A Shattering Crime by Jennifer McAndrews

“But . . .” I looked to the door, which was about all I could do to convey the idea that the receptionist had a different perspective.
    â€œDon’t worry about Lee,” she said. “If I tell her it’s okay, she’ll set up the plan. I don’t want anyone to risk their pet’s health because they fear the cost of care. Now. If you could take her out of the carrier and hold her, this will only take a moment.”
    Gratitude rose an unexpected lump in my throat. Swallowing against the threat of tears, I carefully extracted Friday from the carrier, thanking Dr. Bucherati as I did so. It hit me then that my day had been a roller coaster of emotions from family to pets to police.
    I was definitely in need of a night among friends.
    *   *   *
    B ack when I told Terry I had no leanings toward being a sleuth, I might have been bending the truth. No, I had no great desire to hang out a shingle as a private detective or join the police force and patrol the county with Diana. However . . .
    Yeah, the first time I went knee deep into a crime investigation, it was more of an accident. Grandy had been arrested on suspicion of murder. Sure, the victim and Grandy were definitely on the outs at the time the man was killed, but I knew Grandy was innocent. So I did what I could to figure out who really wielded the murderweapon. My grandfather . . . Well, I didn’t have a lot of family. I wasn’t going to lose him.
    The second time, okay, I stuck my nose into that one on purpose, too. But the nut job not only trashed my best friend Carrie’s antiques shop, but also broke into her apartment, burned down her ex-husband’s office, and murdered the ex-husband’s law partner. If there was anything I could have done to help identify the miscreant before Carrie got hurt, I was more than willing to give it a try.
    Still. I didn’t know David Rayburn beyond recognizing his face from the local paper. Even if he had been the victim of foul play, I was content to let the police handle the investigation.
    â€œBut what about Rozelle?” Carrie asked when I announced my resolution to keep my freckled nose out of it. “How can you not help her? What happened to being a useful resident or a valuable citizen or whatever it was you wanted to be?”
    We sat in one of the few booths at the Pour House, Wenwood village’s one and only watering hole. Its décor was all exposed wood and dark leather, and its clientele was as well aged as the top-shelf Scotch. Carrie, Diana, and I met there every Thursday for our girls’ night out. With each of us only just north of thirty, we were routinely the youngest demographic in the bar. “Carrie, really. Rozelle? There’s nothing to help her with. You know as well as I do she had nothing to do with David Rayburn’s death. Everyone knows that.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “But can we prove that? As I recall, the police are pretty big on proof.”
    I shook my head and sighed. “The police took a boatload of samples out of the bakery and I can pretty well guarantee you they won’t find anything in the flour other than, you know, flour. I’d take that as proof.”
    â€œI suppose I would, too. You’re right. This is Rozelle after all.” She took a ladylike sip of wine. “What does Pete have to say about all this?”
    â€œI don’t think he knows yet. If he does, someone else told him.”
    â€œNews travels fast around here.”
    â€œYou don’t say.” I grinned. Briefly. Wenwood was a small town. News traveled faster through its streets than it did on social media. “Well, if he knows, he hasn’t said anything to me. Not that he’s had a chance with—”
    â€œOh my gosh! That’s right. Your mom is in town.”
    â€œYou mean my mom is in my bedroom.” I grimaced. I know, I know. There are way bigger issues