Tricia took the receiver. “Frannie?”

“I’ve caught Penny!” Frannie cried with delight.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes, but what do I do now? I’m all alone here at the Cookery. She’s frightened, and Angelica doesn’t want her in the store. What should I do?”

“Do you have things set up at your house? A litter box, bowls, et cetera?”

“Oh, yes, but I can’t leave the store to take her home.”

Angelica had her hands full at Booked for Lunch, so she couldn’t return to take care of the Cookery. Since both Ginny and Mr. Everett were working that day, that left only one solution. “Would you like me to watch over the Cookery while you take Penny home?”

“I’d only be gone a half hour at most,” Frannie said, her words a plea.

“Grab your coat, and Penny, and I’ll be right over.”

“Oh, Tricia, you are a lifesaver!”

“See you in a minute.” Tricia hung up the phone.

“Am I to presume you’ll be at the Cookery for the foreseeable future?” Mr. Everett asked solemnly.

Tricia sighed. “At least the next half hour, I’m afraid.”

He nodded. “Ginny and I will take care of things here.”

Tricia didn’t bother to retrieve her coat, and instead headed out dressed as she was.

Frannie had retrieved the Havahart trap, with its howling occupant, and her coat, and practically flew out the Cookery’s door the moment Tricia arrived. “Be right back,” she assured Tricia, and took off at a trot.

No sooner had the door closed on her than it was opened again, and several customers entered. One hundred and fifty-six dollars later, they departed, and a familiar face crossed the threshold. Pete Marbello hefted a box and frowned at Tricia. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your shop.”

“No, it belongs to my sister.”

He looked around the store. “Where’s Frannie?”

“She had an errand to run. Can I help you?”

He stepped up to the register, letting the heavy box bang onto the glass-topped counter.

“Hey,” Tricia protested.

“It’s just books,” he said. “Frannie’s been buying them from me for the last few months. I don’t suppose you know anything about cookbooks?”

“Not really.”

“Damn.” He pursed his lips, staring at the carton. “Can I leave them here for Frannie? Could you ask her to call me?”

“Sure.” But she wasn’t about to let him leave before she asked him a few questions of her own. “I understand your father owns the convenience store up by the highway.”

“Yeah. The greenest store in the county,” he said with pride. “You noticed the different trash cans out front, didn’t you? For paper, glass, and plastic.”

“I can’t say as I have. But I’ll be sure to look next time I’m there.”

“That was my idea. I sort all the trash that goes into the Dumpster, too. We recycle more than the rest of the retailers around here. We only use recycled plastic bags in the store, too. If I had my way, we wouldn’t use plastic or paper, but people are conditioned to expect them.”

“What would you put their purchases in?”

“Customers should bring their own reusable bags. We sell them, but not enough people buy or use them.”

“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and you should be, too,” he said, the weight of the chip on his shoulder coloring his voice.

“I have tried the cornstarch bags, but they aren’t strong enough to hold books. The bags I use are made from recycled plastic, and for big orders, I have paper bags with handles.”

“That’s better than most of the other booksellers,” he grudgingly admitted.

Tricia indicated the box of books. “Have you become a picker?”

“Sort of. I’m trying to get enough money together to start a recycling plant.”

“That’s pretty ambitious.”

“You’d be surprised what can be recycled. My plan is to buy a flatbed truck, put an ad in the local papers, and offer a free service to pick up old appliances, like refrigerators, old cars, then scrap ’em. If I can hook up with the county, I should be able to clean up the environment-and financially, too.”

“Tell me more,” Tricia said, and leaned forward on the counter, trying to appear more interested than she was. How on earth was she going to get Pammy into the conversation?

He droned on and on. At last he mentioned the freegans, and she jumped at the opportunity to interrupt. “I understand you met my friend Pammy Fredericks digging through the convenience store’s trash, and that you invited her along on several of your Dumpster-diving expeditions.”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a snarl. “I thought she was a kindred spirit, but it turned out she had a one-track mind. Always bitching about coming into money-or not coming into it. At least not fast enough.”

“Yes, that’s what Joe Hirt said, too. Pammy didn’t tell me what her big plans were. Do you know?”

He shrugged. “Something about someone paying her big bucks for what she knew. She had some kind of proof.”

“A diary?” Tricia suggested.

He frowned. “I dunno. Maybe. I didn’t pay much attention to her. She wasn’t really one of us. All she cared about was getting something for nothing. The world is better off without people like her. Takers. What did she ever give back to anyone?”

It was Tricia’s turn to frown. His plan to scoop up scrap metal and resell it didn’t sound all that altruistic, either, especially given the freegans’ goal of living a less material existence.

“Pammy didn’t deserve to die the way she did-suffocating in garbage.”

He shrugged. “One less moocher sucking up our air and using our resources.”

Tricia straightened. She’d had enough of him. “I’ll tell Frannie to give you a call about these books,” she said, letting him know he was being dismissed.

“She’s got my number,” he said, a sneer entering his voice.

Tricia watched as he left the shop. She glanced inside the carton of books. They looked to be in pretty good shape. Where had he gotten them? There weren’t many yard sales at this time of year. She bent lower and sniffed. A bit musty, perhaps, but they didn’t reek of the soup found at the bottom of a Dumpster or trash bin.

Pammy had spoken a little too freely about her diary and what she hoped to gain from it. Despite Pete Marbello’s assessment of her, she did not deserve to be killed. More and more it sounded as though she was blackmailing-or attempting to blackmail-someone. But who? There was only one logical choice: Stuart Paige.

But Tricia had nothing but suspicions. She didn’t even have the diary. Without it, there was no reason to talk to, let alone confront, the man.

Whoever killed Pammy might just get away with murder, after all.

Frannie was gone much longer than Tricia had anticipated-almost two hours. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she wiggled out of the sleeves of her coat. “When I got Penny home, I called the vet to make an appointment for her. They said they had an opening, and to bring her right in.”

“I wish you’d called,” Tricia said, looking at her watch. It was past Ginny’s lunch break, and Mr. Everett would be holding down Haven’t Got a Clue by himself.

“I’m sorry, Tricia. I should have. But the only day I have off is Sunday, and the vet isn’t open then.”

True enough. “I forgive you. But I’d better get back to my own store in case Mr. Everett needs to leave. He and Grace have a lot of plans to make before Sunday.”

“Isn’t it exciting-getting married at their age? Maybe there’s still hope for me,” Frannie added wistfully.

Tricia scooted around the sales desk, letting Frannie take her place. “Talk to you later.”

Frannie waved. “Thanks again!”

Haven’t Got a Clue was mobbed with customers, and despite its being late, Ginny had not taken her lunch break. Mr. Everett stood by one of the back shelves, helping a customer, while Miss Marple observed the chaos from her perch on the shelf behind the register.