Page 38 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“I didn't order this.”

“You also haven't eaten, judging by the look of you. Eat.”

I didn't argue. June had been feeding Hartwell Cove since 1974, and challenging her when she decided you needed food was a waste of everyone's time.

“Have you heard anything useful?” I asked quietly.

“I've heard plenty of things,” she said. “Useful is another matter. Someone claims Harvey's ex-wife was seen leaving town before the murder. Someone else says Owen had a screaming match with him in the parking lot. A third person has decided the killer must be a stranger because nobody local would do such a thing.”

“People don't seem to understand that repeating something doesn't make it true.”

“People understand it perfectly well when it's their own reputation at stake. When it's someone else's, they get careless.”

She glanced toward a table near the front, where an older woman in a neat green coat sat nursing a cup of tea. I'd seen her around town for years, though I couldn't have told you her name. She had a shopping bag tucked beneath her chair and was listening to the conversation at the next table with a troubled expression.

June lowered her voice. “That lady's been trying to decide whether she ought to tell the sheriff something. She's been sitting there for twenty minutes, and every time she looks as though she's ready to get up, someone starts talking over her.”

I looked toward the woman again. “Do you know what it is?”

“Not a word. I haven't asked. I don't want to put ideas into her head, and neither should anyone else.”

I appreciated that. June might enjoy a good bit of gossip as much as anyone, but she knew the difference between conversation and interfering with a police investigation. I finished my coffee and carried the empty mug to the counter. As I passed the older woman's table, she looked up.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You're Max Cooper, aren't you?”

I nodded.

She gave me a small smile. “You're a bit of a local celebrity with the books and all. I thought I'd seen you around the festival last night.”

I nodded again, acknowledging that she was right. My Willow Moon books had given me a certain amount of recognition around town, though I still found it strange when people treated me as though they knew me personally because they'd read about my fictional witch.

The woman glanced toward the window, then back at me. “Do you know how to get a hold of Sheriff Mercer? You two seemed to know each other rather well. I have something I think I ought to tell him.”

I felt my shoulders stiffen. Of course she'd noticed Josiah and me together. Apparently, the whole town had. I kept my expression neutral and said, “I can give you the sheriff's office number, or June can call for you if you'd rather.”

“No, I can speak to him. I just wasn't sure whether it was important enough.”

“If it concerns Harvey, it's worth telling him. He can decide what's important.”

She nodded, looking relieved that someone had finally given her permission to take her own memory seriously. “I was at the bank on Wednesday or Thursday. I can't remember which day exactly. I had some paperwork to sort out, and I was waiting near the offices when I heard raised voices from one of the back rooms.”

I remained beside her table, careful not to sit down or make it feel as though I were questioning her myself.

“It was Harvey arguing with a man,” she continued. “I couldn't see the man's face clearly. He came out of the back room while I was waiting to speak to someone, and he looked very angry. He had a dark jacket and a folder tucked under his arm.”

“What did you hear?” I asked.

The woman pressed her lips together, concentrating. “The man said, ‘You should've let sleeping dogs lie! That was twenty years ago!’ I remember because it struck me as a peculiar thing to say in a bank. Harvey told him they should discuss it privately, but the man said he'd had enough of private discussions and walked out.”

A chill moved down my back. I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the receipt in my pocket, trying to steady the sudden flutter of unease. The words were different from the message I'd seen Harvey receive on Friday, but the meaning was close enough that I couldn't dismiss the resemblance. I didn't know whether the man at the bank and the person who'd sent the text were the same person, but the possibility was impossible to ignore.

“Did you recognize him?” I asked.

“No. I thought he might be local, but I couldn't swear to it. He seemed familiar in the way people sometimes do when you see them around town, but I couldn't place him. I didn't tell anyone because it seemed like a private disagreement, and I didn't want to interfere.”

“You're not interfering by telling the sheriff what you remember,” I said. “You don't have to know what it means. Just tell him exactly what you heard.”

She looked down at her tea. “I remember the weather, too. It started raining just as I left the bank. I had to run to my car because I'd left my umbrella at home.”