THE YOUNG WAITRESS brings us our order at the table along the sidewalk, me an iced coffee in recognition of the time of year, Helen a chicken salad on croissant with a sweet tea.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says before tucking into the sandwich. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” she explains with a mouthful of food.
“No, I ate earlier,” I say. “Busy?”
She nods before swallowing, washing the sandwich down with a gulp of tea. “A couple of cases. No murders, thankfully. You know, this was a quiet town before you came back. Since then, two murders. All associated with Saint Clare’s.”
I laugh. “Are you saying I’m responsible?”
She smiles. “If I were a more suspicious person, I’d have to wonder. But it’s just a coincidence. Probably.”
“Well, you’ll have more opportunities to find out.” A
