“I’m perfectly fine,” Violet retorted. “That blasted bell just scared me.”

You’re jumpy.

“I am not jumpy. I am sixty-six years old. I don’t jump.”

A muffled snort of laughter came from Trudy. Violet stared at her sister, but before she could say anything, Tyler walked back to the front of the shop. “I’m going down to the Shack for a quick bite to eat. Can I bring y’all some lunch?”

“That’d be great,” Maya said. “Let me grab my purse.”

“It’s okay. I got it. What about you two?” He tipped his chin toward Violet and Trudy. “Can I get y’all anything?”

Trudy nodded and reached for the pad of paper on the counter, but Violet stopped her. “You know what? Why don’t you both go with Tyler and eat there. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

“Better yet, why don’t you come with us and we’ll flip the Closed sign around for half an hour,” Maya said. “People will understand.”

“No, you all go on. I’ll wait here. Just bring me some catfish and a lemonade.”

With the three of them gone and the shop empty of customers, Violet exhaled in the stillness. Her hands were shaky, so she busied them by grabbing a duster and moving through the shop, dusting and refolding and adjusting. After a few minutes, her hands calmed and her breathing slowed, as it always did when she meandered between the racks and shelves in Two Sisters.

When the bell jangled a moment later, she smiled, ready to greet her next customer. But she felt certain the man who stood just inside the door wasn’t a regular customer.

The police officer was young, with light blond hair, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders. His uniform was crisp, navy, and official.

Violet’s heart stumbled. “Can I help you?”

“Hello. I’m looking for a Trudy Figg. Is she here?”

“I’m sorry, she’s not.” She didn’t mention Trudy was just down the street. Violet prayed for a long lunch line.

“Are you her sister, by any chance?”

Violet straightened her shoulders. “I am. I’m Violet Figg.”

“Violet, I’m Justin.” He offered a small smile. “I just have a few questions. Would you mind if I run them by you?” He was already pulling a small notebook from his chest pocket. He clicked the button on his pen and wrote something on the top page.

“What is this in regard to?”

“Earlier in the summer, I was trying to find information about some car burglaries in town when I ran across a photo of a boat that had washed up in the river. I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. Seems like everyone has.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “It shouldn’t have been anything—things wash up in the river all the time—but after a little digging, and a very persistent newspaper reporter, I’m . . . well, I’m starting to wonder if this is more than just an old, forgotten boat.”