“It has potential though. It could be part of the pumpkin festival.” He tapped the table, then his mug. “I can tell something happened today. You’re exhausted. I want to hear it all, then we’ll talk about the car you refused to drive this morning.”

  There was really only one way to say it. “There’s been a murder.”

  Any merriment or teasing on Bixby’s face turned somber. “Details. All the details.”

  She thought back on the day, the angry conversations she’d either overheard or observed. “As you know, I went to the open house with Lucas. Lexie was right. I could see how it would be boring. I tried to make it fun—”

  “The murder?”

  “I was getting there. Patience. It was Jeremiah Fisher, top agent at Graystone Estates. He was a crabby, old man. Not because he was old. I have a feeling he’s always been mean, most likely underhanded in his dealings.”

  “I assume there are plenty of suspects.”

  “Definitely.” She didn’t know where to start. There was too much. Did the ghostly creaks and moans play into it at all? “When we found the body, he had one of our cups.”

  Bixby looked enlightened. “We had a certain grumpy customer come in early afternoon today. I won’t forget what he said. It was odd. Makes more sense now though.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I quote, ‘The crows are coming home to roost. Fate has caught up to me and will have her way with me.’”

  “That’s strange. That usually means, your choices—mistakes—are going to catch up with you. Too bad you didn’t have the foresight to ask him if someone were to murder him, who would it be.”

  “With him? I imagine it could be more than one person,” he said.

  Belle thought back on Lucas’ dad. This was going to be a strange case for Lucas. Could he even work it with his dad’s company involved? Belle filled Bixby in on the conversation she overhead between Jamie Finch, the realtor from Clay Real Estate, and Phil Graystone. “Jamie was fuming. Claimed Jeremiah was a cheat. That was about all I could hear.” It was easy to forget Mia Harmen. “There Mia was skulking about in the shadows, listening too. She had some big bet going with Jeremiah.”

  “Some bets can definitely get out of control, fast,” Bixby said.

  “Then there was the angry conversation I couldn’t listen in on. Well, I was about to crack the window, but Lucas showed up. It was Phil and Jeremiah out in the front yard. It wasn’t a pleasant interaction.” She leaned back in the chair. “Wish you could have been there to feel the tension between all of them.”

  “So, who are the main suspects?”

  “Jamie Finch, definitely. They were competing agents in the sale of this house. Mia Harmen, because of this mysterious bet they had.” She didn’t want to say the next suspect. “There’s Phil Graystone. Motive unknown.” She had an uncomfortable thought; it made her squirm. Had Lucas thought of it? “We went to lunch after the open house. Phil was late. He said he had something to do. We might not know motive. But opportunity is there. His alibi will be weak.”

  Belle thought back on the day, and another image popped into her mind. “There is one more suspect. I didn’t even get a chance to tell Lucas about it. There was that strange woman from this morning. Her name was Mona. I asked why she was in town. She said, murder. Then she asked if I knew Detective Graystone. It was odd. She was odd. I’m pretty sure I saw her through the window at the open house.”

  “Did you tell Lucas?”

  “I tried to, but someone always interrupted. I’ll tell him.”

  Bixby stood. “More coffee.”

  “No, thanks. I’m exhausted. I need to spend some one-on-one time with Sir Jack. I need to clean his cage. I’ll probably zonk out on the couch.” And yes, she fully appreciated that was something she could do now. She could take a nap whenever she wanted, not living by someone else’s orders or schedule.

  “You can drive your car home. Now that you have wheels again.” Bixby dropped that, then cleaned up their mugs.

  The car. The huge, ugly station wagon that Belle had an irrational fear of driving. She’d probably hit someone. She stayed at the table, quiet.

  Bixby huffed. “Fine. I’ll drive you home, but at some point, you’re going to need a ride, and I won’t be available. Then, you’ll have to drive it.”

  The next morning, Belle talked with Sir Jack. “I have a meeting today with the Women’s Charitable Organization and I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “Too bad,” he squawked.

