Death among the Roses: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 1) by Anna Drake Page B

than it be one of our friends. It's easier to see a stranger marched off to jail. It wouldn’t hurt as much to think of them doing hard time."
    I inwardly groaned. I absolutely hated it when Ginger made sense.
    "And you didn't like it too well," she continued, "when I pointed out that your friend Josh was drifting along in the same outsider boat." Ginger lifted her coffee cup from the table. "How is he, by the way?”
    "Who?"
    "Josh."
    "He's just fine," I snapped.
    Our waitress appeared with our food. She gave us each a pleasant smile and lowered our platters to the table.
    Ravenous, I picked up my juicy burger. “Look. Let’s not fight, okay? Especially not over two men we barely know.
    “I’m okay with that if you are.”
    “Then, why don’t we meet at the rose bed in front of the church after work tonight?”
    “What for?”
    “Check the place out. Search for clues. See if we can figure out how someone could have killed Gary within plain view of the church.”
    “Hmm.” Ginger dipped her French fry into a tub of ketchup. “That’s not a bad idea.”
    “Thank you. But are you on?”
    “Sure, what do we have to lose?”
    Attagirl. I’d make a sleuth out of her yet.
    That, of course, was completely ignoring the fact that this whole investigation was Ginger’s idea from the beginning. “So what did you want to discuss with me?” I asked.
    Ginger glanced up from her food. “I don’t follow.”
    “You called this meeting. What was on your mind?”
    “Oh,” she said, “I just wanted you to comfort me. It’s no fun, being suspected of murder.”
    “Ginger, I want you to know I don’t suspect you of killing anyone.”
    She blinked rapidly. “Thank you.”
    “I’m certain you're innocent, and before this is over, Gossford will be too.”
    “Thanks.” Ginger shoved a French fry in her mouth and chewed and swallowed. “Ugh. I needed that.”
     
    ***
     
    After lunch I’d little more than returned to my office when my phone rang. I reached out and snagged the receiver. “Melanie Hart.”
    “The same Melanie I sat through two years of high school French with?” a male voice asked.
    “Maybe,” I said, struggling to name the man.
    “This is Don Treadway,” he said. “Do you by any chance happen to remember me?”
    “Sure I do.” I struggled to come up with a face to go with the name.
    “If it helps, we also had fourth period English together with Ms. Jones.”
    A small light bulb popped on in my brain. “Oh right, that Donny.”
    How could I have forgotten him? Unruly hair, pock-marked face, thick glasses, a pocket protector. He’d been a poor, lost soul, hopelessly in love with Cordelia. Of course, he hadn’t a chance of achieving that dream. But he'd never stopped trying.
    “Actually,” he said, “I go by the name Don now, rather than Donny.”
    “Got you. I’m making note of said fact even as we speak. But how can I help you?”
    I figured he’d called to take out a newspaper subscription. Many former Cloverton residents moved away only to discover that they harbored a love for this tiny burg and the doings of its residents. That surprising longing was living proof, I’d always thought, that absence really could make the heart grow fonder.
    “I’ve just learned about poor Gary’s death,” Treadway said. “I’m calling to see how Cordelia’s doing.”
    Oh, good grief. Did he believe, that with Gary out of the way, he might have a chance with Cordelia? He couldn’t still be interested in a woman who’d never showed the slightest interest in return?
    “You’re still close with her, right?” he asked when I’d failed to respond.
    I shook myself free of my speculations. “Yes…. Yes, I am.”
    “So how is she doing?”
    “How do you think she’s doing? She’s devastated. Gary was the love of her life.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I know.”
    “Listen, is there something I can do for you? If not, I’ve got a job to get back to.”
    “I was wondering about the