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this.”
    “Vandalized, not burgled,” I said. “Sammy and the other deputies couldn’t find anything missing, remember? Lots of damage, but nothing actually missing.”
    “It’s not as if Mr. Throckmorton has had a chance to inspect it himself,” she said. “And anyway, vandalism is just as bad. Maybe worse.”
    I nodded my agreement as I left the tent.
    Halfway across the town square, I heard the little ding that meant I had an e-mail. Mr. Throckmorton saying “Thanks.”
    The lines at the food concessions had grown longer. I could even see two people standing in front of the hamburger stand, trying to get the attention of Hamish’s bored teenaged clerk. Maybe the teenager wasn’t a slacker. Maybe he was trying to be a good Samaritan.
    My stomach rumbled so loudly I was sure the nearby tourists could hear it, so I turned and headed for Muriel’s.

 
    Chapter 4
    Even as hungry as I was, I knew better than to dash carelessly across Main Street. I had to wait until three tour buses and half a dozen cars full of gawking tourists had passed. Then I crossed to the other side, which contained a small block of businesses. In the center of the block was Muriel’s Diner, a local institution since the fifties. In spite of Muriel’s attempts to make it look like the sort of dive where you risked ptomaine poisoning just by touching the menus, word was getting out, and now on most days the tourists outnumbered the locals.
    Locals still got a warmer welcome, though. Muriel beamed when she saw me walk in.
    “Hi, Meg!” she called as she stepped out from behind the counter. “You all by yourself?”
    “Michael’s taking the munchkins on a hay ride,” I said. “I was craving some of your chili.”
    “Great!” she exclaimed. “You want a booth or a seat at the counter?”
    I had actually planned to do carryout, since I’d assumed that Muriel’s would be packed, as it usually was during the noon hour. But there was a line of three vacant stools near the far end of the counter, and the last two booths were empty.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked. And then I spotted the problem: the man sitting on the last stool, surrounded by a buffer zone of empty seats. He was middle-aged, balding, and utterly nondescript. Not someone who would normally draw a second glance. Except right now—
    I lowered my voice. “Is that the private investigator the Evil Lender sent in?”
    “My new regular,” Muriel said, also in an undertone. “You’d think after two weeks he’d have figured out that no one in this town is going to tell him the first thing about Mr. Throckmorton.” She glowered at the PI’s back. Just then he turned around, holding his coffee cup up with the look, half hopeful, half apologetic, of someone seeking a refill. Normally Muriel would have refilled a customer’s cup before he even noticed it was getting low. Her scowl didn’t change.
    “Likes to linger over his dessert,” she grumbled. “You think people would understand if I started charging for refills? Just for the time being, till he gets the message that he’s not welcome?”
    “You think he hasn’t already gotten the message from those empty seats?” I asked. “And he’s on an expense account—he doesn’t care if his employer has to pay for his refills.”
    “Hmph. Chili and fries for you, then?” I nodded. Muriel sauntered over to the window and called my order back to Sam in the kitchen. Then she picked up the coffeepot and sashayed to the far end of the counter, where Seth Early, the farmer who lived across the road from Michael and me, was finishing off a burger and reading a copy of The Banner Sheep Magazine .
    As she refilled his cup, I overheard her ask Seth about Lad, his border collie. Everyone in town knew that was good for half an hour. Clearly anyone who wanted a refill in a hurry was out of luck.
    I strolled over to the counter and took the middle one of the three empty seats. The PI looked up and nodded at me. I nodded back.