I drove to the homeless shelter and handed them to Martin Mason, the manager. He offered his thanks and mentioned the morning news flash concerning Mrs. Peterson. To quell his interest and possible gossip mongering, I said I’d seen the news and was horrified by such a terrible experience. With that, I said goodbye and left him standing behind the serving counter before he could ask anything else. Bank deposit made, and my supplies ordered, I climbed the steps to my shop when I heard a car door slam. As part of our lease, tenants parked in the rear lot of our building. Who would handle the rentals now was anybody’s guess. I glanced over my shoulder. BettyJo Seever marched across the pavement, and I badly needed to discuss our dilemma. We’d been friends in college, had dated some of the same guys, compared notes on them, and now we lived next door to one another. The entire building stretched from one end of the block to the other. While each shop had its own entrance, a long, four-foot wide deck of sorts stretched across the back of the structure.
