“You want me to investigate your husband for what?” I barely managed to keep the laughter from my voice as I asked for confirmation of what I thought I heard.

Patricia Mauricio was at least eighty-five years-old and looked like my dim memory of Granny Quick, the only one of my grandparents I’d ever known. Pure white hair in tightly rolled curls, lavender cardigan over her floral housedress, horn-rimmed glasses on a silver chain.

“My Gus and I got married in 1950, four days before he shipped out for Korea. Our son, Patrick, was born nine months later,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “We have four children, seven grandchildren, thirteen great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren. We made it through three years of war and the problems that came home with him. We survived six more years with the army and then the closing of the steel mills back home in Ohio. We’ve made it through a lot of things that would’ve torn apart a marriage, but I don’t know if we can make it through this.”

I opened my mouth, considered what I’d been about to say, then closed it. I liked to think I was a pretty tactful person, but I wasn’t sure how to approach my concerns without sounding like I was mocking her. Because I wasn’t. It just wasn’t the sort of thing I’d expected when she walked in my door fifteen minutes ago.

“Mrs. Mauricio,” I began, “you said you suspect your husband of ‘committing dietary infidelity.’” I used the same phrase she had.

“That’s right.” She sniffled and wiped her nose. “It started right after Thanksgiving. I knew something was wrong when he quit taking a second piece of my award-winning blueberry pie, but I thought maybe he was sick or trying to lose weight – heaven knows he has a few more pounds on that spare tire than he should.”

“Or maybe he lost his taste for blueberries,” I suggested. “I’ve heard that people’s taste buds change as they get older.”

She reached across the desk and patted my hand. “You don’t understand, dear. Gus and I met at the county fair when I was sixteen and he was seventeen. I had a blueberry pie in the pie contest, and Gus was one of the judges, because of him being the preacher’s son. He told me later that he would’ve voted for my pie even if it hadn’t been the best thing he’d ever tasted because no girl would go out with a guy who’d criticized her baking.”

“Still,” I said gently, “almost seventy years of blueberry pie adds up.”

“It’s not just the pie,” she said, her eyes welling up again. “He’ll tell me that he’s going to the hardware store for something or to see one of the kids, and when he gets back at lunch or dinner, he says he’s not hungry. I’ve made him all his favorites. Spaghetti and meatballs. Pot roast. Ribs. Lamb chops. All the things he always said he loved.”

Okay, that was odd. It didn’t necessarily mean that he was cheating on her, but the fact that he was consistently saying he wasn’t hungry was concerning, for his health if not for any other reason.

“Then, two days ago, I was making peach cobbler and ran out of sugar, so I went to the store to get some. On my way home, I saw him…” She let out a choked sob. “He was coming out of Taylor Denison’s house with a covered plate.”

“Did you ask him about it? There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

She shook her head, and a plastic curler flew out of her hair and hit the wall. She didn’t seem to notice. “I tried. He went straight to the garage when he came home. When I went out there to talk to him, he shoved something into a drawer and said I should knock. I couldn’t ask him about it then, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that covered plate.”

“So you think it’s this Taylor Denison that he’s sleeping with because that’s where he’s eating?” I asked, latching onto the one part of the story that I could use for an investigation.

She gave me a puzzled look. “Taylor’s a man.” I was still trying to figure out the best way to tell her that Taylor’s gender didn’t exactly mean he and Gus weren’t having sex when she added, “Gus isn’t having that sort of affair. We’re intimate three or four times a week, and he’s an attentive lover.”

More information than I needed or wanted, but I kept my expression blank.

“He’s having a food affair, Ms. Quick, going to his friend Taylor’s house and letting that man cook for him. Eating his food.” She wiped her eyes again. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll do what I can to help you,” I said finally. I had no idea how else I was supposed to respond. I didn’t want to take her money, but it was clear she was upset.

“Oh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, do you have Taylor’s address?” I asked.

She nodded and rattled it off. I jotted it down and then asked the one other thing I needed to know. “Do you know where your husband is?”

I double-checked the address before knocking. I was about to have a strange conversation, and I didn’t want to repeat it.

The man who answered the door a minute later was tall and wiry, with long jet-black hair and deep wrinkles that made his age impossible to guess. His bronzed skin made me think he had some Native American blood, but he didn’t have a trace of an accent when he spoke.

“May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Gus Mauricio. Is he here?”

“Gus!” The man I assumed was Taylor called over his shoulder as he gestured for me to come in. “You have a visitor.”

As soon as I stepped inside, I could smell something. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t familiar either. Meat and spices and something I couldn’t put my finger on. It was well past noon, but I wondered if I’d interrupted them at lunch.

A door at the end of the short corridor to my right opened, and a portly man with wisps of gray hair came out.

“Gus Mauricio?” I held out my hand as I stepped forward. He nodded as he gave me a quick shake. “I’m Rona Quick. I’m a private investigator with Burkart Investigations.”

“Pats sent you, didn’t she?” He looked slightly sheepish, as if he knew exactly what circumstances had led to me being there.

“She did.” I’d already planned on being straightforward about this, but the fact that he already knew that his wife had hired me eased some of my anxiety. “Mr. Mauricio, I’ll be honest, I really think the best way for me to do what your wife asked is to just come out and ask rather than skulking around trying to figure out what you’re doing. She’s worried about you not eating at home, and I’d like to be able to go back to her with a reasonable explanation.”

He glanced at his friend and nervously ran his hand over what little bit of hair he had. “Venison,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“We’re making venison jerky,” he blurted out. “Taylor and me, we got this idea for new spices to add to the venison jerky he makes every year. We’re going into business together, and I didn’t tell Pats because I knew she’d tell me it was crazy to invest in something like pickled herring flavored jerky, but it’s going to be huge. I know it.”

For the third time that day, I was speechless.

Fortunately, he kept talking. “We’ve been experimenting with different flavors which means we have to taste test them. By the time I go home, I’m so full, I can’t eat another bite. Not even Pats’ cooking.” He grabbed my hand in earnest. “Please, you can’t tell Pats. She’ll be angry at me for not talking to her about it first.”

“I can’t keep it from my client,” I said. His face fell. “But I can offer to give you until six o’clock tonight to tell her yourself.”

I wasn’t sure which terrified him more, the thought of me telling his wife or the thought of having to tell her himself, but he agreed to talk to her as soon as he got home. I managed to hold in the laughter until I was safely in my car.

Venison jerky.

Some people.