Page 70 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“No, but one of them makes you look considerably less grumpy.”

Ricky leaned over the counter. “I knew it. The sheriff's hair is the key to this whole thing.”

I stared at him.

He held up both hands. “I'm kidding. Mostly.”

Tammy reached for the folded paper beneath the counter and tucked it into a drawer. “There. No more suspect rankings today. We have actual work to do.”

“Fine,” Ricky said. “But when this case is solved, I expect both of you to acknowledge the value of my contribution.”

“I'll acknowledge that you provided a much-needed distraction,” I told him.

“And the hair?”

“Especially the hair.”

He beamed, apparently satisfied with this concession. Tammy rolled her eyes and went back to the appointment book, and the salon settled into its usual rhythm of ringing phones, conversation, and the snip of scissors. Outside, a couple walked past the window carrying shopping bags, and a car slowed at the intersection before turning toward the harbor.

Hartwell Cove looked much as it always had. That was the strange thing about a murder in a small town. The familiar places remained familiar, but every conversation seemed to carry an extra weight, every passing stranger invited a question, and every ordinary detail threatened to become significant if someone looked at it the right way.

I didn't want to start seeing the whole town as a collection of suspects. I had a job to do, a manuscript waiting at home, and a sheriff who was better equipped than I was to separate facts from speculation. If I heard something that mattered, I'd tell Josiah. Until then, I could let Ricky have his ridiculous theories without allowing them to become mine.

I glanced once more at the drawer where Tammy had hidden the board. “Just so we're clear, if you bring that thing out again, I'm not helping you rank anyone.”

Ricky gave me an innocent look. “Of course not. You're a writer. You understand that every good mystery needs a suspect list.”

“Every good mystery needs evidence.”

“Details, details.”

Tammy laughed, and I joined her. For the first time all afternoon, the laughter came easily. Ricky might not solve anything with his hairstyle theories, but perhaps that wasn't the point. The salon was a place where people came to talk, where gossip surfaced alongside ordinary complaints and the small details of daily life. Sometimes those details would matter. Sometimes they wouldn't. Until we knew which was which, the best thing any of us could do was remember the difference between a story that sounded convincing and the truth. And if Ricky's suspect board stayed in a drawer where it belonged, all the better.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHAT SHE SAW IN HIM

MAX

By the time we gathered at Tammy’s for Sunday dinner, Ricky had apparently decided that his hairstyle-based suspect board deserved a place in the history of criminal investigation. He brought it up while Tammy was putting the last of the roast potatoes into a serving dish, explaining that he’d made several improvements since our visit to the salon the day before.

“Improvements?” Tammy asked, giving him a look over her shoulder. “You mean you’ve added more names to your list of people you suspect because of their hair?”

Ricky looked offended. “Not just their hair. I’ve refined my methodology.”

“You don’t have a methodology,” Tammy said.

“I have a process.”

“You have colored markers and too much free time.”

I took the serving dish from Tammy before she could drop it on his foot. The potatoes smelled wonderful, crisp at the edges and dusted with enough seasoning to make my stomach growl. Sunday dinner had always been one of the few dependable things in our lives. The three of us took turns hosting, and whoever wasn't cooking helped with the preparation and cleanup. Ricky was technically allowed to cook, but none of us had forgotten the year he’d nearly set a dish towel on fire while attempting to flambé something he’d seen on television.

“I thought you were going to put the board away,” I reminded him.

“I did. It's in a drawer.”

“Good.”