Cast Iron Conviction (The Cast Iron Cooking Mysteries Book 2) by Jessica Beck Page A

wasn’t a seasoned law enforcement officer. Talking to someone and then having them die on me was just about more than I could handle. The odd thing was, when I was busy living my life during the day, I didn’t focus on it, but in those dark and forlorn moments before sleep finally came, the enormity of what had happened had asserted itself. There would be no more daybreaks for Albert Yeats, or sunsets, either. His time had been stolen from him, and I wasn’t going to let that happen without consequences for the thief. “How about you?”
    “Probably the same as you, I imagine,” he admitted. “You should have called me; we could have talked about it.”
    “If I’d known that you were awake, I would have. Who knows? Maybe it would have helped,” I said, but I knew that I wasn’t very convincing.
    “Probably not, though. The only thing that’s going to do either one of us any good is tracking down the killer and making sure he pays for what he did,” Pat said somberly.
    It was odd seeing my twin brother like this. Morose wasn’t quite the word that fit his mood, though that was clearly part of it. Determined was another that was close. Intent might be the best way to describe him at the moment, but I wasn’t exactly sure that fit, either. Maybe it was a combination of all three. “How do we get started, Pat? We can’t exactly shut the place down so we can investigate, or can we?”
    “No, it would probably cause more problems than it would solve. Think of it another way. At least we have that much going for us.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked him.
    “We don’t have to close our doors. You know as well as I do that just about everyone who lives in Maple Crest comes in here every day. We need to keep an eye out for our suspects, and when one of them comes into the Iron, we need to take advantage of the situation.”
    “That might be a little tricky,” I said. “We don’t even know the right questions to ask anyone.”
    “That’s true enough. I spent some time last night when I couldn’t get to sleep going over Albert’s notes again.”
    “Did you have any more luck than we did before?” I asked.
    “No. In fact, they made even less sense than before, if that’s even possible.”
    “Then we’re just going to have to wing it,” I said.
    “I suppose we can bring Albert’s name up with everyone who comes in and just see what happens. We can also try to nonchalantly ask them for their alibis, though I don’t know how that’s going to fly,” Pat said, and then he paused for a long moment before he spoke again. “Annie, there’s something else I should tell you before anyone else shows up.”
    “What is it? You know that I can’t stand the suspense.”
    Pat let out a deep sigh, and then he said, “We missed something before, but this time around, I saw someone else’s name in Albert’s notes that hasn’t been mentioned so far. I wasn’t sure that I should even tell you about it. It’s highly prejudicial, and besides, it just doesn’t make any sense. Still, I owe it to you to tell you everything, no matter how trivial it might seem.”
    “Now I’m really dying to hear what you discovered.”
    “Edith’s name came up,” Pat said flatly.
    “ Our Edith? When? How?”
    “I found a reference to her in one of Albert’s notes that we missed the first time through. It was scrawled in the middle of a diatribe against someone else, so it was easy to miss.”
    “Patrick Marsh, you’re stalling. What did it say?” It must be really bad, or my brother wouldn’t be dragging his feet like he was.
    “Albert wrote that Edith had her own reasons to want to see Mitchell Wells dead.”
    “Did he happen to say why?” I asked, clearly as shaken by the news that our postmistress might be involved in the murder as my brother was.
    “He wrote something about the fact that secrets can’t stay secrets forever, no matter how many people you have to kill to try to bury them.”
    Just hearing the