Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) by Linda O. Johnston Page A

banter. “Gwen, that’s Reed over there, and this is my sister, Carrie.” He pointed to me.
    “Hi, Reed. Hi, Carrie.” Her expression was wary. “Good to meet you both.”
    “And, Carrie and Reed, this is Gwen.”
    “Hi,” I repeated, as did Reed.
    “Gwen,” Neal said, “I’m sure you saw and heard what our … let’s call them ‘superiors’ since they like that word, even though they aren’t. What our superiors said and did around Carrie before.”
    Her face froze. “Yes, but—”
    I thought I understood what Neal was doing and decided to help, keeping my voice very low. “Gwen, I’m sorry to hear about what happened to Myra Ethman, even though, as you may have heard, I argued with her. It wasn’t much of an argument but now I’m a suspect. To protect myself, well—”
    “We, of all people, know there were plenty of people around here with motives to hurt Myra,” Neal said, taking over. “Not that we would have. But are you aware of anyone who might have been particularly angry? Maybe someone who got fired recently. Or even was just chewed out.”
    Gwen looked around, as if worried that all the patrons around us were eavesdropping. I didn’t think they could hear but understood her concern.
    “I did wonder about it,” she admitted, even as she stood taller for a moment and picked up her coffee pitcher. “This was just freshly brewed, but if you don’t think it’s hot enough I’ll bring you some more right away,” she said loud enough for others to hear. But before she left, she leaned down again and whispered, “A chef got fired recently for not getting a meal ready fast enough for those … superiors. And for not obeying their cooking orders. He was really mad.”
    “I hadn’t heard that was the reason he left,” Neal said. “That was Manfred, right?”
    “It was,” she said. “Be right back with your coffee,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried toward the kitchen.
    “That’s Manfred Indor,” Neal explained when she was gone. “He was actually a pretty good chef. Trained at the CIA.”
    “What?” I stared at Neal, confused. “Was he a government agent?”
    “Nope. Like I said, he was a chef trained at the CIA: Culinary Institute of America. It’s in New York City.”
    I gave my brother a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Drat. I was starting to get all excited about the possibilities. An angry government agent would probably be able to kill someone and frame another person fairly easily.”
    Both my table companions laughed. I just smiled weakly.
    “If she’d been poisoned,” Neal said, “I’d definitely consider Manfred the perfect suspect.”
    Well, even if Manfred wasn’t with the CIA that most people thought of when hearing those initials, he’d still apparently been an angry guy.
    I wasn’t planning on trying to prove who’d killed Myra, of course. That was for the police. But if the authorities kept considering me as a suspect, I’d need to be able to suggest some other logical possibilities, preferably with more than just names and claims of who’d not adored Myra.
    And I already knew I wasn’t the only person who’d argued with her lately.
    I wondered where Manfred was now.

NINE
    N EAL HAD TO RETURN to the registration desk, and soon afterward Reed and I finished our meal.
    He handled our bill. I’m not an old-fashioned wimpy woman who insists on being treated on dates. But practicality counts, so although we’d only gone out for coffee a few times since we’d met, I’d let Reed pay since he’d asked to. He’s a full-fledged, well-paid vet, while I’m a vet tech—not paid badly, but I certainly bring home less than he does. I also foot some of Neal’s bills, since I make more money than him.
    And now, especially, with my new business venture, every penny counted to me, even after my generous loan from Arvie. Plus, this was our first dinner date, and Reed had invited me—not that I’d even considered playing coy about it. I’d