The Borrowed Burial: A Thrift Shop Cozy Mystery (Secondhand Sleuth Mysteries Book 10) by Mel Morgan

Author:Mel Morgan [Morgan, Mel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stonefire Press
Published: 2023-07-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

AFTER VIOLET LEFT, I locked up the shop and headed to meet Freddie. As I walked, my mind was a whirl of thoughts and theories. Freddie had been acting strange lately, and Violet's comments about Freddie's acquaintance with Steve had only added to my suspicions.

I found Fred at the edge of Three Corner Park, her gaze fixed on the distant tree line. She looked up as I approached, her eyes bright and excited.

"Jess!" she called, waving me over. "What's up?"

I sat down next to her, my mind on the conversation I had earlier at the shop with my newest employee. "Freddie, what do you think of Violet?"

Freddie's grin faltered, her brows furrowing. "Violet? As in, Violet from my school?"

I nodded, watching her reaction closely. "Yes, that Violet. Violet Davidson, who you graduated with. She came in for a job interview a couple days ago and started today."

Freddie snorted, shaking her head. "Violet? Working at your shop? That's a laugh."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Why do you say that?"

Freddie shrugged, her grin returning. "She's just so... proper, you know? Always following the rules, always doing what she's supposed to. I can't imagine her working in a thrift shop."

I couldn't help but laugh at Freddie's assessment. It was true, Violet was very different from Freddie. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Well, Freddie," I said, my voice teasing. "Maybe it's time for a little change. After all, a little properness never hurt anyone."

Freddie just rolled her eyes, her grin widening. "Speak for yourself, Jess. I like my chaos just the way it is."

Time for a subject change. I unfolded the picnic blanket.

"Freddie," I began, my voice steady. "We need to talk about Steve."

Freddie sighed, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I was wondering when you'd bring that up." She helped me unload the wicker picnic basket that had belonged to my grandmother. It was filled with Stonehaus deli sandwiches, along with a heavy dose of potato chips, because nothing else completed an outdoor meal in the summer.

When she was done, we both sat down on the old quilt. Freddie, cross-legged like a bony but graceful giraffe, and me with an aging grunt.

Opening a bottle of juice, I asked her what she thought of my broken shop window. “Who do you think did that? That was one of those jars, by that Potts guy you were talking about. The pieces of clay looked the same. I wonder who would call me junk lady. And who would care enough about what we are doing to throw it—unless it was the killer?”

She answered me between bites. “But still. Why did they break such a rare and valuable thing like that? I can’t imagine the reason. Sorry, Jess. But the jury is out on that one.”

I reached for a sandwich made with rye and stuffed with corned beef and sauerkraut. I took a deep breath, then spoke the words as bitter as the slaw on my sandwich. "You've been acting strange ever since he died. And I think I know why.

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