“Piece of cake,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and went to the back of the shop to hang up her coat and hat and retrieve Tricia’s before heading back to the front of the store.

“Thanks,” Tricia said, donning the coat. Wasting no more time, she flew out the door. A minute later, she was in her car and heading north toward the highway.

Tricia hated to admit it, but she actually felt nervous as she pulled into the small gravel parking lot outside of Black’s Village Smithy. The proprietor had been the husband of her friend Deborah Black, the former owner of the Happy Domestic. She’d died the summer before when a plane crashed into the Stoneham gazebo on Founders’ Day. Tricia and David Black had never gotten along, and she hoped she wouldn’t run into him at what was now his art studio. An astute businessman, Black also hired welders to take in commercial jobs to keep the business afloat while he worked on his metal sculptures.

Tricia entered the front office, which looked like it could have doubled for a doctor’s waiting room. “May I help you?” asked a pretty young woman from behind a circular desk. She was dressed in a turquoise sweater set and dark slacks, not unlike what Tricia usually wore when working at Haven’t Got a Clue. Her long hair and pretty smile reminded Tricia of her late friend. Had David hired her because of that resemblance, and could he be bedding her, too? He hadn’t been faithful to Deborah, but then she hadn’t been faithful to him, either.

Tricia stepped up to the desk. “I’m here to see Jerry Dittmeyer. He said he’d be taking his morning break about now.”

“Sure. I’ll page him.” She picked up the receiver, pressed a button on the phone, and spoke into the mouthpiece, calling him to the office.

Tricia stepped back and looked around the small reception area while she waited. Although Black’s Village Smithy had only been in business for about six months, they seemed to be doing very well. A stand on the counter featured a glossy brochure of Black’s sculptures, with information on how to commission a piece. A window on the west wall overlooked the studio, where Black was fabricating a huge metal abstract work.

Despite the heavy padded clothing and the welder’s mask that covered the face, Tricia could tell by the man’s stance that it was Black himself wielding a torch. A waterfall of blue-white sparks flowed around him as he joined two large pieces of metal. Tricia hated to admit it, but she rather liked his artistry and had even considered hiring him to do some ornamental metalwork for the front of Haven’t Got a Clue. Since her store was already reminiscent of 221B Baker Street in London, glossy painted iron railings were all she’d need to complete the transformation.

The door to the welding shop opened and a burly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a few days’ worth of stubble poked his head inside. “You called?” he asked the receptionist.

Tricia stepped forward. “Mr. Dittmeyer? Hi, I’m Tricia Miles. We spoke on the phone. I knew your ex-wife.”

“Too bad for you,” he said with scorn.

“Can we talk for a few minutes?”

Dittmeyer glanced at the receptionist as though looking for permission.

“Why don’t I give you two a little privacy. I need to get another cup of coffee anyway,” she said, grabbed her empty cup from the desk, and went out the door to the shop beyond.

“Look, Ms. Miles, I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me. I didn’t kill Betsy, if that’s what you want to know. I haven’t even seen or heard from the bitch in over a year. If I was going to kill her, it would’ve been five years ago when she started turning our house into a pigpen. When she refused to clean it or get rid of any of her crap. When she took us both to the cleaners by refusing to abide by the judge’s order and give me my half of our assets,” he said bitterly.

“Was there an outstanding judgment against her?”

He shook his head. “She finally paid me off about a year ago. I got a check in the mail—it even included interest. I guess she figured if she didn’t give it to me that I might come after her for more.”

“What do you think made her finally pay you after all that time?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know—and I don’t care.”

“You must have loved her at one time,” Tricia said kindly.

“Lady, back in the day I woulda moved heaven and earth for my Betts. But then she changed. I don’t know for sure what caused it; maybe losing our daughter, Amy . . . but Betts would never talk about it with a shrink or even me. That’s when she became obsessed with just about everything. Money, collecting all that junk.” He shook his head once again, his gaze seeming to wander until it fixed vacantly on the floor. “I’ll never know for sure why she decided to give up on everyone she loved for a load of crap.”

Tricia got the feeling that at one time he did want to know, and he really did care.

“I’ve moved on with my life. I got me a new girl, and we’re starting a family. I’m sorry Betsy’s dead, but I’ve put the life we shared out of my mind.”

Tricia admitted defeat. He wasn’t going to tell her anything more; she might as well leave.

The door from the shop opened once again, but instead of the receptionist it was David Black who stood in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he practically spat, glaring at Tricia.

“Hello, David. I came to speak with Mr. Dittmeyer.”

Black faced his employee. “Jerry, you don’t have to talk to this bitch. She always goes snooping around whenever anyone in the area dies. She likes to harass them—pry into people’s business and question the quality of their grief. If she’s harassing you, I’d be glad to call the cops and have them arrest her.”

“It’s okay, Dave. She’s not hassling me. And we were done talking, anyway,” Dittmeyer said with a glance back to Tricia.

“Thank you for speaking with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Dittmeyer.”

“Once upon a time, Betsy really was a dynamite gal,” Dittmeyer said rather wistfully.

Tricia gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. “Yes, I’m sure she was. Good-bye.” She turned for the door, but David Black’s voice stopped her.

“Good riddance.”

Tricia stood there for a long moment, then reached for the door and exited the building. As she walked to her car, she decided that if she ever did decide to get the glossy black railings for Haven’t Got a Clue’s façade, she wouldn’t have them built by Black’s Village Smithy. And as she started her car and pulled out of the lot, she also realized that Jerry Dittmeyer made a terrible suspect in his ex-wife’s death.

Was she really back to square one?

*   *   *

Since she was already halfway to Milford, Tricia decided to pay another visit to Betsy’s house, just to see how it looked in broad daylight. This time she didn’t bother with subterfuge and parked her car right in Betsy’s driveway. She switched off the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the creaks and crackles of her engine as it cooled off, staring at the forlorn little house, which didn’t look any better in daylight than it had the night before.

Should she canvass the area asking the other homeowners about their murdered neighbor? What if they were gainfully employed and weren’t available during the day? Should she come back later? Which neighbor’s fence had infringed on Betsy’s property? Both lots on either side of hers had fenced-in yards. It was too hard to tell which fence was newer. And what if the fence dispute had happened a decade before and not in the recent past? How long could a neighbor hold a grudge?

Deciding that even being there was yet another harebrained idea, Tricia was about to start the car again when the front door of the house on the left opened. An older woman with short-cropped gray hair stepped onto her front step and waved. Tricia rolled down her window.