My adorable kids, all grown up, thought they knew everything. But me, Dr. Evangeline Louise Bergeron Delafose, PhD. I was in charge of my life. Or so I thought.

My youngest, the one who understood me best, announced one day that Nate was right—I needed to pack it all up and move closer to family. Not her, of course.

“Mom, that would be weird. My mother living in the same town as me? I’m a freshman in college! It’s my time to spread my wings.”

Matty agreed. “Mom, Ellie’s right. You should live closer to Uncle Nate and Aunt Bonnie. Grandpa too. You need to make some changes.”

Traitors. If Doug was here…but he wasn’t. So, I packed up my stuff and moved. Not anywhere crazy, like Tahiti. But it was crazy to me, a step backwards. When I married Doug, I’d made a vow to love, honor, cherish, and never move back to Graisseville (pronounced, GRACE-vil), Louisiana.

For three months, I’d been adjusting to my hometown and the 297 other people. The casserole brigade descended upon me like vultures on roadkill. These senior ladies sniffed out every new resident within the parish, plying them with King Ranch casserole and enchilada pie.

But I didn’t play bridge, preferred not to gossip, and led a completely boring life. The newness wore off, and the brigade moved on.

But how did I go from social introvert to amateur sleuth? It was a Thursday, my weekly supper with my brother.

“Ev, you’ve lost more weight. Did you eat the gumbo Bonnie sent over?” Nate’s mouth curled up in a smile, but his eyes exposed the concern.

Why was everyone so worried about me? Was I that pathetic? “Yes, Nate, I ate Bonnie’s gumbo. Yes, I read the book she gave me. Yes, I’m coming to Jack’s football game and Syd’s piano recital this weekend. Yes, I’ll be at church on Sunday.” My eyes jerked in my brother’s direction and softened. He was trying to take care of me, like Doug did before he passed away.

My brother was relentless. “Changing the subject, have you thought about starting another book? Writing, I mean—not reading. The guys down at the station still talk about your character, Lou Bergeron, and how authentic he is.”

My series of books, featuring New Orleans police detective Lou Bergeron, had been reasonably successful. Lou was no Alex Cross, by any standard. But the royalties from my books supplemented my professor’s salary. Along with Doug’s detective pay, our life had been pretty darn good.

Only…Lou Bergeron was Doug. He was authentic because Doug made him so. My husband was always the first to read my books, making my character an authentic police officer. With Doug gone, I couldn’t visit Lou down at the police station and help solve his cases.

“Yes, I’ve thought about it. But I can’t write about Lou without thinking about Doug. I’m not sure I ever want to write again.” There! I’d spoken the thoughts crouching under the rug. My words freed them, and they’d sprung into the middle of the room.

Nate nodded, his brown eyes revealing just a hint of tears. “No pressure! I just wanted to double-check, because the guys always ask me. But I understand, Ev, I truly do. On another note, I had an idea…”

Reaching into his briefcase, my brother pulled out a medium-sized manila folder and laid it on the cleared table. An East Baton Rouge Parish sheriff’s department folder, from the looks of the official seal.

“This case is technically inactive. It’s been eighteen months, and we’re stuck.” Nate’s eyes took on the familiar sad puppy dog look, the one he’d always used to get what he wanted. Those eyes always worked on Mother and me, but never my father.

“Ev, I can’t let it go! This was a good kid. We like his sister for his murder, but we just don’t have enough evidence to prove it. The D.A. won’t touch it. So, I talked to the sheriff, and explained how you write, or used to write, detective novels for a living. Turns out he’s a fan.” Nate’s eyes lit up with pride.

Who would’ve guessed that writing stories about my husband would score a fan base?

“Okay, Nate. So, the sheriff is a fan. What do you want from me? Should I autograph the file?”

Glancing at the manila folder before me, I couldn’t help but flip it open. Doug had brought home many files, so these pages stared at me like familiar friends. Where do I put my autograph? Should I use my go-to pink glitter pen, or should it be black ink? My eyes shifted to Nate for confirmation.

“No, Ev, the sheriff doesn’t want an autograph.” My brother paused, then walked it back. “Well, he doesn’t want an autograph on this file. It’s a copy of the original. Your copy. He’d…well, we’d…”

Spit it out, Nate, because I’m not following you.

“We’d like you to look at the case through fresh eyes—hopefully find something we missed. Would you do that for us? For Michael Cook, the deceased?”

Hmmm…this was intriguing. Doug had often shared his cases with me after the kids went to bed. But I functioned as a sounding board, to nod or shake my head as he ran through his theories and clues. To play detective, limited as it would be, seemed…well, it seemed much more fun than playing bridge and definitely more interesting than joining the church decorating committee.

“I’ll do it! Umm…I mean, if the sheriff’s department would like my help, of course.” C’mon Ev, rein in your enthusiasm. And yet…this could be so much fun!

And it is! I’ve wrapped up my fifth case and passed my private investigator exam. There’s always a mystery to solve, because crime is always in season.