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“Moneywise, smartass. Though you’re right. The guy is packing, if you know what I mean.”

She raised her eyes heavenward.“I don’t think I want to know.”

She studied the sweater some more. Gran had snipped off the wash care label, which had contained the note. So whoever had made this sweater had wanted to cry out for help, and make sure the message went out. But then why hadn’t they also added instructions for whoever found the message? Weird. She decided it wasn’t really worth looking into. She knew that top designers like Ziv Riding had all of their clothes made in countries like Bangladesh or India or the Philippines. So whoever had left this desperate message was way out of reach.

“This is just so horrible,” she said, as she pictured a woman or man or even a child chained down in some sweatshop on the other side of the world, having to make these clothes so they could be bought by rich Westerners, making the designers who exploited these workers even richer.

“Yeah, Ziv Riding is a douche.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t even know his clothes are made in these sweatshops. A lot of times they just hand over production to a company.”

“Then they should make sure those companies don’t use sweatshops.”

She was right, of course. Then again, there wasn’t much she could do about that from where she stood. So she handed the note back to her grandmother, along with the sweater. “Where did Leo buy this?”

“In one of the boutiques on Main Street. So are you going to expose this Ziv Riding? Are you going to write a tell-all expos? about the guy?”

She shook her head.“I can’t, Gran. I can’t accuse him of anything without more information.”

“So gather more information. You’re a reporter. That’s your job.”

“I’m just a small-town reporter. I don’t write stories like this. I write about a new shop opening on Main Street. Or that traffic lights were out again at the intersection. Or about the council meeting. I don’t expose international scandals.”

“Well, I think you should.” Gran held up the note. “This is an outrage. Those poor people wrote this note hoping someone would find it. Someone with the guts to stand up to people like Riding. Someone who’d save them.”

She held up her hands.“Well, that person isn’t me.”

“Wimp,” Gran muttered, dumping the sweater behind the counter.

“Gee, thanks, Gran. I don’t see you climbing the barricades or picketing outside Ziv Riding’s office.”

“Well, maybe I will,” said Gran. “Maybe me and Leo will do just that.”

Sure. That would make Ziv Riding quake in his designer boots. Gran and Leo picketing his office. When they weren’t too busy smooching.

Chapter 9

Dooley and I passed into the offices of the Hampton Cove Gazette. It wasn’t a difficult feat as the editor kept the door unlocked, in case a member of the public decided to step in and regale him with some fresh story or offer comment on an article he’d written. Dan is a fixture in Hampton Cove, and you can’t miss him. He’s a smallish man with a big, white beardand lots of laugh wrinkles around his eyes. These days he mainly takes care of the business side of running a paper and lets Odelia write the articles.

We passed by Dan’s office, where the editor spent most of his days, and on to Odelia’s, smaller office, right next to his. She was at her desk, pounding away at an article, presumably about the murder. In spite of what you might think, murders rarely happen in Hampton Cove, so when one does happen, it’s a big deal.

“Hey, guys,” she said as we rubbed against her leg. She picked me up and put me on her desk. I proceeded to lie down on her keyboard, easily the best spot in the house as it gets most of Odelia’s attention.

She gently gave me a push, and I reluctantly scooted over, idly playing with her mouse until she took it away from me and placed it out of reach. Humans. Never any fun.

“So we discovered a clue,” I said.

“And I discovered that I’m about to die,” Dooley said morosely.

She stared from me to Dooley, clearly not sure where to begin, so I decided to help her out.“Montserrat, the cat that belongs to Erin Coka, told us her friend Fred saw a black Tesla parked in the alley behind the restaurant last night. And she’s sure it doesn’t belong to the owners of the place or anyone who works there.”

“I’m wasting away,” Dooley announced.

“So whoever killed Niklaus Skad drives an obsidian black Tesla,” I said. “Don’t thank us, thank Montserrat. And Fred.”

“It must be cancer,” Dooley continued. “What else could it be?”

“Um…” Odelia said. “First of all, thanks for the Tesla thing? Secondly, why do you think you’re dying, Dooley?”

“It’s Montserrat’s fault,” I told her. “She may be great at ferreting out crucial information like the killer’s ride, but she sucks at social niceties. Like, she told me I was fat? And then she went and said Dooley must be sick he’s so thin. I mean, who does that, right?”

“Montserrat is right. I am freakishly thin,” Dooley said.