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and the car key, Abby slid open the screen door. “Come on, big girl. We’d better go get that gasket for the chicken water dispenser and more doggy . . .” She stopped short of saying the word. No point in getting the dog super excited all over again.
    Twenty minutes later, Abby navigated the Jeep into the parking lot behind Crawford’s Feed and Farm Supplies. She liked going in through the back door since there was always plenty of parking behind the building. Regular customers parked on the street out front. The store’s employees parked at the rear, where truck deliveries were handled, where the bales of hay and straw were stacked, and where owner Lucas Crawford had a designated place for his pickup. Lucas had been widowed for almost two years now. His wife had died early in her pregnancy from virulent pneumonia. After the funeral for his wife and unborn child, Lucas had thrown himself into running the store, continuing to make deliveries around the county, and working on his cattle ranch near Abby’s small farm. Up there, away from the town and the eager advances of women who wanted to console him, Lucas found solace in raising his grass-fed beef and riding his horses, keeping to himself.
    When he had learned that Abby had bought the farmette downhill from his place, Lucas had made a special point of giving her permission to use his old truck if the need ever arose. He’d held on to his late wife’s car, he’d told her, so there was no inconvenience. Abby smiled as she stared at his red truck. She’d borrowed it only twice—once to haul compost from the recycling plant to her gardens and another time to transport some lumber to repair the farmhouse kitchen. Each time she had washed the vehicle and had hung the extra key back on its nail on the wall inside the old gray barn where Lucas kept it.
    The ringtone of her cell sounded, jarring her from her thoughts.
    â€œJust a reminder. The estate sale is Saturday.” Kat’s voice practically trilled the words.
    â€œWhat happened to hello?” asked Abby.
    â€œYou have caller ID, girlfriend. Just making sure you remember not to do the farmers’ market. I thought we could take your car to the estate sale since your Jeep has more room than my roadster,” said Kat.
    â€œI’ve circled the date on my calendar, Kat. And yes, we’ll take my Jeep. No problem.”
    Abby was more concerned about what the cops had discovered in their investigation of Fiona’s death. With a killer on the loose in Las Flores, Abby could hardly think of bargain hunting. “What’s new with the murder investigation?” she asked, tapping the speaker mode of her cell and setting the phone on the dashboard. She needed both hands to snap the leash onto Sugar’s collar. The dog had already started barking her impatience.
    â€œLot of info, but few leads.”
    Sighing, Abby said, “So no one heard or saw anything?”
    â€œMore like no one is saying if they did. We’re ruling out those closest to her and moving out from there. Checking alibis. Working the angles.”
    â€œGotcha. So exactly where is the estate sale?” Abby asked, still struggling with the leash. Sugar wiggled worse than a bowl of gelatin on a picnic table during an earthquake. Abby had tried three times to connect the leash latch to the ring on her harness and finally gave up.
    â€œVineyard Lane . . . at the Richardson estate. Two doors down from where Fiona lives.”
    â€œLived,” Abby said, correcting her. Sugar whined. “Oh, hold on, Kat, while I deal with this dog.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œWe’re at the feed store, on a run for chow and treats. Parked around back.”
    â€œAnd I’m right around the corner. Be there in five. It’ll give me a chance to check out Mr. Action Hero with the washboard abs. I can’t for the life of me figure out why a man that good-looking hasn’t