The Stoneham branch of the U.S. Postal Service was located in a neat brick structure on the south end of town, its windows outlined in crisp white paint. A row of four small, cheerful-looking uncarved pumpkins sat outside the door. The Stars and Stripes flapped in the stiff breeze above her as Tricia entered the squat building.

Forty-something Ted Missile seldom wore his official Postal Service uniform. He often came to work in a polo shirt or a Patriots’ sweatshirt. On the other hand, his boss, Postmaster Barbara Yarrows, could be counted on to be dressed in full regalia, from her regulation blue blouse down to her official uniform slacks or skirt. She was definitely old-school civil service, whereas Ted had taken the job after being laid off from a tool-and-die shop in Milford. Ted knew everybody in the village and greeted them by name. Barbara didn’t. Tricia was glad it was Ted who stood behind the counter, and hoped he would be able to tell her what she needed to know.

Luckily, only one other person was inside the building. Tricia nodded a hello as the woman checked her mailbox, withdrew the contents, locked it again, and headed for the door.

“What can I do for you today, Tricia?” Ted asked. “Do you need a book of stamps? We’ve got a new ‘dead entertainer’ stamp out this week.”

“Sure, I’ll take a book. But I’ll have one of those pretty flowered ones, instead.”

“Coming right up,” he said, and shuffled through the drawer, pulling out the correct one.

Tricia withdrew a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, which he accepted and made change.

“You want that in an envelope?”

“No, I’ll just put it in my purse.”

“Everything okay with you and your sister?” Ted asked, leaning across the counter and speaking low.

“Okay?” Tricia repeated, playing dumb.

“I mean, about that poor woman being found behind Angelica’s new café the other day. You found her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, and sighed. It was expected that everybody in Stoneham knew her business and would ask about it-but sometimes it just got old. “Poor Pammy. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her.” Except maybe the person she was blackmailing, if that’s what she was doing.

“She came in here the other day, you know,” Ted said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“No, I didn’t,” Tricia lied.

Ted nodded. “Had a great big envelope filled with papers. Two ounces’ worth.”

“Ted,” Barbara warned from the back of the post office.

“You wouldn’t happen to know who the envelope was addressed to, would you?”

Ted looked over his shoulder. Barbara was pointedly staring at him. Ted turned back to face Tricia and shook his head, but mouthed the words “Stuart Paige.”

“The millionaire philanthropist?” Tricia whispered, in mock awe.

Ted nodded and whispered back, “It went priority rate. She even paid extra for delivery confirmation.”

“Ted,” Barbara warned.

“I understand Pammy got mail here, addressed to General Delivery,” Tricia said.

“A few letters. There might be one here now,” he said, and bent to paw through a stack of envelopes under the counter. “Yeah, here it is.”

Tricia’s breath caught in her throat, and she resisted the urge to snatch the letter from his hand. “I don’t suppose you could give it to me? I was, after all, her best friend.”

Ted shook his head. “No can do. It would be illegal.”

“It might be something Captain Baker of the Sheriff’s Department might want to see. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

“Oh, yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Maybe you should give him a call,” Tricia hinted.

“Ted,” Barbara said again, her voice growing more piercing. “There’re several boxes that need to be taken out back. Could you do that now?”

Ted jerked a thumb in Barbara’s direction. “She’s a real witch, ya know.”

“No,” Tricia said, voice hushed.

“That’s just between you and me,” he whispered.

She nodded as Barbara called more stridently, “Ted!”

“See you later, Ted. Bye, Barbara.” Tricia headed for the door.

As Tricia started back to her store, she reflected on everything she knew about Pammy’s activities just before her death. She’d made copies of several pages of the diary, and the diary’s cover was red. Big deal. She had no clue as to where the diary was or how to prove the copied pages had been delivered. Had Baker found a delivery confirmation receipt among Pammy’s things? If not, where was it? Could it have been in her purse? Tricia could ask Captain Baker, but she still didn’t feel she had enough evidence to present to him. And for all his kind words so far, was he likely to accept her word? Ted could back up her story-but so what? No one could prove that Pammy had sent Paige copies of the diary pages. The fact that Lois saw her make copies, and she asked for directions to the post office, and then Ted had weighed and stamped an envelope destined for Stuart Paige, didn’t mean the two events necessarily had to be related. At least, Tricia had read enough legal thrillers to know a judge would likely rule in that direction.

And who had written the letter to Pammy that she’d never picked up at the post office?

The voice on the phone had said, “Give back the diary.”

Again Tricia was faced with the same question: What diary? And give it to whom? The caller hadn’t been clear about that, either. Maybe she was supposed to find the diary and the next call would tell her what to do with it. If that was the case, all she could do was wait and see if another call came in. And since the other calls had come at night, she had the whole day to kill before that would happen.

Unless the caller got antsy.

Tricia pulled her car into the Stoneham municipal parking lot and parked it. She was sure that the only books she’d seen in Pammy’s car’s trunk when Captain Baker had asked her to inspect the contents had been their college yearbooks.

Tricia had once had a little girl’s diary bound in pink floral fabric with a little silver lock. Angelica had found it, broken it open, and not only read every page, but relayed its contents to the entire family at Thanksgiving dinner.

She pushed that unproductive thought away, grateful her relationship with her sister had improved since those days.

During the two weeks Pammy had been her guest, Tricia hadn’t seen her friend read anything-not a newspaper, not a book, not even the back of a cereal box. In fact, now that she thought about it, why had Pammy been so keen on keeping the box of books? Perhaps to resell? But nothing in the box had been of any real worth. It was probably only the diary that had been valuable-and only to the person who wrote it, or perhaps wanted to destroy it because of its contents.

Tricia locked her car and started walking toward Haven’t Got a Clue. Where had Pammy gotten the diary? Dumpster diving? Possibly. It wasn’t likely she prowled used bookstores, despite the fact Stoneham was full of them. Most of the booksellers had a specialty: romance, military history, religion…

Ginny was waiting outside the door to Haven’t Got a Clue-on time for the first time in days. She held a bulky plastic bag and stamped her feet on the concrete, trying to keep warm. “I was beginning to wonder where you were,” she said by way of a greeting. “I didn’t see your car in the lot, and when I called your cell phone, there was no answer.”

Tricia sorted through her keys. “Sorry. I must have it turned off. I had some errands to run.” She unlocked the door and entered the store, with Ginny following close behind.

“Give me your coat and I’ll hang it up in back,” Ginny said.

As she straightened up the pile of bookmarks next to the register, Tricia wondered if she ought to call Captain Baker and tell him about the letter at the post office. She was sure to talk to him again sometime soon-maybe she’d just wait.