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So far today, Di had gotten a bit too much evidence, all for the suspect he least wished to be guilty.
It was with this truth in mind that he attempted to find an opportunity to track down Nora, if only so he could distract himself from the possibility of the town with Aunt Mary in jail.
It was kind of impossible to imagine. Aunt Mary not only kept their only restaurant which wasn’t one of the fancy ones at the resort—thereby keeping much of the town fed—but she was also such a fixture that it was impossible to imagine the place without her. They might as well have taken out all the craft shops.
Not for the first time, he really wished that Mac had not started him on this path.
Still, there was one other person to speak to, although Di had no real reason to think she’d done it.
For all his attempts to keep an eye out for an opening, however, it was only as Nora started to pack up her wares around 7 p.m. that he saw his opportunity. Although most of the other men of the department no doubt thought that he was merely trying to win his way into her bed, he at least hoped that Mac knew otherwise, as he approached her.
“Can I help you put these away, Miss Dugan?” he offered politely, as she was struggling with the stock boxes beneath the table.
Granted, in Prospector’s Rest, the boxes would probably still be okay if she left them there overnight. The department called in backups from the P.D.s in the surrounding towns to help supplement their night crew to keep an eye on Main Street till the next day, while the fête was going on. But it could always rain. Besides, Nora was the sort of person who didn’t trust anyone.
“Big city,” in other words.
Although, given that there was a killer out there somewhere, she might have a point.
While he knew Nora preferred “Miss” to “Ms.,” she still stopped and gave Di a look, one hand on her hip. Her mercilessly-styled red hair had only a strand or two out of place, even after this very long day.
From what he’d seen, too, she’d barely left her booth. Especially given that there were still two days left, it was no wonder she had decided to finish up early tonight.
It probably also didn’t help that the stage nearest to her now had a slightly off-key children’s choir singing some of the worst songs in Broadway history. They were currently butchering their way through “Consider Yourself” from the play, Oliver. Since this was actually a welcoming into a group of criminals by someone who planned to take full advantage of a starving, homeless child, Di had never seen the appeal—and even less so when it was sung off-tune by local, bored 8-year-olds.
Still, the woman finally answered, refocusing him somewhat from the din.
“It’s Nora. I am not old enough to be addressed like your maiden aunt.”
When he realized he was about to agree by calling her “ma’am,” he nodded instead, saying nothing.
For a moment, she tapped her foot. Not fitting in with her cutesy products at all, she was dressed like she might for a business meeting, her raspberry heels matching her silk shirt, offset with a black pencil skirt.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Take that box and bring it back to the stockroom.”
Although he did, following, when he really looked at her, he wondered.
“Are you all right, Mi—. . . um, Nora? Did you get too much sun?”
Actually, they’d been lucky about that. Being near the top of a mountain, they always got nice, cool breezes, and Main Street was surrounded by many old trees. While there was still sunlight, the heat usually didn’t get too bad—and the fête had provided booths with canopy awnings, too, to protect the sellers and gawkers both.
Still, right now, Nora was beet red and looked angry.
“Are you not feeling well?” Di went on. “Is that why you’re closing up early?”
After all, Friday at the fête didn’t officially end till 9 p.m., with entertainment on the stages running till 8:30. The diner usually remained open till 11 on these nights, as well, as there were always at least a few stragglers around. Granted, there was no law which said that everyone had to keep their booths open all the time on every day, but, generally, no one wanted to lose the chance of even one sale. It was the craft stores’ biggest time of the year.
But Nora didn’t seem to notice that now, directing him with a scowl and a half-barked order on where to place the box he was carrying and which to bring in next, all while not answering his question.
He didn’t pursue it, then, and continued to move boxes, but he was determined to use this chance to find out more.
“Did the mayor’s death upset you? It definitely wasn’t the usual start to things,” he prodded gently.
Rolling her eyes, she pointed at where she wanted the boxes again, apparently barely taking him in but answering, anyway.
“That idiot never knew what was good for him or this town. Over to the left,” she instructed, pointing to the right, and he followed the finger rather than the words. “I offered him good money to help me move out Velveteen and take over her store, and did he want it? Ha!” she answered, before Di could say anything.
Standing there listening, he got the feeling she was more talking to herself.
“He was actually scared of the old bat! Told me he’d rather go up against a black bear.”
Rolling her eyes dramatically, Nora grunted under her breath.
“She is just an old woman. When are people in this town gonna realize that?”
Rather transfixed and definitely worried over whatever was happening to the storekeeper, who was looking less steady on her feet by the second, he talked while typing a message into his cellphone to Mac, hoping she’d be able to do it: Find Doc MacDougal. I think something’s wrong with Nora.
As Nora was still staring off into space, she didn’t notice his typing. As much as he was worried about what might be happening to her, as well, there was something inside him which said this might be his one chance to find things out.
“So you’re not sorry he’s dead?” Di wondered, and Nora focused on him, not quite steadily.
“You think I wanted Velveteen to take his place? Are you nuts?”
“Well, it wasn’t obvious who . . .”
Waving her hand, she let out a “pfft!” sound.
“Who do you think has gone to the County Council meetings for the last three months begging to have a deputy mayor added to the town roster?”
She stuck her thumb back at herself emphatically.
Well, it doesn’t seem very likely that she would have killed the mayor without that in place, then.
What was more an I don’t like or trust her feeling than an actual suspicion finally settled, therefore, he wasn’t certain what to do next. While he wasn’t sure what to say, he wasn’t leaving her in this state. Hoping that Mac could find the doc and bring her, he tried to help Nora sit down, but she wasn’t having it.
Although he kind of hated himself for what he did next, he realized there was an inner cop in him somewhere—which was, by nature, sort of the opposite of sympathetic.
“Are you closing up because of your argument with the sheriff earlier?”
“That man!”
Nora rubbed at her head. She was growing redder by the minute.
Uh, doc, when you told me what this was earlier, could you have maybe told me what to DO about datura poisoning?
The thought came to him as a shock, and, for a moment, he tried to fight it off.
He reeeeaaaally wanted to believe it was something else—but, whatever was happening to her, it wasn’t like Nora at all. And she was young and strong and not addicted to anything except maybe money and sex.
Now that he’d set her off, though, she continued.
“He borrowed a gardening book from me the other day. When I asked for it back, he said he’d lost it.”
While this sounded a lot like what Di would expect from the sheriff . .
Well, maybe not being able to read but being uncaring about someone else’s property sounds about right.
It was a given around the station that you didn’t put anything into the shared fridge, unless you wanted it to end up in Pommelroy’s belly.
. . . his mind went back to what the doc had said about the poison being a small white flower. It was true, too, that Nora had planted a truly amazing garden at her house, so it was no surprise that anyone would look to her for advice.
Still, the sheriff—as far as Di knew, anyway—had never looked at any vegetation unless it was on his plate, and, even then, he’d push it aside to get to the meat.
“What was he looking to plant?”
Now, Nora seemed less angry and more woozy and weak. Despite her protests, Di helped her to a chair.
“Don’t know,” she whispered, although her voice was fading fast. “Flowers?”
And then she collapsed.
It was only because Di’s “velvet voice of death” could also be extremely loud that he was heard over the bad children’s chorus when he called for help from one of Velveteen’s assistants, who ran off to find the doc or anyone else with the right knowledge.
Then, thankful for the county-mandated CPR training—it wasn’t like Pommelroy would have expected it, otherwise—Di tried to keep Nora alive long enough not to have two victims at the very same fête.