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of my vanity, but I didn’t want to explain it all to the sheriff. “I don’t know.”
    He appeared skeptical but let the answer stand. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that can be useful in my investigation, please give me a call.”
    “Of course, and thank you, sheriff.”
    Before he could say anything else or I could somehow incriminate myself, I swept away, climbed into my car, and proceeded to be stuck with everyone else on Main Street.
     
    * * * *
     
    A full hour passed before I was able to make it home to my apartment. As I parked the car to walk into my building, a powerful craving came over me to have a donut. Or two or three. Since I never gave in to these notions and it hadn’t been long since I had indulged, I continued in through the faded white entrance with French window panes in the door. I lived on the first floor, and on the second, above me, the unmistakable beat of my neighbor’s music drifted down the stairs. I sighed, weary. She, Talia Johnston—yes, that Talia, Ollie’s intended—owned some interesting choices in exercise DVDs. By her own admission, they were what kept her spry enough to live on the second floor and skip around town faster than any other seventy something widow. In fact, as I thought of it, maybe Talia and Ollie were a good match. Both were quite fit for their ages, and I could wish to be half as spry when I got up in years.
    Talia was a retired schoolteacher, and I often wondered if she had been blessed with incredible retirement benefits, or if the social security administration loved her. At least a couple times a week, she received packages from UPS or FedEx and carried them into her apartment almost before the deliveryman could leave them without bothering to obtain a signature. I didn’t blame him, and my neighborhood was a decent one. I hadn’t heard of thefts.
    “Oh but murder…” I muttered to myself as I stuck the key in my door.
    The music on the second floor grew louder, and Talia stepped onto the landing. I tried sneaking inside before she caught sight of me, but she must have come out specifically knowing I was there. Scanning the ceiling and corners, I found no hidden camera and turned to greet her.
    “Hello, Talia.” I smiled. “You’re looking well today.”
    A sheen of sweat glistened on the elderly woman’s face. She wore sky blue leggings and a white T-shirt, under which might have been an orange sports bra, but I wasn’t sure. Her stark white, frizzy hair was held back from her face with an eighties styled headband, also powder blue. A few wet tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead.
    Talia glared at me, hands on spindly hips. “Ollie told me they found Alvin Aston in your shop. Did you kill him?”
    Talk about cut to the chase. “News travels fast around here,” I pushed out around the now frozen smile.
    She waved a hand. “All it took was a phone call. Ollie happened to be on Main Street, picking up our lunch for later. Well, did you?”
    “Did I what?” I pretended not to recall her question. “I’m sorry, Talia. I think I hear my phone ringing. I’m going to have to grab that.”
    I got the door open and started through it. I didn’t have a landline. My cell phone was all I needed, and no one but clients ever called me. Talia didn’t appear to want to let me go, and it felt rude to walk away while she speculated over my innocence.
    “I don’t suppose you did it,” she said, “unless you, in the short time you’ve been here, became one of his women.”
    That got my attention, and I spun to face her. “Excuse me?”
    She smirked, knowing she had caught me. Arms folded beneath flat and saggy boobs—the sports bra wasn’t doing its job—she eyed my form from head to toe. “You would be his type. Brunette, okay figure, failing self-image.”
    I drew myself up to my full five feet eight inches. “My self-image is healthy, thank you very much.”
    She cocked a white eyebrow at me. “Well, one of his women did it.