-town. That’s what had been in the local newspaper. She was supposed to be heading to New York for yet another honor. She was supposed to be handing off her latest manuscript to her publisher. She was supposed to be gone!

But no.

She had stayed home. Her nephew Grady had gotten into some kind of jam and she had to get him out of it.

And now Tristan was in a stolen car desperately trying to get out of his own jam.

He knew that she was trouble. He’d seen the reports on local and national news. He was well aware of how just the mere mention that the English teacher-turned-novelist was looking for you was enough to bring full-grown men to tears.

But not him.

It had been close, but he had done it. He had escaped under the wire. He just had to cross the bridge out of Cabot Cove and never look—

Uh oh.

The red and blue gum ball lights took turns filling the interior of the Chevy. He thought briefly of turning around, driving back into town, but backup units had closed in.

They had him.

He stopped the car, opened the door, and got out with his hands up.

It took the sheriff and his entourage only a few moments to close the distance, his hand on the butt of his revolver. With a too-thick New England accent he looked the man up and down with the lazy confidence of someone who had dealt with much worse and said, “Tristan St James, you are unda arrest for the MURda of Martin Van Nostrum.”

The sheriff nonchalantly motioned to his deputies to take over the actual work of arresting the suspect. Tristan raised his arms, eyeing the septuagenarian sleuth.

“How did you know?”

She met his gaze and politely stated, “Well, you see, it all came down to your gum.”

“My gum?”

“Yes. It would seem that you have a most peculiar habit of folding your gum wrappers into these fascinating little origami birds.” Here she produced a small, folded silver wrapper in the shape of a crane. “I remembered that you had mentioned you spent some time in Japan. And, well—“

Tristan decided to finish the story for her, not giving her the satisfaction. “And you connected the blowfish poison to my time as an apprentice sushi chef.”

“She did enDEED, Mr St James. And thanks to Mrs Flethcha heer, you’ll have plenty a-time to perfect serving that raw fish—I’m guessin’ about 50 years-to-life.”