  They had to discuss the upcoming Pumpkin Festival where Belle was positive they’d give her all the hard tasks. She was just considering the longer walk to Forsythia’s house, and whether she should at least attempt to drive the car, when someone knocked on the door.

  “It’s me, Lucas!”

  Perfect timing.

  On the drive to Forsythia’s, Belle told him about the strange woman with the dark hair and orange glasses. “Have you seen her following you at all? Have you had the spidey-sense of someone watching you?”

  “I haven’t. You think you saw her outside the window at the open house?” He took her seriously. He always did, which Belle appreciated.

  “Yes, pretty sure. And, Jeremiah was at The Beanery yesterday and told Bixby the crows were coming home to roost.”

  “Interesting.” He gazed through the windshield, tapping the steering wheel, practically letting the drive car itself.

  “Is everything okay?” He was definitely off this morning. She made a guess. “It must be hard investigating agents at your dad’s company.”

  “It is. I highly doubt they’ll leave me on the case. I should step aside, but I don’t trust anyone else.”

  When he pulled in front of Forsythia’s house, he said, “Do you need a ride home?”

  “I don’t mind walking. It’s not too far. Say hi to Lexie.”

  They said their goodbyes. Belle stood, looking up at Forsythia’s grand home. Time to face another meeting where she had to prove herself. She strode toward the front door, knocked, then entered with confidence.

  No one noticed.

  The women surrounded one of the members who sat on an armchair. Belle couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but she reminded her of another version of Forsythia, wealthy, brand-name clothes, professional dye job to hide the silver. She was older. She was crying, big blubbery sobs, except there were no tears. The rest of the women crooned, patting her back. Of course, something dramatic had happened. There was always some kind of drama.

  “Oh, my Sweet’ums,” the woman barely managed to say, entering another round. “I don’t know when I’ll see him again.”

  Belle stood, just watching; it didn’t seem the right time to ask what happened.

  Minnie Kratz asked, “Sorry about your loss. It was…sudden.”

  The woman jerked back, like the words were a tiny shock of electricity. “I won’t cry over that old buzzard. We’ve been separated for months. In fact, I’m not surprised at all by what happened.”

  Mysteriously, the sobs dissipated quickly; in their place was bitterness. Now Belle was confused. What or who was she crying over? Who was Sweet’ums? Who was the old buzzard?

  The woman kept talking, her words vicious, her expression enraged.

  It was Forsythia who noticed Belle and interrupted the woman. “Claire Fisher, you remember Belle Baron, Eliza’s great niece. Not sure the two of you have officially met.”

  Claire Fisher?

  So, the old buzzard had to be Jeremiah. Then who were the tears for? Claire must be his wife.

  “Belle just so happens to be good friends with Detective Graystone.”

  There were a lot of things Belle wanted to say, but she landed on, “I’m sorry for the loss of your husband.”

  It was as if the words friends and Detective Graystone had their intended effect, because Claire’s bitterness, the hardness in her eyes, the set of her jaw immediately transformed to sorrow, to softness, to a whispered sob. Still, no tears.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, Belle. It was horrible what happened. He was taken in the prime of his life, the peak of his career.” Then she spit out. “Clearly it was one of the agents. They were so jealous.” She looked right at Belle. “You can tell your detective friend that jealousy is powerful motivation for murder.”

  “Um, sure.”

  Forsythia clapped. “Sorry to steer the conversation in a different direction, but we simply must talk about the pumpkin festival and our role in it. The best way to raise money.”

  “It’s a great chance for visibility, too,” added Minnie. “We could gain new members.”

  June, Forsythia’s right-hand woman, said, “I say it’s time to donate to the library again. It’s been quite a few years.”

  “Yes, imagine free books for the children to take home,” Alice said, enthusiastic, the one who attended the Episcopal church, which reminded Belle she wanted to visit the church.

  “Darling, Alice.” Forsythia’s words dripped with sarcasm. “Books at the library are already free.”

