Panic Button by Kylie Logan Page A

I darted a look in Stan’s direction. “You’re not impressed.”
    “Haven’t you learned anything about police work?” He shook his head sadly. “Never
     trust anyone or anything that’s perfect.”
    Perfect.
    Ardent Lake certainly was.
    In a Stepford kind of way.
    The thought hit just as I spotted the sign for Foder’s Funeral Chapel and a feeling
     like cold fingers on my neck sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t have time to indulge
     the fantasy, and maybe that was a good thing. Though the wake had started only a short
     while earlier, the parking lot next to the funeral home was crowded, and I waited
     for a car to leave so I could park, then took a good look at the building.
    Foder’s was a sturdy building with a wide front porch and a roof that was topped with
     a cupola. Unlike the pastel colors we’d seen on so many of the homes we passed, the
     building was painted a deep, dusty blue, its somber hue in keeping with its purpose.
    I tilted the visor so I could put on a fresh coat of lipstick, ran a brush through
     my hair to tame my shoulder-length brown curls, and when I got out of the car, I tugged
     the black suit jacket I’d worn with a knee-length black skirt and taupe-colored camisole
     into place.
    Inside the building, Stan excused himself to find a men’s room (and to do a little
     sleuthing, too, I’d bet), and I stepped into my role as mole.
    There was a sign hanging outside a room down the corridor and to my left: “Angela
     Morningside, Services Tomorrow, 10 A.M. , First United Methodist Church of Ardent Lake.” And a long line waiting outside the
     door.I wasn’t surprised. Angela was middle-aged, which to me, meant she was probably still
     active and had a circle of friends. Plus, she owned a successful business. It stood
     to reason that she knew a lot of people. I took a quick look at the sober expressions
     of the people waiting in line ahead of me, wondering as I did which, if any, of them
     might be the murderer.
    There was only one way to find out.
    When the woman in line directly in front of me made eye contact, I pounced. In as
     polite and non-mole-like a way as possible, of course.
    I introduced myself, and made sure I mentioned my button connection to Angela.
    The woman, older than me by ten years or so and neatly dressed in a short-sleeved
     black dress decorated with tasteful pink and blue flowers, lit up like a Christmas
     tree and stuck out a hand to pump mine.
    “Susan O’Hara, and isn’t this a piece of good luck. I didn’t expect you to be here,
     of course. But I was hoping.” It seemed Susan was good at reading blank expressions,
     because she took one look at mine and laughed in the uncomfortable way people do when
     they realize they may have committed a social gaffe. “I’m sorry, I’m not making a
     whole lot of sense. But then, I haven’t been thinking clearly. I mean, not since I
     heard the terrible news about Angela. It’s hard…” Her voice broke, and she turned
     toward the window to our right, and in the light that filtered through the lace curtains,
     I realized I’d been wrong about Susan.
    Not in her forties. She was fifty at least. There was a network of crow’s-feet at
     the corners of her eyes, and herashen hair was streaked with more silver than I’d noticed at first. Her lips were
     pinched and dry and her fingernails were chewed to the quick.
    She pulled a tissue out of her purse and touched it to her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse
     me, I’ve never been to the wake of a person who was…” Her voice dipped even lower
     as if she knew something no one else there at Foder’s knew. “You know, someone who
     was murdered. It’s all too horrible to even think about.”
    I was about to say something noncommittal in agreement when, behind us, the front
     door opened and spanked shut and a group of women walked in.
    Susan’s eyes were green, and not the least bit attractive when she shot a look over
     my shoulder. It was such a