Dead Between the Lines Read Free Page A

to the salary I’d been making as an investment consultant as I’d gotten since buying the store.
    A familiar voice snapped me out of my greedy reverie. “Devereaux!”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I involuntarily straightened my spine, then pasted a smile over my startled expression. Mrs. Ziegler, the book club president, was standing on the threshold of the dime store’s open door, her face twisted into an impatient frown. Evidently, I was blocking her path, and judging from the tapping of her impeccably shined black pumps, I had been doing so for quite some time.
    She had been the principal of the high school for as long as I could remember, and although everyone called her Mrs. Ziegler, no one could recall a Mr. Ziegler. Not that anyone had the nerve to question her about him.
    I stepped out of her way and she swept past me, stopping near the glass-front candy case. For a nanosecond, I thought she wanted to purchase a delectable piece of vanilla-caramel-praline fudge or the candy of the month, a lavender lemonade truffle. Instead, she smiled and said, “Thank you for allowing us to meet in your store.”
    “You’re very welcome.” I admired Mrs. Zeigler, but in a scared, she-might-humiliate-me kind of way. She was always immaculately dressed, usually in a well-tailored skirt and pristine blouse. And neither heat nor rain seemed to affect her perfectly smooth black chignon. When I’d been in school, I’d half believed she was a robot or some other nonhuman life form.
    “But . . .” Mrs. Zeigler waved her index finger back and forth in front of my nose. “Fifteen dollars for refreshments is outrageous. If we come back here, the cost will have to be much, much lower. Understood?”
    “While I’m honored you chose my store . . .” I automatically started to refuse to negotiate, since spending more hours away from Gran would only be worthwhile if I could make a huge profit. But I stuttered to a stop when I realized that ticking off one of Shadow Bend’s most influential citizens would not be a good idea.
    “Yes?” Mrs. Zeigler crossed her arms. “So you’ll lower the price?”
    Thinking fast, I said, “I could do that if I served pastry and coffee.”
    “Hmm.” Mrs. Zeigler pursed her mouth. “No. That won’t do at all. I doubt many of our members would be happy without their alcohol.”
    “My only other option would be to serve less expensive wine and cheeses.” There was no way I was making less on the arrangement, so something else had to give. “I could do a jug red and white, with grocery store cheddar, Colby, and pepper jack for ten dollars per person.”
    “It’s a deal.” Mrs. Zeigler adjusted her purse strap to sit more securely on her shoulder. “By the way.” She pointed to my worktable where I, thankfully, had gathered the retro-themed materials for Mr. Anders’s retirement party basket and not the sexy paraphernalia for the country club’s Girls Night Out raffle. “Good job on those Easter baskets you made for the Athletic Booster Club’s fund-raiser.”
    “Thank you.” I glanced discreetly at the vintage Ingraham schoolhouse regulator hanging on the wall behind the cash register. It was already a few minutes after seven. If I didn’t get this show on the road, I’d be here all night. “I heard the boosters made enough to buy new uniforms for all the teams and the cheer squad.”
    “Yes, they did.” Mrs. Zeigler pressed her lips together, creating a parenthesis of wrinkles around her mouth and a deep valley between her dark eyebrows. “But the latter had to be returned. The cheerleading coach’s judgment left much to be desired.”
    “What a shame.” The clock was ticking and Gran was expecting me no later than nine thirty. If I didn’t move things along, she’d give my share of the pizza to her cat. “We’ve got chairs and tables set up in the craft corner.” I gestured toward the rear of the store. “I believe everyone but your speaker is here, and I’ll bring