  “Actually,” Belle said. “Your taxes pay for them.”

  Alice nodded. “But there’s something special about taking home your very own book. One you don’t have to return.”

  “Fine. Fine. The library it is.” Forsythia challenged the women. “Any other comments?”

  “At some point, we should think about the P.T.O at the school,” Minnie suggested.

  “Yes, yes, eventually. Do you have a problem with the library receiving donations?” Forsythia practically dared Minnie to argue.

  “Not at all. The library is a wonderful choice.”

  Forsythia clapped with excitement. “Perfect. I was thinking of holding a table or booth. We could sell raffle tickets. I believe we could charge two dollars a ticket if we make it clear all proceeds will go to the Everly Public Library.”

  “Yes, sell the raffle tickets, but we’ll need to canvas the local businesses,” Claire stated. “And, we should offer something for free, a good will offering that will draw attention to the table in the first place. There will be lots of competition. Lots of booths selling wares.”

  Belle was amazed Claire had pulled herself together so fast, but when she thought about it, the blubbering had been somewhat of a show. She was distracted, herself, not really paying attention, trying to, but failing. All the scenes from the day before kept running through her mind: the angry looks, the ghostly moaning, the woman with the orange glasses, Phil Graystone, Lucas. Of course, Jeremiah Fisher lying on the floor. She shuddered.

  “Belle, will that work for you?” Forsythia asked.

  Belle felt the heat in her cheeks. “Sorry about that. Will what work for me?”

  Forsythia smiled, patronizing at worst. “Minnie suggested you could canvas the local businesses. Ask for gift cards. That kind of thing.”

  “I’d love to.” It wasn’t a lie either. She’d been meaning to introduce herself to the other business owners. Make connections. She expected to be given the brunt of the work. “The Beanery could also hand out free coffee. Maybe mini pumpkin muffins, too. I’ll check with Bixby.”

  Minnie responded. “Simmons Bakery has the best pumpkin spice muffins right now. I bet they’d love to donate some for the day since they’re so busy at their shop.”

  The words cut, and they were meant to be sharp, laden with subtle jabs. Belle refused to respond in kind. “When I stop by Simmons for a gift card, I’ll ask about the muffins. That’s a wonderful idea, Minnie.”

  Forsythia spoke like the meeting was wrapping up. “Claire, I know you love this Everly Pumpkin Festival. Why don’t you and Belle work the table together.”

  Claire sniffed. “Of course.”

  “I’m sure June and I could take a shift, too,” Alice offered.

  “Of course,” June said.

  The meeting wrapped up, and Belle knew what her plans were for the week. Talk to all the business owners. Purely coincidence, but it would be the perfect opportunity to stop by Graystone Estates and Clay Real Estate.

  When Claire went to leave, Belle also excused herself, so they were walking out the front door at the same time. The crisp breeze hit them right away. They shivered, pulling at their coats. Belle walked with Claire to her car, acting like hers was nearby.

  Belle spoke softly. “I’m sure it’s hard to lose someone you were married to for a long time.”

  “I suppose so, but he was a mean old man.”

  Belle was always mystified by long-lasting marriages. She was curious about this one too, even though it seemed to have ended badly. “But you called him Sweet’ums.”

  Claire laughed, but cut it short. There were real tears glimmering this time. Maybe she remembered Belle was friends with a detective, because she clamped her mouth shut when it came to that topic. “I hope they check out Mia Harmen. There was some bad blood between her and Jerry. Never mind that other agent. I forget his name.”

  “Jamie Finch?” Belle said.

  “Yes, him.” She added, “That’s been more recent.”

  Belle might not get another chance, and these women already didn’t care for her. “What about you?”

  Claire stopped at her car, pressing the key to unlock the doors. “What about me?”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  There was a quick intake of breath at the shocking words. Or that was how Claire acted. She patted her dyed blonde hair. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

  “I hate to point out that by your own admission, you have motive. It’s only a matter of time before they question you.”

