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happen to pair well with lamb and rosemary.” From his frown, I could see he wasn’t the sort who liked to share cooking tips.
    “Right,” he growled. “Tell me again, but in greater detail, why you were at the murder scene.”
    “Fine,” I said. “Like I already explained, it was because of the juniper berries. Yesterday, I gave Mario all those I had in stock with the understanding he’d return the rest this morning. I came by to collect them and review today’s schedule.”
    He made a note of this in his little book. “Tell me about finding the body.”
    I looked toward the rear entrance of the Tratory, which was now festooned in yellow plastic tape. “I knocked on the back door and when it opened—even though I barely touched it—I walked inside. That’s when I spotted Mario sprawled on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood and dialed nine-one-one.”
    “That it?”
    “That’s it.”
    “Chief?”
    McBride glanced over his shoulder. Curious, I looked, too, and saw John Strickland, the coroner, on the back step of the restaurant, beckoning to him.
    “There’s something here you ought to see,” Strickland said, and I thought I detected an undercurrent of urgency in his tone.
    McBride nodded. “Be right with you.”
    “Am I free to go now?”
    “Fine.” He tucked his notebook and pen into his shirt pocket. “You’ll need to drop by the station later to make a formal statement.”
    I started to leave, but turned back. “Ah, McBride, I need to ask a favor.”
    He arched a dark brow. “Isn’t this a little soon to be asking favors? Shouldn’t that wait until we’re at least on a first-name basis?”
    I gaped at him, surprised. Did a sense of humor lurk beneath the serious-as-a-heart-attack demeanor? But this was hardly the time to try to decipher the man’s personality. Not when I needed a favor—and needed it fast. I cleared my throat and forged ahead. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could I retrieve the leg of lamb from the Tratory’s fridge?”
    “Meat? You’re asking me for meat?”
    “It’s not like Mario will have further use for it since he’s—incapacitated.” Incapacitated sounded ever so much nicer than “deader than a mackerel.”
    He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “Lady, are you for real?”
    I huffed out a breath. “My name isn’t lady, it’s Piper, and I’m dead serious.” Oops, poor choice of words, but I was sure he got my drift.
    “You just can’t waltz into a crime scene and abscond with what could be a vital piece of evidence.”
    “Evidence?” I snorted. “For crying out loud, I’m simply asking for a chunk of mutton. How could that possibly be construed as evidence?”
    McBride gave me his cold-eyed stare. “Not an Alfred Hitchcock fan, are you?”
    I glared back. “ Rear Window. To Catch a Thief. North by Northwest. I happen to love Alfred Hitchcock.” Then the connection slowly became obvious to me. I’d recently watched a Hitchcock marathon on a cable channel. Apparently, McBride had viewed it as well. In one of the episodes, a classic, a woman used a leg of lamb to murder her husband, popped it into the oven, and later served it to the investigators. When the meal was nearly finished, one of the officers remarked that the murder weapon was probably right under their noses. Ah, sweet irony.
    McBride read my dawning comprehension. “Then you realize why I can’t hand over a hunk of possible evidence.”
    “Bludgeoned? Are you telling me Mario was bludgeoned to death with a leg of lamb?” I asked, aghast at the notion.
    “I’m not implying Barrone was bludgeoned. Cause of death is up to the coroner to determine. And yes, you’re free to go about your business. Just don’t leave town in case you’re wanted for further questioning.”
    I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Where did he think I was going to take off to, anyway? The south of France? A tempting thought. But, I had a spice shop to launch. “Fine,” I