Free A Burned Out Baker: Classic Diner Mystery #7 (The Classic Diner Mysteries) by Jessica Beck Page A

right in. After all, I couldn’t blame the sheriff for being surprised by the fact that I had remained silent.
    In all honesty, it had kind of surprised me myself.

    After the sheriff drove off, my grandfather let out a loud breath of air. “That was a close call. If I hadn’t convinced him of my true intentions, it could have made the rest of our investigation a whole lot tougher than it had to be.”
    “You know, all in all, it’s really not that crazy an idea,” I said.
    “What’s that?”
    “You running for sheriff,” I said.
    Moose looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “Victoria, I meant what I said. I don’t have the slightest interest in that job.”
    “Why not? There aren’t any requirements that you be a law enforcement officer to run for sheriff. You know tons of people, so name recognition wouldn’t be a problem, and besides, you’re a crack investigator. This county could do a whole lot worse than having you in the job.”
    “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I enjoy being retired too much to ever go to work again.”
    “I’m just saying,” I said.
    “Think about it, Victoria. Even if I wanted the job, which I don’t, how do you think your grandmother would feel about me running for it?”
    I laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t even think about that. I doubt that Martha would be too pleased with it.”
    “That’s the understatement of the decade,” Moose said. “Now, where were we before we were interrupted?”
    “We were about to go talk to Susan Proctor,” I said.
    “Then let’s go pay her a visit at home,” Moose said as we headed back to his truck. “Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind getting another look at that crazy house of hers.”
    “If she even lets us in,” I said.
    “Why wouldn’t she?”
    “Moose, she’s probably in mourning. After all, she just lost her boyfriend.”
    “I’ll be sensitive,” Moose said as he started driving, and I didn’t doubt for one second that he could. My grandfather showed a gruff exterior to the world most of the time, but for those who really knew him, he had a soft side that was startling in its contrast to his public persona.
    “I know you will,” I said.

    We got to Susan’s place twenty minutes later. Driving up to it, it was hard to believe that there was even a house there. The raised grass slope seen from the road gave no indication that there was a home under there, with the exception of a single vent pipe coming up out of the grass. Susan’s house was a tad on the odd side, and that was saying something for Jasper Fork. As we walked around, the house itself came into view, buried under the grass berm as though it had grown into the ground instead of out of it. A full array of windows faced out onto the woods. Her builder had taken advantage of the sloped hillside to tuck the house into the ground. I would feel like a mole living there, but it must have suited her, because she’d had it built especially for her after her first divorce. We didn’t have to knock on the door to find Susan, though.
    She was out front, tending to a roaring fire going in a fifty-five gallon drum. There were branches burning inside, a few beefier logs, and a stack of paper on top.
    “What are you burning?” Moose asked her as we approached.
    “Just some old papers I don’t need anymore,” she said as she threw the last handful into the flames. I noticed that there was a gas can on its side sitting nearby.
    “It looks like you gave your fire a little help,” I said.
    “What can I say? I’ve always loved a good blaze. I’ve been meaning to do this for weeks, so when I got back home this afternoon, I decided it was the perfect time to do it. What brings you two out this way? I don’t get a lot of visitors.” Her face was smudged with ash, and as we spoke, she rubbed a gloved hand across her cheek, leaving another gray streak.
    “Did you hear about Barry Jackson?” I asked.
    She frowned. “What about him? What’s that man been up to