The heat returned to Tricia's cheeks. "That's why I want to go to Doris's house. The sheriff still has an unnatural fixation on the idea that I might've killed her."
"Or they could just be watching her shop-maybe waiting for the killer to return to the scene of the crime."
"There's nothing to return to. Bob Kelly emptied the place out this afternoon."
"I heard about that."
Was there nothing the local gossip mill missed?
The yeasty aroma of bread filled the kitchen, and Tricia's stomach gurgled in anticipation. Angelica leaned against the counter. "You can't go out the front door without the deputy seeing you, so I think it best if I leave first, swing around and pick you up in the alley behind the store."
"Wait a minute, you're not going with me."
"How much investigating do you think you can pull off with a tail?"
"How do you know so much about police procedure?"
Angelica rolled her eyes. "I do have a television, you know. I've seen enough crime shows over the years to have as much investigative experience as you."
"Television? Please. The scientific blunders alone have every jury in the country believing you can pull forensic evidence out of thin air, and they expect it in minutes when the reality is that most police departments are understaffed, and most labs underfunded and overworked, and-"
"What's that got to do with us checking out Doris Gleason's house?" Angelica turned, plucked a wooden spoon from the utensil crock on the counter, and stirred the soup.
"We are not going to do it. I am. Do you realize how much trouble I'd be in if I was caught? What kind of sister would I be to put you in that same situation?"
"Then who's going to act as your lookout? You can't search the place if you're looking over your shoulder every minute."
Tricia hadn't considered that. She changed tacks. "I don't know if the house is on a well-lit street, if the neighbors would be watching. I'm not even sure I can go through with it. I just thought I'd drive out there and take a look."
"Then there's no harm in me going with you. Here, try some of the soup." Angelica held out the spoon.
Tricia tasted it, surprised at its robust flavor. She took another taste. It was even better than the bisque at Ed's-something only hours before she would have thought impossible. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Angelica shrugged. "Let's get back to the subject of searching Doris's house. Do you have any latex gloves? We don't want to leave a bunch of fingerprints."
"We don't need gloves. It wasn't a crime scene. I have no intension of committing a misdemeanor by breaking in if I can't find the key."
"Party pooper."
"Why are you so hyped to come along, anyway?"
Angelica smiled coyly. "Because it just might be fun."
Seven
Doris Gleason's little white cottage had seen happier days, as evidenced by its peeling paint, rusty metal roof, and the overgrown privet that adorned the west side of the property. As Ginny promised, a gravel driveway circled to the back of the dark house, affording the perfect cover for Angelica's rental car. She killed the lights and the yard was engulfed by the night. The engine made tinking noises as the sisters waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Angelica spoke first. "The woman didn't have a whole lot in her life, did she?"
Tricia shook her head. "I wonder if she owned the place or if it was a rental. She probably spent more time at the Cookery than here anyway."
"How long are we going to sit here?" Angelica asked.
"Give me a minute," Tricia said, looking over the darkened yard. Now that they were here, poking around the dead woman's home seemed like a bad idea-more than that, creepy. Okay, the house was isolated, its nearest neighbor at least a quarter mile in either direction. With the drapes pulled shut there was little chance they'd be seen by passing cars, but just what did Tricia hope to find? A big red sign pointing to a will or an insurance policy?
Tricia reconsidered their quest. "I think we'd better go."
"Oh, come on," Angelica urged, "where's your sense of adventure?" She reached behind her and dragged out the convenience store bag, extracting the big orange flashlight they'd stopped to buy along the way. She fished out the D batteries and filled the empty compartment, switching it on. An ice white beam of light pierced the car's darkness.
"Not in the eyes," Tricia complained, putting a hand up to shield her face.
"Sorry. Now where'd you say the extra key was hidden?"
"It's supposed to be under a fake rock by the back door."
"Right." Angelica opened her door, but Tricia's hand on her arm stopped her.
"Before we do anything else, here." She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves and handed them to Angelica. "I changed my mind. I decided you were right and we shouldn't leave any fingerprints behind."
"Whoa. That's a first. Me, with a good idea? Can I stand the compliment?"
"You're making me paranoid."
"Where did you get them?" Angelica asked, pulling a glove over her left hand and flexing her fingers.
"The hardware store. I bought them for a refinishing job I never got around to doing." Tricia put on her own set of gloves, got out of the car, and marched toward the darkened house. Angelica followed, their feet crunching on the gravel drive. Good thing it wasn't raining. Tricia didn't want to track in any detritus and leave any other evidence that they'd been there.
The flashlight's beam whisked back and forth around the steps. "I don't see any fake rocks. How long ago did your little helper say it was that she used it?"
Tricia went rigid. "I never said it was Ginny."
"Don't give me that look," Angelica chided. "Who else would it be? You don't talk to anybody from around here except her. I'm assuming she either once worked for Doris or moonlights as a burglar."
"Yes," Tricia reluctantly admitted, "she worked for Doris for a couple of months before she came to work for me." She explained why Ginny hadn't accompanied her on this little expedition.
Drooping perennials and overgrown grass along the back of the house made it difficult to search for the pseudorock. "Be careful," Tricia whispered. "Don't step on the flowers. If the sheriff comes out here again, we don't want her to know someone's been snooping around."
"I think I've got it," Angelica said.
Tricia hurried over. Using the flashlight, Angelica held back a swath of grass. A little white plastic rock sat sheltered by the greenery. She lifted it up and a fat worm recoiled at being disturbed.
"Oh, ick!"
"Grow up," Tricia warned, still whispering. The key was embedded in the dirt, bringing a small clod with it as Tricia picked it up. "Nobody's used it for a long time."
"Why are we whispering?" Angelica asked.
Tricia cleared her throat. "Come on."
She wiped the dirt from the key, stepped up to the back door, and inserted it in the lock. She turned it, grasped the handle, and let herself in. Fumbling around the door, Tricia found the light switch, flipped it, and a meager glow emanated from the kitchen's single, overhead fixture.
Angelica crowded against her. "Move over."
The tiny off-white kitchen was tidy with signs of a life interrupted. A newspaper sat neatly folded on the white painted table. A solitary coffee-stained mug occupied the dry stainless-steel sink. A stack of opened mail on the counter awaited consideration. Dusty footprints marred the otherwise clean, but dated dark vinyl floor-no doubt those of the sheriff and her deputies.
"Prisons look homier than this," Angelica offered.