Jim didn’t answer. He turned on a lamp next to the couch and another one next to a comfortable-looking leather recliner. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer? A glass of wine?”
“Wine would be nice,” Melissa said. “Red, if you have it.”
After Jim left to get her drink, Melissa made a tour of the living room. What kinds of books would a pumpkin-growing, quilt-obsessed, tomato-rich accountant stock his shelves with? Founding father biographies? Agatha Christie mysteries? Anthropology? Archaeology? Economics?
“It’s mostly poetry,” Jim said, returning with two glasses of wine. “I started out college as an English major.”
“That was quick,” Melissa said. “I’d just begun my snooping.”
“I already had the wine poured. Just to be on the safe side.”
“In case I’d come in waving a pistol
