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township trustees,” the sheriff added.
    Aaron glared. “That means nothing.”
    Rachel touched her husband’s arm. “Aaron, please, we must control our anger.”
    His features softened as he gazed down at his wife. “You are right.” He swallowed. “But I don’t care what you might say. My wife knows nothing.” He glared at the sheriff.
    I guess this wasn’t the right time to tell him that if Wanda was murdered—and I prayed it was a heart attack—he was a likely suspect too. Perhaps even more likely than Rachel. Aaron did most of the baking in the bakery, and he had the most to lose if the township ordinances were enforced.
    “Can you tell me about your relationship with Ms. Hunt?” the sheriff asked.
    Aaron scowled. “I know her as well as I do all of the township trustees. They leave me alone for the most part, until recently.”
    “Until you wanted to build this new factory.”
    Aaron bristled. “I bought that land and I have the right to build on it.”
    Mitchell’s expression was neutral. “Wanda disagreed.”
    “She wasn’t the only one. None of the trustees were happy.”
    The sheriff frowned. “I need to get back to the scene. I would appreciate it if you all would stay here until I return.”
    I opened my mouth to protest.
    “Even you, Angie.”
    My mouth snapped shut.
    He removed his department’s ball cap and bent the bill. “Like you, I hope that the coroner tells me that Wanda died from a heart attack. As horrible as that is, it is better than the alternative. I need you to stay here until the coroner makes at least a preliminary determination.”
    He didn’t say it, but I knew the alternative was murder. I chewed on the inside of my lip.

Chapter Six
     
    A fter Mitchell left the tent, Rachel, Mattie, and Aaron spoke to one another in hushed whispers. I returned to my table to give the family some time together and looped Oliver’s leash around the table leg so that he would stay put. Then I waited another five minutes before I slipped out of the tent and wandered back toward the canning shed. I needed to learn what the sheriff knew.
    The coroner had driven his station wagon right up to the side of the shed. I supposed it was easier that way for him to access his equipment and, gulp, load the body when it was time to go. Happily, the large car also provided cover between me and the sheriff. This was a very good thing. If Mitchell caught me, he would be livid.
    The coroner flexed his knees and they cracked. “Can’t give you an official verdict, but I wager she suffocated from an allergic reaction. She has hives on the inside of her mouth and on the palms of her hands. We’ll know for certain soon enough.”
    “The cause?” Mitchell asked.
    The coroner stuck out his lower lip as he thought. “Bee sting, maybe.”
    “It’s October. Where would the bee come from?”
    “There may still be a bee or two around, but, yes, it’s less likely than it would be in the summer. My money is on a food allergy.”
    “Would it cause a reaction this severe?”
    The coroner nodded. “Oh, yes, food allergies kill people every day. I have a cousin who blows up like a balloon every time he eats shellfish.”
    The sheriff rocked back on his heels. “Why does he keep eating shellfish if he has such a terrible reaction?”
    “Because he likes it,” the coroner said with a shrug. “He doesn’t do it often, only on his birthday. He always has lobster on his birthday as a special treat. He jabs an EpiPen in his leg and calls it a day after each time.”
    I shuddered. Apparently, Mitchell agreed with me because he said, “Your cousin is an idiot and has a death wish.”
    “Don’t I know it. I tell him that I’m not any good to have around if he went into anaphylactic shock. I am a dead man’s doctor, so I would only be able to make sure his toe tag is appropriately cataloged.”
    Mitchell grunted. “You think Wanda died from a shellfish allergy, then?”
    “Naw, if we lived on the coast or