Free Dead Between the Lines by Denise Swanson

not sure what the cops are making public.”
    After I finished, Boone shook his head and was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Wow. That is just too bizarre to be real. Who knew a Shadow Bend book-club meeting would turn into the Dead Poet Society?”

CHAPTER 7
    W hen I phoned Chief Kincaid, he was extremely interested in the possibility that the picket-fence stake was the murder weapon. He immediately ordered me to close the store, and less than fifteen minutes later, he and his forensic team were swarming over my shop. I was instructed to hand over my key, gather my belongings, and vacate the premises.
    Unfortunately, I was informed that Tsar couldn’t stay in the building, either. As I put the cat’s possessions back in his luggage, Xylia came into the back room to tell me she was leaving. Until that point, the Russian Blue had been curled in his carrier, purring, but when my clerk opened the flap and tried to pet him, he hissed and darted into the store.
    “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he’d run away.” Xylia cowered almost as if she expected me to slap her. “I’ll go catch him.”
    “No.” I must have spoken too sharply, because Xylia hung her head, her posture subservient. I gentled my tone and said, “Let me. You can go ahead home.”
    “I could pack the cat’s gear while you find him.” She bent over and her cotton skirt rode up, giving me a peek at her underwear.
    “Thanks. When you’re finished you can leave.” I hurried after Tsar, silently chuckling that my buttoned-up clerk wore a black lace garter belt and matching thong beneath her demure clothing. I would have never guessed Xylia had it in her.
    As I rounded up the cat, I worried about him having to face the wrath of Banshee. But my concern for the sweet Russian Blue’s safety around the evil Siamese was pushed aside as Chief Kincaid followed me to my car and told me exactly what he thought of my behavior.
    He was convinced that I had noticed the missing fence post the previous night when we’d walked through the store together, and he reamed me out for not telling him about it at that time. Although I maintained plausible deniability, I don’t think he believed me.
    In my defense, I reminded the chief of his prior statement that in a public place like my shop, there were thousands of prints, and that traces from everyone who had been at the meeting would be present just because they attended the book club, not because they were the murderer. When that argument failed to placate him, I asked what evidence he expected to find in my store now.
    He didn’t answer me; just growled, turned on his heel, and marched away. As I got into my car, I worried that I had ruined my amicable relationship with the chief. Although he and Poppy were currently on the outs, he and I had always had a certain rapport. I’d helped him on his last murder case, for which he’d publically acknowledged and thanked me.
    During my drive home, I reminded myself that Chief Kincaid knew that I often kept his daughter out of trouble—or at least the more serious kinds of trouble—and he had said that the crime-scene techs would be finished by Monday morning, so I could reopen on schedule. If he’d been really mad at me, surely he wouldn’t have been so accommodating regarding my business.
    With that positive thought, I pulled into the lane that led to Gran’s house. As I maneuvered my Z4 through the shadow of the white fir and blue spruce lining either side of the road, I felt myself relax. Dorothy was right; there really was no place like home. At least not for me.
    Glancing at the duck pond that I liked to picnic alongside when the weather was nice, I wondered if the next time I spread a blanket there, my father might join me in savoring Gran’s fried chicken. According to his attorney, Dad would be released from prison any day now. Although in exchange for a lighter sentence the true embezzler had admitted to having framed my father, it had taken a long