Death at the Day Lily Cafe Read Online Free Page B

molded chairs had begun to crack, but none of that mattered to the customers. In addition to a few shoes, the store was home to a wide variety of newspapers, magazines, penny candy, and most important, Doris’s friendly face. She was as reliable as the atomic clock, and her presence behind that counter was reassuring to more people than just me. Which was why it surprised me when she hopped off her stool and met me on the stoop. The CLOSED sign thudded against the door.
    â€œWhere’s Ellie Sue?”
    â€œI sent her home.” Doris clutched her handbag. “Seems she’s not as good with numbers as I thought.”
    Doris had already started down the sidewalk. I hurried to catch up. “Where does Lori live?”
    She stopped abruptly. “Just outside of town, on Route Thirty-five.” She looked down at my shoes. “You’ve been on your feet all day. I don’t know what I was thinking. I walk to work. If I need to go anywhere else, my Betsy drives me.”
    â€œCome on,” I said. “My car is around the corner.”
    Doris looked as out of place in my cherry red Mercedes as I often felt. She didn’t bother with her seat belt, and after thirty chimes (I counted), the warning stopped. She pointed the way instead of telling me the street names. In Cardigan, people were more likely to give you directions by saying “two doors down from Doc Fisher’s house” than an address. The problem for a newcomer like me was that Doc Fisher died twenty years ago, and I hadn’t a clue where he once lived.
    Loose gravel crackled under the tires as we drove down the long lane leading to Lori’s house. The road ended at a pale yellow, aluminum-sided split-level.
    A variety of barking dogs immediately surrounded me as I tried to climb out of my car. A German shepherd began to lick my shoes enthusiastically. “I can’t imagine how I must smell after serving food all day.” I shut the door, thinking my car looked even more ludicrous on this humble property.
    Doris waited on the porch, hand on the door. “Sit,” she commanded the dogs, and they immediately sat in unison, their tails thumping on the floorboards. I followed Doris into the house and was met with the smell of home-baked cookies. Despite the long day I’d spent at the café, my mouth watered.
    I stood in the foyer and admired the marble tile beneath my feet. It looked Italian and glistened like polished glass.
    Lori appeared and extended her hand. “You must be Rosalie,” she said, and smiled. “I’m Lori Fiddler. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She was several inches shorter with a slighter stature than Doris, but she had the same wide blue eyes and kind smile. I had always guessed that Doris was in her mid-sixties, but her sister appeared at least ten years younger, probably more. Shoeless, she wore a neat white blouse over a pressed pair of blue jeans. Her feet were dry and cracked, but her toenails were polished salmon pink.
    â€œCome into the kitchen,” she said. “I made tea.”
    Doris followed her sister. “You don’t look like you spent most of the night at the sheriff’s department.”
    â€œI was in the shower for at least an hour when I got home last night.”
    â€œI get that,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. The small room was scrubbed clean. Despite the metal cabinets and chipped Formica counters, it was warm and inviting. A faded gingham cloth covered the table, and three waiting teacups surrounded a plate of chocolate chip cookies. I looked down at the floor. This one was solid red oak. “Lori, your floors are beautiful.”
    â€œThat’s what Carl James does…” She stopped and placed a hand over her heart. She looked at Doris. “I have to say did , now, don’t I? That’s what Carl James did .” She turned her gaze to me. “Flooring. That was his trade.” Lori