"The wine."

"I don't look over twenty-one to you?" Nick asked as he extracted his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

"Don't know what you look like. Only know I need a date for this here machine," he said, pointing to the cash register. "State law."

Nick flashed his wallet, which was opened to the clear plastic pocket that contained his New York State driver's license.

"Hmph," the clerk remarked as he peered over the top of his gla.s.ses. "You're the fella who bought the old Colton place, aren't you?"

"That's right."

If the Buckleys had antic.i.p.ated the clerk's question to be a springboard for further discussion, they were sorely mistaken. Instead, he rang up the final item and silently hiked a thumb toward the total on the register to indicate that payment was due.

His wallet still in hand, Nick pulled out a dark blue debit card and searched the counter for the familiar keypad and card-swiping mechanism.

"We don't accept debit cards. Credit or cash only."

"I don't have cash."

The clerk pointed to the back of the store, where a bright red neon sign identified the gray mechanical device beneath it as an ATM.

Nick rolled his eyes at the blatant money-making scheme. "Can you run it as a credit card?"

"Won't post to your account 'til Monday."

"Yeah, that's okay."

"Suit yourself." The older man complied and, a few moments later, produced the same card, a pen, and a cash register receipt. The items on the counter remained loose beside the till.

"Do you think I could get a bag?" Nick asked as he signed the receipt.

The clerk heaved a heavy sigh, pulled a tall, thin brown paper bag from beneath the counter, and slid the wine bottle into it. Everything else he left.

"Gee, thanks. Thanks a lot," Nick said sarcastically. As he replaced his wallet in his back pocket and gathered up the air mattress and flashlight, Stella grabbed the wine and the chocolate and led the way to the shop door.

Once they and their purchases were safely ensconced in the Smart car, Nick looked at his wife and said, "You know, I can't wait to see Crazy Maggie again."

"Really? Why?"

Nick looked over his shoulder and backed out of the Perkins parking lot. "Because after meeting some of the yahoos in this town, I can't help but wonder how Maggie got the crazy label and no one else did."

"Hey, at least you didn't have Barbara Bush's ugly stepsister giving you the hairy eyeball."

"Yeah, really-what was that all about, anyway?"

Stella recounted Bunny's allegations against Alice. By the time she finished, they had arrived back at camp. Nick stepped from behind the driver's wheel and removed the air mattress and flashlight from the back hatch. "Do you think Bunny's telling the truth?"

Stella grabbed the wine; the chocolate bar had already made its way into her oversized leather handbag. "Yeah, I do, actually. She might have exaggerated a few of the details, but, fundamentally, I think her story's accurate."

"You're positive she's not just trying to get her boss into trouble? Because it seems strange to me that she'd tell you all of this and not the police."

"It seemed strange to me too. So I asked her."

With the car's headlights shining upon the front of the camp, Nick opened the front door, placed the air mattress and flashlight on the kitchen table, and proceeded to light the gas lamps. "And?"

"Well, there are two things standing in her way. First, she's afraid that she'll lose her job."

"She could give the police an anonymous tip."

"Second, she's afraid Alice will come after her next."

"Again, an anonymous tip would solve that problem. Likewise, I hope you explained that if Alice is the killer, we're all safer with her behind bars. Even if it got to the point where Bunny needed to testify in court, the police would make sure she was protected."

Stella threw her bag on the sofabed, placed the wine on the coffee table, and kicked off her high-heeled boots. "That leads us to the second part of the conversation. Apparently Bunny doesn't trust Sheriff Mills. It seems Weston had been frequenting the Sweet Shop as of late and apparently had his eye on Alma."

"So our hunch about their comments this morning was right: they did know Weston better than they let on. Well, at least Alma did, but that puts Mills in the role of the jealous ..." Nick struggled to find the right word.

"Stalker?"

"I was going to go with admirer, but I guess a guy who clogs his arteries with jelly doughnuts every morning just to see a woman he never asks on a date could qualify as a stalker too."

"Ya think?"

"Does Bunny suspect Mills of pulling a Hank Reid?"

"A what? Oh, shooting the boyfriend," she shook her head and laughed. "She seemed undecided about that. At first she leaned toward no, but then she saw something that-"

"Changed her mind?"

"No, something that freaked her out."

"What did she see?"

"I have no idea. That's when she ran out of the store and headlong into you."

"Think it had something to do with Mills?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. All I can say with any degree of certainty is that although Bunny may be wary of Mills, she's definitely frightened of Alice. When I asked her if she thought Alice could be the killer, she replied with a definite yes."

"How about you? Do you think Alice murdered Weston?"

"I think it's completely possible. In addition to having a strong motive, Alice knew that Weston would be working on our well yesterday. And she was actually at the house around the time Weston was shot."

Nick nodded and then zipped outside. He returned several seconds later with his car keys in hand. "The thing that bothers me is, for some reason, I can't imagine Alice using a hunting rifle."

Stella flopped onto the sofa and pulled her cross-st.i.tch supplies out of her handbag. "Why not?"

