MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3) by Leslie Leigh

thrust the paper in her face. Del read it over.
                  "This is... I can’t believe it."
                  "Bertie's a fence. Do you know what a fence is?"
                  "Where'd you get this?"
                  "Our friend Bertie had this hidden in his suitcase."
                  "Unbelievable."
                  "I trust you agree this puts a whole different light on things, Watson?"
                  "Sure does. I'm going back to bed."
                  "You can't. Breakfast."
                  Del ran a hand through her hair. "This should be fun."
    #
                  Breakfast was a strange, stilted event, as if all the awkwardness and angst of the entire weekend were compressed into this tiny space surrounding the table in the breakfast nook. Larry and Molly Townsend were up, chatting freely and seriously with Brother Al while he puttered in the kitchen. The couple helped to bring plates of steaming food – scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon, a heap of buttered sourdough toast, and a crystal pitcher of orange juice, not to mention the all-important porcelain carafe of fresh, piping hot coffee surrounded by assorted creamers and a sugar bowl made of fine china.
                  Everything looked and smelled delicious, but the atmosphere was leaden. The guests sat sullenly before their plates. Brother Al did his best to engage everyone in conversation, which worked until the inevitable lull was reached, and everyone shut up and stared awkwardly at their food. No lack of appetites anywhere to be found, which Allie thought was odd. She was ravenous herself, which made her think that this was probably a normal response to being so close to death. Self-preservation takes many forms, and in this house a specific form had manifested in the shape of a half dozen growling tummies.
                  Radiant sunlight shone through the long windows, the view partially obscured by the four feet of snow that had accumulated over the past fourteen hours or so. The same icy mist Allie had seen earlier in the morning was still there, blowing about just outside the breakfast nook. Nobody cared enough to look up and marvel at the inherent loveliness of the scene even for a second.
                  Allie ate, lost in thought. Bertie had received a search warrant. The cops obviously didn’t find anything or he wouldn’t be here, unless he was a fugitive. But that was a bit farfetched. Still, if he were on the lam, this would be a pretty good place to hide: out here in the middle of nowhere.
                  No, he couldn’t be. It was too risky. They conducted the search and didn’t find anything. Still, Bertie was a suspect, and the police had found probable cause to believe he was a suspect.
                  So why did he bring the warrant here? And why did he feel the need to hide it?
                  "She spends most of her time on Jupiter."
                  That was Del's voice, and it shook her out of her intensive thoughts.
                  "What?" Allie said.
                  A slight chuckle went around the table, and Del said, "Brother Al here just asked you a question and you weren't paying attention, so I said, 'She spends most of her time on Jupiter.'"
                  "Ha ha," said Allie, making it plain she was not amused.
                  "It's ok," said Brother Al, "I have a sister just like you. Thinks an awful lot. Hard nut to crack."
                  "I didn’t sleep well last night, that's all."
                  "I'm afraid none of us did, darling," said Molly, a grave look on her face that made Allie more than a little nervous.
                  "Anyway," said Allie, "I'm sorry. What did you ask me?"
                  "I asked you what you