Murder Most Finicky by Liz Mugavero Page B

guys and who were the good. Her turn to prove which side of that fence she lived on. She didn’t envy his job.
    â€œMs. Connor. Thanks for taking the time again. How are you doing?” he asked.
    â€œFine.”
    â€œYeah?” His cop eyes searched hers, looking for—what? Lies? Guilt? A weighty conscience? “That had to be a disturbing find yesterday.”
    â€œOf course it was.” She shuddered a little just thinking about it.
    â€œAlthough, not completely a foreign concept to you.” His casual tone belied his the glint in his eyes. The guy had done his homework.
    â€œMeaning?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone casual.
    â€œWell, you’ve come across your share of murder victims, right?” He flipped his pad open and read from it. “Carole Morganwick, the veterinarian whom you stumbled upon in her office last year. And you were part of the crowd that found the farmer’s body—Hal Hoffman—in a corn maze? And the Frog Ledge town historian.”
    Stan sat up straight. “So what are you insinuating? They caught the murderer in all those cases.”
    Owens flipped back to his blank page. “I’m not insinuating anything. Just making an observation. Seems like an unfortunate coincidence it should happen to you again here.”
    Stan said nothing. Owens let it go.
    â€œSo anything else come to mind since we last spoke?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAny rumblings among the group? Speculation on who would’ve wanted him dead? Names of people Mr. LaPorte may have had a beef with? Or people who may have had a beef with him?”
    Just Sheldon. Stan shoved the thought away. Frederick, the motorcycle-riding chef, came to mind again, but she didn’t want to mention him and have it come back to haunt her. Especially since Sheldon had been the only source of that information. “No.”
    â€œYou know anything about his family?”
    Maria appeared again, this time with her purse on her shoulder. She ignored them as she hurried out the door, closing it behind her with a click .
    â€œI don’t,” Stan said. “I’m sorry. I’d never actually met Pierre, remember?”
    â€œYou’re right. My mistake. Tell me about your business,” he said, changing gears.
    â€œMy business?”
    â€œYes. I have a dog. I’m interested in hearing more about what you do.”
    â€œWhat kind of dog?” she asked, feeling her guard drop a bit.
    â€œRescue pup. He’s a Lab mix.”
    â€œRescues are the best. And feeding him organic, human-grade food is the best thing for him.” Stan gave him the elevator speech about Pawsitively Organic, her mission, and why she’d started the business.
    When she finished he said, “Sounds fascinating. Do you take orders?”
    â€œI do. For both treats and meals. I do parties, too.”
    â€œYou’ll have to leave me your card,” Owens said. “So how did you come to know Mr. Allyn?”
    â€œSheldon heard about my treats through a friend who does rescue. He approached me last year at an event I did. This was during the Carole Morganwick . . . incident, and our conversations never amounted to anything. Then last winter I did a doggie wedding—”
    â€œA what?” Owens interrupted.
    â€œA dog wedding,” Stan said, unflinching. She had no shame about hosting that event. The old Stan would’ve made a joke about it, or worse, offered some apology for doing something that other people found idiotic. “Two rescue dogs. They already lived in the same house,” she added.
    A smile twitched at the corner of Owens’s lips. “Okay. So Mr. Allyn heard about this how?”
    â€œSocial media. I had the wedding plans splashed all over Facebook and Instagram. Well, my assistant did. She loves social media. Anyway, he showed up and asked me if I wanted to give it another go, and said he had big plans for a pet