Fillet of Murder by Linda Reilly Page A

have circled the block and parked behind the arcade so she could return to the scene and snoop.
    But why? Surely she wouldn’t be able to get in.
    Talia watched Bea fast-walk toward Turnbull’s shop and duck under the crime scene tape. Whatever her friend had in mind, it was nothing short of insane.
    Talia shifted her polka-dotted Keds into third gear and raced across the cobblestone. Following Bea’s lead, shedipped under the yellow tape and rounded the corner of the lighting store. She was just in time to see her friend punch at the keypad adjacent to the rear entrance.
    Which was crazy. Bea couldn’t possibly know Turnbull’s entry code.
    Talia felt her jaw drop when the door swung inward. She saw Bea scurry inside. As the door crawled to a slow close on its hydraulic hinge, Talia rushed for it. She caught it a nanosecond before it would have slammed shut, and then darted inside. A whiff of honeysuckle waltzed on the air, and in that fraction of a second she knew.
    It wasn’t Bea.
    The door closed behind her with a soft click. Heart crashing in her chest, Talia dropped into a low crouch. The beam from a slender flashlight bounced over one of the walls. She held her breath, praying one of the bounces wouldn’t stray to where she was huddled. All at once, she realized where she was—Turnbull’s office.
    Crickets and crumpets, not again!
    Except that it made perfect sense. His office was located at the rear of the store, and that’s exactly where she was.
    Now, however, she was trapped. Her best hope was to hide until the intruder left, and then get the heck out of there. To her right, she made out the vague outline of a file cabinet. Still scrunched into a low stoop, she inched over to it. Her legs cramped painfully, but she kept going until—
    Ach. The toe of her sneaker smacked something solid, making a dull thunk sound. Still clutching the bag from the bath shop, Talia dove behind the file cabinet. Her left hand skidded over something sharp—a pin? She palmed it just as a harsh fluorescent light flooded the room.
    The intruder had found the wall switch.
    Heart pounding like a jackhammer, Talia turned slowly. She stared up at the raven-haired woman with the flawless skin, the stunning blue eyes, and the perfectly manicured fingers curled around a silver gun. The woman pocketed her penlight so she could concentrate on the firearm, which she now gripped with both hands.
    Talia’s insides turned into one big jelly roll. “Jill Follansbee,” she rasped. “What are you doing here? You killed Phil Turnbull, didn’t you?”

6

    â€œAre you crazy?” Jill Follansbee, the owner of Time for Tea, tilted her gun toward Talia’s chest. “I didn’t kill anyone. The minute I saw you, I figured
you
killed him.”
    Talia felt her limbs go numb. She’d ended up sitting on one heel, and a dent was forming in her rear end. Beside her was a stack of cardboard boxes—no doubt the object her toe had smacked into. Her voice seemed to come from far away when she said, “Of course I didn’t kill him. How could you even think that?” A sudden rush of anger swept over her. Why was she explaining herself to a woman who had no more right to crash a crime scene than she did?
    Crash a crime scheme. What in glory’s name was she thinking?
    Jill lowered her gun. “I have to admit, you don’t look much like a killer. More like . . . Peter Pan,” she said, with a pout of her full lips. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
    â€œCan I stretch out my legs?” Talia pleaded, miffed at the Peter Pan comment.
    With a sigh, Jill waved the gun in a circle. “Sure, go ahead.”
    Wincing, Talia straightened both legs out in front of her. Her purse had remained slung over her right shoulder, but the bag Suzy had given her was on the floor, its contents scattered. “When I saw someone dressed totally in black