"First off, where would she have gotten it from? It's not like she has a gun rack in her car." He took a multifunction knife from his pocket, extracted the corkscrew tool, and set to work opening the wine.

"No, but if she knew Weston was going to be at our house, she could easily have taken a rifle from the house and put it in the trunk. Who knows? It's hunting season. She or her husband might have had one in the trunk anyway."

Nick popped the cork. "Okay, so we'll a.s.sume Alice had the rifle. She goes to the farmhouse, gets into it with Weston, and bang, she shoots him. What about the recoil? Alice is shorter than you and doesn't appear to be in very good shape. I doubt she has tremendous upper body strength. Few women do."

Stella started st.i.tching the letter E on a blank piece of ivory Aida cloth. "What's your point?"

"The point is that a hunting rifle can have a powerful recoil-powerful enough to injure a shoulder if you're not careful or not used to firing rifles." He retrieved two mismatched juice gla.s.ses from the kitchen cupboard. "Alice didn't seem to be in pain when we saw her."

"For all we know, Alice goes hunting with her husband all the time. I'm sure lots of women around here do."

"Yeah, but she'd still be sore."

"A sore shoulder is easy enough to hide, Nick. It's not like a leg injury, which would cause a limp."

Nick nodded and filled each gla.s.s with wine. "True enough. Still, it will be interesting to hear her side of things. You know, when the police talk to her."

Stella st.i.tched another letter E three s.p.a.ces to the right of the first one. "I'm not telling the police anything yet."

"What? Why? She could be the murderer."

"She very well could be, but she could also be innocent. I'm not sending the authorities breathing down Alice's neck based on the story of some wire-haired woman we don't even know. Although we may not be close personal friends, we've known Alice for six months now. I think we owe it to her to let her tell us her side of the story before we go calling the cops."

Nick placed the gla.s.ses of wine on the coffee table. "I suppose. I just hope we're not getting in over our heads. I know you feel you have something to prove, but this is serious business, Stella."

Stella put down her cross-st.i.tch piece and grabbed her gla.s.s of wine. "I realize that, but we're already involved, Nick. I don't see any other option but to move forward with our own investigation, particularly if Mills has a personal interest in keeping the ident.i.ty of Weston's killer under wraps."

"You mean if Mills murdered Weston."

"Or if Alma did. It was apparent from Alma's comment that Weston had done something to hurt her. If Mills is protecting himself or her, this case could be open for a very long time."

Nick sat beside his wife. "Jeez, I didn't even think of that. We could be out of our house for months."

"Not only that, but who would bring Mills and/or Alma to justice?"

"Someone would have to report their suspicions to Mills's superior."

"Exactly," said Stella. "In order to do that, someone has to get to the bottom of things first. That someone is us."

"And to think just last week we were complaining about the stress of moving and buying a house. That seems like a cakewalk compared to this."

"I know. But if we devise a plan of attack, we should be able to put things together fairly quickly. Tomorrow, we start at the beginning of the alphabet, namely A as in Alice and Alma."

"Alma? You're not talking to Mills first?" Nick asked.

"Why would I? Given his remark this morning, it's clear he knew something was going on between Alma and Weston. I want to know what that something was."

"Probably just a fling, because unless there's a side to Alma I'm just not seeing, I can't imagine why she'd go for a guy like Weston."

"Maybe Weston was a different person around Alma. Maybe she brought out the best in Weston, kind of the way I do for you."

Nick clinked his gla.s.s against hers. "I think you have that the wrong way around. If anyone brings out the best in anyone-" he finished the statement by pointing to himself and then his wife.

"Dream on," she teased and then took a sip of wine. "Mmm, speaking of dreaming, shouldn't you start blowing up the air mattress?"

Nick swallowed a mouthful of wine and chuckled. "I'm not using lung power, you know."

"I know that. But it takes a little while, doesn't it?"

"Nope," he stood up and walked over to the kitchen table, where he had placed the folded mattress minutes earlier. "I got the mattress that comes with an air pump. Once we plug that baby in, it'll only take a ..." his voice trailed off.

Stella stood up and joined him. "What? What's the matter?"

"The pump is electric. We don't have electricity."

"Oh, no. Isn't there some other way to power the pump?"

"Sorry. I'm afraid I left my pocket generator in my other pair of pants."

"What about the car cigarette lighter?"

"Only if you want to set it on fire. I don't have a converter."

"So it's ..." She sighed and flopped back onto the sofa.

Nick flopped beside her. "Yep. Another night in the Slinky factory."

CHAPTER.

11.

STELLA AWOKE TO the sound of the camp door slamming shut, followed by the intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She opened her eyes to see Nick perched on the edge of the sofabed, a white paper bag in one hand and a disposable cardboard tray bearing two coffee cups in the other.

He leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder and then her lips. "Morning."

Stella smiled and stretched. "Good morning. What's all that?"

"Alma's to go."

"Wow, you've been busy. What time is it?"

"Eight thirty. I got up and couldn't go back to sleep."