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herself on the cushioned divan, squeezing in between Gladys Potter, wife of Henry of waste disposal fame, and Sarah Biddle, the better half of their local sheriff.
    Doc Melville’s wife, Fanny, nodded up from a rocking chair. Her knitting lay neatly in her lap, the needles madly clicking.
    Felicity Timmons sat primly in a wicker chair, her cotton shirt polka-dotted with watermarks. Her green sneakers had faint slashes of dirt on the toes.
    The poor dear looked tired, Helen thought. There were shadows beneath the pale blue of her eyes, and the lines on her face looked deeper. Rouge reddened cheeks that were normally pale as snow, since her skin saw more shade than sun. The hat she’d donned this morning was a familiar white straw tied with a vivid green bow. Beneath its wide brim, Felicity’s face tipped downward, nearly hidden. Her hands, sturdy and spotted, trembled visibly as she raised her coffee cup and sipped.
    The events of the previous night had certainly shaken the woman, and understandably so. Milton Grone might have been a real thorn in Felicity’s side, but he had been her neighbor. Seeing him lying dead just beyond the fence could not have been easy to stomach, not for one as sensitive as Felicity.
    “Hello,” Helen said to her friend, smiling as she took the empty chair beside her. “How are you holding up?”
    Coffee slopped over the sides of the cup as Felicity returned it to its saucer. “Fine,” she got out. “And why shouldn’t I be?”
    “What with Milton’s death . . .” Helen began, before pausing, detecting a flicker of fear in Felicity’s eyes at the mention and a tightening of her frown. She let the words hang.
    Though the subject took but seconds for another to broach.
    “Can you believe it, girls?” Clara Foley said, patting her widespread knees. “Can you truly believe that old Grinch has finally breathed his last? I, for one, thought we’d never live to see the day. You know how they say that only the good die young. The mean ones last forever!”
    A few clucked and shook their heads, but twice as many giggled.
    Helen didn’t join in their laughter. Her gaze was on Felicity, who seemed to shrink beneath her hat’s brim.
    “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” she suggested, and brightly turned to the others. “Like the upcoming Founder’s Day picnic?”
    “The picnic? Pah!” Gladys Potter harrumphed. Framed by white curls, her long face frowned at Helen, as if Helen were a spoilsport trying to ruin all their fun. “Not when we’ve got Milton Grone to discuss. Why, it’s the buzz of the town.”
    “She’s right, it is,” Sarah Biddle said, her overbite giving her a horsey appearance. “I was at the post office this morning, and everyone there was blathering on about it. I mean, wasn’t it such a shock?”
    “What does Amos say, Fanny?” Clara asked. “I heard he’s got Milton’s body under a microscope. Has he found something fishy?”
    The click-clack of knitting needles swiftly ceased, and Doc Melville’s wife looked up, spectacles hooked low on her bulbous nose. “I’m sure the doctor will let everyone know in due time if his exam turns up anything. But, for now, it seems Mr. Grone passed from a heart attack. I can’t imagine why you all find it so darned interesting.”
    “Goodness, Fanny, but you’re a killjoy,” Lola Mueller chided as she walked around with a pot of coffee, freshening empty cups. “We’re just curious.”
    Fanny sighed and resumed her knitting. “All Amos told me was that he wanted to check out that gash on Grone’s head. He can only do so much on his own, though. If there’s any more to it, he’ll have to send the body over to his friend at the medical examiner’s office.”
    “I’m sure it won’t come to that, since it was surely a heart attack,” Ida said dully, adding her two cents. She and Dotty moved the swing gently to and fro with their toes. “So if we could get off this silly topic and onto one