“And who takes charge of the money?” Tricia asked.

“Me,” Antonio said adamantly. “Under the terms of the sale of this property, all of this now belongs to my employer.”

“I thought she was your stepmother,” Tricia said.

“She is the only mother I have left. And everything in this house now belongs to her,” Antonio stressed. “I will take care of it for her.”

“Of course you will,” Angelica said and stepped up to rest a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. He turned and gave her a wan smile.

“Then it’s agreed. We’ll meet here again tomorrow night to continue searching,” Tricia said.

The others nodded.

“I will call the waste management company and see to it that they deliver a recycling container, as well,” Antonio said.

“Can we borrow the inn’s shredder? There are financial papers here that really should be shredded,” Tricia said.

“That’s a real time sink. We could box up everything of that nature and send it to a commercial shredder. The money we found will more than take care of that,” Angelica said.

“How could Betsy have just walked away from all that money?” an exasperated Ginny asked.

Tricia shook her head. “Talk about being absentminded.”

“That wasn’t how I’d have described Betsy,” Angelica said. “The woman had a mind like a steel trap.”

“With all the junk she collected over a lifetime, she probably mislaid it.”

“If we find as much cash upstairs, NRA will have acquired the property for free,” Antonio remarked with irony.

“Please don’t make me empty any more boxes tonight,” Ginny pleaded.

“Take your tired wife and go home,” Angelica said in a voice that meant business. “We can finish this tomorrow night.”

Ginny needed no further prodding. She struggled to her feet and headed for the kitchen, where they’d all stashed their coats on the backs of the kitchen chairs.

“I would ask you ladies not to speak of what we’ve found here tonight,” Antonio said.

“My lips are sealed,” Angelica said, and to prove it she turned an imaginary key in front of her mouth.

“What are you going to tell Karen?” Tricia asked.

“Nothing. At least for now. Now that the property is rented, she doesn’t need to concern herself with it. It is up to me to have the house cleaned and painted,” Antonio said.

“Are you going to call Chief Baker and tell him what we’ve found?” Tricia asked.

Antonio shook his head. “I see no reason to do so. When NRA bought the house, it was stipulated that it came as is with all contents. The former owner was adamant—she did not want to go to the trouble or expense to empty it.”

“Couldn’t Betsy’s heirs press for a share?” Angelica asked.

“I do not think so. The former owner presented copies of receipts of several registered and certified letters demanding the tenant clear the property. They were signed as having been received. Notice was given. Notice was ignored—much to NRA’s good fortune, it now turns out. However, for your peace of mind, I will consult with our attorney,” he said.

“I think that’s prudent,” Angelica agreed.

Ginny arrived, her arms laden with their coats, hats, scarves, and purses. She passed them out and then they all headed for the door, where Angelica surrendered the keys to Antonio. He locked the door behind them.

“I told Karen she’d have those keys back first thing in the morning.”

“As I said, I will keep them, and let her know that I have them.”

“What time will we meet here tomorrow night?” Tricia asked.

“If you come just after five, I will supply a gourmet take-out dinner from the Brookview Inn,” Antonio promised.

That seemed like a perfectly reasonable offer.

“Good night,” Tricia called, and she and Angelica started back down the sidewalk toward their shops and homes.

“Well, this entire evening was totally unexpected,” Angelica said.

“It sure was. I never really knew Betsy, but from what we’ve found out about her since she died, she was even stranger than I’d given her credit for.”

“You and me both,” Angelica agreed.

They crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk. “I don’t understand her. Why would Betsy walk away from thousands of dollars in cash?”

“Do you think maybe she was ill? Early onset of Alzheimer’s disease or something?” Angelica asked.

“Not that I noticed. And anyway, you’d have had a better handle on that.”

“Yes, I suppose I would. It could just be that she mixed up the boxes she sent for storage at the rental house and the stuff she kept at home. The boxes sure looked the same to me, and none of them were marked.”

“Or do you think there was something in the rental house she didn’t want found and she was willing to part with everything so that it would never be found?”

“I’m not sure that makes sense, but in retrospect, nothing Betsy did makes sense.”

They reached the Cookery and Angelica dug in her pocket for the keys. “Want to come up for a nightcap?”

“Are you kidding? It’s hours past my bedtime.”

“Mine, too. And I’ve still got to take Sarge out for one last walk.”

“Do you want me to hang around until you do?”

Angelica shook her head. “You aren’t here most other nights, why should this one be different?”

“Because there’s been yet another death in the village. In your own building,” Tricia reminded her.

“Yes, but if whoever killed Betsy wanted to come after me, I’m pretty sure they would have already done so,” Angelica said reasonably.

That didn’t make Tricia feel any better. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Angelica said, opened the shop door, and went inside, locking it behind her.

Tricia walked the ten or so feet to her own store and let herself in. She had a feeling that with all she’d learned that evening, she’d have a hard time drifting off to sleep.

Damn Betsy Dittmeyer for being such a strange duck. Damn her to hell.

SIXTEEN

Tricia dreamed about cash. Piles and piles of it, in every denomination. So much cash she was buried to her waist. Like a child tossing confetti into the air, she joyfully tossed fistfuls of bills, laughing with merriment. That is, until an angry Betsy Dittmeyer appeared, demanding Tricia give her back her money, and not until she’d counted it out in hundred-bill increments. But Tricia had no envelopes or rubber bands to keep the cash together. Betsy was not pleased and berated her, her voice growing shriller and shriller, threating to pummel her until . . .

Tricia awoke with a start, breathless and sweating, and realized the phone was ringing. She grabbed it.

“You asked me to keep you posted,” said a man’s familiar voice.

“Posted?” she repeated dully.

“If anything broke on the Dittmeyer case.”

“And?” she demanded, finally recognizing the voice as Russ’s.

“I just heard on the police scanner that her house is on fire.”

“Fire?” Tricia repeated, this time in shock.

“Fully engulfed. Do you want to have a look? There’s nothing like a good fire,” he said eagerly.

“I can be dressed in two minutes.”

“Make it three, and I’ll pick you up.”

“But what—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence, as Russ had already hung up.

What was Nikki going to think about him taking her to a fire at—she glanced at her bedside clock—two in the morning? She’d no doubt find out later.

Throwing back the covers, and disturbing a perturbed-looking Miss Marple, Tricia jumped out of bed and raced to get dressed, putting on four layers of clothes. She had a feeling they might be standing in the cold for several hours and was determined to be prepared.