“Look, we get it.” Lindsay set the torn pink packets on the table before reaching for her spoon. “You're doing your job. But dredging up every little detail about Heather's life isn't going to change what happened. Whoever killed her wasn't from Harrowick.”
“You sound very certain about that,” Sylvie noted as she let her gaze drift toward Desmond. He was still at the counter, no coffee or breakfast plate in front of him. “Why?”
“People here take care of their own. If someone local had been giving Heather trouble, the whole town would have known about it.”
The sentiment seemed to be shared by everyone who resided in Harrowick.
“And yet someone did kill her,” Sylvie replied softly. “Someone who knew enough about her routine to gain access to her home without forced entry. Someone who got past Paula Stillman.”
Lindsay and Steph exchanged uncomfortable stares. For the first time since they’d taken the seat across from Sylvie, they seemed to accept that maybe they were wrong.
“I'm not trying to upset either of you,” Sylvie continued, her tone gentle but persistent. “But Heather's life was taken by someone who knew her patterns, her habits. And if her regular Thursday outings were part of those patterns, it could be significant to understanding what happened to her.”
The diner had grown quieter around them, as if the other patrons were still straining to catch snippets of their conversation, very much like Desmond Brewer.
“If Heather had some regular Thursday appointment,” Lindsay said finally, “she never mentioned it to us. And we told each other everything.”
“Wait,” Steph said as she adjusted the strap of her watch. She hadn’t reached for her topped-off mug at all. “Heather did mention meeting up with Clyde about that painting, remember? Maybe that was on a Thursday after school, and Paula made more out of it than was needed.”
“Clyde?” Sylvie asked, wanting confirmation. Brook and Theo were at the Crescent Ridge Elementary School, interviewing at least three individuals who had worked with Heather. “Clyde Weaver? The school’s custodian?”
“Yes,” Steph responded, frowning at the implication that he could have been the one to kill Heather. “He’s a nice old man. He found an old painting sealed up in one of the unused classrooms. He asked Heather to take a look at it.”
“And did she?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a big deal,” Steph reiterated. “The painting was done by some local artist from the 1930s or something. Heather had studied art history, so he asked for her opinion on whether it was worth something.”
“How many times would you say they met about this?”
“Maybe twice? Clyde was just hoping for a windfall, I think.”
In her peripheral vision, Sylvie noticed movement at the counter. Desmond Brewer had stood from his stool, accepting a white paper bag from the waitress. Maybe his presence was nothing more than a coincidence.
“And did Heather ever mention what happened to the painting afterward?” Sylvie asked, dividing her attention between Steph and Desmond.
“I don't think so,” Steph said, her brow furrowing slightly. “Heather never mentioned it again, and I assume Clyde either threw it away or kept it for himself.”
Desmond tucked the takeout bag under his arm. As he turned toward the door, his gaze swept across the diner and locked with Sylvie's for a brief, charged moment. His face remained impassive, but there was a tightness around his eyes that spoke of calculation rather than coincidence.
“Desmond and Heather were friends, you know,” Lindsay offered suddenly, following Sylvie's line of sight. She lifted a hand in greeting, and Desmond did the same before exiting the diner. “We all think he was sweet on her. He made her birthday cakes every year since we were in middle school.”
“Desmond's not much for socializing, but he had a soft spot for Heather. Everyone did,” Steph said, turning one side of her mouth down in sorrow. “Heather even helped him with the design for his shop's logo when he took over the bakery from his mom. She had a real eye for that sort of thing.”
The painting represented a new avenue of investigation, and Sylvie would text Brook and Theo to ask Clyde Weaver about it during their interview.
“Thank you both for meeting with me this morning,” Sylvie said as she reached for her purse. She collected all three checks and laid them out in front of her. “My treat. And please, if you think of anything else that might be helpful in our investigation, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Sylvie retrieved two business cards, handing them both off before she pulled out her credit card. Before too long, both women had slipped on their jackets and headed for the door. As they left the diner, Sylvie caught sight of Desmond standing across the street. He’d yet to enter the bakery.
Maybe, just maybe, it was time for Sylvie to speak to the man himself.
Who better to have information on Heather Moore than the one who fancied her?
13
Theo Neville
January 2026
