Vultures at Twilight by Charles Atkins Page B

deserted storefront, where the community’s activities and trips were posted on a wall of cork, was bustling.
    â€˜Marge,’ I called out to a member of our book club, who was seated on a folding chair in a line that spread back from the door. ‘What’s going on?’
    â€˜Jewelry,’ she said, pulling out a pair of jet earrings in the shape of teardrops. ‘I found these by my mailbox.’
    â€˜Ada’s grandson found some things, too. Nice pieces, actually.’
    Another woman overheard our conversation and added, ‘It’s been like this all day.’
    â€˜Where’s it coming from?’ I asked.
    â€˜The police are taking statements. That’s why we’re waiting,’ offered Marge. ‘I’ve been here for over an hour. If I were a less honest person, I would have taken my earrings and kept them. They’ve been pretty insistent that we don’t leave.’
    â€˜Who’s been insistent?’ asked Ada as she tried to look over the throng of gray and silver-haired heads that crowded the doorway.
    â€˜They know something,’ Marge continued. ‘When they took my name and address, I got the sense that this was part of something serious.’
    â€˜Who were the officers?’ I asked.
    â€˜One of them was little Kevin Simpson, although I probably shouldn’t call him that,’ said Marge. ‘He never was the brightest lamp,’ she continued, drawing on her forty-two years of teaching third grade at Old Haven Elementary, ‘but bless his little heart, he always tried. He was at least thoughtful enough to bring out chairs.’
    She had a point; over the years Kevin had helped Bradley fix a number of minor scrapes for his patients. What Kevin may have lacked in IQ points, he made up for with a genuine caring and respect for those in his community.
    â€˜You said there were two,’ I prompted, wondering who was with Kevin.
    â€˜There are,’ she said. ‘The other’s a woman detective. She’s not from Grenville. Or if she is, I’ve never seen her before.’
    As if on cue, the door to the office opened and a short woman with dark curly hair in a boxy gray suit looked down the line. Our eyes connected for a brief moment. ‘We don’t have any women officers, let alone a detective.’ I knew that for a fact, as I never miss a town meeting and I habitually review every line of the budget. Bradley was the same. While it may seem old fashioned, I was raised with the Jeffersonian philosophy, that citizens have a duty to be involved. In all the years that I had plowed through the police-force budget, I had never seen the name of a woman, aside from clerical help. ‘She has to be from the state police. Why would they be involved?’ Not liking the answer that came to mind. Something very bad has happened here. Which was a gross understatement, considering what Ada had told me about poor Philip Conroy. This had to be why the state was here, but what possible connection could there be between the murder of Philip and this jewelry?
    â€˜No idea. But if I were you,’ Marge advised, ‘don’t let them know you’re here and go get something to eat. At this rate, we’ll be here for hours.’
    â€˜Well –’ I checked my watch – ‘we do have reservations.’
    â€˜Run away,’ said Marge, with a smile. ‘If anyone says anything, I’ll cover for you.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ And with Ada and Aaron in tow, we moved quickly and somewhat guiltily away from the crowded office.
    â€˜What is going on?’ Ada muttered as she veered from the direction of the restaurant and back toward the bookshop.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ I called out.
    â€˜Let’s get a paper. Too many strange things. Something bad is happening.’
    â€˜Like what?’ Aaron asked.
    She looked at him and then at me. ‘I’ll tell you over dinner.’
    I