Death Takes Priority by Jean Flowers Read Free Book Online Page A

of whether the introduction of off-track betting would be good or bad for us. No hint of the fact that I’d been on an almost-date with someone she brought in for questioning, presumably in a murder investigation; no hint of what were her questions for me that had prompted this walk in the first place.
    The second block was perfect for more small talk. Shops and service offices lined both sides of the street. We passed a bank, a salon, a hardware store, a title company, in quick succession on one side, while across the street was my favorite coffee shop, which just so happened to be the only one in town. Café Mahican’s owners made no apology for its mixed ancestry name or its spelling, claiming authentic familial links among Native Americans who settled around Albany in the early sixteen hundreds. The décor was part European, part American Indian.
    We had no trouble complaining about banking rules and bemoaning the lack of time we had for a mani-pedi or a leisurely cappuccino. Enticing, noteworthy aromas came from the Swiss bakery, but we settled for olfactory satisfaction only. Instead of indulging in cupcakes, we stopped fora moment to look in the window of a fabric shop next to the bakery. Sunni pointed out a particular bolt of red cloth that was close, but not perfect for her current project: sewing a quilt with each patch celebrating the history and culture of North Ashcot. She was awaiting the arrival of the special shade of red cotton that she’d ordered.
    â€œOne of the patches will represent our spring kite festival,” she said. “It’s a great event. Lots of them are handmade. You should participate next year.”
    I wasn’t sure whether she meant I should quilt or fly kites, but it was good to know that she expected me to be free then and not watching the festivities through heavy metal bars. “I don’t sew at all. I’d need to take some classes first,” I admitted, feeling as though I’d betrayed my small-town roots.
    â€œI can help. We have a great group of quilters in town. The schedule will be different with the holidays coming up. I’ll let you know.”
    Uh-oh
. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of a quilting bee, if they still called them that. I smiled and thanked Sunni anyway. I told myself that once the day was over, she’d forget she’d mentioned it to me. Or she’d remember and be as sorry as I was that she did.
    As hard as I tried, I couldn’t give my mind over completely to this delightful girl talk. I was on my way to be questioned about a murder I knew almost nothing about and, probably, a handsome lunch date I knew equally little about.
    We crossed in front of the elementary school, just short of an abandoned church that was now home to its remodeler, Tim Cousins. Seeing it reminded me that Tim, who’d been friendly to me, might have agreed to come to my rescue andprovided a ride this afternoon. I made a note to make contact with him as soon as things were back to normal. Maybe he’d teach me to scrape paint, which sounded a little more interesting than learning to sew. There was only so much I was willing to do for a little companionship.
    Sounds of ten-year-olds at music practice poured out from the schoolhouse and brought shaking heads and chuckles from the chief and me. I hoped I’d be chuckling on my way home.
    *   *   *
    The journey to the police department building, which seemed to have sapped more energy than an entire day’s work, had taken only about ten minutes of real time. I entered the redbrick building behind its chief officer, still with only random notions as to why I was there.
    The police force, five officers in all to serve a town of thirty square miles, about one third the size of Boston proper, was housed in a two-story brick Colonial-style structure, not too different from my post office, but much shabbier inside. Except for the state-of-the-art