Dealing in Murder

The blood-soaked sweatshirt was making Molly Doyle gag. Gingerly pulling it away from her body, she was thankful for the police windbreaker she'd been loaned. With her hair tucked up in a baseball cap, wearing jeans and sneakers, she was ignored by the invading television reporters. Slumped against the police car, fighting nausea, she looked like a rookie unable to handle her first dead body. She wanted to kick herself for not having her wits about her yesterday when she bought the desk from the dead woman. If only she hadn't been so greedy, so anxious to get to the other garage sales, she might have thought to check the damn desk. It hadn't occurred to her it might be locked.

And now, because of a stupid little key, she was a major player in a murder investigation. Eyeing the cluster of police huddled around the body in the driveway, she turned away from the patrol car and stole a glance at the growing crowd beyond the yellow tape. Mumbling ever so politely above the sounds of the surf behind them, the residents of Carmel's Scenic Road were soon joined by beach joggers and tourists drawn to the pulsing lights of the three patrol cars blocking the village's most traveled and expensive residential street. The magnificent view of Carmel Bay, and its famous white sand beach, took second place to the grisly scene before them.

Molly pulled the brim of her cap down, sucked in her breath, and pounded her fist against the car. She should have left after calling 911. The natural instinct to be a good citizen was going to kill her chance to start over. Ordered by the first cop on the scene not to leave, she knew it was the beginning of the end. The minute the