Sweet and Deadly by Charlaine Harris

and it’s kind of surprising,” Galton said smoothly. “She left everything—house, money—to your father. Now, I guess, it’ll come to you. John Daniels says for you to call him.”
    â€œShit,” said Catherine. “Is that what this is all about?” She was angry now, red hot. “Come on, Sheriff! Leona didn’t have doodly-squat. I know Father paid her what he could, but that wasn’t all that much; and she hasn’t worked since he died.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact,” Galton said calmly, “Leona had quite a bit of money. But she was kind of informal about it. She had little wads stashed all over the house. The only thing she bothered to put in her checking account was her social security check and a little income from a pension plan she belonged to through some nurses’ association.
    â€œAnd,” Galton continued, his eyes searching Catherine’s face, “someone else besides me knows that. Sometime Friday night, before you found Leona Saturday morning, someone took his time searching Leona’s house: either before or after carrying her out to that shack on your place. Your inheritance is a little depreciated. Mattress slashed, chairs ripped open. But the money, and a few other peculiar things, are still there. Strange kind of thief. Didn’t kill Leona for her money, but he looked mighty hard for something in her house after he—or she—killed her.”
    Catherine shook her head. “I don’t know; no, I don’t understand what you mean. If you think”—and her flame of anger flashed through the smoke of bewilderment—“I killed Leona for money, I hate to say this, but you’re crazier than I am. I can’t believe we’re sitting here talking about this. I’ve known you all my life. My father left me lots of money; my mother left me lots of money; there was insurance besides, and we—I—own the land. In fact, I’m a rich woman. I did not bash Leona on the head so I could come into her bits of money. I did not search her house to make her death mysterious. And if you think I”—and the sweep of her hand down her body pointed out its smallness—“could or would pick up a baseball bat or something, and beat a woman twice my size to death with it, you’re just plain damn dumb.”
    She sank back in her chair feeling clean. Something like a flushed toilet, she told herself bluntly and inelegantly.
    Galton was eyeing her with amazement and a reluctant grin.
    â€œI guess you let me have it with both barrels,” he said.
    Catherine hoped he would add, “Of course I don’t think you had anything to do with Leona’s murder.”
    But he didn’t.
    â€œWhy move the body at all?” she asked out of the blue. It was a point that had been bothering her. Moving Leona seemed an added risk. There was the chance that someone would see the murderer putting the body in his vehicle. And there was the undeniable conspicuousness of anyone at all being around and about in Lowfield in the late hours of the night. Though Friday night was comparatively busy, that didn’t mean much.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about that,” said the sheriff, sounding almost friendly. “And I reckon whoever killed Leona was just trying to delay discovery of her body for as long as possible. She had plenty of neighbors. They would’ve noticed, after a couple of days of this weather, that something was wrong. But since she kept herself apart, they might not think about not seeing her for quite some time, if the body wasn’t there to let them know.”
    â€œMaybe someone just couldn’t bear to see her lying there after she was dead,” Catherine said quietly, her hands running over the carved rosewood of the chair. “And moved her so he wouldn’t have to look at her while he searched. It had to be someone strong, didn’t