The rhythmic ka-click, ka-click of the price tag machine rang through the Second Chance Thrift store on Sunday afternoon. The crew consisted of a rather introverted bunch. As the store was closed Sundays and Mondays, the Sunday volunteers were a group that had self-selected to avoid the stress of customer service. 

Jeffery sat tinkering in with the electronics, trying to fix a fuse here and there to give an old toaster or blender the chance of a new home. Betty sat arranging and rearranging vases and trinkets at the end of each aisle, a task that Suzanne and Dottie secretly discussed was a waste of her time given the large volume of merchandise that needed sorting and shelving. Suzanne's main area was housewares. It was Dottie who sat currently on a stool beside Suzanne down marking items that had already been on the shelves for over a week.

"Suzanne, do you mind tidying the books please," hollered Sharon from the front of the store where she was doing the books. 

"Sure thing," replied Suzanne who complied despite hating leaving Dottie alone, because she would quickly get confused about which item needed marking down and they would likely spend however long Suzanne spent arranging books, peeling markdown tags off of dishes and cups.

The books were indeed a mess and Suzanne resigned herself to spend the next hour sorting them. As she flipped books right side up and pulled books forward that had been shoved behind other books she pulled out what looked like a mangled spiral-bound school notebook.

"This belongs in office supplies," she huffed to herself. Before she set it aside, she flipped through the pages to be sure it wasn't too used to be resold. To her annoyance it had been filled from cover to cover. Some pages contained what looked like grocery lists, some pages some text that looked like journal entries. She was about to flip it into the garbage bin beside her, when on one of the final pages of the notebook her own name caught her attention as the page went past - Suzanne Chesterfield. 

She paged backwards until she found it again. There was her name contained within a short paragraph of prose.

Suzanne Chesterfield. Approximately seventy-five years old, widowed. Sister of Jeffrey. Motive - can't stand how Sharon flaunts her wealth. Likelihood of committing murder 6/10.

Suzanne's eyes turned as big as dinner plates and she sat down so the other's wouldn't see she had stopped working. As she read on sure enough there were descriptions of each of the others on the Sunday shift and a few names she recognized from other days of the week. Her mind raced. What could this mean?

A scream followed by the sound of glass hitting the floor and shattering interrupted Suzanne's train of thought. She and the others jumped up from what they were doing and ran to the source of the scream - Betty. 

Betty stood there at the end of the isle where she had been working, pointing a shaky wrinkled finger at the broken vase that lay at her feet. Amongst the shards of pink pottery lay a human hand, blood streaming from its severed wrist.