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lot to digest.”
    “Astonishing that no one told you anything about it before,” Mrs. Burke said.
    Which meant that if Jane Doe’s murder proved related to the outlet-mall project, nobody in town would believe that Michael and I knew nothing about it. Or her.

    The sooner they identified Jane, the better.
    As if on cue, Chief Burke strode in. He paused dramatically in the doorway, expecting his arrival to quell the commotion, but conversation continued until Mother began tapping a spoon on her teacup. I quickly followed suit and we achieved a gratifyingly expectant hush.
    “Thank you good people for coming here,” the chief began. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
    “You’re already gathering the suspects to tell us who done it?” Dad asked. “That was quick.”
    He sounded disappointed.
    “No, of course not,” the chief said, frowning and looking slightly flustered.
    “How could he figure out who done it already?” I said. “We don’t even know yet who’s been done.”
    “You mean you don’t even know her identity?” Dad asked, his good humor restored. “Amazing.”
    The chief had to rap sharply on the table to regain control of his meeting.
    “That’s what I’m hoping one of you can help me with,” he said. “Do any of you know this woman?”
    He held up a photo of Jane Doe.
    He probably hoped someone would gasp out a name, or faint, or jump up to confess. But no one did. Seconds passed, then more seconds. People shifted from foot to foot.
    “No one knows her?” the chief asked.
    Mrs. Pruitt stared at the photo a few more seconds and shook her head. I could imagine her blackballing country club applicants just as coolly.
    Mrs. Briggs’s lips pursed disapprovingly and her
shrug suggested that she hadn’t known the deceased and wouldn’t have wanted to. Her husband gave the photo a cursory glance, shook his head, and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
    Both Suzies looked at the photo briefly and averted their eyes as if a streaker had crossed the room. Nice people didn’t get murdered. Brought down property values.
    Mrs. Wentworth gawked with obvious relish. She probably slowed to a crawl when passing traffic accidents.
    Lacie Butler put both hands over her mouth and turned her face away slightly, while still peeking out of the corner of her eye. A silly reaction, though I’d seen plenty of women at scary movies doing much the same thing. At least Mrs. Wentworth was honest about her rubbernecking.
    The six Shiffleys exchanged glances and, when they had settled the matter among themselves, crossed their arms or stuck their hands in their belt loops, shook their heads, and looked back at the chief in mute collective denial.
    Dad stared as avidly as Mrs. Wentworth, though he had the excuse of wanting to draw medical conclusions.
    Mrs. Fenniman was probably memorizing every detail, the better to gossip with later.
    Rose Noire shook her head sadly and closed her eyes. I wasn’t sure if she couldn’t bear the violence implied by the photo or if she was performing some divination. Assessing the photo’s aura perhaps. Doubtless we’d hear about it later.

    The students shook their heads and their faces had a curiously familiar expression—one I’d seen often enough on Rob. The look of the habitual offender who didn’t do it but expects to be blamed anyway. They shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and the muted jingling of their shin bells contrasted oddly with the somber mood of the room.
    Rob showed more genuine emotion than anyone.
    “Wow,” he said, breaking the silence. “She was gorgeous. Wish I’d known her.”
    “I assume that means you didn’t,” the chief said. He sounded vexed. Not fair, taking out his disappointment on Rob that way, but Rob should learn to keep his mouth shut.
    “Never even saw her,” Rob said.
    “None of you know her?” the chief asked, turning the frown on the rest of the company.
    Much head shaking and a few murmurs.
    “Someone must know her,”