Ida leaned over her shoulder to see that she was scrolling through her contacts. “From Louisa Florio?”
Ruth nodded without looking up. “Her family’s Italian restaurant is on the road parallel to town hall. They have a security camera pointed at the parking lot which also happens to point in the direction of town hall.”
“Would that show the back entrance?” Nans asked, setting down her marker.
“Maybe. Depends on the angle.” Ruth found the number and tapped it. “And Louisa owes me after the turkey incident.”
“What turkey incident?” Helen asked.
“Thanksgiving. Don’t ask.”
Nans nodded approvingly, a small smile on her face.
Ida opened her purse and produced a half dozen cookies wrapped in a big napkin—peppermint pinwheels, gingerbread men, and what looked like snickerdoodles. She set them on the table like playing cards. “Bribe material.”
Helen stared at the napkin. “Of course you have bribe material.”
“I always have bribe material,” Ida said proudly. “Preparedness is a virtue.”
Ruth put the call on speaker and set the iPad in the center of the table. It rang once. Twice.
Louisa answered on the second ring, sounding harried. “Ruth? Is everything okay?”
“Louisa, I need a small favor.” Ruth’s voice was calm, efficient. “Do you still have your parking lot camera footage from last night and this morning?”
A pause. Dishes clattered in the background. Someone shouted something in Italian.
“I do,” Louisa said slowly. “Why?”
“Stanley Hooper.”
Louisa sucked in a breath sharp enough to hear through the speaker. “Oh my gosh. I heard. People are coming in here talking about it like it’s the only thing happening in the world.”
“We’re trying to help,” Ruth said. “We’ll trade you Christmas cookies. Fresh from The Cup and Cake.”
Another pause. The background noise faded slightly, like Louisa had moved to a quieter spot. “Okay, deal. But Ruth, if this gets my family involved in something?—“
“It won’t. We just need to see who was around town hall this morning.”
“Fine. I’ll send my nephew over with the drive.”
“Thank you, Louisa.”
“You’re going to owe me more than cookies,” Louisa muttered, and hung up.
Within an hour, Louisa’s teenage nephew dropped off a thumb drive, accepted the wrapped cookies with wide eyes, and left without asking questions.
They gathered around Ruth’s laptop at the dining room table, the teacups pushed aside to make room. Ruth plugged in the drive and pulled up the video files.
The footage was grainy, snow-dotted, black and white, but clear enough to make out shapes and movement.
“There,” Nans said, pointing at the timestamp.
At four-fifty-eight a.m., a truck rolled past town hall—slowly, like someone looking for parking.
“Whose truck?” Ida asked.
“Can’t tell from this angle,” Ruth murmured.
