It was easy to find Mrs. Granger inside the general store, and Meg had been spot on when she described her as Yoda. She was a little cotton-haired lady of indeterminate age and shape, sitting on a padded wooden bench near an antique stove, her four-wheeled walker parked close by. She was quietly knitting fingerless gloves by the light of the large window next to her, and obviously eavesdropping on the lively conversation at the checkout register ten feet away.

“Mrs. Granger?” Kathy asked. She held the pink cinnamon roll box in her hands, waiting.

“Shhhhh! Just a minute…”

Kathy shifted foot to foot while the checker wrapped up her conversation with the chatty customer and thanked her as she headed out the door.

With a satisfied sigh, the old lady settled back on the bench. “Now, what can I do for you, dear?”

Kathy held out the box. “Robin said I should come talk to you, and she sent over some pastries.”

The toady little woman’s eyes lit up, and she made excited “ooo” sounds as she grabbed the box.

“Have a seat!” She gestured vaguely at the wooden bench next to her as she dug into the first roll.

“Sorry to shush you, but I was listening to Mary Anne Bates tell Myrna about her new Chrysler. You know, she’s not a bad person, except she forgets to vote and she does grow the marijuana down in her chicken shed.” Mrs. Granger pulled a huge piece of icing off the top of the roll and waved it at Kathy. “I don’t like that. It’s not healthy,” she said, as she expertly crammed the chunk of frosting into her mouth.

After a couple minutes of enthusiastic chewing, she came up for air and smiled at Kathy.

“You’re the lady with the problem buried under her scarecrow, or rather, the problem that WAS buried under your scarecrow.”

“You know about that?”

“Oh honey, I read the paper like a good taxpayer should. I’m figurin’ you probably came to ask me about why Emmett wound up in your garden, six feet under.”

“Um, it was more like four.”

“Whatever.”