“But—,” PJ was confused. “I told you I walked out there this morning. I had that stick with me.”
“The ME also found marks on the victim's torso where he appears to have been struck by something like this.”
“Wait a minute,” Punk blustered. “Do we need a lawyer?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you arresting my wife?”
“Not yet,” the sheriff said. “Mind if I take this with me?”
“Yes, I mind! Do you have a warrant or anything?” Punk yelled. PJ put a hand on his arm.
“Yes,” she said to the sheriff. “You can take it. That stick was not used to strike Con Conniver or anyone else.”
“It doesn't matter, honey—you shouldn't let him take it.”
“It will be fine.”
The sheriff walked toward his car. As he drove away, Punk and PJ walked hand in hand over to where Fred and Doris had been watching the whole thing.
Punk shook his head. “That guy is out to pin this on PJ. What about all of the other possible suspects?”
“He's questioned Gigi and searched Aletha's camper,” Fred said.
That stopped Punk for a minute. “So why is he so focused on PJ?”
Fred shrugged. “Maybe he's trying to keep everyone off balance—hoping someone will make a mistake.”
PJ sat at the table. What a morning. There were still muffins in the basket on the table, and PJ wondered at that and then looked at her watch and realized only a little over an hour and a half had passed since Doris had first offered them. They were great muffins; she was ready for another. The corner of a stack of paper napkins peeked from under the basket, so she lifted the basket to take one.
But she found not napkins, but a small tablet. Half of the top page was torn away. PJ slid it back under the basket. It looked like the torn edge of the scrap she had found in the bush earlier.
She sat frozen to the bench, knowing she should turn it over to the sheriff. But two possible consequences stopped her. Now her fingerprints were on it, adding to the suspicion over her head. And this would implicate Doris, who had as good a reason to hate Conniver as anyone.
“PJ?” Doris looked over at her. “Something wrong?”
Unsure of what to do, PJ shook her head. Doris seemed an unlikely murderer but then PJ didn't really know her. She would keep quiet about the tablet and talk to Punk about it later.
Doris sat down at the table across from PJ. Her kind face and grandmotherly gray curls presented as benign an appearance as PJ had ever seen.
“I'm going to put a pot of stew on the fire this afternoon. Why don't you and Punk plan on joining us for supper? Trick-or-treating starts at 6:00 so we can eat about 5:00 and be done in plenty of time.”
“You cook it on the fire?”
“Sure, in a cast iron Dutch oven. We do most of our cooking outside, weather permitting. Did you bring treats to hand out?”
PJ nodded. “That sounds lovely. Thank you. Can I bring something? That is, if I'm not in jail?”
“Not a thing. It's all taken care of. And you won't be in jail.” She sounded confident. Because she knew who the real murderer was?
PJ sighed. “I hope not.” Suddenly she was very tired. “I think I'm going to go lie down for a little while. The decoration judging isn't until 2:00, right?”
“Right. That's a good idea. It's been a stressful morning.”
Back at their trailer, PJ told Punk about the tablet. “I picked it up so if the sheriff checks for fingerprints, mine are on it. That's about all he needs to haul me in.”
Punk rubbed his forehead. “You go rest. I'm going to call Bill Benda. Maybe he can recommend someone to call if the sheriff questions you again.” Bill had been their lawyer for years, handling mundane tasks like their will, taxes, and a couple of house sales. Never a murder charge, though.
She left him to it, went back to the bedroom and slipped off her shoes, and cuddled under the quilt. She was sure she wouldn't be able to sleep, but dropped off almost immediately.