Page 63 of Death on Gallows Path

Way to go, Florence.

DAY SEVEN

SUNDAY

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I eased into the day, padding around in my pjs and robe to care for the dogs and procure sustenance in the form of yogurt and blueberries. Then I opened the manuscript on my computer and stared at it. Scrolled. Scrolled more.

Until Clara called.

“I have people we need to talk to. I’ll pick you up.”

She made it sound like a meeting with crime kingpins.

“I need to take a shower and—”

“Hurry up. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

* * * *

Walking across the Historic Haines Tavern’s porch, I spotted familiar faces through the window.

“More like crime queenpins, who know their baked goods,” I muttered.

“What?” Clara asked, already entering the door ahead of me.

“Nothing.”

Since its nineteenth century beginnings, the Tavern’s been a private home, a tavern with rooms to rent for the night, and now is a restaurant with a terrific Sunday brunch. They do it up big, then close for the rest of Sunday and all day Monday.

The women around the large table in what originated as a front parlor already had an array of baked goods, as well as the other mainstays of a Haines Tavern brunch. They waved us over to join them.

Good thing I didn’t overdo it on yogurt and blueberries.

“This should help make up for not having the best friend as a good source,” Clara said under her breath as we approached them.

Smart.

With friendly greetings, they directed Clara to an empty chair. In the moments while they arranged another seat for me, I had an overview of the gathering.

It offered a classic Which one doesn’t belong? with Clara being the correct answer. She was a generation younger than the others. From their friendship with Clara’s late mother-in-law and their regard for Clara, they would share their knowledge gleaned from connections blanketing North Bend County.

“Heard you took baked spaghetti casserole to the Georgers’ house for Pammy Swindell yesterday,” said Violet. “Always loved that dish.”

Concurring murmurs swept the table.

“We did—”

I interrupted Clara. “Not we. Clara, alone. The casserole was all her doing.”

These murmurs were knowing and approving for giving the credit where it was due.

“Was your visit productive?” Linda asked.

Our investigating was well known to this group.

Clara looked around the table. “Not as much as we’d hoped. Naturally, we wanted to express our sympathies. We also hoped to find out more about Damon Swindell. You know, background, relationships, things like that.”