*   *   *

Little Sarge really was a joy to walk. His former owner had trained him well. He sat at every corner, waiting for the signal that it was safe to cross the street, and he had learned where he should and should not do his business.

Since the Stoneham village square wasn’t far from the Kelly Realty office, Tricia decided to pay Bob Kelly a visit. As she passed the petite log cabin that had been the Chamber’s former home, she looked in through the window to the darkened interior. Bob hadn’t put a FOR RENT sign on the door. The interior needed a thorough cleaning, as there were bags of trash and papers littering the floor. Bob apparently owned the couch and chairs that had made up the reception area, for they still stood in their accustomed spots, albeit looking shabbier than Tricia remembered.

Sarge had taken this pause to mean he should sit, and Tricia gave the leash a slight tug to let him know they were moving on. Kelly Realty was housed next door in a plain cement-block building painted a drab gray. Like its nearest neighbor it, too, was dark with a CLOSED sign hanging on the door. So much for talking with Bob. From the look of the mail stacked on the floor under the door’s mail slot, he hadn’t been there in several days. What did his clients think about his being inaccessible? It was unlike him, for Bob’s greatest pleasure in life seemed to be making money. Curiouser and curiouser.

Tricia turned and Sarge willingly trotted along beside her. Did Bob have any real friends in Stoneham? Frannie might know, but now probably wasn’t a good time to ask her. She’d ask Angelica later. Someone had to know how to contact him.

Tricia paused and Sarge dutifully sat down once again. Should she ask Baker if he’d tracked Bob down? Wouldn’t he have mentioned it earlier that morning if he had? She turned, and looked up the street. Sarge stood at attention once again. The Stoneham police station was only another two blocks up the road. Then again, Baker might be out on patrol, or investigating, or snagging an early lunch at the Bookshelf Diner. Sarge sat back down.

Tricia stared down at the dog. “Are your joints beginning to ache from all that standing and sitting?”

Sarge yipped—obviously a yes.

“Come on. Let’s go home,” she said and Sarge was back on his feet and ready to return to the warmth of Angelica’s kitchen and his comfy doggy bed. As they made their way down the sidewalk, Tricia resolved to corner Bob and make him talk. The problem was . . . if he wasn’t answering his phones, or even visiting his office, how in the world was she going to pin him to the wall to talk?

This was going to take some thought and maybe a little investigation on her part. And since it was so dead at Haven’t Got a Clue anyway, she had plenty of time to do both.

ELEVEN

Winter days in Stoneham tended to be so uneventful that one blended into the next without leaving any discernible memories. Much as she hated to wish her life away, and although she’d thoroughly enjoyed the camaraderie earlier that morning with Pixie and Mr. Everett, Tricia looked forward to warm summer nights, and days filled with happy customers. But if she was honest with herself, what she really longed for was a change of scenery.

Maybe it was time for a vacation. Pixie and Mr. Everett were more than capable of taking care of the store should she decide to take a few days’ break, but the truth was she didn’t want to go somewhere alone. Years before she would rather have gagged than contemplate a vacation with Angelica, but now the idea seemed pretty attractive. And where would they go? To West Palm Beach? Fort Lauderdale? Those places would be filled with tourists, and the idea of crowds of people was a definite turnoff. Still, if nothing else, the idea of a long vacation in some lovely sunny place was enjoyable to contemplate—especially on such a cold winter day. Of course the fact was that it wasn’t likely Angelica would be willing—or able—to tear herself away from her three successful businesses.

Oh, well. It was a nice thought anyway.

With Mr. Everett and Pixie already gone for the day, Tricia vacuumed the rug and compared the relative merits of Costa Rica over the Bahamas as a pleasant place to relax and recuperate. That is, until the phone rang. Tricia turned off the Hoover and crossed the shop to answer it, even though Haven’t Got a Clue had officially closed for the day some five minutes before. She caught it on the third ring.

“Haven’t Got a Clue. This is Tricia. How may I help you?”

“By going out to dinner with me.”

Tricia sighed. “Hello, Christopher.”

“Hello, pretty lady of my dreams.”

Dreams or delusions?

“What do you need?” Tricia asked.

“An answer. How about dinner on Friday?”

“This must be my lucky week. Yours is my third invitation for that night.”

“Who got to you before me? Chief Baker, I suppose,” Christopher said, sounding distinctly unhappy.

“Yes, but his was my second invitation.”

“So who booked you in advance?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Just curious. You had to know I was going to ask you out on Valentine’s Day.”

“Believe it or not, I don’t hang around waiting for the phone to ring. I don’t lift the receiver in anticipation that it’s you or anybody else.”

“But you do have feelings for me,” he prodded.

“Of course I do, although they’re not always positive.”

“I know I hurt you, Trish. I’ve been trying to make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to. And I do wish you wouldn’t spy on me all the time.”

“I’m not spying on you.”

“Then why is it every time I leave my shop I see you standing in your office window looking down at my shop.”

“I told you, when I get stuck on a problem, I stand up and look out the window. It helps me think.”

“And it’s creeping me out.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Because, it could be construed as stalking.”

“Trish, I’d never do that to you. I love you.”

“And that’s exactly what all stalkers tell their victims.”

For a long moment, there was only silence on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Trish. The last thing I want to do is frighten you. You know I’d never hurt you.”

“I don’t know that. You’re not the man I married.”

“I know. I’ve changed—and for the better. At least I like to think so.”

“I’m glad if you’re glad.”

“Are you sure you can’t have dinner with me on Friday?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Then how about some other night?”

“Maybe. Look, I have a lot of work to get done this evening. Can we talk about this some other time?”

“Just as long as we do talk about it.”

“Now that we live in the same town again, it’s inevitable that we’ll bump into each other,” Tricia pointed out.

“This sounds like a brush-off.”

“Not at all. I’m just very busy, and I have a lot on my mind. And with so many new clients, your time should be just as booked—especially with people needing to stash their cash before April fifteenth.”

“You’re right about that. Still, I can’t help it if I’m preoccupied by thoughts of you.”

“Stop looking out the window all the time. That might help.”

“Okay, okay.”

The “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony sounded from Tricia’s cell phone. She withdrew it from her pocket.

“Don’t tell me you’ve still got the same ringtone after all these years,” Christopher said.

“Yes, I do, and I need to answer it.”

“Are you expecting a call from someone?” Christopher asked. “Chief Baker, perhaps?”

“No, and it’s none of your business. Good night, Christopher.” She hung up the receiver and pressed the answer button on her phone. “Hello.”