Irene thanked Betsy profusely for “this most interesting experience,” and went her way. Betsy returned to the shop.

When she walked in, Joe Mickels was waiting for her. “I’ve come to see who’s paying the rent,” he said. “Or are you going to make me put in a claim against the estate?”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “The corporation didn’t die; it is an immortal entity.” She remembered reading that somewhere and was pleased to note he was familiar enough with the concept to look a trifle diminished. In fact, as she approached him, she saw that he wasn’t a whole lot taller than she was. Funny how she remembered him as a big man. Perhaps it was that fierce Viking face, with its bristling sideburns. And the fact that he was a landlord and the bane of Margot’s life for many years. His legs, she noticed now, were very short and a little bowed. She wondered if there had been a shortage of milk while he was growing up.

“I assume you want the check sent to the same address where Margot sent it,” she said, stepping around him to go behind the desk and opening the center drawer to get out the Crewel World checkbook. “Or, since you’re here, shall I just give it to you directly?” She pulled a pen from a small basket of pens, pencils, foot rulers, and scissors and prepared to write.

“The September rent has been paid, so you have a month’s grace,” he grudged, and handed her a business card with his name and a post office box number on it. “Send October’s rent here.” Some of his arrogance returned. “And don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” she snapped, and promised herself she’d live on milk and crackers if necessary to make that true.

He turned and looked around the store, nearly restored to its former state. “Not many customers,” he noted.

“We’re doing fine,” she said. “By the way, I’ve just been talking to the man investigating Margot’s murder.”

“Yeah?” he grunted, but there was a flicker of interest in his ice-blue eyes.

“He told me he has a suspect in the case.”

“Who?” The word came sharply.

“He wouldn’t say. I told him—say, would you like a cup of coffee?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What for?”

She feigned exasperation. “Because I’m having one, and it’s only common courtesy to offer. Do you take cream and sugar?”

Wordlessly, he nodded, and wordlessly took the pretty cup when she brought it to him. His fingers were too thick to fit even one through the small handle.

“It was so horrible about Margot,” she said, stirring her own sugared cup. “I didn’t think things like that happened in small towns.”

“It’s a city.”