The full moon shone through the front window; outside Jefferson could hear the dissonant strains of night creatures’ lullabies. He jumped as the clock on the desk cried midnight.
Was it right to assume Fred Coomer knew what was going on? Anybody could have shopped at his store and everybody in Lake Derry did, sooner or later. Actually, it would be odd if Fred had penned the note, seeing how the owner of the store wouldn’t likely purchase from himself, and no receipt would be issued.
Jefferson checked the receipt again. It was dated three days ago (four now, he realized) and noted the purchase of a ball-peen hammer, two boxes of sturdy nails, and a shovel.
As much as he disliked the man, he’d check with Coomer in the morning. Even if Fred was blameless—doubtful that was ever fully possible—he might remember the customer. Jefferson’s hands were tied at this hour. He leaned back and slept with worry for the coroner’s impending visit.
Little did he know, the coroner was dying in his sleep at that very moment.