Candy Apple Dead by Sammi Carter Page A

cleaning up, the back door of Picture Perfect opened and Dooley Jorgensen stepped outside into the bright afternoon sunshine.
    Dooley is a tall man in his early sixties with a slight paunch and a shock of hair that I think used to be blond. It’s pure silver now and his most recent haircut left it standing straight up on his head. His complexion is naturally ruddy, which makes him look as if he’s always short of breath. About ten years ago, he retired and came to Paradise to open a camera store.
    He was a great friend to Aunt Grace, and after her first stay in the hospital began checking on her twice a day to make sure she was all right. He doesn’t need to check on me, but he has taken me under his wing anyway and crosses the narrow patch of pavement separating our stores whenever the mood strikes him. Apparently, it struck him now.
    Wearing an unusually grim expression, he strode across the parking lot and let himself inside. The buttons on his shirt were being strained almost to the breaking point, and a dark stain made me suspect he’d sent someone out to pick up breakfast burritos again.
    “Well,” he said, closing the door behind him, “this is quite a day isn’t it?”
    “That’s an understatement.” I slid the pan, measuring cups, and utensils into the sink and jerked my head toward the refrigerator. “There’s a Coke if you want one.”
    There’s always a Coke in the fridge for Dooley, but part of the game we play includes making the offer. He’d rather die than help himself without an invitation.
    With a sigh so heavy it hurt my lungs, he found a can in the fridge and cracked it open. “I just came from talking with Nick Peretti,” he said after downing half the can. “He says they’re pretty sure they’ve got the fire out completely, so that’s good news, eh?”
    Nick’s a transplant from St. Louis and the captain of our volunteer fire crew, but even with his pre-Paradise experience I don’t think he’s ever battled a blaze like the one we’d just had. “That is good news,” I agreed. “Any idea how much damage there is to the buildings on either side?”
    “None, thank the good Lord.” Dooley took another long swig and let out a deeply satisfied breath. He crushed the can in his fist and lobbed it toward the garbage can. “Nick says that when they realized they couldn’t save Man About Town, they focused on keeping the rest of the block safe. Walt and Becky both suffered a little smoke damage, but their stores are structurally sound.”
    Walt Neebling and Becky Trotter own the shoe store and jewelry emporium that flank Man About Town on either side, and I was happy to hear that their stores had been spared. “At least nobody else lost much,” I said. “I hope they all have good insurance.”
    Dooley propped one elbow on the windowsill behind him and leaned back to get comfortable. “Walt and Becky do. I guess Brandon does, too—not that it’ll do him much good now.”
    I left the pan to soak and scowled at Dooley as I stuffed unused lollipop sticks into the supply cupboard. “Don’t get too caught up in the gossip, Dooley. I know what people are saying, but I’m sure Brandon didn’t set that fire. Getting back on his feet is going to be tough enough. He doesn’t need to worry about his reputation in the process.”
    When Dooley didn’t answer, I turned to find him staring at me as if I’d grown a third eye. “You haven’t heard, have you, pumpkin?”
    The endearment made me nervous. Dooley doesn’t use them except on special occasions, and those occasions are almost never good. Though I suspected I really didn’t want the answer, I felt compelled to ask, “Heard what?”
    His pale brows knit in consternation. “They found a body under the rubble, Abby. Whoever set that blaze is not only guilty of arson, but murder, too.”
    A body. Murder. At Man About Town.
    I stared at Dooley for a long time, trying to process what he’d just told me and trying even harder to