Death on a Deadline

She reached for my bowl, and I took it and set it on the table in front of me.
    “Thanks.” I had my carefully rehearsed speech prepared. Lead with a couple of questions about Dear Pru and then ease into some delicate questions about Hank and the empty pill bottles we found at the newspaper office. Contrary to my reputation at the diner, I could be subtle. Deep breath. “Actually, I wanted to see how you were doing and ask your advice about the Dear P—”
    “Lois is in the kitchen, washing up a few things. Do you want me to ask her for a bag for you to put your bowl in?” Marge actually wiggled her eyebrows and put her finger to her lips in a shushing motion.
    “Um, okay. Sure.” I guess she wasn’t exaggerating about keeping the Dear Pru identity a secret, if even her best friend was kept in the dark. So much for my lead-in to the real questions.
    Without waiting to be asked, Lois bustled out with a plastic grocery bag and handed it to me.
    “Here,” Marge said, taking the bag from me, “let me do it.”
    “Oh, thanks.” I relinquished the bag, wondering how to bring up the pills.
    I never thought I would be grateful to be the subject of gossip, but when Marge said, “I was over at Shear Joy for my weekly set yesterday, and Joyce said you had an argument with that boyfriend of yours at the bowling alley the other night.” I’d have kissed the garrulous beautician if she had been there.
    “Well, he isn’t actually my boyfriend, but yes, we had a small tiff. Speaking of Brendan, do you know if Hank was doing any kind of investigation of him or the pharmacy?”
    “I have no idea. Why do you ask?” Marge was still wrestling the bowl into the plastic bag, but her furrowed brow and pursed lips clearly said, “I’ll handle this,” so I left her alone.
    “What have you heard?” Lois leaned forward, obviously eager to hear the latest gossip. Guess she wanted to contribute her share at the beauty shop or pass along a little extracurricular knowledge at the library.
    “Nothing specific, you know, you just pick up things here and there.” Like empty pill bottles in freezers.
    “If he was investigating, he didn’t mention it to me,” Marge said, finally getting the bowl in the bag.
    “Well, do either of you know Anne Mansfield or Josephine Winston?”
    Marge was handing me the bowl, tied up neatly in a plastic bag, but before I could loop my hands through the handles, it slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.
    “Oh, Jenna, I’m so sorry.” Tears filled Marge’s eyes, and she squatted down to scoop up the bag of broken glass.
    “There, there, dear. Jenna knows it was an accident.” Lois patted her friend’s shoulder. She pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it to Marge.
    “Don’t worry about it. Honestly. It was a bargain-aisle special.” I took the bag and tossed it into the trashcan beside us. “At least it was all bagged up so we don’t have to get the broom, right?” Marge looked unconvinced, so I figured I might as well press on. “Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, Anne Mansfield? Josephine Winston?”
    Lois tapped her lips with her fingertip. “Those names don’t sound familiar to me at all, do they to you, Marge?”
    Marge swiped a tear away and arranged the dishes on the table to fill in the spot left vacant by my bowl. “No,” she said, thoughtfully, “but you know, our small town is growing so fast, all those big-city people moving to the country.” She sounded depressed by the idea.
    “I heard the other day that Harvey and Alice were thinking of putting the diner up for sale. I bet they won’t have any trouble selling it.” Lois was back to her gossip again.
    By the time I finished talking to them, Alex was long gone. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed, but the heavy feeling in my chest didn’t feel much like relief. I was almost to Mama and Daddy’s before I realized that neither of the ladies had even asked why I wanted to know about Anne Mansfield and Josephine Winston.
    I parked around back at Mama’s and went in the kitchen door. When Carly was upset, nothing could keep her from cooking. Not even the fact that she was still wearing her Sunday dress.
    “Where’ve you been?” Carly asked from the stove as she stirred a pot of something that smelled delicious. Mama’s old Kiss-the-Cook apron was draped around her dress. “And what was with the disappearing act?”
    “I had to talk to Marge.” I looked around the empty