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nodded. “It seems a good many diseases involving the heart are inherited.”
    “So that’s what happened to Miltie?”
    Again Amos nodded. “From the looks of things, I’d say yes. Though there is a rather nasty gash on his head where he struck that rock when he fell. I’d like to examine him further”—he waved a hand around him, at the dark and the people who hovered about—“in better equipped surroundings.”
    “A heart attack,” Shotsie murmured, standing motionless.
    Helen kept a distance apart from her, afraid to touch her for fear she’d intrude. So it startled her when Shotsie released a hysterical sob and threw herself on the ground beside Milton, pressing her cheek to his chest. Her hands clutched at the bib of his overalls. “Oh, Miltie, why now? Oh, God, why now?”
    The spectators who lingered began to disperse, so few remained by the time the town’s only squad car pulled up without the benefit of lights or siren. It parked in front of the Grones’ battered mailbox.
    Sheriff Frank Biddle ambled forward in mud-splattered boots, his thumbs hooked into his pockets. He’d donned his holster, which hung precariously beneath a good-sized belly. When he approached Helen and Doc, he tipped up his hat and puffed his chest out like a peacock.
    “Got a call from Henry Potter. He mentioned there was trouble at the Grones’,” he said with a nod before looking over in Shotsie’s direction. His eyes narrowed but otherwise seemed unperturbed by the scene. “So what’s up, Doc? Did old Milt finally go boots up and leave us all in peace?”
    “Sheriff, really!” Helen frowned at him, jerking her chin toward the still-sobbing Shotsie.
    “Sorry, ma’am,” he said quickly, and turned around.
    Helen saw the tail of his blue pajama top sticking out in back where he’d missed tucking it into his trousers.
    “It appears to have been a heart attack,” Doc Melville said.
    “I didn’t know he had one,” Sheriff Biddle quipped, though his grin swiftly vanished when Helen fixed her eyes upon him.
    Doc stepped forward. “I’d like to examine the body, Sheriff, so if we could get an ambulance here to move him—”
    “No problem.”
    “Um, Sheriff.” Art Beaner emerged from the shadows behind Helen. He held a shotgun awkwardly in his hands. “I found this sticking out of the bushes not far from the . . . from Mr. Grone,” he said in his nasal tone.
    Biddle took the gun and raised the barrel to his nose. He sniffed then tapped the butt. “It’s been fired recently. Still smells of burned powder.”
    The acrid odor was faint but Helen could smell it as well. “Perhaps Mr. Grone himself fired it,” she suggested. “Everyone in town knew he kept the thing loaded and ready. Maybe he heard something that brought him outside.”
    “Like a squirrel in his trash, or Miss Timmons’s cat,” Art mentioned, running a hand over thinning hair. “As a matter of fact, Felicity told me he took a shot at Kitty just a week ago. Scared Felicity to death.”
    “Not as much as the cat,” the sheriff said, though no one laughed.
    “He could have fired at an animal then dropped the gun when his heart gave out,” Art surmised aloud. “You think that might be the case, Doc?”
    “I won’t say anything more until I’ve had a chance to properly look at the body,” Amos said. “So if you’ll get that ambulance here, Sheriff, we can proceed straightaway.”
    “Gotcha, Doc.”
    The sheriff headed over to his black-and-white, and Helen heard the crackle of static from his radio as he called for an ambulance.
    Helen helped Doc separate Shotsie from Milton, a task that was harder than anticipated. It took some persistent pleading before Shotsie allowed Helen to move her aside so that Doc and the sheriff could prepare Milton’s body for transport.
    Ida Bell and Dot Feeny took that moment to approach the grieving widow, who wept in the safety of Helen’s arms.
    At Dotty’s nudge, Ida asked, “If there’s