Cancelled by Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

factor in the townspeople’s choice of venue was that Mahican’s fancy espresso equipment had suffered from a power surge during the storm, one of the few breakdowns in utilities in town, making the menu less desirable. I thought of installing a watercooler in my lobby, but it was hardly necessary to encourage gathering and chatting.
    Stories worked their way down the line along the length of the lobby, overlapping and competing with one another for drama.
    â€œTore up every flower, but darned if the weeds aren’t tall as ever.”
    â€œAshie’s doghouse collapsed like it was made of feathers.”
    â€œOur big waste container toppled over and smashed a basement window.” This speaker clapped his hands to make a sound that suggested shattering glass.
    A little boy enjoyed the laughter following his report: His little sister’s crib was in the same room as his bed, and the crib “shaked and shaked.”
    â€œShe slept right through it,” the boy said. “Prolly thought our mom was rocking her.”
    It seemed Daisy’s friends and customers hadn’t yet come to grips with her death. Well into the morning retail hours, there was still no shortage of tsk-tsks and tales of frightened pets and flooded gutters, but talk of Daisy remained limited to mumbled expressions of dismay over the loss of “such a vibrant young woman,” “a gifted teacher,” and “a generous businesswoman.” I thought the toned-down nature was out of respect for Cliff, who might have walked through the door at any minute.
    The intensity of remembrances took a turn when Gigi, the young woman who ran the florist shop down the street, came in with a large vase of daisies and sunflowers, accompanied by a memorial card.
    â€œOkay if I put these on the counter in memory of Daisy?” she asked me. “Maybe people can sign the card for Cliff?”
    I pushed aside what Ben, a stickler for rules, would thinkof the departure from policy. “This is not a public meeting place,” he’d say.
    â€œWhat a nice thought,” I said, and for convenience, added a post office logo pen to the display.
    *   *   *
    Tuesday night should have been quilt night in the back room of Daisy’s Fabrics, where a group of six to ten women gathered weekly in our version of a quilting bee. A true “bee,” according to Daisy, involved women sitting around a homemade wooden frame with a single large quilt stretched across it. All the women would work on the same project. In our group, there was often sharing of blocks and patterns, but for the most part, we brought our own materials and enjoyed twenty-first-century treats from a sturdy crafts table, not a rickety frame supported by a rough sawhorse.
    After a flurry of e-mails, texts, and phone messages during the day, the consensus among the group had been that we should get together tonight as usual, as a way of remembering Daisy. Eileen Jackson, a retired middle school teacher and longtime quilter, offered her home for the meeting. It turned out that her husband, Buddy, played cards on Tuesdays, so the timing was perfect and the house was ours. Not surprisingly, Eileen had already delivered a food basket to Cliff’s home.
    Eileen’s home was more modern than I would have expected from a North Ashcot native of her generation. I saw none of the dark paneling and heavy furniture so common in the older houses in town. We brought our snack contributions into a kitchen that was bright and open, with white appliances and light maple floors and cabinets. Tonight’sofferings included a cheesecake, assorted crackers and cheeses, and brownies from me, via the freezer section of the market.
    My incorrect expectations were driven by what my aunt Tess’s home had looked like until I finally made it my own over the past few months. Although my aunt was modern in her thinking, the décor in her home remained in