Stranger Danger (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 4)

Huh. Everything Shirley has said tonight is true. Not that I ever really thought she was capable of murder. But … well, you never know.

“When you were at the house, making sure that Betty Jean was all right, did you see or hear anything unusual?”

“Just that horrible music.”

“I heard that you were one of the people that Jefferson Pike and Archie Clements swindled in their publishing scam. Is that true?”

Poor Shirley. She looks mortified. “Yes, I was one of their foolish victims. But I’m getting all my money back. Rusty and Travis told me once the FBI clears the investigation, I should get a check. It might not be a lot of money to most people, but five thousand dollars for me … well, you probably know because of your brother, but my late husband didn’t leave me in a very good position.”

“I’m glad you’re getting your money back, Shirley.” And then because I can’t help myself, I say, “So you wrote a novel?”

Her face lights up. “Oh, I’ve written a dozen. Thank you for asking! I have the copies in my den. Wait, let me show you.” She hops from her chair and scurries into the next room. That’s one impressive hip replacement.

Will leans over and whispers, “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Quiet!” I hiss seconds before Shirley comes back carrying a huge manila folder in her hand.

“No one’s read them. Except that Jefferson Pike when he was pretending to be J.W. Quicksilver. He said they were wonderful. But of course, that was because he was trying to get my five thousand dollars.” She frowns. “Do you think he just pretended to read them?” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I know you don’t read these kinds of books,” she says to Will, “but everyone in town knows you have excellent literary tastes. Would you mind reading them and giving me your opinion?”

Will gives me a look, then takes the envelope from her hand and opens it up. I lean over to see to a dozen neat little paperclipped packets inside. Will pulls one out. “The Case of the Perplexed Parishioner,” he reads aloud. “That’s the title of your story?”

She nods enthusiastically. “That’s the first one. They all center around a widow who works as the secretary at a Catholic church in north Florida. She solves murder mysteries.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Will chokes out.

I give him a pleading look. “Will would love to read your stories,” I say.

“You would?” Shirley asks him eagerly.

Will doesn’t miss a beat. “It would be an honor.”

And this is just one of the many reasons why he’ll always be my best friend.

He stands. “I think we’ve taken up enough of your time, Shirley. Thanks.”

“When do you think you can get back to me?” she asks. “With your critique?”

“Um, give me a couple of weeks,” he says.

We’re almost to the door when I remember something. “Shirley, I’m confused. You said you were ashamed about something. Something that you didn’t want Sebastian to find out or you could never look him in the eye again. What were you talking about?”

“Why, leaving the rectory thirty minutes before I was supposed to, of course. What did you think I was talking about?”

Will waits until we’re in the car to bust out laughing.

I slink down in my seat. “Okay, so I was wrong about Shirley.”

Even Paco looks like he’s laughing. I can see all of his teeth. “Did you eat an onion today?” I ask my dog. “Because your breath is out of control.” He clamps his jaws shut. “You did, didn’t you?” He lifts his chin in the air like he’s not going to dignify my question.

“I could have told you that Shirley didn’t kill Jefferson Pike,” says Will. “No special skills needed there. Admit it, Lucy. This is a dead end. We aren’t going to figure this out in the next twelve hours, so we might as well get some sleep.”

As much as I hate to agree, Will is right.

“There’s no need to get my publishing company involved. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll go down to the police station and tell Fontaine that I’m J.W. Quicksilver.”

Chapter Eighteen

I have trouble sleeping, but I force myself to stay in bed until four, then I get up, take Paco for a walk and start to make the muffins. Betty Jean comes down into the kitchen around four thirty wearing another one of my favorite T-shirts. The slogan reads MUFFINS RULE, DONUTS DROOL.