Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2) by Belle Knudson Page B

been a waste – for work, that is, for I couldn’t concentrate on anything but this most recent murder.
                  So I did what any obsessive-compulsive would do in my situation: I put on a pair of nitrile gloves and went snooping.
                  Asking my front desk girl and others in the brewery, I tried to ascertain from which direction Daniel Ward came. There were only guesses by way of reply, no certainty.
                  However, that changed as soon as I walked outside my building.
                  Normally, I would have been pretty tee'd off at my town officials for scheduling emergency roadwork now, just as the place was starting to fill up with potential customers. But this was the answer I needed. Daniel Ward came from the west. And that was the direction in which I now headed, looking around – up, down, and side to side.
                  I had no idea what I was looking for.
                  But let me tell you, when you live in a place like Carl's Cove, you get to see the town for what it really is. It's hard to describe it. It’s a place that doesn’t really change much, that remains a perfect little slice of heaven wherever you go. Sure, there are deviations from that picture. Here and there a foreign scene or sound. But they usually disappear along with the people that brought them.
                  What I noticed now, walking past a boutique that sold designer clothes off the rack that I'd have to commit federal crimes in order to afford, I noticed something that stuck out: It was a mask.
                  Not a Halloween mask or anything like that. This was a breathing mask like one you'd wear while painting. My nitrile gloves, despite having drawn an odd look or two from passersby, served me well now as I bent down to pick the thing up. I turned it over in my hand.
                  I'm not psychic, but I'd bet anything I had in my pockets then that I was getting some otherworldly signals: Something was telling me not to raise that thing to my nose. So I didn't.
                  Instead, I brought it to my friend, Detective Lester Moore, Homicide, on loan from another district.
                  This time, I decided to stick around and wait for an answer.
    #
                  "These things take time," he said. "You can’t be serious."
                  "I'll wait," I said, taking a seat in the office they gave him.
                  "Results will come back in a few days. I guess you'll just sleep here in the meantime."
                  "A few days?"
                  "For a quick answer, yes. For the full report, you’re looking at four weeks."
                  A man in a white coat poked his head into the office.
                  "Got a minute?" he said to Lester.
                  "I'm with Ms. Darby. Can it wait?"
                  "This concerns Ms. Darby," he said.
                  The detective and I exchanged glances.
                  "What is it?"
                  "That mask you brought in. There are traces of benzene in it. So thank you for that. And now I'll just leave Detective Moore to thank you."
                  The man gave me a wink and then disappeared.
                  "That's a fluke," said Lester, rising from his desk.
                  He called out to the young lab-coated man.
                  "What gives?" I heard him say.
                  There was mumbling, followed by mumbling from Lester. I craned my neck to try and make out what they were saying, to no avail.
                  He came back in, his face stern. "Lucky break. They were able to match up residue from the mask to residue left over from Campbell's autopsy."
                  "Lucky break,