Free Lye in Wait by Cricket McRae Page B

to take a spoonful of cod liver oil."
    I grimaced. No doubt she was right. The thought of speaking
to Ambrose made little fluttery things flap around in my stomach.
    This time I didn't get the good detective's voicemail. The man
himself was on the other end of the line in less than ten seconds.
    "Ms. Reynolds," he said. "I'd like you to come down and see
me, if you would."
    "Urn... is something wrong?"
    "It's about Walter Hanover's death."
    No kidding. "Well, I sort of figured that. Did I leave something
out of my statement?" I asked.
    "Not that I know of. Why, did you remember something you'd
like to add?"
     
    "No. I'm just wondering why you want to talk to me. Can we
do it over the phone?"
    "I'd rather it was face to face."
    "Well, Detective, let me see... today isn't good, and I'm pretty
busy tomorrow as well. Perhaps on Monday... oh, that won't work
either. Walter's memorial service is that day..."
    "I'll be in my office this afternoon between two and four. Come
by then, Ms. Reynolds." His tone didn't invite argument.
    I tried again anyway. "I have a very busy afternoon planned-"
    "I can always ask a patrolman to give you a ride, if you'd
rather."
    So. It was like that.
    I sighed. "All right. This afternoon."
    "Looking forward to it," he said.
    I bet he was. My teeth clenched as I thought about our brief
conversation. Power-hungry egomaniac.
    So the afternoon I'd thought was salvaged when Debby and
Jacob conveniently showed up at Walter's, saving us a trip to Beans
R Us, now would be wasted listening to Ambrose's diatribe about
God-knew-what. Lovely. I went downstairs to see how far behind
I was.
    One problem with working at home is people don't think you
really have a job. Meghan understands, of course, because she's in
the same situation. But others think because you have a flexible
schedule, which is, let's face it, a perk of being your own boss, your
work is more like a hobby than a job. But you still have to put in
the hours. In fact, you have to put in more hours, because if your
week isn't productive, no one will be writing you a paycheck on
Friday.
     
    After looking over my notes, I determined that evening I'd
make three hundred lemon lip balms for the holiday bazaars. My
inventory already included two hundred of the peppermint and
the same number of lavender, but lately lemon had been my best
seller. Since they make great stocking stuffers, they'd go pretty fast,
and I wanted to have enough.
    I gathered the ingredients together on the counter by the old
range and put the lip balm tubes in closed baskets in the sterilizing dishwasher. I filled the rest of the racks with glass bottles for
the oatmeal-milk bath salts I planned to make the next day and
started it up.
    Walter's collection of paper had filled three medium-sized
boxes, which still sat in the front hallway by the staircase. I lugged
them upstairs and stowed them away in a room Meghan had always planned to make into another spare bedroom, but, until we
got around to it, was the junk storage room. The cartons looked
right at home, stacked between a bentwood rocker with a split seat
and Erin's old hobbyhorse. I put the open box of mementos on the
floor under the window.
    Next, I packed up the two wholesale orders of soap that should
have been sent out the day before, created invoices, packing lists,
and mailing labels, and ran over to the UPS drop-off counter.
Buzzing back home, I drove a reckless thirty even though the
Cadyville traffic patrol was known for being sticklers about the
twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit.
    Back in the basement, I wiped down the workroom with a vinegar solution. Bleach might be okay on occasion, but I preferred
the vinegar; it's a great disinfectant and smells much better than
chlorine. When everything was tidied and clean and ready to go, I gathered the ingredients for the oatmeal-milk bath salts and the
apparatus to combine the mixture: a heavy-duty paint mixer attached to