young owners except their names, Luther and Jacoba, and that they had opened their store only days before I moved to Elderberry Bay. I still had the big-city habit of shopping for groceries in larger municipalities, a habit I had to change.
Immediately.
The store was still open. I went in.
Jacoba wore a long, old-fashioned dress in a pale blue geometric print. With her straight blond hair and clear complexion, she looked about sixteen. Someone was hammering in the apartment upstairs.
I plunked a newspaper on the counter. “I hope my dogs don’t make too much noise.”
Her smile was shy but sweet. “I hardly ever hear them.”
“Did you hear anything unusual early this morning, before the police siren? If I can call it a siren . . .”
I detected a hint of amusement on her solemn face. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you hear the ATV?”
She tilted her head. “Was that what woke us up? Then I heard Uncle Allen’s siren and figured he was looking after everything. I went back to sleep.”
I handed her a bill. “Are ATV’s a frequent problem down there on the trail?”
“I’ve never seen or heard them.” She gave me my change. “We have no complaints. We like it here in Elderberry Bay.” She gestured at the newspaper in my hand. “Whenever you need anything, come back. We’re renovating, so excuse the mess.”
The store was neat and clean, and the fruits and vegetables looked fresh and unblemished for mid-February. Promising that I’d shop there again, I said good-bye and went outside.
The pickup trucks were gone from the street in front of The Ironmonger. Sam’s buddies must have driven off. I deposited the newspaper on my front porch and went on to The Ironmonger, which was even dimmer than it had been a few minutes before. Sam appeared to be alone inside. He was probably about to turn out the last light for the evening.
It would be rude to barge in on him now.
If I found out that anyone had asked for a padlock like mine, I’d be able to give Uncle Allen the name of someone who could have unlocked my gate, someone who could have let Mike into my yard, someone who could have murdered him . . .
Sam’s door wasn’t locked.
Ever the gracious shopkeeper, Sam welcomed me. “What can I do ya for?” His teasing tone showed that he knew he’d skewed his syntax. “Those padlocks still working for you?”
Thank you for the opening, Sam. “Do you have any more sets that match those two, so I can buy another padlock without having to carry another key?” Weak, but it might do. I held my breath, watching him.
“Did you throw away your packages?”
“I’m afraid so. Do you remember the four digit number that was on those packages?” What I actually wanted to know was who might have memorized the four digits and bought a padlock like mine.
He frowned, tapped his fingers on the counter, rubbed his eyes, and came up with, “I think it had threes and sixes in it. And maybe sevens and twos.”
That left a few possibilities. And didn’t answer the questions in my hidden agenda. “Do you think anyone who helped you sort through those packages would remember?”
He opened a drawer, placed packaged padlocks on the counter, and conveniently asked me one of the questions I wanted to ask him. “Do you remember who all was here last evening?”
“The mailman and the mayor. I didn’t know the other men.”
Sam didn’t take that hint, just kept hauling out those packages.
I prompted, “Your regulars, maybe? Are the same men here every evening?”
“Pretty much.” In the semidarkness, his eyes seemed to twinkle, but maybe I only saw reflections from his stove’s dying fire. “I’m not sure those guys remember their own names from one day to the next.” He pushed plastic-wrapped packages around on his counter like toy cars. “They wouldn’t remember sorting through these, never mind a number.” He scratched his head. “Sometimes they don’t remember when to go home.”
Was he saying
Immediately.
The store was still open. I went in.
Jacoba wore a long, old-fashioned dress in a pale blue geometric print. With her straight blond hair and clear complexion, she looked about sixteen. Someone was hammering in the apartment upstairs.
I plunked a newspaper on the counter. “I hope my dogs don’t make too much noise.”
Her smile was shy but sweet. “I hardly ever hear them.”
“Did you hear anything unusual early this morning, before the police siren? If I can call it a siren . . .”
I detected a hint of amusement on her solemn face. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you hear the ATV?”
She tilted her head. “Was that what woke us up? Then I heard Uncle Allen’s siren and figured he was looking after everything. I went back to sleep.”
I handed her a bill. “Are ATV’s a frequent problem down there on the trail?”
“I’ve never seen or heard them.” She gave me my change. “We have no complaints. We like it here in Elderberry Bay.” She gestured at the newspaper in my hand. “Whenever you need anything, come back. We’re renovating, so excuse the mess.”
The store was neat and clean, and the fruits and vegetables looked fresh and unblemished for mid-February. Promising that I’d shop there again, I said good-bye and went outside.
The pickup trucks were gone from the street in front of The Ironmonger. Sam’s buddies must have driven off. I deposited the newspaper on my front porch and went on to The Ironmonger, which was even dimmer than it had been a few minutes before. Sam appeared to be alone inside. He was probably about to turn out the last light for the evening.
It would be rude to barge in on him now.
If I found out that anyone had asked for a padlock like mine, I’d be able to give Uncle Allen the name of someone who could have unlocked my gate, someone who could have let Mike into my yard, someone who could have murdered him . . .
Sam’s door wasn’t locked.
Ever the gracious shopkeeper, Sam welcomed me. “What can I do ya for?” His teasing tone showed that he knew he’d skewed his syntax. “Those padlocks still working for you?”
Thank you for the opening, Sam. “Do you have any more sets that match those two, so I can buy another padlock without having to carry another key?” Weak, but it might do. I held my breath, watching him.
“Did you throw away your packages?”
“I’m afraid so. Do you remember the four digit number that was on those packages?” What I actually wanted to know was who might have memorized the four digits and bought a padlock like mine.
He frowned, tapped his fingers on the counter, rubbed his eyes, and came up with, “I think it had threes and sixes in it. And maybe sevens and twos.”
That left a few possibilities. And didn’t answer the questions in my hidden agenda. “Do you think anyone who helped you sort through those packages would remember?”
He opened a drawer, placed packaged padlocks on the counter, and conveniently asked me one of the questions I wanted to ask him. “Do you remember who all was here last evening?”
“The mailman and the mayor. I didn’t know the other men.”
Sam didn’t take that hint, just kept hauling out those packages.
I prompted, “Your regulars, maybe? Are the same men here every evening?”
“Pretty much.” In the semidarkness, his eyes seemed to twinkle, but maybe I only saw reflections from his stove’s dying fire. “I’m not sure those guys remember their own names from one day to the next.” He pushed plastic-wrapped packages around on his counter like toy cars. “They wouldn’t remember sorting through these, never mind a number.” He scratched his head. “Sometimes they don’t remember when to go home.”
Was he saying
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