Free Fillet of Murder by Linda Reilly

lemon ball in the sky that promised a stunning day. A coating of frost blanketed Nana’s tiny lawn, reminding Talia that Halloweenwas nipping at her ankles. She should probably plop a few pumpkins on the front step, the way Nana had always done.
    Talia groaned when she swung her Fiat into the town parking lot. Two enormous news vans had taken up residence along Main Street, squandering a slew of prime parking slots. She uttered a silent prayer that the arcade wouldn’t soon be plagued by the media.
    Using the key Bea had given her, Talia let herself into the eatery through the back door. Bea wasn’t in yet—a bad sign. Normally she was bustling around the kitchen by eight o’clock, performing her daily “changing of the oil” in the fryers.
    First things first: Talia fired up the coffeemaker. While the coffee brewed, she hauled a sack of potatoes out of the storage closet. She was filling a large pot with ice water when the kitchen door swung open.
    â€œMorning, Bea!” Talia said brightly as her boss stomped in.
    â€œMorning, luv.” Bea looked around distractedly. Charcoal bags hung beneath her lower lids, and her eyes looked cloudy, without their usual sparkle. Spying the row of hooks on the door, she peeled off her fleece coat and slung it over the middle peg, next to Talia’s flared jacket.
    â€œDid you manage to get some sleep last night?” Talia poured each of them a mug of French-roast coffee, adding a dollop of milk to her own.
    â€œVery little.” Bea ripped open a packet of raw sugar and dumped it into her steaming brew. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that bloo—blasted Turnbull.” She slugged back several mouthfuls of the scalding java.
    â€œI know what you mean. Yesterday was not a good day.” Talia had already decided not to tell Bea about her encounter with Jill in the lighting shop. Neither of them should havebeen there. In the light of day, the entire incident horrified Talia. What had she been thinking, rummaging like a thief through a crime scene? Her only consolation was the certainty she felt that Jill had nothing to do with Turnbull’s death.
    â€œI got a call from the police chief early this morning,” Bea said dismally. “The state police are going to ask every shop owner in the arcade to be voluntarily fingerprinted.”
    â€œThat’s not surprising,” Talia said. “It’s probably standard operating procedure in their little manual of murder.”
    Bea gasped over a mouthful of coffee. “The coppers have a manual of murder?”
    â€œNo, Bea. I didn’t mean it literally. I only meant that it’s probably part of a normal homicide investigation.”
    â€œHomicide,” Bea grumbled. “I hate that word.”
    Talia reached for the coffeepot and topped off Bea’s mug. “I wonder when the last murder was in this town. I mean, was there ever a murder in Wrensdale?”
    Bea lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Couldn’t tell you that, Tal. I wasn’t born here.”
    Talia still couldn’t grasp the concept of Derek Westlake as chief of police. She’d been a freshman in high school when she was recruited by her class advisor to tutor Derek in English. He hated his English class—and reading—with a purple passion. As a guard on Wrensdale High’s basketball team, he needed to earn at least a C or be kicked off the team. Talia had struggled to make reading enjoyable for him, but it had been an uphill battle for sure.
    â€œYou’ve got that glazed look,” Bea said.
    â€œI was just thinking about Derek when he was in high school. The real mystery is how he ended up being chief of police.” Talia gulped down her coffee, then pulled the potatopeeler out of the utensil drawer and grabbed a humongous spud from the bag.
    Bea snickered. “Did you have a crush on him?”
    â€œHardly. But I tutored him in English for a