I straightened the brand new shingle that jutted out beside the back door: A. Fox, Private Investigator. A is for Addison. Silly name for a girl, but it’s mine.

After Sam died, I was angry for a long time. So angry in fact, that I took a six-year nap. Finally I quit blaming him for leaving me alone. No children. No pets. Not even a guppy. Police officers shouldn’t be allowed to marry. It ought to be in the Constitution.

So I had to do something with my life—a life that was barreling toward middle age and a weight problem. The only thing I’d ever been really good at was listening to Sam talk about crimes and clues and suspects. He called me his “review committee” and we swatted ideas back and forth like badminton birdies. I had a ferret fixation. I like to nose around in other people’s business.

When I made the trip to the Mulberry Municipal Building to apply for a business license, I knew I couldn’t put busybody on the application, so I just jotted down “Private Investigator.” Mulberry’s a speck of a town that humors its citizens, especially the widow of one of its finest. The application was granted with a condescending smile and a pat on the hand.

I set up a small office on the glassed-in back porch of my house: a desk, file cabinets, a phone—your standard stuff. Now all I needed was something to poke around in—and something would happen. Mulberry’s small, but scrappy.

I was having my morning coffee and dreaming about a couple of Krispy Kremes when I heard a car door slam. I recognized the top of the spriggly head bobbing just below the windows. I followed it along the walkway that ran from the driveway around to the back. It was Ralph “Shady” Finch, Mulberry’s one and only cab driver. Shady knows the town well—and what’s squirreled away in the darkest corners.

“Morning, Foxy Lady,” he said and pointed at the coffeemaker.

I nodded for him to help himself. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

His slight shoulders shrugged beneath the Atlanta Braves baseball jacket and he reached for a cup.

“Heard about the bank robbery?”

“Mulberry Community?”

“The one and only. Somebody walked in just as the doors were opened this morning and cleaned it out.“Anybody hurt?”

“Nope.”

“They have any idea who it was?”

He smirked. “My money’s on that new man who waltzed into town a week or so ago looking for work.”

“Black hair, skinny mustache, polished looking? Always wearing those designer shades?”

“Yeah—but I’d say more slick than polish.”

“Did they get him on the security camera?”

“What was to get? He wore a full-face mask and gloves. Warned poor Hazel that he had a gun, shoved a paper bag at her and told her to fill it. Hazel ripped it—you know how nervous she gets. So she grabs up one of the bank’s night deposit bags—one of those with Mulberry Community Bank stenciled on the side—crams it full of bills and hands it over.”

I nodded and thought about poor Hazel.

He took a gulp of coffee. “’Course old man Marshall, after peeping out from his private office to make sure the coast was clear, called 911. Chief Witherspoon and Billy Joe came lickety-split, and I hot-footed it over to tell you.” He scratched his stubbled chin. “I figured you’d be interested.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a snoop. Besides, I thought you might mosey over for a looky-loo.”

I shook my head. “They don’t need me getting in the way.”

“Are you kidding? Spoony and Billy Joe couldn’t find a lightning bug in a dark room; Sam was the only good one.”

He didn’t have to remind me. “Guess I’ll pass,” I said.

Shady drained his coffee cup. “Ten-four,” he said and gave the thumbs up.

I poured another cup of coffee and thought about the bank robbery; smart move hitting at the first of the month. I took a sip of coffee and thought about the donut shop on Main Street. It just happened to be in the same block as the bank. I reached for my coat and car keys.

* * *