Unexpected Riches (Bellingwood Book 13) by Diane Greenwood Muir

stood up. He'd lost most all of his hair. What was left was white and thin. He was a big man, mostly in the belly. His well-worn blue jeans barely stayed up. Polly knew she shouldn't notice that he had no butt to hold them in place, but she did and he didn't.
    He'd stood to shake her hand. "This is our brother, Harold."
    Harold looked a lot like his brother. Not quite as big, but still a large man. He wore a flannel shirt over a t-shirt that was tucked into his jeans. The hat on the table had to have been his because there was still a crease in the little bit of hair he had left on his head.
    Because there wasn't much room beside his brother, he didn't stand and Polly reached over to shake his hand.
    "It's nice to meet you both," she said.
    One little grey cat was alert on the chair Beryl had just left. "Where's the other one?" Polly asked.
    "I'll pick her up this morning after we're finished," Beryl said. "Hem came home with me last night." She gestured to the kitchen. "Would you like some coffee?"
    Polly looked at the mugs on the table and glanced at Lydia who gave her a surreptitious nod. "I'd love some. But I can get it."
    Beryl looked at her brothers. "I'll be right back. Help yourself to the muffins. They're made by the best baker in town." She pushed Polly ahead of her, scooting her toward the kitchen. Once they crested the threshold, she whispered. "I'm so glad you two are here."
    "What's going on?" Polly asked.
    "They're asking me questions about that young man that was killed. I told them to call the sheriff, but they want to hear it from me. I don't know what to tell them. I've been so busy that I haven't called my aunt about the genealogy and I don't have any answers. Aaron hasn't told me anything new. What am I supposed to say?"
    "Say that," Lydia said. "What do they want from you?"
    "Answers. They're upset that I didn't call anyone on Saturday when it happened. How was I to know that they required a phone call from me? Am I a mind-reader?"
    Lydia patted Beryl's arm. "Calm down. If you don't have information for them, then that's all there is to it. They made a trip for nothing."
    "Not for nothing," Beryl said. "You brought muffins. They got a free breakfast."
    "Those two men are your brothers?" Polly asked.
    Beryl cackled. "I love you, Polly Giller. You know the best things to say." She took down two mugs and poured coffee into them. Then she opened the lower cupboard and pulled out a brown bottle. "Want some Irish cream in there?"
    "No," Lydia said. "I'm not starting my day out by getting drunk."
    "You're no fun." Beryl stuck her tongue out and put the bottle back into the cupboard. She handed the mugs to Lydia and Polly. "Shall we?"
    They followed her back to the living room and sat down in chairs opposite the sofa.
    "Muffin?" Beryl asked Polly, reaching for the bakery box.
    "No, I'm fine," Polly replied. "I had breakfast this morning."
    Lydia waved her off as well.
    Melvin and Harold watched the interplay in confusion.
    "Did you have plans this morning, Beryl?" Melvin asked.
    "No, why?"
    "Your friends are here when we're trying to discuss family matters."
    Beryl took a deep, measured breath before looking at him. "What family matters are we discussing?"
    "That dead boy in our historical family plot," Harold said. As if he realized that he'd said something out loud, he shook his head quickly and shut his mouth.
    "Polly was the one who found that poor boy," Beryl said.
    Harold nodded. "We've heard about her."
    Beryl shook her head. "What is there to discuss? Is he someone you know? I know he was a Carter, but I don't know what family he's from."
    "One of those West Coast Carters," Melvin said with derision.
    She chuckled. "We have West Coast Carters?"
    "Must be from that branch that moved out there," he mumbled.
    "A hundred and fifty years ago? You think you can tell that he's a descendant of Lester Carter?" she asked.
    "Who else would it be?"
    "Where does your Mary live?" Beryl degenerated to sarcasm. She'd