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

words sent chills down my spine. “What secrets do you suppose he was talking about?” I asked him as I moved a little closer.
    “I wish I knew. I double-checked everywhere else, but that was it.”
    “Do you mind if I take another look at them myself?” I asked.
    “Be my guest. They’re upstairs on my nightstand.”
    “I’ll be right back.”
    I found the notes just as promised, and then I walked back downstairs to rejoin Pat. He was right. The note referring to Edith was on top of the stack, and it was just as cryptic as my brother had sworn.
    “What do you think?” Pat asked as me as I frowned at the photocopies in my hands.
    “I don’t know. I’m sure Albert had his reasons to include Edith’s name among his list of suspects, but the reference to a secret is beyond me.” Pat nodded in agreement, and then he started getting the cash register ready for the day’s business.
    “What are you doing?” I asked him. “We’re not finished with this yet.”
    “Annie, we might be investigating two murders, but that doesn’t mean that we aren’t going to be open and conducting business as usual soon, either. Our customers need us.” As my brother finished reloading the cash register with money for the day’s transactions, he said with a wistful nostalgia in his voice, “I know a lot of people have switched to debit and credit cards, but I hope that cash never completely goes away. There’s something about making change and actually handling the money that makes it real to me, you know?”
    “I agree with you, but I’m not too concerned about the advances of the modern banking economy at the moment,” I said, perhaps a little too harshly. “Pat, what are we going to do about Edith?” Just as I said it, I looked up and saw the woman in question standing at the front door a moment before she knocked. Neither Edith nor Skip had keys, so they had to wait for us to let them in. “Then again, we could always just ask her point blank,” I said as I moved toward the door.
    “What are we going to say, ‘Did you kill Mitchell Wells and Albert Yeats?’ That’s a tough question to bounce back from, Annie.”
    “I was thinking about being more subtle than that,” I said softly, and then I opened the door and let her in. “Good morning, Edith.”
    “I’m not at all sure what’s good about it. Did you hear about Albert Yeats?” she asked us.
    “We were there when Kathleen discovered the body,” I said.
    “Oh, I hadn’t heard that. How dreadful for you both.”
    Pat asked softly, “Did you know Albert very well?”
    “Not intimately, but our paths crossed on occasion.”
    “When exactly was the last time that you spoke with him?” I asked her. It was an important question, and there was no better time to ask it.
    She looked surprised by it nonetheless. “Heavens. Annie, are you asking me for an alibi?”
    “No, it’s not that at all,” I said, hastily talking before things got even worse. “I spoke with him yesterday afternoon myself, and Pat talked to him even later than that. I was just wondering when you saw him last yourself.”
    Edith still looked uncomfortable by my question, but I’d done my best to defuse the situation by telling her about our own final encounters first. “Very well. I’m sure that you’ll find out eventually, given how small this town is. As a matter of fact, I spoke to Albert a little before six yesterday evening.”
    “Really? That was after we both saw him. What did you two talk about?”
    “Mitchell Wells,” she said with a frown.

    The pause was long enough to simmer for a few moments before I broke the silence. “What exactly did you discuss about Mitchell?” I asked her.
    “As a matter of fact, Albert accused me of killing him.”

    “What did you say when he accused you of murder?” Pat asked her.
    “I denied it, of course. What would you expect me to say?” she asked indignantly.
    “Hey, take it easy. We’re all friends here,” I said, trying