Sheriff Walter Grayson stood like a military guard. Well over six feet, his once-impressive chest had lost its battle with gravity. Most middle-aged men acquired some social polish, but the newly-elected sheriff had all the charms of film patrolman, Robocop. Even his voice was robotic.

"We're not suspects," Dana sputtered. "Sarah and I play bingo with Alice every Saturday night."

Disbelief registered in his heavy, arched brow.

"Not much happens here on weekends when you live a mile from town. Especially when the fog rolls in." Dana wondered why she was making excuses. They had nothing to hide.

The sheriff lifted a notepad from his crisp uniform pocket, his pen ready for answers. "Your full names, ages, and addresses?" he said.

"What does age have to do with the murder?"

"Routine questions, ma'am."

She hesitated long enough to make the sheriff scowl. "Dana Marie Logan. I'm ... fifty-nine and I live here in the village." She waited for him to ask for her social security number. Before long they would be tattooed on everyone's wrists.

"You don't look old enough for a retirement village," he said.

"My husband was sixty-seven when he died two years ago."

"I see." He abruptly turned to Sarah. "And you, ma'am?"

"Sarah Anne Cafferty. I'm the same age as Dana. My second husband, Terry, was sixty-four when lightning hit him last fall. He was swinging a five iron on the village course."

"How long did you know Alice Zimmer?"

"Several years." Dana was acutely aware of the sheriff's impatience. "We're all members of the Sew and So Club."

"So and So?"

"Needlework and gossip." Dana pantomimed sewing.

"I want all the members' names. And her friends while you're at it."

"They're one and the same, Sheriff." Dana listed nine women, including herself and Sarah.

"The two of you break into the Zimmer house together?"

"Alice gave us keys. She was afraid of another heart attack."

"Everybody in the club have one?"

"Just Lana, Sarah, and I."

"Three with opportunity." He continued scribbling.

"You can't suspect us." Sarah said, her voice shrill. "Alice was our friend."

"Everybody's suspect, Miz Cafferty. Where were you all day?"

"Home," she said indignantly.

"Together?"

"We talked on the phone. I was telling Dana--"

"No alibis," he said, without looking up.

Before they could protest, he asked when they had last talked to the victim.

"Last evening," Dana said, glaring. "Sew and Sos met at her house."

"Any squabbling at the meeting?"

"No, Sheriff, we all get along quite well."

"The Zimmer woman must have had an enemy."

"Alice was well liked in the village. That's what makes her death so baffling."

Settled among her sofa pillows, Dana watched as Sarah scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

"You have more mystery novels than Border's Bookstore, Dana. How many do you read a week?"

"Two or three."

"Looks like everything Doyle and Christie ever wrote."

"You'll find contemporary writers as well: Clark, Grafton, Leonard, Sayers..."

Sarah thoughtfully sipped her tea. "They can help us solve the murder."

"How?"

"We know more about sleuthing than that newbie sheriff ever will."

"That doesn't give us the right to snoop."

"All those mystery novels you've read," Sarah said, "and the tons of reports I typed for Terry..."

Dana envisioned the pink marble urn, which contained Terry's ashes, setting on Sarah's mantle. Terry Cafferty had been an anomaly, an unassuming P.I. with one apparent vice, an occasional pipe bowl of Prince Albert.

"...and between us, we can track down Alice's killer."

"This isn't a 'Murder, She Wrote' board game we're playing, Sarah Cafferty. Suppose the killer discovers us first?"

"We'll be careful."

She obviously wasn't herself so Dana decided to humor her. "Let's discuss the case with Terry. A private investigator's advice is exactly what we need."

"A séance, you mean?"

"Our resident psychic conducts them on a regular basis."

"Tamara?"

"She even owns a crystal ball."

Sarah shook her head, apparently dismissing that idea. "We don't look at all like detectives, so no one would suspect us of investigating the murder."

Dana surveyed her friend's double chin and glittering light blue eyes. "You do resemble Shelly Winters more than Angela Lansbury."

Sarah mimicked the actress. "And you, Logan? A mature Geena Davis."

Dana deliberately dimpled her cheeks, although she wasn't up to smiling. "All right, where do we start?"

"Suspects."

"I can't think of anyone who'd want to kill Alice."

"I can."

"Who?"

"Harold Samuels."

"You can't be serious."

"Remember that sweet smell at Alice's house?"

Dana nodded.

"She's allergic to perfume."

"That's right, she was."

"Kind of smelled like Harold."

"That horse liniment he wears?"

"Harold's bursitis gave him away."

"Honestly, Sarah, how many seniors use arthritic rubs?" Dana answered the question herself. "Nearly everyone."

"Harold must've killed her."

Dana recalled an argument between them at a recent garage sale. "Harold argues with everyone, including Pastor Williams."

"Alice slapped him a good one when he wrestled that trowel away from her. I've never seen her so mad."

"That's still no reason to kill."

"It might've been enough for the village grump."

Dana shook her head in exasperation. "How do you plan to prove your theory?"

"Return to the crime scene and take another whiff."

