Kilt at the Highland Games by Kaitlyn Dunnett Page B

wasn’t much call for it.
    â€œLot of nonsense, if you ask me,” Betsy went on. “What’s wrong with plain old window glass?”
    â€œIt shatters,” Liss said.
    â€œWell, yes. But how often do you think anyone’s going to throw a rock through the post office window?”
    Betsy might have continued in this vein indefinitely, had it not been for the arrival of her next customer. Liss returned to the Emporium in a thoughtful frame of mind. First the fire. Now this. What was happening to their peaceful little village?
    She hesitated all of five minutes before picking up the phone and calling the police department.
    * * *
    On her way to Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, Sherri Campbell stopped in at Patsy’s Coffee House to pick up four sticky buns, knowing full well that they were Liss’s favorite treat. The topping was even gooier by the time she crossed the town square. The day was going to be a scorcher. It was already getting hot, and far more humid that any native Mainer liked.
    Fifteen minutes after she answered Liss’s phone call, Sherri was ensconced in one of the chairs in the cozy corner, nibbling on a bun. Liss joined her, for once bringing ice water instead of coffee.
    â€œAnything new on the fire?” she asked.
    Sherri shook her head. “And before you ask, no sign yet of Angie, Beth, or Bradley, either.” She was beginning to wonder if they’d ever turn up.
    â€œAnd now we have a vandal on the loose.”
    Sherri could understand why she was concerned. If someone was into breaking windows, that nice big plate-glass one up front was a natural target. “Looks that way.”
    â€œKids, do you think?”
    â€œProbably, but it’s hard to say for sure. The thing is, whoever broke the window at the post office went in through it. Once inside, he, she, or they tossed the mail around and in general made a mess of the whole place.”
    â€œDid they take anything?” Liss polished off her first sticky bun and reached for a second.
    â€œJulie says nothing seems to be missing, but I don’t know how she can be sure. There were hundreds of pieces of mail, both sorted and unsorted. No way can she remember each and every one of them.”
    â€œBetsy Twining didn’t pass along that tidbit.”
    Sherri grinned, but it faded fast. “I’m pretty sure Julie didn’t tell her. Think of the uproar if even a fraction of the townspeople thought their mail might have been stolen.”
    There was one sticky bun left in the bakery box. Sherri eyed it, sorely tempted, and kept both hands wrapped around her glass to prevent herself from reaching for it. It would go straight to her hips, and she didn’t need any more padding.
    â€œMaybe someone had a grudge against the post office,” Liss suggested. “I suppose they call it ‘going postal’ for a reason.”
    â€œI hate crimes like this—the ones with no apparent rhyme or reason. We dusted for fingerprints, but I doubt it will do much good. These days, even kids know to wear gloves when they’re committing a crime.”
    â€œSo when does the FBI show up?” Liss asked. “Or do you actually have to have proof that someone has stolen mail for the crime to qualify as a federal offense?”
    Sherri hated to shatter illusions, especially one she’d believed in herself until a few hours earlier. “I don’t know how to break this to you, Liss, but that’s yet another myth perpetrated by television crime dramas. In real life, even though stealing the mail is a federal crime, it doesn’t rate much of a response.”
    â€œSeriously?” In her astonishment, Liss picked up the remaining sticky bun and chowed down on it.
    â€œNo lie. And when I told Pete that, he just laughed and said it figured. Seems back when he first started out as a patrol deputy for the sheriff’s department, he arrested a guy who got drunk, stole a