Free Beware False Profits by Emilie Richards Page B

people were disgruntled before they went inside. Imagine how they would feel when Junie finished with them?
    I dropped Teddy off with my mother and hoped for the best.
    When I got to the warehouse Ed was with the rest of the guests waiting by the door. To my surprise I found Detective Kirkor Roussos chatting with him.
    “Solved any more murders lately?” he asked when I extended my hand.
    Roussos and I have an odd relationship. Since arriving in Emerald Springs not quite two years ago, I’ve been involved in two murder cases. Both times I’ve figured out whodunit just in time to get myself in serious trouble. Nevertheless, I did figure out who the bad guys were, and I think Roussos more or less respects me for that.
    Roussos is whipcord lean and gorgeously Greek. I’d have to be dead not to be impressed. He’s also smart, cynical, and occasionally witty. He’s one of those guys who makes me glad I’m happily married. Because if I weren’t, I could be in trouble.
    “Not lately,” I said, when he shook my hand, noting the faded jeans and nubby silk sports jacket that were more or less his uniform. “But if you need my help, you know where to find me.”
    “How could I forget? I’ve worn a path to your door.”
    “Trust me, it will grow over if you just stop suspecting my family of murder.”
    “You’re sure? You’re not addicted to detective work?”
    I glanced at Ed, who seemed to be hanging on my answer. And what could I say? I had just trooped all over Manhattan trying to find out what happened to Joe Wagner. Only that time Ed was one of the gang.
    “You just keep the murder rate in check, and I’ll be fine,” I said. “Helping with homework and gutting houses keeps me plenty busy.”
    “I’d hate to get too close to you if you had a crowbar in your hands.” He sent me half a grin, then turned to talk to a couple of men who had just wandered up. I recognized one of them as our chief of police, and another as a member of the city council, who was often the only voice of reason.
    Chad came out of the warehouse and everybody turned expectantly. He began with his most fetching grin and a few jokes. Then he launched into an apology for Joe. He delivered it with such charm and good humor that by the time he finished, I don’t think anybody really cared whether Joe Wagner was in New Jersey or Hong Kong.
    “Maybe Maura was right,” I told Ed as we all marched into the warehouse. “Chad’s something of a smooth operator, isn’t he? Could be he wants Joe’s job.”
    “Every second in command wants to be first. Chalk one up to Maura for noticing.”
    With both of us cheering her on from the sidelines, Maura would be so self-actualized by the end of the week she could run for president.
    I tried to concentrate as Chad showed us how and where food was stored. He gave statistics about where the food came from, how much from local farmers, how much from community food drives, how much from grocers and wholesalers worried about expiration dates or outdated packaging. We saw the kitchen where volunteers prepared meals for the elderly and homeless and a small classroom where schoolchildren came to learn about world hunger and the way food is grown and distributed. We saw the office in the back, where all supplies were carefully accounted for and donations were logged and acknowledged for the IRS. We saw the garage where two trucks used in the transfer of food were housed, and the tool room where the community garden supplies wintered over.
    I was impressed by how clean and orderly everything seemed, and I had to give Chad his due.
    He kept moving, and we visited the administration building to see the store. He showed us the new and brighter paint, and the way shelves had been rearranged to better show off the merchandise. I recognized several baby quilts that Junie and our church needleworkers had made and donated. Some lucky families would be able to wrap their new babies in handcrafted warmth.
    The