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that you opened this perfume shop after splitting with your ex.”
    She’s been in Poppyville long enough to access the small-town grapevine. . . .
    The woman looked around. “How’s that working out?”
    “Pretty well,” I said. “At least until . . .” I gestured helplessly toward Josie and swallowed hard.
    “I’m Detective Lupe Garcia. Is there someplace we can talk?”
    Gesturing vaguely at my attire, I tried a smile. “Can I change my clothes first?”
    A man behind her turned at my words. I recognized him immediately and nodded to him. “Hi, Max.”
    Max Lang. Detective Lang, actually. A longtime member of the Poppyville police force—and Harris’ best friend.
    Great.
    He looked me up and down, gray eyes unblinking beneath his neat straw-colored hair. He was hefty, but tall enough to pull it off, giving the impression of a military background I happened to know he didn’t have. “Ellie, why are you wearing—” He started to indicate my pajamas, then seemed to think better of it. “Where exactly are you living these days?”
    “There.” I pointed toward my house at the back of the lot.
    Detective Garcia’s eyes widened slightly. Her gaze took in the rough cedar-shingle siding, the door crafted of planks from a demolished barn, and the symmetrical four-paned windows on either side. Bloodred geraniums trailed from the window boxes among orange and yellow nasturtiums.
    “Harris told me you were living off grid, but you live in a potting shed?” Detective Lang sounded downright insulted by the idea. “You can’t be serious.”
    “It’s not a potting shed,” I said. “It’s a house. A very small house, granted, but still a house.”
    He frowned. “It’s not a house unless it has a bathroom. You can’t just camp—”
    “It has a three-quarter bath, full plumbing, and power,” I assured him, doing my best to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Not exactly off the grid.”
    “It’s a tiny house,” Garcia breathed, and I knew she didn’t mean it was simply small.
    I smiled at her. “It’s my home.” I pointed at the storefront. “And Scents and Nonsense is my business.” I blushed as I realized how silly that sentence sounded, as if I was a character in a Dr. Seuss book.
    “To each his own, I guess,” Lang said. “You’ve met my colleague.” It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “So when did you discover the victim?”
    I stared at him. The victim? Josie had served him plenty of drinks when he was off duty, enough that they’d been on a first-name basis.
    “Right after I got up this morning,” I said. “I called nine-one-one right away. The library clock said eight thirty-eight.”
    “I see,” he said. Detective Garcia had taken out a small notebook and was making notes while her partner quizzed me.
    “And where were you last night, Ms. Allbright?” he asked, growing even more formal.
    “The Greenstockings—that’s the women’s business group I belong to—met here in the garden at around six fifteen. They were here for an hour.”
    “And after they left?” he prompted.
    I silently pointed at my house—my house where actual, grown-up clothes waited for me to change into them. I wondered if Lang enjoyed having me at a disadvantage. I squared my shoulders in false confidence.
    “You were inside all night?” he asked. “Before you discovered the victim?”
    “I walked the dog a little after ten. Before that, I wason the back porch for a while, watching the sunset. I went to sleep about ten thirty.”
    “And can anyone vouch for you?” His eyebrow twitched with sarcasm.
    “Well, if you put it that way . . .”
    “I am putting it that way.”
    I felt my lips thin. “Then, no.”
    Detective Garcia’s eyes cut toward her partner, then to me, then back to her notebook. I snapped off a rose hip and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger like a horticultural worry stone. Around us, the activity seemed to be waning. It felt awkward to be