"The strangest thing I saw," Dana said, attempting to distract her, "was that cord in Alice's hand. She could have snatched it from the killer, and he panicked and used the lamp."

"Harold could've dropped something."

"The police have sealed the house by now. We'd be suspects if they caught us snooping."

"Set your alarm for three o'clock and don't forget your sneakers. They make 'em in size thirteen, don't they?"

"Eleven-and-a-half, you mush melon. They're hard to find in my size."

"Then wear that old pair of Earl's you use for gardening." Sarah's impish grin dissolved into a determined line. "If you're not up by three-fifteen, I'll go alone."

Worried, Dana agreed. Her friend was stubborn enough to investigate on her own, and she knew why. Sarah had understudied her husband for years, just waiting to play detective.

Both women were dressed in dark clothing, each pocketing Terry Cafferty's investigative tools. Heavy flashlights would serve as weapons as well as illuminate the crime scene. The dense fog made Dana claustrophobic, but it didn't deter her friend. Sarah was like an eager child equipped with a magnifying glass.

When they reached Alice's house, yellow crime tape blocked their paths. Carefully ducking beneath the barrier, they stopped for a moment to listen. Satisfied they were alone, Dana fumbled in her pocket, wondering why the sheriff had not impounded their keys. She removed her gloves and crouched to find the keyhole.

"Terry will vacate his urn," she whispered, "when he finds out what we're doing."

The night air was cold and damp, but perspiration trickled from beneath Dana's knit cap, a reminder of the felony they were committing. Her hands trembled as she inserted the key in the lock. At last the tumblers fell and the door swung open, but her friend hesitated on the threshold.

"Where's the cat?" Sarah whispered.

"They probably took him to the animal shelter." Dana sighed as she nudged Sarah inside. Her fear of felines was a longstanding village joke. Once in the foyer, they switched on flashlights, directing their beams at the floor. Dana cringed when she noticed the chalked outline of Alice's body. The inexperienced sheriff must carry his own chalk.

"That sweet smell's gone, Logan."

"It probably aired out when the crime team was here."

"I wonder why they didn't clean up all this fingerprint powder." Sarah swung her light along the baseboards. "Let's search for anything missing."

"Alice's silver tea service is still in place. A burglar would have taken it."

"Somebody might have scared him off."

Dana focused her light on a freestanding bookcase. The contents appeared to have survived an earthquake.

"Her scrapbooks were kept there."

"Why would the killer want them?"

"Sheriff probably took them," Sarah said as she led the way to Alice's bedroom.

Although nothing seemed out of place, the closet door was open. Clothing had been pushed aside and shoes were scattered on the floor.

"Alice's silk blouses are falling off the hangers."

"The bureau drawers have also been searched." Furious, Dana imagined the killer rummaging through Alice's queen-sized underwear. Or had it been the sheriff?

Dana crouched beneath a window, attempting to peer inside. Dense fog pressed in from all sides, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her peripheral vision picked up a vague figure moving toward her in the fog. An upraised lamp glinted faintly in the haloed street light. Before she could scream, a telephone rang on the sill beside her head. Groping for the receiver, she pulled it to her ear.

Sarah's voice, high-pitched and yawning, jarred her fully awake. "Breakfast, Logan? Crepes are ready for the pan."

"Good grief, Sarah, don't you ever sleep?"

"Bring some blackberry tea, will you?"

Dana berated herself for agreeing to Sarah's crazy scheme. She would convince her--gently, of course--that tampering with the crime scene could earn them jail time. Rehearsing her lecture, she slipped on pale green sweats. Her ancient sociology degree had not prepared her for sabotage, but Sarah's obsession with solving the murders could get them both killed. She'd have to persuade her to investigate from a distance.

Smiling, Sarah answered the door wearing a new fuchsia jumpsuit and stained butcher's apron. Dana's mood lightened in response. Reasoning with her friend would be easier than she anticipated. She followed her into the small, orange and white kitchen. Better to wait until after breakfast, she decided. She would talk to her later about her diet.

Sarah was buttering her third piece of toast when the doorbell rang. Dana waited at the table, finishing her tea. Recognizing the monotone voice, she braced herself for further questioning. She wondered whether the robotic sheriff had been assembled in Silicone Valley. She much preferred Ed McBain's fictional Detective Carella.

Once they were seated in the living room, the sheriff asked how well they knew Betty Wilson.

Sarah said, "She's a Sew and So, Sheriff."

He scrutinized them both. "When's the last time you saw her."

Sarah's hand crumpled the front of her fuchsia blouse. "You don't mean..."

"Just answer the question."

"When was it, Dana?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Betty was fine."

When Dana pressed, the sheriff admitted that Betty had disappeared. Her husband reported her missing at midnight when she failed to return from bingo.

She sensed Sarah's anxiety and slid an arm around her shoulder.

"I strongly advise you to keep your doors locked until the perpetrator's arrested," he said. "If you have to go out, use the buddy system."

"We're no longer suspects, Sheriff?" Dana noticed he had relaxed his rigid stance.

Ignoring her question, he cautioned them again about security.

Once the door was double-locked behind him, Sarah insisted, "We've got to find Betty."