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died two years ago. She smiled, remembering how he had
insisted that it stay at that exact angle in reference to the position of the
TV.
    And oh how Lester loved his TV shows. Ginger didn’t
care for some of them, but she usually watched anyway—just to be in the room
with him. Occasionally, he would return the favor and suffer through one of her
beloved cooking shows.
    It was after one o’clock and she had not eaten lunch.
On those days when she was creating a new recipe, she never bothered to eat
lunch, since she would spend the afternoon tasting all her little trials. The
second batch of six mini-cakes was in the oven.
    Ginger held the dainty gold-rimmed cup under her nose
and slowly inhaled the steamy aroma. As she sipped on it, she began to think
about Navy.
    It wasn’t an accident—it was murder. She could just
feel it. But what did she know about murders, investigations, autopsies, and
the like? Probably no more than anyone else who had watched a lot of TV.
    Actually, she did have something most people don’t
have—a keen set of senses. She wondered what percentage of the population had
the ability to walk into a house and immediately know whether there was a dog
or cat inside, whether anyone had ever smoked in the house, and exactly
what food had been set out on the dinner table.
    One time she had nearly blurted out, “Oh, Phyllis,
there’s way too much garlic in that meatloaf.” It would have only been to help
her do better next time. But women don’t appreciate being helped in that
manner—especially in front of several other guests.
    Ginger had known from a young age that her sense of
smell and taste were highly sensitive. She later realized that her other senses
were quite powerful as well. But she had certainly never used them to solve a
crime.
    That morning, after calling the chief at his office,
she began to work out her own timeline of the murder. She called him back, but
got no answer. And when she called the third time a few minutes later, he was
quite rude to her. Ginger wished she had asked the nursing home cook for the
information when she and Elijah questioned her.
    But at least the chief answered her question.
According to his notes, the cook said that Navy had arrived at the nursing home
a little before 7:30 a.m.
    Ginger had written it down in a small spiral notebook,
and then questioned Addie as to what time he left the bakery. Addie told her it
was about ten after seven.
    She picked up the notebook and opened it. So, Navy had
driven away from the bakery at 7:10 a.m. and arrived at the nursing home at
approximately 7:25 a.m. Ginger stared at her notes. Why had it taken Navy
fifteen minutes to make a five-minute trip?
    The oven timer buzzer went off. Ginger sat the cup and
the notebook on the lamp table next to her chair, hopped up, and went into the
kitchen.
    She put on the oven mitts and took the mini-cake tray
out of the oven.
    Her cell phone rang. She removed the mitts and took
the phone out of her pocket. The caller ID said ‘Jane Appletree.’
    “Hi, Jane.”
    “Hey, Ginger. Are we still on for tonight?”
    Saturday nights and Tuesday nights at 6:00 p.m. were
the regular meeting times for The Domino Girls Club: Ginger, Jane, Barb, and
Ethel.
    “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”
    “Because of the murder.”
    Ginger hesitated. “Who said it was a murder? ”
    “It’s all over town.”
    Ginger knew what that meant. Jane was telling
everybody who came into her diner. The woman just loved to gossip. And if there
was nothing to gossip about then she’d just blab about anything. To make
matters worse, she was a ‘loud talker.’ She had never learned how to hold her
voice down. And it wasn’t that she was hard of hearing—not by any means. She
could hear whispering from across a crowded room.
    Occasionally a customer would take offense to her loud
mouth. One time, a man who just wanted to eat his meal in peace got tired of
hearing Jane go on and on, complaining about her high