  Claire looked Belle right in the eyes, revealing nothing this time. “For your information, I was at home making a scrapbook. That’s what you do when you lose someone you love. And no, no one can corroborate that. Yes, I was alone. That’s what one does when grieving.” She climbed into the car, started it, then rolled down the window. “Hope you go and question that Mia girl and ask her for an alibi.”

  Once upon a time, there was a marriage. Two young people were in love and swore to honor and love each other for the rest of their lives, until death parted them. Except, slowly, over time, the love faded. Life got in the way. The wife, who once tenderly called him Sweet’ums, grew bitter from not being appreciated or loved, and finally killed him. She showed up at his place of work, and when no one was there to see, pushed him over a second-story railing.

  Chapter Six

  As Belle walked through town, she reminded herself of all the benefits of walking. It warmed her up. It was exercise. It provided her with a wonderful opportunity to enjoy the vibrant fall colors. Every day there seemed to be different and brighter shades of orange. Some of the reds were falling. It only took a strong breeze, one puff, and they’d flutter to the ground.

  Walking also gave her the chance to see the businesses in town, the hardware store, the pharmacy, a barber, a florist, pizza place. All the stores she needed to visit this week to ask for donations for the raffle.

  It also gave her time to think. Whereas if she had her old rattletrap car, or if she’d driven that beast, she’d already be at Clay Real Estate, already chatting it up with Jamie Finch to see if he had an alibi.

  She wouldn’t have this opportunity to think back on the Women’s Charitable Organization, especially Claire Fisher. Everyone grieves differently. To a certain extent, everyone performs in public, with friends; it can look different when home alone. She had to at least give Claire the benefit of the doubt in that regard. She wasn’t the only one with a questionable alibi.

  By the time she reached Clay Real Estate, she had stripped her coat and wanted to be in shorts. She walked into the business, face flushed, sweat starting to dry. She walked through the room with the life-size poster of happy, smiling customers in front of their new homes, or big Sold signs. She’d been here before, so she knew that beyond this room was a hallway with offices.

  She paused in the doorway; the sound of voices came from further down. Sounded like Jamie Finch. She didn’t recognize the other voice. She’d have to innocently walk into his office, or she’d have to wait her turn.

  “Why, Ms. Baron, good to see you.” It was Henry Clay, with his dark hair and polished looks. He leaned against the door to his office. “Ready to sell the Baron property?”

  Oh, how smooth. She flashed him a teasing grin. “Not quite yet. You still haven’t sent me over the detailed plans of what you intend to do with the property.”

  “You just make an appointment and we’ll go through it, page by page.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  That’s where their conversation dried up. It wasn’t like she knew him well, and she didn’t want to talk about the twenty acres tied to the Baron property, her property. She could talk about…what? Desperation settled. He stayed where he was, cool and calm, watching her, looking somewhat amused at her discomfort.

  Finally, she blurted, “So how’s business going?” There that was it. She could ask him about Jamie.

  “Why so curious?” he asked.

  She shrugged like it was no big deal if he shared anything with her. “Since I’m new in town, I’ve been trying to get to know the other businesses. Get a feel for the town.”

  “There is some rinky-dink local business community if you’re desperate.”

  “Well,” she fumbled, “I wouldn’t say desperate. Are you involved in it?”

  “Honestly, I don’t have the time. It’s more of a social club. Or that’s the impression I get. But maybe that’s your kind of thing.”

  Meeting other business owners would be nice. Time to get more specific and hope it sounded casual. “How’s that new agent doing? What’s his name—Jamie?”

  “Yes, Jamie Finch. He’s making his way. Being a realtor has a learning curve. Agents can only get past it by walking through it. Takes time. He’s learning.”

  “Still…” Belle mentioned, trying to sound like she didn’t really care, “it must be frustrating when you’re putting in all the hours, all the time, and not seeing the profit.” She added, “I’d imagine anyway.”