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on a poor fly just about to land on the counter. For a big woman, Eugenia could bring herself to a breath-holding halt when in pursuit of one of our slow, late September flies; the kind that hung lazily in the air as if they had no idea where to land next. This one had little will to live and was squashed quickly with one of Eugenia’s mighty blows.
    She delicately scooped up the remains with a napkin and deposited it into the basket behind the counter. “Hate those buggers,” she said, and made a face at me, then quickly changed over to sympathy. “Heard what happened out to your place yesterday. Terrible thing, about Miz Poet. Must’ve got lost in the woods, there by you. You know how they get when they’re old. Think the coyotes got her?” She leaned over the counter, getting closer so she could lower her voice and not upset the appetites of her customers. The woman’s small eyes, lost in a nest of smoker’s wrinkles, glistened. “You heard about the cougar got a horse not long ago? Somewhere over by Manistee, I think it was. Could’ve been a cougar got ’er. Who would’ve thought something like this could happen to such a sweet soul? If you’re interested, I mean, like it’s something you want to write about, you could go talk to Joslyn Henry. She’s right down the road from you and she was a close friend to poor Miz Poet. Those two were closer than jelly donuts.”
    Eugenia shook her head, clucking over the loss. I agreed. Maybe I’d go talk to my neighbor, Mrs. Henry, and get a human interest angle on the dead woman. I eased away from Eugenia because when she started talking she could keep you standing for a long time, and her talk always got around to her family tree, to what some long-dead uncle had done—or been accused of doing—since Eugenia had a family filled with innocent and wronged people.
    I took a seat in a corner booth. Gloria, Eugenia’s youngest and prettiest waitress, came hurrying over. She knelt on the seat across from me, and slapped her order pad on the table, then leaned forward far enough to show the cleavage male customers came in for. “I’m telling you, Emily. A girl isn’t safe in her bed anymore. It’s those people from down below, you know, in the cities. They’re coming up here and killing us off. That’s the plan, Simon says. Kill all of us off and take our property.”
    â€œDo you have property, Gloria?” I asked as I buried my nose in the menu I already knew by heart.
    â€œWell, no, but me and Simon are planning on it soon. We’re going to build a house out to his father’s farm but back in the woods where nothing’s been cleared yet.” Her face lit up with her plan; a small, round face with red cheeks and a sweet, innocent smile. Gloria was engaged to my mailman, Simon.
    Too early for lunch. To kill time, I ordered a coffee. I sure didn’t feel like going back to my house yet. I had to call Bill Corcoran at the paper and I’d gotten nothing from the police. Not an auspicious beginning for my crime-reporting career.
    There were only a few customers in EATS, but I could feel the eyes of every one of them on me. Most of the customers waved or nodded when I looked their way, then bent into whispered conversations. I was the talk of the town. Just as long as they didn’t get around to deciding I was the murderer, I thought. People in Leetsville didn’t like frustratingly oblique answers to things. A duck was a duck was a duck—to their way of thinking. I just didn’t want to become the duck they settled on.
    Gloria brought my coffee, a napkin, and a spoon. She pushed the sugar shaker over toward me, though I virtuously pushed it back and settled on drinking the thick brew black and straight up.
    Normally Gloria was a whirl of energy, bustling around the restaurant, greeting everyone, filling sugar holders and creamers, and taking swipes