A Wee Dose of Death by Fran Stewart Page B

that seems to be saying one thing but actually means something else altogether? She’d emphasized
before you go
, as if that were the most important part of the question
.
Or did she really want us to come in with her? Before I could answer, her neighborcame out of the house next door and down the walk. We endured introductions, said a quick good-bye, and got the heck out of Dodge City.
    *   *   *
    Dirk accompanied us into the Kittredge showroom and Karaline handed me the shawl. While she talked with some guy at the front counter—he wore red suspenders—I spent the next few minutes drifting around between the displays trying to explain to Dirk, as quietly as possible, that I’d never seen equipment like this before. Finally, I just made up answers. “That thing grinds up grapefruit,” I whispered. He’d seen me eat grapefruit often enough and was still in awe at how I could take for granted something as precious as a citrus fruit. I went on to the next display unit. It held a variety of implements I’d never seen before. I picked one at random. “This thing,” I said in a whisper, “is for cutting waffles apart after they’re cooked.”
    â€œI didna ken Mistress Karaline served whaffels at her wee restaurant.”
    â€œShe doesn’t. That’s why you’ll never see one of these things at the Logg Cabin.”
    â€œThis is verra interesting. Why d’ye suppose the writing on the wee box says
dough scraper
?”
    Phooey on him for looking at the boxes below the display. Not to be daunted I said, “Because waffles are made from a kind of dough, and you scrape them off the waffle iron.”
    Fortunately, Karaline chose that moment to call out, “Hey, you two, come on over here. We’ve got a problem.”
    The man behind the counter looked startled. “You two? What two?”
    Karaline put her hand over her mouth. “I mean . . . my . . . uh . . . my friend is a twin, and I tend to think of her and her brother at the same time.”
    He nodded, still looking rather bewildered, but I could see him draw the conclusion that,
Customers are always right—no matter how nuts they seem to be.
    I sidled up next to her and waited for him to turn his back to reach for paper coming off a printer. “Great save,” I whispered. “So, you think of my brother all the time whenever you’re around me?”
    â€œMaster Drew likes ye rather much,” Dirk observed, and Karaline’s blush spread from her toes to the roots of her dark hair.
    At least, I assumed it started at her toes, since it had gained so much power by the time it reached her neck. Kind of like a tidal wave. Too bad he was working on the West Coast for a month. Some museum had a dinosaur they needed advice on. I’d told him to stay off the frame. Poor Drew. His credit card info was stolen three weeks before he left for California, and he’d had a horrible time trying to get it straightened out in time for his trip. Identity theft was such a pervasive threat. And you never knew when you’d be hit. Maybe I needed to set up one of those text alert systems that sent me a notice each day as to what my balance was.
    I pulled myself back to the immediate moment. “What’s the problem?”
    â€œThey sold the SRM20, the only one they had.”
    The man cleared his throat. “If you’d put down a deposit and asked us to hold it for you . . .” He sounded truly apologetic. Dirk went behind the counter to inspect the man’s suspenders. He seemed fascinated by them.
    I felt sorry for him—the man, not Dirk. “When can you get another one in?”
    â€œThat’s the trouble,” Karaline said. “With the storm blanketing the East Coast, their warehouse is shut down.”
    â€œSo,” I asked again, “how long?”
    The manager, who sported a name tag that