Free And Then You Dye by Monica Ferris

list of available temp helpers, and her own schedule before calling Ruth to set a date.
    “I’m not sure why you want to come with me,” said Ruth. “I’m going to price the items in the dyeing workshop. How could that be interesting to you?”
    “Philadelphia was so upset down there that she became a distraction to me,” Betsy replied. “I have a feeling I missed something, some helpful detail. I just want another look. And, I’d like to talk to you about Hailey.”
    They agreed to meet Thursday, at two, at Hailey’s house—Ruth would have a key.
    That evening, as usual, Betsy turned on her television to watch the local news. The newscasters were companionable, amusing, and competent. “Okay, Amy,” said the good-looking guy, “is spring still sprung?”
    Amy Stromberg, a Gwyneth Paltrow look-alike, blond and blue-eyed, appeared in front of that trick screen that displayed mobile weather symbols. A trio of radar beacons was sweeping around the state map, showing no storms present anywhere except in the far northwestern region.
    “It sure is!” she said with a bright smile. She was wearing a close-fitting navy blue suit that showed off the figure of someone who Betsy knew cross-country skied in the winter and played tennis all summer. Her prediction for the rest of the week was for seasonably warm weather—upper sixties and low seventies—under clear skies, but rain showers coming in Saturday night and lingering into Sunday.
    Good, thought Betsy. Fine weather on Saturday would bring out shoppers, and the rain on Sunday would help root the plantings she and Connor had installed in the back lot.
    Betsy was looking forward to next year, when she could pick bouquets of lily of the valley—she loved strongly scented flowers such as those and lilacs and old-fashioned roses. But the back lot was too shady for lilacs or roses.
    She turned the TV set off and went into her galley kitchen to sweep and mop the floor. She was about halfway through her chore when her phone rang. “Hello?” she said.
    “Betsy? This is Amy Stromberg.”
    “Hi, I was just watching you do the weather. You were looking very good.”
    “Thanks. You called me yesterday, left a message, and I’m only now calling you back. What’s up?”
    “That Mark Parsons needlepoint canvas you ordered came in. I’ll hold it for you in the shop.”
    “Ooooh, thank you! Oh, hey, I’ve been meaning to call you anyway. I hear you’re investigating Hailey Brent’s murder, and are looking to talk to people about her.”
    “Did you know her?”
    “No, but I know some people who did.”
    “Like who?”
    “Well, Ruth Ladwig for one.”
    “Yes, I’ve already talked with her.”
    “Joanne McMurphy.”
    “You know her?”
    “I know her husband—well, actually, it’s my husband who is Pierce’s friend, they both are software developers. I’ve met Joanne a few times when she and Pierce have played tennis with Jeff and me. I’m not sure what the connection was, but I do know Joanne was a friend of Hailey’s. Joanne mentioned her to me.”
    “What do you think of Joanne?”
    “My opinion of her is low enough that I don’t want to play doubles with her again. She’s a poor sport, challenges every call not in her favor, yells at poor Pierce if he loses a point. She’s actually a little scary when she gets angry.”
    “Scary?” This was the second time someone described her anger that way.
    “She opens her eyes really wide, and her eyebrows raise up crooked, and she shows all her teeth—it’s like an angry animal.”
    Wow. Betsy asked, “Has she ever become violent?”
    “I never saw her actually strike someone, though last time we played, she threw her tennis racket at Pierce and I think she meant to hit him. He knows how to calm her down, he’s very patient with her, more than she has a right to expect. I feel sorry for him, he’s such a sweet person, but if I were him, I’d have someone warm and kind on the side—and be damn careful