“Yeah, I thought . . . well, I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you’d be free for dinner on Friday night?”

Tricia’s heart sank. As always with Baker, it was too little, too late. “It is short notice. And I’m sorry, but I’ve already made plans.”

Baker scowled. “I suppose you’re having dinner with Christopher.”

“You would suppose wrong,” she said, keeping her tone even.

“Then, who—?”

“I don’t have to answer that question.”

“Come on, Tricia. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“You don’t have to say it at all, Grant. We had some pleasant times together during the past couple of years, but the truth is we just didn’t click—at least not on a permanent basis.”

“You always knew that as a cop I was married to the job.”

“I know that. And you’re right, I’ve always known that.”

“Couldn’t we at least be friends?” he asked, and she could hear the strain in his voice.

“We are friends.”

“Then won’t you please consider having dinner with me on Friday?”

Tricia sighed. Why did he have to keep pushing? Why couldn’t he understand that she needed so much more than he was willing—or capable—of giving? “I told you, I already have plans.”

“Then how about some other night?”

“Maybe,” she said, but she really wasn’t sure she wanted to do so.

“That’s the best answer you can give me?”

“Right now it is.”

He looked down at his shoes. “I guess I deserve that,” he said, sounding downhearted.

“You didn’t mention lunch,” Tricia said, feeling a bit sorry for him

“Would you like to go to lunch on Friday?” he asked hopefully.

“Valentine’s Day is so loaded with expectations. Couldn’t we go some other time? If I know you—and I think I do—you won’t have time to go anywhere socially until you’ve wrapped up this case.”

He sighed again. “You’re right.”

“Why don’t I just take a rain check, and when you’re free, we’ll find a day that works for both of us.”

“All right.” Silence descended again. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything else about Mrs. Dittmeyer since we last spoke,” he said, bringing the conversation back to business.

Tricia pursed her lips; it was her turn to be silent.

“Tricia?” Baker prompted.

“I’m not sure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means . . . I may know something, but I’m not sure it’s up to me to report it.”

“If you know something, you must report it.”

“Even hearsay? I’m not sure I want to do that.”

“Can you at least tell me what it involves?”

“No. But . . . I will speak to someone who should report it and urge them to do so.”

“Just tell me who to speak with and I’ll go—”

“No,” she said emphatically. “I promise you, you’ll hear from someone today.” And it might well be me, she did not add.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, drilling her with his green eyes, his secret weapon against her.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“All right. But sooner would be better than later.”

“I understand. Thank you for telling me about Betsy. I don’t feel better for the knowledge, but . . . I appreciate the gesture.”

“I’d better get back to work,” Baker said. “I’ll be waiting for a call.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.” Later being relative.

“Yeah. Bye.”

As soon as the door closed on Baker’s back, Tricia grabbed the heavy receiver on the old phone and dialed Angelica’s number. It rang four times before voice mail picked up. She left a brief message, hung up, and tried Angelica’s cell phone, with the same results. She left another message, and then tried the number for Booked for Lunch. It rang five times before a breathless Angelica answered.

“Booked for Lunch,” she said in a singsong cadence. “We open at—”

“Ange, it’s me. Grant just left my store.”

“Has something new come to light about Betsy’s death?”

“Yes. She didn’t die from being crushed. Or, at least, that was just a contributing factor.”

“What killed her?”

“She was nearly strangled before the bookcase toppled over on her.”

“Strangled? Wow,” Angelica said in a hushed tone. “Did you tell him Betsy was an embezzler?”

“No, I think that should come from you. It’ll look suspicious if I tell him I was poking through the Chamber’s computer files.”

“You’re probably right. I’m up to my ears in work. Bev called in sick and Tommy’s leaving early for a dental appointment. I can’t possibly call the chief until later this afternoon.”

“I don’t think it will matter all that much. After all, Betsy was stealing from the Chamber for quite a long time, and obviously nobody knew about it before last night.”

“I could kick myself for not having someone look at the books before this,” Angelica groused.

“For all we know, it might have been Bob who stole the money.”

“I told you, Bob wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know. Bob hasn’t always walked the straight and narrow.”

“Bob may be a lot of things, but he’s not a thief,” Angelica said, defending her former lover.

Tricia had never told Angelica about some of the things she’d caught Bob doing. Like smashing pumpkins all over town because he was jealous that the town of Milford had a successful festival and Stoneham didn’t. Or that he’d rigged the raffle at the Sheer Comfort Inn, making sure Angelica won—hoping she’d invite him along to share the prize and rekindle their doomed relationship. Perhaps it was time to educate her sister on these and other things. First, she’d tell her about Bob’s most recent transgression. “Ange, remember when Stan Berry’s house was ransacked last fall? The state fingerprint lab finally came up with a match. They were Bob’s prints.”

“Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

“I didn’t make it up. Grant told me about it yesterday.”

“I don’t believe it,” Angelica protested.

“You can ask him yourself when you call him later.”

“I certainly will,” she said tartly.

Tricia gripped the receiver a little tighter. “I’m sorry, Ange. I didn’t realize you still had feelings for Bob.”

“I don’t,” she said emphatically, but it was obvious that she did—however buried she might have thought them.

Angelica sighed wearily. “I need to get the tuna and egg salads ready for my customers. I’ll talk to you later,” she said and ended the call.

Tricia replaced the receiver, feeling somewhat depressed. She’d never been fond of Bob, but finding out he’d stooped to vandalism to try to evict one of his tenants was really low. Then it occurred to Tricia what the fingerprint evidence meant: if his prints had been on file with the state, he must have already been accused—or perhaps even convicted—of a crime.

As though sensing her owner’s blue mood, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch behind the cash desk and nuzzled Tricia’s hand. She petted the cat. “It’s disconcerting when you think you know someone, and then find out you don’t.”

“Brrrpt!” Miss Marple said, as though in agreement.

Tricia petted the cat and wondered if the next time she talked to her sister she ought to mention the possibility that Bob might be a felon. She sighed. If Angelica was still defending his character, she wouldn’t like hearing that bit of news, either.

The shop door rattled, and this time it was an actual (hopefully) paying customer—an older woman dressed for the cold with heavy boots, a long camel-hair coat with a matching hat, and a knitted red scarf knotted at her neck.

“Good morning. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue,” Tricia said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. “Let any of us know if you could use some help.”

The woman smiled and moseyed over to a set of bookshelves to browse.

Tricia turned her attention to the cash desk, which looked like it could use a bit of tidying. It took her all of a minute. She sighed. It would be a very long day.