Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers

and I, we could . . .”
    I held up my hand. I was doing a lot of that lately. Cliff continued anyway.
    â€œWe could claim you’re just helping me clean out the shop.”
    I’d already shaken my head so much my neck hurt. I stood to leave, which seemed to be the only way to end this conversation. But that didn’t work, either. Cliff put his fingers on my wrist, and locked my hand in place. I was amazed that I felt no pain, just a steady, gentle pressure. But one that didn’t leave much room for fleeing. His expression registered nothing but pleading.
    â€œPlease, Cassie. Will you at least let me tell you some of my ideas?”
    I sat back down. I thought about the risks. That we’dget nowhere, but Sunni would find out we were working on the case and cut me off her list of friends, thus shortening my list considerably. That Cliff and I would actually make progress in uncovering Daisy’s killer and be killed ourselves. Either way it wasn’t a good outcome. The chances that we would discover Daisy’s killer and be alive and well at the end, in good standing with the police, were near zero.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
    *   *   *
    Cliff and I decided to move to more comfortable, private quarters, and drove separately toward my house. While he made a detour for ready-made chicken dinners, I ran around my rooms brushing crumbs off my chairs and stuffing stray clothing into closets or hampers.
    My mind raced along with my body as I tried to organize what was known about Daisy’s murder. That it was not premeditated was obvious—the convenience of a downed tree branch couldn’t have been built into the crime scene ahead of time. It seemed most likely that, as the post office gossipers theorized, her murder was the result of an argument that went bad and got physical in the heat of the moment. I wondered if Cliff had come up with the same scenario, and could put a face to the other person.
    I remembered the tale of antagonism between Daisy and several merchants along Main Street, especially Liv Patterson, the owner of the card shop next door to Daisy’s Fabrics. I nearly laughed at the idea that a quilter could be a killer. But there was nothing funny about what had happened in the backyard of Daisy’s Fabrics.
    Once Cliff returned with dinner, we wasted no time putting the food on the table and getting to the matter at hand. Although Cliff had chosen top-of-the-line for a precooked meal, and the aroma was appealing, we picked at the servings, neither of us taking dinner too seriously. Somewhere in the last hour, my appetite had left the building.
    â€œWhat if this was a complete fluke, like a stranger drifting through?” Cliff suggested, clearly struggling with the idea.
    â€œIt’s possible,” I said, though I figured we both knew the unlikelihood of a random killer passing through town during a severe storm, looking for a shop owner to attack, or, finding her hurt, shoving a tree limb across her body.
    Cliff rested his forehead in a steeple formed by his arms. He looked defeated already. “Otherwise, I have to believe that someone in this town, someone I may have known for years, killed my wife. Deliberately. Someone who might have been to our home.”
    Someone whose packages I’ve processed, I added to myself. “We have to start somewhere,” I said. “Is there anyone in particular that Daisy was upset with lately? Or vice versa?”
    â€œSure. If you deal with the public at all, there’s bound to be someone unhappy with you at any given time.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” I said, remembering a few nasty notes I’d received in my career at all levels of postal service.
    â€œI feel awful saying this, but my Daisy could rub a lot of people the wrong way.” He blew out a breath, as if trying to gather the courage to say anything negative about his deceased wife.