All Murders Final! Read Online Free Page A

were out there, laughing and falling. It was the way a bright, sunny day should be—not shadowed by a murder.
    I headed over to Carol’s shop, Paint and Wine, on the north side of the common, just down the block from DiNapoli’s. I wanted to talk to Carol. I’d known her for almost twenty years, and could rely on her to listen and be discreet. But as I walked toward the shop, a large group of laughing women went in, so I knew she’d be tied up for a couple of hours. Carol taught people how to create a painting in a couple of hours and made it a lot of fun in the process. I toyed with the idea of going to DiNapoli’s, but the smell of food might make me nauseous. And I wasn’t ready to be in the middle of the hub of gossip in Ellington.
    As I walked back home, a few snowflakes started to fly. Great. More snow. While the ski resorts and the winter sports fans would be happy, I’d enjoyed the almost snowless winter. When I got home, my stomach rumbled again. Maybe it was hunger. I made a fluffernutter sandwich, which consisted of a thick layer of Marshmallow Fluff, invented in Massachusetts—I accepted no imitators—and a layer of peanut butter on white bread. Not the healthiest lunch, but a Massachusetts staple and the official state sandwich. It was completely satisfying after an awful morning.
    I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the couch, which, like most of my possessions, was a find at a garage sale. I rubbed my feet on the worn Oriental rug that covered the wide-planked wood floors, which I’d painted white. My apartment was usually my safe haven, but Margaret’s murder had me on edge. I grabbed my computer and opened it to my virtual garage sale site. There was nothing there about Margaret’s murder, and I didn’t want to be the one to break the news. At least not yet. I posted a couple of gentle reminders about always listing an item’s price, condition, and location of pickup. People so often ignored my rules.
    I decided to dive into the growing number of private messages about the site, hoping to be distracted. People in the group were always complaining about this item or that person. Someone who hadn’t picked up at the arranged time, someone who thought a seller had picked another person to sell to, even though they had posted “interested” under the item. The only message that really concerned me was one about a ppu—a porch pickup. The seller had left the item on their porch for the buyer. When they had returned home, the item was gone, but the payment hadn’t been left. They had made several attempts to contact the person but hadn’t heard back. I banned the offender from the site and wrote a note telling the seller what I’d done. There wasn’t much else I could do. If the banned person made payment, they’d be allowed back on and given one more chance. I’d learned quickly that you couldn’t put up with nonsense from people, or things spiraled out of control.
    I closed my computer and snuggled into my blanket. Big flakes drifted by the window. The sight of Margaret sitting in her car danced before my eyes. I wanted to push the whole thing aside. But I might as well face it now, instead of letting the reality of Margaret’s death fester in some dark spot in my heart. Someone must have staged her body, because no one would sit calmly, with their hands in their lap, while someone else shoved a tablecloth down their throat.
    It might mean she was killed somewhere else and moved. But I hadn’t seen anything unusual that might indicate she’d been dragged from one place to another or deeper footprints, caused by extra weight if someone had carried her. Maybe the killer had surprised her from behind, killed her in some other way, and then stuffed the tablecloth down her throat after the fact. The police wouldn’t know the cause of death yet. Not that they’d be running to me with it when