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secured the apron with a snug bow.
    â€œFlipping coppers,” Bea sputtered. “Who do they think they are?” She yanked open the door to the fridge, shoved a hand inside, and extracted a plastic bag filled with shredded cabbage. She turned to slap the bag down on her work area, and all at once, her shoulders sagged. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she threw herself at Talia. “Oh, Talia baby, I didn’t even ask how you were! What a dreadful, horrid woman I am. All I’ve been thinking about is how insufferable it was for me. I didn’t even ask about you. Did the copshurt you? Did they interrogate you? Did they make you sit in a hot stuffy room that smelled like last year’s unwashed gym clothes?”
    A smile tugged at the corners of Talia’s mouth. She patted Bea lightly on the back. “Bea, I’m fine. And the worst I can say about the interview room was that it screamed for a coat of paint and a squirt or three of Febreze.”
    â€œOh, Talia, you are such a gem,” Bea said with a crooked green smile. “Whatever would I do without you?” Her neon smile faded. “What
will
I do without you?”
    â€œBea, you’ll be just fine. But can I ask you a question? Why are your lips glowing green?”
    â€œThey are? Oh for the love of God and England! I must have slapped on that silly stuff I was saving for Halloween. That’s what I get for putting on makeup without a mirror.”
    â€œIt’ll be perfect for Halloween, but since that’s a few weeks away, why don’t you switch to something more subtle for today?”
    Bea scooted off to the bathroom. Since she hadn’t said otherwise, Talia assumed she intended to open for business. She hauled a bag of potatoes out of the storage closet, set them next to the work area, and began the peeling process. It was a mindless task, one that gave her too much time to think. She couldn’t stop obsessing about Bea. What if Howie didn’t recover fully from his knee operation? What if Bea couldn’t keep the fish and chips shop running on her own? She and Howie had always worked as a team, both in life and in business. What if—
    An abrupt tap at the back door made Talia jump. She blotted her hands on her apron, dashed over, and opened it. Whitnee stood there looking utterly perplexed, her book bag dangling from one bony shoulder.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Whitnee said, stepping inside. “I’ve been trying to get in for two hours, and the front door’s still locked. Plus there’s Staties all over Main Street taking up the best parking spots. And the lighting store has yellow tape around it!” She slid her bag off her shoulder, removed her windbreaker, and hung both on a hook next to Talia’s jacket. Normally she wore a spotless T-shirt or sweatshirt over crisp jeans that hugged her slim legs. Today’s wrinkled ensemble looked dredged from the bottom of the laundry basket.
    Talia instantly felt guilty. Amidst the hullabaloo over Turnbull, she’d completely forgotten about the girl. “Hi, Whitnee. I’m so sorry, we should have called you. Someone killed Phil Turnbull in his store.”
    â€œWh . . . killed? Did you say
killed
?”
    â€œBea and I”—Talia swallowed—“found him this morning, but the police think it happened last night.”
    That’s what Talia had gleaned, anyway, from the questions the police had chucked at her with rapid-fire speed. Her whereabouts between the hours of seven and midnight Wednesday evening had been of supreme interest to them.
    Whitnee teetered to the right, and for a moment Talia thought she might faint. Her face had gone milky pale. Tears spilled onto the girl’s cheeks. Then she shook her head, covered her eyes, and began to cry in earnest.
    â€œOh, Whitnee, I’m so sorry,” Talia said. “I shouldn’t have blurted it like that.”
    Whitnee sobbed