“Okay. See you then.”

Before Tricia could exit, Angelica pulled her into a hug and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Be good-and if you can’t be good, be careful,” she said, and closed the door behind Tricia.

She walked the ten or so feet to her own store and let herself in, threading through the shop and up the stairs to her own loft apartment.

Miss Marple was behind the door, and scolded Tricia for leaving her alone for so long.

“Well, I’m home now, and it’s time for bed,” she told the cat.

As though agreeing with that statement, Miss Marple turned and led the way through the apartment to the bedroom that overlooked Main Street.

As Tricia reached for the light switch, she noticed the light blinking on her phone-indicating she had missed several calls. No doubt her crank caller. She didn’t feel up to listening to the messages and flipped off that light, then headed for the living room to do the same.

She’d just bent to turn off the last light when she heard what sounded like a thwok in the room ahead of her. She extinguished the lamp. The apartment was silent. But she had heard something. Fumbling in the dark, she stayed out of the line of the row of windows that faced the street. Sure enough, several small holes dotted one of her windows in a characteristic pattern she recognized: a small entrance hole with a much bigger exit hole-classic BB shots. Not exactly a lethal weapon, but maybe the shooter had wanted to scare rather than hurt her. After all, she hadn’t even been in the room when the shots had been fired. If someone had wanted to hurt or kill her, they could’ve done it as she walked from the Cookery to her own store.

Tricia kept to the far side of the line of windows and stared into the darkness. Lights blazed in the windows of the top floors of the buildings across the street. Like her, some of the shopkeepers lived above their stores; the rest of the space was rented out as apartments or offices. She didn’t for a minute believe one of her neighbors would pull such a stupid stunt, and there were no preteen boys or even teenagers living on Main Street-just the demographic that would own such a firearm. All those buildings sported metal fire escapes, as her own did. Someone could have climbed a fire escape, broken into an office and gotten onto the roof, taken a few potshots-and was probably already long gone.

She hoped.

For some reason, she wasn’t really afraid-more annoyed, perhaps. Someone had decided to crank up the fear factor. If the person on the phone could shoot at her windows with a BB gun, they certainly could have done so with a high-powered rifle. And thanks to the Supreme Court, any crank with a desire to start his own well-armed militia had the go-ahead from the country’s top lawmakers.

She should probably call the Sheriff’s Department and report this. But at this time of night, she’d have to deal with some deputy pulled off patrol. She glanced at the glowing numerals on her bedside clock. She didn’t want to wait the hour or more it might take for one to arrive, and decided instead to just call Captain Baker in the morning.

Tricia sidled along the wall, reached for the drapery pull. Before she did, she peeked out the window one last time… and saw a dark shape scurry into the shadow-filled doorway of Booked for Lunch. Could it be the shooter?

Heart pounding, she watched and waited.

A car rolled by, its headlights cutting through the darkness and then receding into the gloom.

Suddenly the figure darted out-its arms raised above its head-and hurled something round into the street.

The pumpkin exploded onto the asphalt. Tricia stared at the resulting mess, entranced-and missed seeing where the figure went.

She watched and waited as another car drove past, skirting what was now just refuse.

After a good five minutes with no other sign of the vandal, she pulled the cord and the curtains closed across the bank of windows. Even with them closed, Tricia decided not to turn on her bedside lamp. As she undressed and got ready for bed in the dark, she kept thinking about the demolished jack-o’-lantern, wondering if the shooter and the vandal could be the same person. She also contemplated the holes in her bedroom window, and worried what her caller’s next move would be.

“Ms. Miles,” Captain Baker said firmly, “you should have called the Sheriff’s Department as soon as someone shot at your windows. We’re here to protect the citizens of Stoneham.”

Tricia glanced out the front window of Haven’t Got a Clue to where Baker’s cruiser was parked. “I’ve always wondered about that. The other towns around here all have their own police departments. Why does Stoneham depend on the Sheriff’s Department for protection?”

“The Board of Selectmen dissolved the Stoneham Village Police during the early 1990s, when the village was going broke. They never voted to reinstate it. But that’s beside the point. You should have called us last night.”

“What for? By the time a deputy arrived, the shooter would’ve been long gone.” Tricia sounded a whole lot braver than she’d felt the night before, and she’d spent a good part of the night lying in bed and worrying. “Besides,” she continued, “I haven’t had a very warm reception from the Sheriff’s Department in the past.”

“I know about your past difficulties with Sheriff Adams. That’s why I’m investigating Pamela Fredericks’s murder. I want you to call my office-day or night-if you have anything to report. If there’s an emergency, they can get hold of me in a matter of minutes.”

Tricia exhaled a breath. “Okay. As a matter of fact, I do have something else to report. For the last couple of days I’ve been receiving”-she hesitated; they weren’t really threatening calls-“annoying phone calls.”

Baker’s eyes narrowed. “How many have you received?”

Tricia shrugged. “Eight or ten.” Her voice grew softer, as though she expected a rebuke. “Maybe more.”

Baker looked ready to explode. “I don’t suppose you saved any of them,” he managed through gritted teeth.

“Just one. It’s on my home answering machine.”

“Is that a different number from the shop?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’re listed in the phone book as well.”

“Just under my last name and first initial. But it’s a P for Patricia, not T, and everyone around here knows me as Tricia.”

“It doesn’t matter, if the caller knows your address. Now, do you mind if I listen to this call?”

“Not at all. I’ll show you the holes in my window, as well. If you’ll follow me.”

Baker grabbed his hat from the store’s sales counter and followed Tricia to the back of the shop. Miss Marple scampered ahead of them. She wasn’t about to be left behind with Ginny when she could follow Tricia upstairs and perhaps have an extra helping of cat cookies.

Tricia unlocked the apartment door and preceded Baker inside, with Miss Marple scooting in ahead of both of them. She jumped onto one of the kitchen stools and gave a sharp “Yow!”

“You don’t need a treat right now,” Tricia told her, and the disgruntled cat sat on her haunches and glared at her owner.

Baker looked around the converted loft space. “Nice.”

“Thank you.” Tricia held out her hand, indicating the way. “The window with the BB holes overlooks the street.”

Tricia led the way to her bedroom, glad she’d made the bed, and even dusted the nightstand, earlier that morning.

“Nice place,” Baker said, eying the space, his glance landing on the queen-sized bed, where it seemed to stay for far too long.

“The window,” Tricia prompted, indicating the glass across the way.

Baker shook his head, becoming all business once again. He moved to the window to examine the damage, and then shifted his gaze to take in the rooftops across the way. “The perfect vantage point.”