All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie

road, across from the tea room and the village clock with its distinctive wooden bell-ringer.
    Gemma and Kincaid ate tomato and cheese sandwiches, sitting in the sun in the tea shop’s tiny walled garden. The sandwiches came garnished with watercress, and were cheerfully delivered by a teenage waitress sporting pink hair and multiple earrings.
    “Village punk,” Kincaid said, tucking stray sprigs of cress into his mouth with a finger.
    “Can’t be much in the way of night life around here, surely?” Gemma hadn’t conquered her Londoner’s disdain for village life.
    “Disco in the village hall, I imagine. Or video games in the pub for those old enough.”
    Gemma pulled a face. “Ugh!”
    Kincaid laughed. “Think about it, Gemma. Isn’t that just what you’d want for Toby when he’s older? No trouble to get into?”
    She shook her head. “I’m not willing to contemplate thatyet.” Gemma finished her sandwich and swatted at a fat bumblebee which was making bombing runs at their table. “Did you grow up in a place this small?”
    “Not this small, no. Relatively civilized, by your standards. We had a coffee bar. No video games in those days, though, just darts.” A flash of his grin told Gemma he was pulling her leg a bit. The persistent bee blundered into Kincaid’s teacup. Kincaid dumped him out and stretched. “Let’s go see what Theo Dent found to occupy himself last Thursday night.”
    Chimes rang somewhere in the back of the shop as Gemma and Kincaid stepped inside Trifles and closed the door behind them. The “Closed” sign hanging on the inside of the door bounced and swung rhythmically, a counterpoint to the fading bells.
    It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after the brilliant sunlight outside. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” Kincaid said softly as he looked around. “Not much trade for a Sunday afternoon.”
    “Too pretty outside,” Gemma offered. The shop seemed unbearably warm and stuffy. Sheets of light slanted in through the uncurtained front windows, illuminating dusty objects. Gemma turned, surveying shelves and cluttered tables which held, among other things, mismatched china tea sets, brass knickknacks, faded hunting prints, and a glass case filled with antique buttons. “This stuff needs a rainy day for poking about in,” she said, holding a willow-pattern butter dish up to the light and squinting at it. “Oh, it’s cracked. Too bad.”
    They heard the thump of quick footsteps on stair treads and a door in the back of the shop flew open. “Sorry. I was just finishing my—” Theo Dent stopped in the act of pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, staring in bewilderment at Kincaid. “Mr. Kincaid? I didn’t recognize … I wasn’t expecting…”
    “Hello, Theo. Didn’t mean to startle you. Should have called first, I expect, but it was a nice day for a run.”
    Hogwash, thought Gemma, listening to Kincaid’s disarming patter. She knew him well enough to be sure he’d had every intention of catching Theo off-guard. This might as yet be unofficial nosiness, but Kincaid’s working techniques were in full play.
    Kincaid introduced Gemma, again leaving their relationship open to the most likely assumption, and Theo shook her hand. Gemma studied him, seeing a small man with an oval face and a cap of brown, curly hair shot with gray, wearing gold-rimmed, round spectacles that gave him a dated look. His hand was small and softer than her own. “Nice to meet you. You’ve some lovely things here.” Gemma gestured around the room, then picked up the first thing that came to hand, a small porcelain pot in the shape of a beehive.
    “Do you really think so?” Theo sounded inordinately pleased. He beamed at Gemma, showing small, even, white teeth. “Do you like honey pots? Here, look at this one,” he scooped a thatched porcelain cottage from a shelf, “and this,” white porcelain this time, decorated with mice peeping from a tangle of