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

curiosity, boredom, loneliness, and doggy indulgence, I drove out to Sweet Springs early Saturday morning—well, early for me. Before we left I spread a couple of old blankets over the back seat of my car so when Styx was done swimming, he could ride back there.
    The drive was even more scenic than last time, since the colors were really starting to pop. It had rained overnight, so the road was wet, but the temperature had already risen to the fifties with bright sunshine. There was no wind. The lake was peaceful and still when I pulled into Clara’s driveway. The house looked as empty as before. When I opened the car door, Styx just about knocked me down as he rocketed out of the car, ran directly to the lake, and plunged into the water without even putting a toe in first to check the temperature.
    While he enjoyed his cold bath, I turned to Clara’s house. My thoughts about butter in the oven made me wonder if the inside of the house would reveal the owner’s incompetence. Climbing the steps to the front door, I peered in. Everything looked the same as it had the first time I was there. I checked the back door and all the windows I could reach. Locked. Ignoring the little voice in my head that said I shouldn’t, I began looking for where she’d have stashed the spare key. Everyone has one, and it’s just a matter of thinking as they think. Would Clara put a key where it was most convenient for her or where it was least likely to be found? I figured somewhere in the middle—not too hard to get to, but not in plain sight either.
    I didn’t find it on the porch. My spare key hangs in my garage, but Clara didn’t have one of those. That meant it was probably in one of the sheds. Getting a flashlight out of my car, I went through them, searching three of the four before I saw it. Along the outside of the doorframe was a nail, and on the nail was a key. Not easy to find in the dark space, but low enough for Clara—and for me—to reach without stretching.
    The key fit the front door, and, with a slightly guilty glance around to be sure I wasn’t being observed, I entered Clara’s house. I was not snooping, though I could almost hear Barbara Ann sniffing in disapproval. Clara had asked for our help, and I was trying to get an understanding of exactly what her situation was. In the end, what I was doing would help everyone.
    The place smelled musty, as old homes do after being closed up for any time at all. The entryway had pegs on the wall for outerwear, and I noted an assortment of old coats on one end, probably for working outside, and better ones on the other, no doubt for going into town.
    Beyond that, the living room opened to the whole width of the house. Only one corner seemed occupied: a comfortable chair, a table stacked with books and magazines, a television set into a cabinet so it could be hidden from view, and a laptop leaned against the table leg. Noticing the chair had distressed patches, I concluded there’d once been a cat. Since Clara hadn’t mentioned it, I assumed it had crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
    Husband and cat both gone. Poor Clara. No one can replace your spouse, your other half, but the love of an animal helps. I pictured her seated in that rocker, holding her cat each night until it, too, died. No wonder she’d turned her affections to her “girls,” the chickens.
    Pulling myself out of that particular pit, I went on to the kitchen, which was more modern than I expected. Twin ovens hinted at a love of cooking, and the large refrigerator held more than two people could eat, much less one little old lady. The plants I’d expected were located there, where they got lots of light. I couldn’t name most of them, but I guessed that Clara, being a scientist, had interests beyond raising geraniums and spider plants. The soil in the pots felt dry, so I watered each of them generously, hoping that would sustain them until a decision was made about Clara’s future.
    I took a quick look at the