A Bat in the Belfry by Sarah Graves

the kitchen woodstove, I had an astonishing story out of her: a possibly murdered sister, a missing child, photos with no return address but in an envelope with an Eastport postmark.
    But it wasn’t the whole story; I got the feeling that there was way more to this stranger than she was telling, even though what she did say rang true: The sister’s body, I now recalled, had indeed been found in Eastport.
    “So I decided to come up here,” Lizzie explained. She sat in the bentwood rocker pulled up to the stove. “Because someone who knows something sent me the pictures from here. I just don’t know why.”
    I hadn’t forgotten about Chip. But when you’re trying to get something from someone, it’s just good manners to pay attention to what they want, first.
    Also, it’s good strategy. “Someone,” said Ellie to Lizzie Snow, “who knows what happened back then, maybe. And thinks that something still needs to happen about it now?”
    Lizzie looked appreciative. “Exactly. Or maybe some new thing has happened, even after all this time. It would have to be someone who knew who and where I was, too, of course. But—”
    “But why not just go to the police?” Ellie asked. “If you have information about an old murder, or about a missing child, that would be your first move, ordinarily, wouldn’t it?”
    Lizzie looked down at her coffee mug. “Mmm. But I don’t have information, do I? And no one else thinks it was a murder.”
    She took a sip of her coffee. “Anyway,” she went on, “that’s not really what I’m here for, my sister’s death. I came to find Nicki, if I can. That’s the long and short of it.”
    “Really” was all I could say for a moment. “After all this time, you …”
    “Yeah.” Her rueful smile said she understood. “Wild-goose chase, huh? Maybe so,” she allowed.
    Then she looked around my big old kitchen with its antique built-in cabinets, tall bare windows, and pine wainscoting. Bright rag rugs warmed the hardwood floor, and the stove radiated cozily. “Nice place,” said Lizzie, changing the subject.
    Or I thought she was, at first. But on the kitchen shelf, snapshots of my family and Ellie’s smiled from among Sam’s boat school diplomas and the various ribbons and mugs he had won in sailing contests out on the bay.
    “Nice family, it looks like, too,” she added.
    Then I got the point: Nicki was her family. Maybe all of it, and she wanted it. It didn’t make me like her any more or trust her any better, but I thought that part of her story at least was true.
    “So if you find your niece,” I asked, “you’ll try to take her back to Boston with you? Raise her?”
    At that she looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure. I want to know if she’s alive, first of all …”
    In other words, she had no idea. My turn. “So what did you tell Bob Arnold about Chip?”
    She shrugged. “Not much. I stopped in to see your police chief just to introduce myself. I said I knew he had a lot on his plate, and no time for my problems. But I figured I’d better let him know what I’m doing here in town, since I doubt it’ll take long for rumors to start.”
    She had that right. In Eastport if you sneeze at one end of town, they’ll be getting out the aspirin and hot lemonade for you at the other end in ten seconds flat.
    “One of his officers saw me near the commotion at the church last night,” she went on, “and I’d mentioned then that I saw your friend. Although I didn’t know then that he was your friend.”
    “So that’s why Bob wanted to talk to Chip?” Ellie’s tone was doubtful. “Because you saw him walking by?”
    The rabbit’s foot dangling from his belt loop had identified him, of course. Bob Arnold had stopped in to see Wade a few days earlier, on the morning when Chip arrived, and commented on it as a way of making conversation while he was meeting Chip.
    Bob had said he could use one, too, and so of course later remembered the thing. It wasn’t