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me, but the new customer kept talking. “And how’s that darling little boy of yours?”
    “He’s fine.”
    “His grandpa would sure love to see him.”
    Sissy’s only answer was a smile—a rather strained smile. Then she turned away from the woman and spoke to me. “I have a question, Lee.”
    “Sure,” I said.
    Sissy closed the door and stepped closer to my desk. Since the door to my office is just a sheet of glass, that didn’t accomplish much, but at least it gave the illusion of privacy.
    “If you’re going to tell secrets,” I said, speaking in a low voice, “I’d better warn you this office is not soundproof.”
    “No secrets. I just had a question about Tracy’s hours.”
    She handed me Tracy’s time sheet, and we both looked at it, with our heads close together.
    I spoke in a whisper. “Who’s the old bag with the slut makeup?”
    Sissy broke up. Rarely have I had such a reaction to a remark, at least one I have made to be deliberately funny. Because of my habit—maybe I’d better call it an affliction—of getting my tongue tangled, I frequently get unsought laughs, but I’m not exactly witty.
    My little funny broke the tension, and Sissy whooped with laughter. “I’ll tell you later,” she said.
    We settled Tracy’s time card quickly, and Sissy left. She nodded to Helen and walked rapidly toward her cubbyhole. But the woman with the homemade blond hair called out before Sissy escaped.
    “Oh, Sissy! How is your grandmother?”
    Sissy slowed, but she kept walking. “Fine,” she said. Then she disappeared into the back.
    “Helen,” whoever she was, stuck around until nearly five o’clock, asking the counter girls questions about every item in the showcase. She finally selected a four-piece box of blackberry truffles (“dark chocolate filling flavored with real Michigan blackberries, covered with dark chocolate and embellished with a swirl of purple”).
    As soon as she was out the door, I headed back to Sissy’s office and sat down in the one extra chair. “Now, who the heck is Helen?”
    Sissy hesitated, so I spoke again. “I’m sure you’ve already discovered that I’m a deeply nosy person. If it’s none of my business, just tell me to get lost.”
    “Oh, there’s no secret. Helen Ferguson works for Ace Smith, my father-in-law. She calls herself his housekeeper. Which is a fancy term for cleaning woman.”
    “Housekeeper sounds as if she heads a staff.”
    “Unless things have changed for Ace, he doesn’t have a staff. Buzz’s mom died twelve years ago, and Ace batches it. The few times I was at his house, the house looked as if some old bachelor lived there. I think Helen comes once a week and shovels it out.”
    Sissy clenched her hands together and stared at her interlocked fingers. “Helen and I never liked each other. I’m sure that was obvious.”
    “How come she dyes her hair that odd color?”
    “I’m afraid that was my fault. After Ace became a full-time resident of Warner Pier three years ago, Helen began to play up to him. It became a sort of joke to Buzz and me, but Ace seemed oblivious to what was going on.
    “I began to feel sorry for her. I decided she needed to be discouraged in her pursuit. Finally, I made a remark something like, ‘If Ace fell for anyone, it would probably be some ditsy blonde.’ The next time I saw Helen…” She shook her head.
    “She’d become a ditsy blonde.”
    “Right.” Sissy looked up. “I guess I feel guilty about it. I’m sure Ace has no interest in Helen. He treats her like part of the furniture. Then there was another complication—Helen’s daughter, Fran. Helen used to push her at Buzz.”
    “So both Helen and Fran may have seen you as a rival of sorts.”
    “Actually, I don’t think Fran ever had any interest in Buzz. Buzz certainly never had any interest in her. But Helen is one of these women who think it’s good to be chased by lots of men. She was always telling people how popular her daughter was