Read Online Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen by Vicki Delany - Free Book Online

tattered old jacket I wore to shovel the path would have to do.
    My phone rang as I was heading out the door. This time it was Jackie, wondering why I wasn’t at the shop for opening time. “On my way!” I shouted.
    I bolted down the street. Conscious of our reputation as a tourist town, most homeowners are pretty good at keeping the patch of sidewalk in front of their homes neatly shoveled and well salted.
    My phone again. This time I checked the display before answering. Vicky.
    â€œI’m heading to the shop now,” I said.
    â€œThe police are here,” she said in a very low voice.
    I stopped running. “Why?”
    â€œThey were waiting when I opened up. Asking all sorts of questions about what I served at last night’s party. Who’d done the baking, had I bought any of it, who served. They told me Nigel Pearce was found dead last night like you said. They hadn’t been able to revive him at the hospital.”
    â€œYeah, my mom called to tell me he didn’t make it. Dad’s at an emergency meeting of the town council. Did the police say anything about, well, how he died?”
    â€œThey didn’t have to. They’re in the kitchen now, poking through bags of flour and nosing around inside the refrigerator.”
    â€œYour health department inspection’s up-to-date, right?”
    â€œTop marks, as always.”
    â€œThen you have nothing to worry about,” I said. I’d stopped opposite the park. Yellow crime scene tape had been strung between trees, but last night’s activity was over. A lone cruiser was parked at the curb with a single cop inside, keeping an eye out and chasing away the mildly curious as well as the outright ghoulish. More citizens than normal for this time of day were walking their dogs, very slowly, down this stretch of the sidewalk.
    â€œI don’t share your optimism,” Vicky said. “I’ve been told I can’t open the bakery until they’re finished, and goodness knows how long that’s going to take. Not that I’d want to be open while cops dig through my sugar and sniff my eggs and call out, ‘Bring that poison test kit over here, will you, Bob?’”
    â€œHave they said they’re looking for poison?”
    â€œNo. They haven’t said much at all.”
    â€œIs the coffee on?”
    â€œYeah. I figured it would do my standing with the police some good to provide them with coffee and the pastries I’m not going to be able to sell. Funny enough, they don’t seem to fear that the cinnamon buns are stuffed full of arsenic. Not if the rate they’re going through them is any indication.”
    â€œI’ll stick my head in the shop door, check to see if Jackie’s managing okay, and be right there. A cinnamon bun sounds mighty nice, too.”
    â€œThanks, sweetie.”
    The death of Nigel Pearce had reached the ears of the locals. The sidewalks were crowded with shop owners exchanging the news in low voices. Business still seemed to be good though. Most visitors wouldn’t bother switching on the local radio station when they got up. We could only hope the details wouldn’t reach the big city papers.
    Habit took over as I reached my shop and, despite my worry, I cast my eyes over the window display. There were a couple of gaps where we’d sold items, but everything looked festive, pretty, and very inviting.
    Inside, two women were examining the wooden toys. “A hundred dollars for this train set seems excessive,” the older one said to Jackie.
    â€œIt’s handmade by a local artisan,” my assistant said. “Look at the grain and the color of the wood. You’ll never get this quality in a big-box store.” The trains were beautiful, and crafted with a great deal of care. Each box came with two railway cars, an engine, and a bright red caboose, each piece about three inches long, as well as a stack of wood tracks that