All Murders Final! by Sherry Harris

with a clean bill of health. Then we went to a big-box store, and I bought a new computer.
    An hour later Stella and I sat on her couch, each with a glass of wine, and with the remnants of a big salad Stella had thrown together on the coffee table.
    â€œDid Pellner find anything interesting in the empty apartment?” I asked.
    â€œNot unless you find dust bunnies interesting. I need to find a new tenant.”
    â€œSo it didn’t look like anyone had been in there?”
    â€œI guess not. Wouldn’t you have heard someone? Not that I don’t love this place, but the walls aren’t that well insulated.”
    â€œI had the music up, and I might have been singing . . . just a little.” We grinned at each other. Stella liked to drag me to karaoke with her at an Irish pub and restaurant called Gillganins. But my voice, while usually on key, was no match to hers. My smile changed to a frown.
    â€œWhat?” Stella asked.
    â€œI wonder if the attack today had anything to do with Margaret’s death.”
    â€œWhy would you think that?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t really have a reason. Just a thought.” I stood and stretched. “I’m tired. I think I’ll head up to bed.”
    â€œI’ll walk you up,” Stella said.
    When we got upstairs we decided to go through the empty apartment just to double-check. All the windows were locked, and no one leaped out of the closets at us. Stella helped me clean up my apartment, too. We put all the Pez dispensers back in the box and cleaned off the fingerprint powder.
    â€œDo you want me to stay?” Stella asked.
    â€œNo, but thanks. I’ll be fine.” I think I even sounded like it might be true.
    * * *
    Tuesday afternoon I trudged up the stairs after another meeting with Laura about the February Blues garage sale. She’d asked about the bump on my head, which now was little enough that it was more like a pimple than a bump. But my head still ached. The thought of stretching out on my couch kept me moving up the stairs. I was almost to the top when a man came out of the apartment next to mine, dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, sunglasses, and a Red Sox baseball cap. I opened my mouth to scream and turned to run.
    â€œHey, you must be Sarah,” he said. “Stella told me all about you.”
    I clamped my mouth closed but went down two steps, in case I needed to bolt.
    He put his hands up like he was surrendering, but I still didn’t trust him. “I take it Stella didn’t tell you I’d be staying here a few days. She said she’d send you a text.”
    I slipped my phone out of my pocket. I did have a text from Stella. Mike Titone’s moving in for a few days. I’d heard that name before. She’d sent a picture. I looked from the picture to the guy and back again. It seemed to be the same guy. I snapped my head up. Mike Titone was the name of the Mob guy Vincenzo had represented, but that guy lived in Boston. Maybe it was a common name in this area. Below the front door banged open. Two guys started carrying a couple of large suitcases up the stairs.
    â€œExcuse us, lady,” the one closest to me said.
    Now my only choice was to go up the stairs. I edged as far away from Mike as I could and fished in my purse for the keys to my apartment without taking my eyes off him or the movers. My hand finally landed on them, so I quickly unlocked my door and slipped in.
    â€œNice ta meet cha,” Mike called as I shut the door.
    I dropped my purse on the trunk. I Googled Mike Titone, and a huge list of articles popped up. Vincenzo represented Mike “the Big Cheese” Titone when he’d been charged with racketeering. Mike got off on all counts and went back to running his cheese shop in Boston’s North End and doing whatever else he did out of said shop. What in the world was he doing here, and for just a few days? I could hear furniture being moved around