A Country Gift Shop Collection: Three cosy crime novels that will keep you guessing!

Footfalls thundered down the stairs, and Cash burst from the apartment’s door. He dragged it closed behind him without bothering to lock it.

Marge was already by his side to test her theory. “Ransacked, huh, Sheriff? Makes sense.”

“Ransacked?” Cash looked puzzled. “Neater than my sister-in-law’s place. Not a speck of dust, no laundry anywhere. Not a dirty plate on the sink or an overdue milk carton in the fridge. In fact, that fridge was almost empty. So were her closets. Even the dog bed and feeding bowls were gone. Like Gwenda packed up and left town. For good.”

Marge turned to stare at Vicky. “So Gwenda did kill Mortimer and ran off with all the money he had in his home.”

“Having cleaned out her apartment before she went to see Mortimer and had no idea yet she’d find him with all this money and steal it to run?” Cash shook his head. “Your theory has holes, Marge Fisher. But you can spread it around town anyway. There is no law against gossiping. For if there was, you’d all be in jail!”

He stomped away to where he had left his Jeep in front of Everett Baker’s building.

Marge huffed. “Getting a little frustrated, huh, now that the investigation is not going his way. Every suspect is giving him the slip. First Gwenda last night, now his own brother. Who will he have left?”

“He’ll want to pin it on Michael,” Vicky said gloomily. “That’s the only suspect he has under lock and key! Cash has some far-fetched theory that Michael killed Mortimer before he came to me to pick me up, just to take me along and pretend we found the body together.”

“Now there is a theory with holes,” Marge burst out. “Since getting his badge Cash Rowland has solved one cattle theft and it was not even a theft. Now he has to deal with murder. And if we are right about the connection with the past, with Celine’s disappearance, he is dealing with a killer who has killed before and escaped justice. I know you’re always defending Cash, but do you honestly think he is resourceful enough to capture someone clever and cold-blooded like that?”

“Maybe not on his own,” Vicky admitted. “But he’s got us to help him.”

Marge grinned. “Oh, he’d love that. I can just see his face if he heard you say that. Hey, wait a sec. That guy…” She pointed to a tall forty-something man who came from a van on the other side of the road. “Isn’t that the guy who walked off so fast when we met Cash in the diner? He has those quite distinctive silvery points on the toes of his cowboy boots.”

Vicky nodded. “That’s him all right. I think I saw him at the general store before.”

“Yeah,” Marge said, “and that van is their delivery van. Do you suppose this guy could be working for them?”

“Could be.” Vicky shrugged. “Mr. Jones did call out something to a Bob when I was there last.”

“Bob, yes.” Marge nodded. “I heard something at the library about the Joneses having this charming cousin who is here for the summer to help out. He seems to be giving extra service to every old lady he delivers groceries to, for instance helping her with a leaking faucet or doing another chore. They’re all singing his praises. That must be him.”

Vicky perked up. “It’s not cougiu; it’s cousin! There was a capital J after it. Of Jones! His parents were expats in China!”

Before Marge could ask her what on earth she meant with those cryptic exclamations, Vicky left her standing and raced across the street. The guy was in there now; she could just bump into him and ask him how he liked it back in town.

It had to be the same cousin of the Joneses who practically lived with them for a couple of months during the same time Celine had disappeared. At the time he had never been a serious suspect, but clever Mortimer had pegged him at once as a possible candidate for the mystery man who had been seen walking with Celine.

Drunk or drugged, Mortimer had noted, right, and in a general store the guy would have had access to all kinds of stuff to do that with.

Walking into the general store, Vicky saw the guy nowhere. Must have popped into the back room to get more supplies.

Her heart was pounding like crazy, and her palms filled up with sweat. How to do this without attracting too much attention to herself? This guy might not have hesitated to attack a strong man like Mortimer and once he sensed she was on to him…

Mr. Jones was standing at the counter going over a notebook. He looked up at her excited entry. His expression set, but as his wife was not around, he had to help her. He said stiffly, “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

“Uh…” Vicky’s mind raced. Maybe Mr. Jones could tell her if it was the same cousin. If it was not, she could scratch him at once. But she needed a way to broach the subject. If Mr. Jones started to think she was in any way implicating their cousin like he was some wanted criminal, he would hate her for it and never tell her anything again. He already disliked her so much for starting a store nearby and possibly taking their business. She had to tread lightly here.

Vicky assumed an innocent tone. “I heard that Gwenda Gill left town last night.”

