Free Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) by Maggie Pill

we’d had lots of pets: cats, dogs, cows, pigs, even geese. When I left Michigan to practice law on the West Coast, there had never seemed to be a right time to get a pet. Apartments didn’t allow them, and my days were packed with busy-ness. Animals aren’t meant to be left alone in an apartment all day long. I convinced myself I wasn’t a pet person.
    But this cat had arrived in a new chapter of my life. Settled into my Victorian home on a side street in Allport, I was less hurried these days. When we met, the cat had been hungry, wild, and afraid of everything. Over time I’d provided food and, gradually, affection. Beginning with encouraging sounds, I’d moved to light touches on her head as she ate. We’d come to the point where she sometimes allowed me to stroke all the way down her back, with a little squeeze along her spine that made her twitch with pleasure—at least until she remembered how tough she was. She’d come to trust me a little, and I enjoyed the feeling.
    “Sorry I was so late, Brat,” I told her softly. I needed to choose a better name for her, but so far nothing better had come to mind. She was a brat, and I liked her that way.
    “I owe you a kitty treat, since you had to wait for your supper.”
    To remind me who was in control, the cat left while I went to get the bag.

Chapter Twelve
Retta
    Faye felt sorry for Clara Knight. Barbara admitted her case was sad but didn’t see anything criminal in Gail Sherman’s actions. I was somewhere in between.
    The property that was marked for sale but apparently wasn’t kept coming to mind. The sign might well have been left up due to an oversight, but the fact that the other realtor in Gail’s office was left in the dark was more puzzling to me. Working in the same office, the same room, the two women should have heard each other’s calls and discussed each other’s prospects. It was hard to imagine Gail not mentioning she had a buyer.
    I had a theory. If Gail thought she’d soon get her hands on her aunt’s place, she might have bought the property next to it for herself. The owner of half of Sweet Springs might do something with it, like build a resort. The area was quiet, and there was plenty of space for cabins or even condos, along with lots of nearby state land for hunting and the springs for fishing. The practicalities of developing a property that far from Allport were hard for me to imagine, but I’d be the first to admit I knew nothing about real estate.
    Faye had pointed out that Clara’s place didn’t seem like the property of someone with dementia. “Everything is put away,” she’d told me in a phone call the night before. “The house looks well-kept.”
    I’d formed the same impression during our stop, but we’d only seen the outside. The house might be a horror, with butter in the oven and dishtowels in the refrigerator. Clara might be like those people you see on TV who put balls of cat hair in dresser drawers and stack stinky, unwashed milk jugs in the hallway.
    Saturday is the day I miss my husband the most. Don seems to linger in the corners of our house and yard. In autumn I can almost see him raking leaves, composting the garden, or cleaning out the garage so two vehicles will fit inside during winter. I can almost feel the cold he used to bring back inside, clinging to his flannel. Because of that, I find it’s better if I leave home entirely and find something to keep my mind occupied. Barbara sneers at the number of organizations I join and activities I support, but she’s always been alone. I had to find things to do after Don died and the kids left home, or I’d have gone crazy. And as I said, the loneliness is worst on Saturdays, when everyone else is doing things with their families.
    Added to my need for distraction is my dog Styx, who loves new places to explore. He’s a Newfoundland, so some of his happiest moments come when he finds water he’s never taken a dip in before. Therefore, in a blend of