Page 32 of Just One Little Bargain

“Hmm.” Her lips purse. “You’re out there alone. Have you thought about getting better locks? Maybe a security system?”

“My locks work fine.”

“Jim installed ours and did a great job.” She’s already pulling out her phone. “I’ll text his number to you.”

“Sandra, really—”

“Done.” She looks up, satisfied. “Now. Festival flyers. I printed extras for your guests.” She thrusts a stack of glossy papers at me.

I accept the bundle with its bold headline: BRINDLEWOOD HARVEST FESTIVAL - THREE WEEKS AWAY!

“Thanks.” I tuck them under my arm.

“We’re at capacity everywhere.” Her expression brightens, the police gossip briefly forgotten. “Even that awful chain place on Route 7. In September!”

“That’s great for everyone.”

“It is.” She leans closer. “So . . . Rebecca mentioned your visitor was male?”

Of course she did. She could turn a library fine into a federal investigation.

“I should get going.”

“Of course.” Her shoulders slump. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

Fall has colonized Main Street. Corn stalks stand sentry around each lamppost, threaded with copper-wire lights that somehow manage to glow even in the morning sun. Burlap-wrapped hay bales have appeared at every corner, already serving double duty as seating for tourists with paper cups of cider. Someone replanted the flower boxes along the storefronts, swapping summer colors for deep burgundy mums, ornamental kale, and dark trailing ivy that looks almost black in the shade.

The bakery has propped its door open, and the warm bread smell collides with the tangy-sweet scent of fermenting apples drifting from the farm stand at the far end of the block. Mrs. Abernathy is sitting on the bench outside the post office, eating a scone the size of her fist, and reading a paperback with a shirtless man on the cover. She does this every morning. Same bench. Same scone. The shirtless man changes weekly, though.

A kid in yellow rain boots stomps through a pile of leaves on the curb, scattering them across the sidewalk that someone definitely just swept. His mother’s gaze remains fixed on her phone.

The scarecrow outside Once Upon a Shelf has undergone its daily literary transformation. Yesterday, it clutched How to Win Friends and Influence People in its straw-stuffed hands. Today, it’s holding Pride and Prejudice. Rachel and her girlfriend must think they’re hilarious. Two women I don’t recognize are photographing the display, angling their phones to catch the arrangement.

My steps slow outside the florist. The river path appears between the buildings, willows bent low over the gravel, and for no reason I can explain, I nearly turn toward it. A bicycle bell rings behind me, snapping me out of it. I shake my head and force myself to keep walking.

Peter’s out front of Brindlewood Hardware, broom in hand, making a show of sweeping the same three leaves back and forth. He’s owned the place since his father retired four years ago, and in that time, the only visible change has been the addition of a chalkboard sign that says NAILED IT! with a cartoon hammer. He still thinks it’s funny. Nobody has had the heart to tell him otherwise.

Broad and doughy, he has a reddish beard that’s gotten longer every year I’ve known him. His hands are rough and perpetually nicked, with a bandage always wrapped around at least one finger. Today’s flannel has faded from red plaid to a tired pink, the collar fraying along the edge.

His face brightens when he spots me.

“Evie! Hold on!”

I consider ignoring him, but decide that would be rude.

“Hey, Peter.”

“I heard about last night.” The broom clatters against brick as he abandons it. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Well, I just got in those compact pepper sprays with the UV dye.” He gestures toward the store. “Good stuff. Totally legal. I could set one aside for you.”

“I don’t need pepper spray, Peter.”

“What about a baseball bat? I’ve got aluminum and wood. The aluminum types are lighter, but the wood ones have better—”

“Peter.”