The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle by Laura Disilverio

Judging by the other night, he liked his women on the rounder side.” She looked at me.
    â€œHey,” I protested.
    Kerry gave me a “get over it” look. “Face it, everyone’s rounder than Maud.”
    â€œFine, I’ll do it,” I said.
    â€œYou knew him better than the rest of us, so you’ll sound more plausible,” Brooke said. “While you’re checking up on the WOSCers—do you s’pose that’s what they call themselves?—I’ll see if I can find out the scoop on his niece’s death.”
    â€œAnd I’ll get hold of the autopsy report,” Maud said.
    The three of us turned to look at her with varying degrees of surprise.
    â€œI have sources,” she said, pleased with our reaction, but trying to act as if it was no big deal. “You don’t think I just make up the stuff on my blog, do you? I work damn hard ferreting out the truth about political shenanigans and other conspiracies in this town. No offense, Kerry.”
    â€œNone taken,” our part-time mayor said. The way she dropped her sponge into a bucket with a soggy plop belied her words.
    Maud finished rinsing the boat and turned off the hose. “I’ve cultivated a lot of sources over the years. You’d be surprised how many people want to be whistleblowers but can’t afford to risk losing their jobs. People who work for the government—and not just the minions, either, in medicine, insurance, for nonprofits, the schools. Corruption and conspiracy are rampant in all sectors. They’re happy to pass info along to me so that the truth gets out there. I’m looking into aconspiracy now involving the National Forest Service and that corporation that wants to develop—”
    â€œYou’re a public servant, Maud,” Kerry interrupted with a sour look.
    I jumped in. “Where do I find WOSC headquarters, Maud, if there is such a thing?”
    After consulting her smartphone, she told me that the Web site only listed a post office box. “No physical address,” she said. “And the contact e-mail isn’t in anyone’s name. It’s just WOSC at Gmail-dot-com. Conspiracy rule number two: When people try to hide their identity, they’ve got something to hide.”
    I pondered that, wondering how I could get hold of whoever was in charge of WOSC. I’d have to send an e-mail and wait for a reply, I guessed.
    â€œI’ll ask the police chief for an update on their investigation. There are some perks—damn few—to being the mayor of this burg, but finding out what’s going on with city funds—from police investigations to buying a new snowplow—is one of them. Let’s get together on Monday evening to see what everyone’s found out,” Kerry, ever the organizer, said. “We can do it at my house. Six thirty?”
    We all agreed and tramped back to our cars, a bit wetter than when we had arrived. Brooke caught up to me as I was getting into the van. “How’s Derek holding up?” she asked, worry putting a line between her brows.
    â€œNot so well,” I said, grateful for her concern. “He’s worried that he’ll lose the pub and end up in jail. Helooked awful this morning when I talked to him; I sent him over to Mom and Dad’s.”
    â€œIf there’s anything Troy or I can do . . . Troy Sr. knows some good lawyers.”
    Troy Sr. had enough business irons in the fire to keep a whole herd—pack? flock? pod?—of lawyers gainfully employed.
A murder of lawyers
 . . . I liked that. “Thanks, Brooke, but he’s already got a lawyer.”
    She hugged me. “Tell him to hang in there. No one with half a brain could think he killed Gordon. It sounds like he’d have had to stand in line to get to him, as many people as Gordon pissed off. Like Ratchett in
The Orient Express
.”
    â€œI don’t think Gordon was as