“Milk, please.”
Mrs. Wilks arched a brow and gave a soft, speculating hum. “Your stomach must be a bother with all this extra stress.”
When a blush crept into the chief’s cheeks, Riley tried to distract Mrs. Wilks. “Have a seat,” he encouraged, pulling out the nearest chair. Mrs. Wilks claimed the seat. Riley reached for the next chair and smiled at the chief.
“No, thanks,” she said, obviously in police chief mode. “Mind if I look around?”
“Abby,” Mrs. Wilks scolded, “at least have a cookie before you go investigating.”
Riley smothered a laugh while he filled three glasses with milk. “Aside from a suitcase and my laptop, I promise you it’s just the way the Hamiltons left it.”
“I’ve told her everything they told me,” Mrs. Wilks said. She arrowed Abby a knowing look. “She just doesn’t know how to relax.”
Abby threw up her hands in surrender and took a seat.
Riley joined them, taking the one remaining chair and being careful not to bump Abby’s knee with his.
“A body gets tired of the cold,” Mrs. Wilks was saying. “If I had family in Florida, I might do the very same thing.”
“I’m not sure I could let you do that,” Abby said, choosing a cookie. “Who would bake for me?”
“You know your way around a kitchen, young lady, don’t even pretend. What about you?” She turned a sharp eye his way. “Do you need me to bring over a casserole?”
He grinned at the older woman again. “I can manage. Thanks.”
“More than beer and chips, I hope.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He broke a cookie in two and stuffed one half into his mouth. As he chewed, he watched the way Abby dunked her cookie in her milk glass. Deliberate and methodical, he found it oddly endearing. “The cookies are perfect, Mrs. Wilks. Thanks for bringing them by.”
“Good company makes everything better.” She looked around the kitchen. “What did the Hamiltons want you to do here?”
“A little of this and that,” he replied. “There’s some minor repair work I’ll take care of first.”
“That rotted wood under the sink, I hope. Abby, do you remember what a mess that was?”
Abby bobbed her chin, her mouth full of cookie. Riley smothered a laugh. “I was just debating tile or vinyl. Any thoughts, ladies?”
As Mrs. Wilks launched into a full report of which families on the street had made which type of upgrade, Riley caught the chief watching him.
He arched his eyebrows and her gaze abruptly returned to the glass of milk in front of her. “Another cookie?” He nudged the plate her way.
She shook her head and pushed back from the table.
“You don’t have a preference on the flooring?” he asked.
The look she sent him was cool at best. “No. You should go with whatever the owners want,” she replied, taking her glass to the sink and rinsing it.
“True,” he admitted. “I’ll work up a few ideas for them to consider. If it were my place I’d go with tile.”
“Hard on the knees,” Mrs. Wilks interjected. “Then you just end up with rugs and mats everywhere.”
He mentioned the reclaimed hardwood and Mrs. Wilks offered an exuberant opinion on the value of that idea. He pretended not to notice Abby slipping away from the kitchen.
Mrs. Wilks had no such problem. She motioned for him to lean in closer. “That girl is suspicious of everyone these days. Don’t let it bother you.”
“I hear she has cause.”
“That she does,” Mrs. Wilks agreed. “Go with the reclaimed floor. Better all around.”
“All right,” he said, listening to the stair treads creak. He grinned at Mrs. Wilks. “I promise I’m not here to cause more trouble.”
“Oh, I could tell that first thing,” she said. “She’ll relax. Personally, I’m glad to have a strapping young man so close. Makes me feel safe.” She got up, put her glass in the sink and walked to the door. “She cooks when she’s upset. Based on the groceries she hauled in the other day, there’s at least one lasagna in her freezer and another in the oven. You could do worse than get yourself invited to dinner.”
Startled by the older woman’s suggestion, he didn’t have a chance to reply before she was gone. The older woman was a matchmaker. He’d stake his skill with a weapon on it.
He was putting the glasses in the dishwasher when the chief reappeared.
“Where’s Mrs. Wilks?”
“Home,” he replied, drying his hands. “She said something about dinner in the oven.”