I bent to look more closely. The window was open, maybe three-quarters of an inch between sash and sill. The wood swelled when it was damp, making it difficult to close, but the morning had been sunny and crisp, and I was sure I had closed it all the way.
Almost sure. It never closed enough to lock, but I’d never worried about it, even though you could access it from a corner of my porch. Maybe it didn’t close all the way this morning and I hadn’t noticed. What else could it be?
Burglar? Crazy. But I shut the window and decided to ask Henri to fix it.
Within minutes I’d settled into my favorite overstuffed chair with a notepad, pen, and steaming mug. I turned to a fresh page and wrote across the top:
What Would Trixie Do?
Brainstorm with Honey Wheeler? Call a meeting of the Bob-Whites of the Glen? My friends were strewn from Manhattan to Hudson and wouldn’t be any help. Other than Henri, I was only friendly with people from the library—my suspect pool. The officers of the Friends of the Library could undoubtedly provide information, but I didn’t have an excuse to start calling them and asking questions. They were all in and out of the building quite a bit lately, hard at work on their fundraiser, but I couldn’t insinuate myself into that too easily.
Or maybe I could. Every fundraiser needed door prizes or something to raffle. I had spent fifteen years working for an international cosmetics company. I grabbed my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and tapped the screen. It was answered on the second ring.
“Greer, honey, tell me you’re coming home!”
“Sorry, Beau, I’ve decided I like it here. But you can always come visit.”
“Visit? Raven’s Breath?” Beau sounded horrified. In the background, someone burst into song.
“Greeeeeeen Acres is the place for me,” warbled Beau’s partner, Ben.
“Raven Hill,” I said. “It’s really quite charming. I was enjoying myself right up until the murder.”
“Murder? Greer, what’s going on?” The Green Acres theme cut off mid-word.
“Relax. I’m fine. But I need a favor.”
I ran through the whole story for Beau, including Joanna’s note and Anita’s obvious desire to see the whole thing go away.
“So, you see, it’s in my best interest to figure this out. I want attention off me. I want to know what was going on and what she wanted my help with.”
“Because you didn’t have time to help her, just like you didn’t have the time to help Danny.”
That stung. Beau wasn’t playing around.
“Look, sweet pea, you don’t need to do this.” Beau’s tone became a little kinder. “The police found Danny’s killer, and they’ll find this one.”
I didn’t kill your husband, lady, I swear it. He was alive when I left him.
“Don’t go stirring up trouble because you feel guilty for no good reason.” Beau’s accent slid south, back to his roots in the Carolina Low Country, as it always did when he was tired or upset.
“It’s not guilt; it’s self-preservation. I’m not stirring up trouble. I just want to dig up a couple more suspects. We both know the police will take a long look at me and at her husband, but I’m sure they won’t go much beyond that.”
“Well, it usually is the husband or the wife, isn’t it?”
“Yes, thank you, I am well aware of that. I am also aware of how the police do not look beyond the obvious until they have to.”
I was paid to break into your place, sure. But I didn’t kill your husband.
“I know, I was there. But this is different. Are you really a suspect?”
“I found her, so that puts me on the list. My alibi is not airtight. Besides, there’s something rotten here, something beneath the surface. I can smell it.”
“All the more reason to keep your nose out of it. Head down, mouth shut. You don’t know what you might step in otherwise.”
“I can’t, Beau. She was my friend.”
Beau let out a gusty sigh.
“Well, you’re nothing if not loyal, Greer. I have reason to know. What kind of favor do you need?”
“Products, enough for a few gift baskets.”
“So, you’re going to bribe witnesses with age-defying youth serum and some lipstick?”
“No. I need an excuse to chat up the rest of the Friends’ officers about what Joanna was working on before she died. I’m going to tell them she had asked me about door prizes for the jumble sale.”
“Jumble sale,” he muttered, “door prizes. You ran away from home and landed in a Barbara Pym novel. Or maybe Agatha Christie. Tell me, will there be a fete?”
“October. Apple Festival, along with the annual book and bake sale. E-books are cutting into book donations, so they added the jumble sale. They’ll raffle off the gift baskets. I’m sure they’ll be a hit.”
Another sigh. He wasn’t happy, but he’d come through.
“You’ll have it next week. I’ll put Ben on it—he’s better at this sort of thing. We’ll tuck in some goodies for you, too.”
“Thanks. You’re the best. This will be a big help.”
“Just be careful, Greer. Poking into other people’s business can get you into trouble, even if that business has nothing to do with murder.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet. Besides, how many deep, dark secrets can there be in a sleepy little village like Raven Hill?”
“Trust me on this one, city girl,” Beau’s tone became grim, “I was a gay boy in a small town in the South. People hide all kinds of things, and in a little place like that they’ve got more to lose if the neighbors see their dirty laundry. Everybody’s got a secret, Greer. Everybody.”
Chapter Seven
Friday morning, I was at work bright and early. I’d had another restless night. I hated to admit it, but Henri and Beau had unnerved me. I liked the girl detective game as an intellectual exercise, but I was a physical coward. I certainly stood my ground in the face of horrible bosses and backstabbing coworkers, but other than throwing a mean
