Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers

cardstock to the notes on Daisy’s murder, and I guessed that I was heading for an obstruction of justice charge. Or if Ben, my bored mentor and predecessor, dropped by, he might feel free to open it. Ben was having a hard time with retirement and was known to poke around and offer his assistance at random, but he’d never open my desk.
    Midway through the afternoon, I noticed Molly Boyd in the lobby, wrestling with a couple of packages. She’d shed her crutches and was down to using a cane, a flashy pink paisley one. I heard an interchange between her and the young woman behind her in a UMass sweatshirt. I couldn’t help eavesdropping while I waited for my current customer to complete a customs form for international shipping.
    â€œI’m glad to see you’re walking better,” said the woman, whom I recognized as a barista from Mahican’s café.
    â€œYes, thanks,” Molly responded.
    The barista pointed to Molly’s bandaged ankle. “How did you do it?”
    â€œIn the storm last Monday. My cat got out and I was chasing her and tripped over the little wall around my garden.” Molly gave a weak smile and shrugged. “Dumb accident.”
    â€œAren’t they all?” the barista asked.
    Something clicked in my head and I flashed back to our quilting session on Tuesday evening. I could have sworn that at that time Molly had blamed her new Adirondack chair for the storm-related accident. Strange that she would tell the barista a different story two days later. The cat made me do it?
    It was Liv who was unhappy with Daisy’s decision to stock greeting cards, the mainstay of her own shop next door. I knew that Molly and Liv were friends, outside of the quilting circle. Was Molly also unhappy with Daisy? I asked myself now, faced with her suspicious alibi for a wounded ankle.
    Any desire on my part to pursue the matter was cut off by my customer, who handed me her completed form.
    â€œDaydreaming?” she asked me.
    â€œAlways,” I said with a customer-friendly smile.
    *   *   *
    With no one in the lobby just before closing, I sat at my desk for end-of-day paperwork. As he sometimes did, Ben stopped by at this hour to take down the flag and ask, “Anything exciting today?” or a variation of that.
    Today, I’d had more excitement than I needed, though not necessarily the kind I wanted to share with Ben. There was the
Do your job or go home
note, for one thing. I debatedshowing it to him. He might overreact and coax me to take it to the level of reporting it to the postal inspector, or underreact and leave me feeling foolish for giving it a second thought.
    One thing I knew for sure—I wouldn’t share Cliff’s plans for me with Ben. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt our relationship.
    â€œI see Cliff’s been coming around a lot,” Ben said.
    I nearly laughed in his face. Ben gave me a questioning look and I recovered in time to say, “Uh-huh. It’s a tough time for him.”
    Ben lifted his long, thin frame onto the counter (where children were forbidden to sit during his reign as postmaster). “I’d say so. The husband is always the number-one suspect, you know.”
    Another near laugh. “Not in this case. He was more than seventy miles away in Springfield.”
    â€œMaybe yes, maybe no.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œHe could have slipped away, driven like crazy, done the deed, and then gone back without anyone knowing.”
    â€œIn a raging storm?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
    Ben shrugged. “Or he could have hired someone here to do it.”
    I screwed up my nose against the unpleasant idea Ben was airing. “I see. He paid someone to wander around North Ashcot for a day or so, in case there was a storm that might tear a limb from a tree in his backyard, at exactly the time that Daisy would be outside?”
    It was clear that Ben needed a