Mr. Jones nodded. “Filled up her car around five at the local gas station. Like she was going on a long drive.”

He seemed to loosen up a little now that he had touched on interesting information. “Rather poignant now that her ex is dead.”

“Yes, well, she used to go to dog shows when she still bred Chihuahuas.” Vicky leaned back casually, trying to look like any customer who loves to chat. “My mother wrote to me about it, asking if Coco could be a show dog too. I wrote back that she should first try and make her sit still for two minutes, you know. That was the end of it.”

Mr. Jones almost had to laugh. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but he sounded friendlier when he said, “That I can imagine. Coco is the little white dog, right? She is energetic.”

Taking the room he was offering, Vicky continued, “I thought maybe your wife knows if there are any dog shows around this time of year. Gwenda might have gone there. Your wife always knows every event by heart.”

Mr. Jones consulted a colorful flyer he extracted from somewhere underneath the counter. “This list has most local events for the summer season. But I see no dog shows on it. You should really ask Emma. She knows much more about it than I do. But she is out right now. She will be back in half an hour. Maybe…”

he hesitated a moment, then said it anyway, “you can come back then? Or I can send her over to you.”

“That would be great.” Vicky listened for sounds from the back room that might indicate the enigmatic cousin was about to pop out again and she could strike up a conversation with him, pretending to know him from earlier on. But nobody showed.

Retreating to the door, she promised to be back later and started out for Everett Baker’s offices to find out if he had overheard anything of the phone call Mortimer had made.

Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_dbd41cd2-92ce-584f-ab5a-ef5df6ed0ec3)

The windows of the real estate agent’s offices were taped full with pictures of nice white wooden cottages and sheets of densely printed text singing the praises of said properties.

There was also a large colorful poster promoting a new marina to be built in a nearby town, for which investors could buy shares. Staring at the ugly glass and metal structures in screaming colors, Vicky hoped something modern like that would never come to Glen Cove. The entire ageless authenticity of their town would be spoiled.

The door opened with difficulty as it was stuck a little, and she had to push hard to get in. Inside it was stuffy, the scent of Everett’s aftershave lingering on the air. The secretary’s desk was empty, just a sleek computer whirring on it as it stood in standby.

Vicky walked past the desk to knock at Everett’s door. It was marked with his name and CPA. She had never known Everett was a certified public accountant. But then it made sense to assume he was good with figures in his profession. Real estate involved lots of money and his detailed knowledge of budgets, credit and loans might make him the better party for people to go with.

She rapped on the wood just below the name tag.

“Come in,” a voice called in a distracted tone.

She stepped in, amazed at how light and friendly the room was. The wall opposite the door was dominated by a glass cabinet with trophies, catching the sunlight that fell in through the high window and reflecting it in blinding flashes. Vicky moved to a spot where her eyes didn’t get hurt and smiled at Everett. He was behind his computer, looking disturbed. To his left and right were stacks of cardboard file folders, brimming with paperwork. A fax in the corner rattled as more sheets began to flow out.

Everett frowned at her. “Yes, what can I do for you? Is there some problem with the store? I’m afraid that if it is a matter of maintenance, the owner of the building cannot be held responsible for—”

“No, not at all,” Vicky cut across him before he could dive into the ins and outs of rental contracts. “I just wondered… Yesterday you came down the street and almost collided with Mortimer Gill. He was on the phone, apparently too distracted to notice you. Do you recall what he was talking about?”

Everett stared at her. “Mortimer Gill?”

“Yes, you bumped into him, or rather he charged down toward you and you only just jumped out of his path. You called something after him. I think it was uh…meant as a correction?”

“Oh, yes, now I remember. He almost pushed me off the curb. I could have broken an ankle.”

Everett reached up and straightened his tie. “He should have been watching where he was going, but he was too upset to pay any attention. In fact, he looked ready to burst a blood vessel and was saying something about…a lot of money he wanted. Or else he would go public with it.”

Everett sighed. “I had the impression it was another of Mortimer’s attempts at getting easy money. It seemed to bother him other people had more money than he did, and he was always trying to get some, not by hard work, but by uh…what shall I call it?”

“Scams?” Vicky tried, using the word Gwenda had used at the scene of the fire.

“Yes, you could say that.” Everett shook his head. “In college he sold me a microscope that was supposed to be brand-new. Said he had gotten it for Christmas and didn’t want it. It turned out it was used and not functioning properly. But when I complained about it, he said he knew nothing about it. Wouldn’t give me back my money either.”