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quietly into her hands for a minute, then sniffled loudly and wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said and cleared her throat. “You must think I’m a baby or something. It’s just . . . I never knew anyone who got murdered before. It took me by surprise.”
    â€œOf course. It’s very understandable.”
    â€œI mean, I didn’t even like Ph . . . Mr. Turnbull,” Whitnee went on. “He was nasty to everyone, and he—oh God, I didn’t mean it that way. Please don’t tell anyone I said that!”
    Talia smiled and squeezed Whitnee’s shoulder. “Believe me, the police will have to search far and wide if they’re looking for someone who
did
like Phil Turnbull.” She hated speaking ill of the dead, but she couldn’t ignore the truth. Nonetheless, he didn’t deserve to die, and for that Talia felt terrible.
    Bea stomped out of the washroom, her lips now free of their fluorescent shine. The moment she spied Whitnee’s puffy face, she hurried over and hugged her. “There, there, luvvy, it’ll all be okay. We’ll get through this and go on like before.” Bea sighed.
    Whitnee hugged her back, then looked down with an embarrassed flush at her stained sweatshirt and crinkled jeans. “Sorry to look, like, so messy today,” she told Bea. “My mom usually gets up early and does laundry, but she left work sick last night and she wasn’t feeling so good this morning. By the time I realized I didn’t have anything clean to wear, it was too late to run a load through.”
    â€œAw, luvvy, that’s okay,” Bea said. “Under a nice clean apron, no one will see it anyway.”
    Talia tilted her head toward the front of the eatery. “Whitnee said the front door is locked, Bea. Did you lock up before the . . . police took you to the station?”
    â€œI asked the copper to lock it for me,” she grumbled. “I have to admit, the chap was quite obliging. Not bad-looking, either, if you go for the baby-faced sort. So, shall we open up for business? If all three of us get hopping, we should be able to open by two, wouldn’t you say?” She looked far less sure than she sounded.
    â€œLet me take a peek outside,” Talia said. She slipped around the side of the counter and went to the front entrance. She opened the door and glanced out over the cobblestone plaza. The sun was bright, tempered by a chill wind. People had gathered in clusters, chattering to one another as they gawked and pointed in the direction of the lighting store.
    Only one thing marred the appeal of the faux sixteenth-century village. Stretched across the front of Turnbull’s lighting store was, as Whitnee had noticed, a length of yellow crime scene tape, punctuated by a series of orange cones. The tape fluttered in the stiff breeze.
    Talia turned to Bea. “I agree, Bea. Let’s open. People have to eat, right?”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œBunch of looky-loos, all of them.” Bea slammed the entrance door. “Don’t these people ever eat? Has everyone gone crazy?”
    Talia had just bitten into a fat, crispy fry sprinkled with a dose of malt vinegar when she heard Bea erupt over the depressing lack of customers. In spite of the horrible day she’d had, she was ravenous. A bowl of Rice Krispies with a sliced banana were the only food she’d eaten all day. Nevertheless, she felt guilty for stuffing her face when business had been abysmal all afternoon. She swallowed and said, “It’s an aberration, Bea. It won’t last. By tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”
    She hoped.
    Wearing a dazed expression, Whitnee busied herself wiping down the work areas in the kitchen and putting away the condiments. She’d barely said a word all afternoon. In the tradition of Talia’s nana—the