Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2)
                  "Yes, I apologize."
                  "You can’t remember anything else about this guy?"
                  "No, ma—, no, I'm sorry."
                  "Ok, thank you."
                  "Will that be all?"
                  "That'll be all, thank you."
                  He left my office and shut the door carefully behind him. A moment later there was a knock. Manuel poked his head in again.
                  "Ma'am, I forgot to tell you, the guy had a scar on his right leg. Five inches long, running up the calf."
                  "What were you doing looking at his leg—? Never mind; I don’t want to know. But that helps. Thank you, Manuel."
                  "You're quite welcome."
                  So I sat there, looking at this little torn swatch of fabric with the deceased's name on it. And suddenly I thought of the scene in The Godfather when the family receives a package containing Luca Brasi's vest and a fish. "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes."
                  I went to the door of my office, locked it, and then sat down at my desk in a frightened daze.

Chapter 6
                  I resisted the urge to call my friend Detective Moore. Why? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.
                  Because my father raised a girl who is too strong-willed for her own good. It was only a few minutes before the fear brought on by this mysterious and threatening message quickly gave way to anger and determination. No one threatens Madison Darby.
                  The police had talked to my fellow judges and contestants. But I hadn't. So I had to start with the one who possibly knew more than I did: Pamela Tweed, journalist and gossip columnist for the Hamptons Heart , a newspaper disguised as a who's who and what's what for the Hamptons elite, really just a dirt-dishing rag for your run-of-the-mill grocery store checkout line audience.
                  I tracked down Pamela Tweed at the Hamptons Heart main office on Churchill Avenue just off Main Street. She looked younger than I remembered her, more like mid-twenties than mid-thirties when I saw her last. She wore a hunter green business suit and had her blond hair down and flowing around her shoulders. She stood out like a flower among the weeds of the office – mostly pasty men of varying ages in rolled-up shirtsleeves and sporting dour expressions on their faces. She led me to her cubicle, the walls of which were studded with pictures of the same Border collie in a variety of poses and situations, and a few of Ms. Tweed herself posing with various celebrities.
                  "Grab that chair over there and have a seat." She pointed to the wall of photos. "That's Gypsy, by the way, the love of my life. She came to me as a pup three years ago when her previous owner took ill."
                  "Dog lover, then?" I asked.
                  "Not really. Actually, I'm not a pet person at all. Except when it comes to Gypsy."
                  I nodded. "And I recognize some of these people here. Although in actuality, I'm not really a celebrity person."
                  I've noticed that if you can get someone to laugh, even just a little, you're home free.
                  That wasn't the case here.
                  "Well, I love celebrity culture," she said, drawing out the word 'love'.
                  "I guess you wouldn’t have a job if it wasn't for celebrities."
                  "Not true," she said with a touch of indignation, "I can do a lot of things. I love doing this work, being in the thick of the entertainment world."
                  "Ok then," I said, more than a little bit uncomfortable. "Can we talk about Eli Campbell?"

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