Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2)
face changed. Maybe it was the insult the man bestowed on her that day, or maybe she finally realized she was talking to the person that complimented her after the insult. Whatever it was, Pamela Tweed looked like she was revisiting some secret hurt.
                  "He deserved whatever it was he got. Murder they said. Fine with me."
                  "You hated him? Why?"
                  "Anyone who knew Eli Campbell wouldn’t have to ask that question."
                  "I'm sorry," I said. I tried to sound sincere.
                  Her face changed again. "No, I'm sorry. You can see this touched a nerve. And listen, as a gossip columnist myself, I rarely find myself on the other end of the questioning process."
                  So she was guarded. That much was certain.
                  There are certain folks who hate admitting that their college studies did them any good. And I’m one of them. I couldn’t wait to get out of school and start living in the real world. Anyway, there comes a moment when a person like me finds herself actually applying some of the lessons she learned during those dreaded years. And so it was that I remembered some of the things I learned in my psychology electives. Like, for instance, that sometimes it was best to change the subject entirely.
                  "So," I said, brightening my voice, "if you're not an animal lover, what was it that attracted you to gypsy in the first place?"
                  "I just found her adorable, that's all."
                  "Well, she is adorable."
                  Pamela Tweed smiled and pointed at one of the pictures of Gypsy frolicking in a kiddie pool. "Look at that snout. And the pure joy in those eyes. How can you not fall in love?"
                  "It's true. Dogs tend to have a soft side to them that is all contained in the eyes."
                  "I agree," she said, staring. "And they need someone to come and take away the hurt."
                  "That's where you came in, I guess."
                  She nodded. "Mm hm. I'd do anything for her. She saved my life. Coming to me just when I needed her. She was a hurt little thing, so sad, ready to—"
                  She snapped out of it.
                  "She's a great dog," said Pamela Tweed, brushing off her blazer, "but she covers me in hair. Terrible."
                  "So Eli Campbell was a monster, eh?"
                  "Eli Campbell is gone and we never have to worry about his awful behavior again. Period. Case closed."
                  "Thank you, Ms. Tweed," I said, rising.
                  "I still love your shoes, by the way."
                  She looked up at me, unsmiling. "Thank you," she said weakly.
                  I took a seat across from Frankie Meatballs himself. It was a Friday, usually a relatively slow day for business, even during peak season, as those who are spending the weekend in the Hamptons are usually still en route .
                  He'd been hanging around in town for a week or two. I was able to get to him in the sneakiest of ways.
                  I happen to know the manager of the Dock Street Theater. That is, I know what he likes: Darby's Maple Porter. So I sent a six-pack over to him and told him to keep his eyes open for Frankie Meatballs. You see, rumor had it that the Dock Street Theater was presenting A Streetcar Named Desire starring Tish McGovern as Blanche Dubois. Tish was one of the hottest stars on reality TV and was making her stage debut. Thanks to Pamela Tweed's gossip column, I learned that Frankie Meatballs had, on more than one occasion, expressed his undying love for Ms. McGovern. Ok, so I look at the supermarket

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