Murder in Miniature Read Online Free Page B

furniture was much cuter, but harder to handle and manipulate. Many crafters in our club worked in even smaller scales—one-twelfth, one twenty-fourth, and even one one-hundred-and-forty-fourth—which were nearly impossible for my old fingers.
    Things moved along smoothly until the fight broke out in the back of the hall.
    Postmaster Cooney had lost the cool one might expect of a puppeteer when Dudley Crane walked in and distributed flyers to vendors and customers. I glanced at the one that landed on my table and scanned the text, principally announcing a meeting at city hall on Tuesday afternoon. Red and blue bullets called attention to all the advantages of electing Dudley Crane to the city council and registering “a vote for progress.”
    Crane, who operated the town jewelry store (the same one now minus some cash and inventory after last week’s robbery) was Mr. Pro-Growth for Lincoln Point; Cooney was one of the most vocal opponents of Crane’s plan. Now, everyone in the hall who was paying attention was treated to the sight of Postmaster Cooney tearing up Crane’s flyer.
    There was nothing new in their arguments and name- calling.
    “Why don’t we go back to pony express? You don’t do much better with our mail anyway,” from Crane.
    “Why don’t we bulldoze every extra scrap of land and put up condos and fill them with people who need diamond rings?” from Cooney.
    Just Eddie surprised me by assuming his security duties and breaking the men up. He was a good one to end the fight, being among those citizens who didn’t care which direction the city took, as long as they didn’t close any of the taverns or the convenience stores that sold discount cigarettes.
    “It’s not over, Crane,” I heard Cooney say, as Just Eddie guided him back to the stage. “Don’t mess with my family.”
    That was a new one, more personal, though not out of character for our postmaster, who never met a customer he liked. Curious, too, since as far as I knew, he had no family. Cooney, who never married, lived by himself since his mother died earlier in the year.
    When we got back to normal bustle, Beverly and I were able to chat in between customers, some of whom had been my students a few years ago and a few buildings over on this campus. Beverly filled me in on her most recent volunteer project for the Lincoln Point Police Department—the monthly seat-belt survey. She wore her orange vest with pride.
    “Ninety-three percent wore seat belts this month,” she told me. “Too bad I can’t arrest the other seven percent. All I can do is report.”
    “You and your son. There must be a genetic need to arrest.”
    Beverly laughed and pointed to the dwindling supply of Linda’s miniature baked goods. “Use your own genetic talent and find more pastries and pies,” she said. “They’ve been selling like hotcakes. Pun intended.”
    Obliging her with a smile for her pun, I reached into Linda’s small canvas LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT tote and came up with a two-inch-high wedding cake, several one-and-a-half-inch loaves of crusty bread, a plate of éclairs, and a cookie sheet with gingerbread men attached. I needed one or two more items to fill in the empty spot created when a young woman bought a whole bakery counter assembly. I reached in again and pulled out a piece of fabric. Linda and I had both purchased inexpensive rolls of cheesecloth for workshop use, and this piece was a match to one in my own tote.
    Except that Linda’s had a red stain the size of a half-scale throw rug. My breath caught. I looked more closely. Not paint, not varnish. After all these crafting years, I knew the difference. This was blood.
    I held up the cloth for Beverly to see.
    “So she cut her finger,” Beverly said, shrugging her shoulders. She smiled, keeping her (to me, charming) overbite in check. “No surprise, considering the tools you people use.”
    I felt my shoulders relax. Maybe giving up sleep in favor of committee meetings, with