“Tomorrow?” Emily said. “I need to take care of something first. Then I’ll meet you guys at the storage unit. I’ll bring coffee and donuts.”

“Donuts?” Her mother made a sour face.

“Trust me. You’ll like these donuts. I wonder if I should bring the camera I use for making the videos.”

“Bring it. Though I don’t think Ruth is going to feel sentimental about disposing of stolen property.”

It struck Emily that a few days ago her biggest concern had been figuring out how to deal with Mr. Murphy’s potentially stolen property without getting arrested. Now that was the least of her worries.

29

THURSDAY

THE NEXT MORNING, Emily checked up and down the street before leaving the house. She knew she was being paranoid, but if the police were seriously considering her a suspect in Walter Newell’s murder, they’d be tracking her movements. But there were no cars she didn’t recognize parked on the street. Nevertheless, she took a circuitous route to Java Connection and scanned the main street after she parked, hesitating before she got out. There was a line of cars at the shop’s drive-through. From the sidewalk you could smell coffee and the lingering aroma of hot fat from frying donuts. The day hadn’t heated up yet, and the door to the café was propped open.

Emily paused by the spot where she’d parked in front of Walter Newell’s car on Sunday night. A silver SUV was parked there now, and rain had long ago washed away the coffee spilled in the gutter. She looked around for the CCTV camera that Sergeant Stanley claimed had captured the hit-and-run. The closest one was at least a hundred yards away at the corner, mounted on a pole over the stoplight. If Frank was right, that camera was much too far away to get a clear picture of anything that had been going on where she’d been parked. Plus it was aimed down toward the intersection.

She entered the coffee shop. The air was filled with thumping percussion and jazzy guitar riffs along with the whir of beans grinding and the sucking sound of an espresso machine, though most of the customers sitting at the tables seemed to be drinking their coffee iced as they stared mesmerized at cell-phone and laptop screens. Three registers were open, fed by a single line of customers.

Emily looked for the barista who’d come to her rescue the other night with paper towels and coffee on the house. Not at any of the registers. Or clearing tables. Then Emily spotted her behind the counter twisting a coffee scoop onto an espresso machine. Today she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, but she wore the same gold hoop earrings and macaroni bracelet.