I was certain Rose wasn’t thinking about cooking right now. She was probably sitting with a cup of tea and Alfred Peterson, figuring out how the Angels were going to investigate Lily’s death. I’d told Nick I’d keep an eye on them. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to do that and not get sucked into their investigation, because I definitely wasn’t getting involved in a murder investigation again.
Famous last words.
* * *
When I got to the shop in the morning, Rose and Alfred Peterson were waiting for me. Mr. P.’s pants were tucked into pile-lined lace-up boots. He was wearing a faux-fur trimmed hat with earflaps, a heavy gray wool overcoat with a green-and-blue fringed scarf I knew Rose had knitted for him wound around his neck and at least two pair of mittens, as far as I could tell. He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy on his first time out in the snow.
“Hey, Mr. P.,” I said. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t like I didn’t know the answer to my question.
“Rose and I are going to start working on the case,” he said.
I pulled the key out of the lock and looked at Rose. “You have a case?”
She squared her shoulders. “I know you have to have heard that Lily’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“I have,” I agreed, kicking snow off my boots before I stepped inside and turned on the lights.
“We’re going to investigate,” she said.
“Do you have a client?”
I saw a look pass between Rose and Mr. P. She wiped her feet on the mat before looking at me again. “Not yet.”
“Rose, the police are going to be investigating, along with the medical examiner’s office. Both Michelle and Nick are very good at what they do.”
It was the wrong thing to say, which I realized as soon as the words were out.
“And we aren’t?” Rose said. She held her head high, chin stuck out a little.
“I didn’t say that,” I said, trying to keep the frustration I was already feeling out of my voice.
“But you were thinking it,” she countered.
“Rosie, I don’t think Sarah meant any harm,” Mr. P. said gently.
“You don’t think we can figure out who killed Lily,” Rose said, her tone more than a little indignant. She looked so tiny in her blue coat with the collar turned up and her blue-and-red cloche pulled down over her forehead to her eyebrows, but I knew she could do just about anything when she set her mind to it.
“Nice try,” I said, “but you’re not going to guilt me into saying I think what you’re doing is a good idea.” Elvis squirmed in my arms, and I set him on the floor. He headed for the doors into the store.
“I wasn’t trying to guilt you, dear,” Rose said. She gave me her innocent, cookie-baking grandma look.
“Good to know,” I said mildly.
Elvis was standing not very patiently in front of the double doors, and I knew that if I didn’t start the morning routine soon, he’d start protesting more aggressively. And loudly.
“I have a list of parcels that need to be packed,” I said to Rose. “Would you start on that, please?” I glanced at Alfred. “Mr. P., would it be too much trouble for you to go up to the staff room and put the kettle on?”
“I’d be happy to, my dear,” he replied. He sat down on the old church bench Mac had put by the back door and started taking off his boots.
I headed for the store. After a moment Rose followed me. She touched my arm as I flipped on the lights.
“I see what you’re doing,” she said.
“What I’m doing is turning on the lights.”
She made a face at me. She looked like a little gray-haired elf with her cheeks rosy from the cold. “You think I’ll give up if you don’t argue with me. Very sneaky.” She was trying to look angry but couldn’t manage it.
“I learned at the feet of the masters,” I said. I leaned over and kissed the top of her head and then headed for the stairs trailed by my furry sidekick.
Elvis climbed up on the credenza I used for storage in my tiny office and watched me while I took off my outside things and put on my shoes. I kept a bag of cat kibble in my desk. I fished out a couple of pieces and gave them to him, leaning against the long, low piece of furniture while he ate and then gave his face and paws a quick cleaning. Once he was finished, he rested his head against my arm and looked up at me with his green eyes. I reached over to rub the side of his face.
“I didn’t win that one, did I?” I said.
He made a soft murp that either meant “No, you didn’t,” or “Don’t stop what you’re doing.”
After a minute I picked the cat up again and set him on the floor. “Time to earn your keep,” I told him.
He headed for the main floor like a cat with a purpose, stopping only to pull the door open a little wider with one paw.
Downstairs I gave Rose the list of items that needed to be packed, and she headed out to the storage room to get started. “Mac’s out back,” she said. “He says he may have a customer for those hammered-tin ceiling panels you two salvaged from Tucker’s farm.”
The tin panels she was talking about had come from the kitchen ceiling of an old farmhouse that was about to be torn down. The owner had told us we could have whatever we could carry out of the house for free. Mac had immediately zeroed in on the kitchen ceiling. He’d carefully pried down all the three-foot-by-three-foot squares, insisting that they hadn’t been painted but were just covered in a layer of dust, grease and grime, baked into place by the heat of the old kitchen woodstove. If he had a possible sale for them, we’d soon be finding out if his guess was right.
Mr. P. touched my arm as I stood there deep in thought. I turned and he held out a blue mug decorated with a grinning Cheshire Cat. “I thought you might like something a little stronger than tea,” he said with a smile. He had another mug in his other hand. I was guessing that one was for Mac.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the cup from him.
I took a sip. The coffee was strong and hot, just the way I liked it. “You make a good cup of coffee,” I said.
“I’m good at all sorts of things,” he said. Then he winked at me and headed for the back room.
I watched him go, trying to decide whether he’d just flirted with me or if it was just my imagination.
I managed to spend the next forty-five minutes working on my trash-picked hutch. Mac was right that the piece was in horrible shape, but I still felt confident that with work—and a lot of sandpaper—I could turn it into something that would catch a customer’s eye.
Nick showed up about ten thirty. I was hanging a banjo up on the wall with the other instruments.
“Nice,” he said, leaning over my shoulder for a closer look. “Where did you get it?”
“Would you believe it was trash-picked?”
He frowned. “Seriously?”
I nodded, turning the banjo a little to the left so it was hanging straight. “I have a couple of Dumpster divers who come in pretty regularly—trustworthy guys, at least so far. One of them brought this in just before Christmas. I had to have it restrung, but otherwise it was in good shape.” I smiled at him. “You didn’t come here looking for a banjo, did you?”
He brushed a few flakes of snow from his hair. “I was hoping I could talk to you. It’s about Lily. There are a couple of questions that have come up . . .” He let the end of the sentence trail off.
“Sure,” I said. “Hang on. I’ll get Mac to watch things here and we can talk in my office.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Mac was spreading the hammered-tin panels on a tarp on the floor. Mr. P. was down by the far wall, doing something on his computer that I fervently hoped was legal. Rose was stuffing shredded paper curls into a small box at the workbench.