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dashed as quick as her plum p body and stiff joints would allow, back to where I sat. “He’s delivering a registered letter that he forgot to earlier today. Since Sharon lived on his way home, he thought he would take care of it now rather than in the morning. Lucky man. Wrong place at the wrong time. He still looks green.”
    “I can’t say I blame him.” My stomach churned too.
    We sat there until they asked us to move in order to wheel Sharon’s body away on a gurney, complete with zippered black bag. In spite of our differences, tears welled in my eyes. What were the chances? You’re enjoying a quiet evening at home, someone rings the doorbell, you rush to answer it, and bam! You fall, hit your head, and die.
    I straightened. “Mom, why do you think Sharon was in the foyer?”
    “Someone either came to her door, or she heard something.” Mom’s eyes widened. “Our search intensifies. We need to find out who Sharon’s visitor was. Whoever they were had to have witnessed her death. I know it looks accidental, but what if it wasn’t. Something’s rotten in Timbuktu, and I’d like to know what.”
    “Doesn’t mean a thing.” Bruce stood behind us. “Y’all stay out of it.”
    We three Calloway women exchanged glances. Intuition, or voices, take your pick, told me someone witnessed Sharon’s death. I intended to find out who that person was.

 
    Chapter Ten
    “Do you know what could’ve happened had you gone inside Sharon’s house and been caught by her?” Bruce’s face reddened. “I would’ve had to arrest you. I ought to anyway just to get you off the streets. You’re a menace.”
    I pretended to study my fingernails. “Technically, I haven’t been served yet so I didn’t violate anything.”
    “You, Marsha Steele, have a smart mouth!”
    I choked down words better left unsaid. “Do you think I wouldn’t have chosen being arrested over finding her body?”
    “You have no respect for the law.”
    Maybe it’s the person enforcing the law I didn’t care for. “You have no compassion for a dead person!” By this time, Bruce and I faced each other over his desk, both on our feet, faces inches away from the other, and my hand was curled around a glass paperweight.
    “I dare you to hit me.” Bruce smirked. “Assault a police officer. See what I do.”
    With a shuddering breath, I whirled, tossed the paperweight on the floor, and marched out of his office.
    A while later, I lay staring at the ceiling, a bundle of nerves. The cuckoo clock downstairs sang out two o’clock. I groaned. Experience told me that no matter how much sleep we missed, Mom would still expect us to arrive on time to church. I didn’t think the need to search for a possible witness, or murderer, would trump Sunday morning service. I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep.
    The alarm blared country music at seven. I reached for the snooze button then remembered I’d moved the clock out of reach. Sometimes, my desire for efficiency drove me nuts.
    Mom belted out Amazing Grace while passing my room, banged on the door, and stomped down the stairs. Her own form of an alarm clock. I tossed the blankets aside, groaned, and crawled from bed.
    A shower helped marginally , leaving me with wet hair and still gritty eyes. I stuffed my hair into a ponytail and slapped on some mascara. On my way to the kitchen, I passed my daughter who grunted in response to my “morning.” If we were going to continue our night time spying, we’d have to squeeze in a nap somewhere.
    Mom had three plates of pancakes on the table and poured a thick layer of syrup on her stack. “About time, you two. You got thirty minutes to eat and get presentable.” She squinted at me. “You in particular need more time, but I can’t give you any. Eat up.”
    I put a hand to my hair , which stuck up in all directions. I hadn’t done a very good job of pulling it back. No one at church would care. I’d sit in the back and slip out as quickly as