Free Crops and Robbers by Paige Shelton Page A

one of us would join him at the station as soon as we could wrap up things at the market.
    As they drove away, we waved like two little girls watching their parents go out for an evening on the town.
    “My office. Now,” Allison said. “We’re going to help Sam figure this out, and you have more experience investigating murders than I do. Let’s get organized and get this solved.”
    We were on the same page, but I wasn’t sure she’d be thrilled with what I was going to tell her.
    We’ll see , I thought as I followed her sure footsteps back to her office. At least it was air-conditioned.

Eight

    Allison was not happy with me, and though it was a rare feeling, I didn’t care. She didn’t like what I’d told her; she didn’t like being told “no” or “not possible” or “not gonna happen.” Especially by her one-minute-younger fraternal twin sister.
    I was far from an expert, but I knew enough to know that once you started looking into a murder, you set yourself up for potential harm. I had the scars and leftover aches and pains to prove it.
    Allison was married and a mom. I explained that her position in life was much more valuable than my single-though-seriously-dating status. She eloquently argued the point, but I thought I might have won—or at least gained an advantage—when she said, “Okay, but there must be things I can do from here, from my desk. Phone calls, computer research. Something.”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “Where do we start, Becca? Someone killed Joan. It wasn’t our mother. Where do we begin?”
    I had no idea. I’d never noticed there was a starting point. I just searched for facts or clues or information that might fill in spots that seemed empty even if I didn’t quite understand why they were empty.
    “Well, I guess we do need to know about Joan’s life,” I said.
    “I can do that. I can ask around and do some research on my own.” Allison perked up. This gave her something to do, something to focus on other than the fact that our mother had just been arrested for murder.
    “Great. That seems like a perfect place to start. I’m going to pack up my stall, go home and clean up, and then go see Mom.”
    “I’ll finish up here, too, and get started on my research. I’ll go see her later. We should talk after that, though. Okay?”
    “Okay,” I said. I stood and hurried out of her office. I pulled out my phone. I still didn’t have any sort of Internet access on it, so I dialed Information. In a few seconds I was connected to Bistro. The person who answered the phone had a pleasant tone to his voice.
    “Bistro.”
    “Hi, just seeing if you’re open tonight.”
    “Yes, we are. Would you like to make a reservation?”
    “You’re open even after Joan’s death?” I said, because I couldn’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth even if I’d wanted to.
    The gentleman paused briefly, cleared his throat, and said, “Miss Joan would want the show to go on, so to speak. And, as it seems to go these days, some people are more popular in death than in life. We’re filling up quickly.” The pleasantness had gone out of his voice, replaced by an impatient glibness. It sounded as though he didn’t agree with the decision to open the doors but was required to “put on a happy face.”
    “I see. Sure, I’d like to make a reservation for two for six o’clock.”
    “Certainly.” The pleasant tone was back. “Under what name?”
    I didn’t want to give my own name, or the name of anyone associated with Bailey’s. The one I used must have been on the tip of my tongue for some reason, but I had no idea why. “Pitt. Brian and Angel Pitt.”
    “Uh, well, yes then. We look forward to seeing you, Ms. Pitt.” Emphasis on “Pitt.”
    “Thank you.” I shut the phone. “Pitt?” I muttered to myself as I opened it again to let Ian know that we had dinner reservations. We made plans to meet at his apartment before driving to Bistro. George would love to have Hobbit