Read Cancelled by Murder for Free Online Page B

business district on Main Streeton Saturdays and Sundays. Though nothing would happen until next spring, tempers were already running high. I learned that Daisy had led the opposition, maintaining that a farmers’ market would severely impact all the businesses between the post office and the police station and beyond.
    Almost a full year back in North Ashcot, working in the center of town, and I still had a lot to learn about city politics. It wasn’t enough to listen to my customers; I needed to work on the stack of local newspapers by my rocker, especially the op-ed pages.
    Liv and Andrea packed up and stormed out of Eileen’s house within five minutes of each other. No one wondered out loud whether they’d come to an impasse or were taking their fight somewhere else.
    Eileen made an effort to pull the rest of us together by reminding us that we needed an extra meeting on Monday evening next week to prepare for the quilt display as part of Henry Knox Day. We’d meet in the community room adjoining the post office around seven to take measurements and otherwise prepare the room.
    I’d had grand plans to be part of the show, unaware at the time of how much work was involved in making just one quilt.
    â€œNext year,” I told Eileen in an effort to lift her spirits. “For now, I’ll just be part of the backstage crew.”
    Tonight we beginners (Terry and I) were supposed to learn how to choose and prepare sashing—the strips of fabric that separated the main blocks of a quilt. We approached the lesson, to which everyone usually contributed advice and tips, only halfheartedly. The altercation had gotten us off to a bad start that we couldn’t seem to recover from. Noteven Molly’s special cheesecake or the other snacks could get us out of our funk. Eileen offered a fresh pitcher of iced tea, but no one had the heart to stay much longer.
    Poor Eileen looked as if she’d done something wrong.
    I thought of calling to her attention that the unpleasant evening wasn’t her fault, and that at least no blood had been spilled on her soft white sofa.

4
    B y Wednesday afternoon, the world knew that Daisy Harmon had been murdered. Or so it seemed in my post office in the middle of the day, with everyone gasping and gulping as the awful news spread. I wasn’t surprised that a murder provoked more distress among our citizens than an accidental death. I hadn’t heard the final word directly from Sunni—just because we were BFFs didn’t mean she had to keep me in the loop, crime-wise, I told myself—and I hadn’t watched television at lunch as I sometimes did.
    But, as the old bumper sticker says,
there may not be much to see in a small town, but what you hear makes up for it
.
    If all that I heard was correct, Daisy was already dead when her killer rolled a large, heavy tree branch over her body, a branch that had conveniently fallen to the ground inthe backyard of Daisy’s Fabrics. Police thought (said the townsfolk) that there’d been an argument.
    â€œYa think?” asked Moses Crawford, our oldest citizen, hitching up his baggy jeans. “That must have been some danged argument. Don’t know what this world is comin’ to.”
    I regretted that I couldn’t take notes, then realized that the chatter I’d heard all day was hearsay at best and I’d lose nothing of value if I forgot some of it.
    Between locking the front doors at closing and packing up to leave the building, I played my cell phone messages. I clicked through the usual check-ins from Linda Daniels in Boston (“Any big news in the little town?”) and Quinn Martindale, now on the North Shore near Gloucester (“Miss you. Back as soon as I can.”) Sunni’s voice promised she’d drop in soon (to “explain a couple of things”). The most surprising was a call from Cliff Harmon, Daisy’s now-widowed husband. I knew Cliff as well as