Tricia was bundled up in her heaviest coat and warmest hat and gloves, her feet encased in two pairs of heavy socks and boots, waiting on the sidewalk outside of Haven’t Got a Clue when Russ’s battered pickup truck pulled up to the curb. She hopped in and Russ took off with tires spinning.

“What were you doing listening to the police scanner at this time of night?” Tricia asked as she fastened her seat belt.

“Unlike you, Nikki finds it rather soothing to fall asleep to.”

Tricia frowned in disbelief. “I don’t think Nikki would be happy to hear you’re comparing us in quite that way. And, in fact, isn’t she going to be annoyed when she finds out you took me to a fire?”

“Hey, she suggested it.”

Tricia raised an eyebrow. “As I recall, in the not-so-distant past she was jealous of any time you spent with me—including talking on the phone.”

“I guess she finally got it through her head that you and I are a thing of the past.”

That was certainly true, although his replacement—Grant Baker—sometimes didn’t seem to get it. Don’t think like that, she chided herself. Angelica was right. Her list of life goals didn’t necessarily include a man. She missed the kind of intimacy she’d shared with Christopher, but neither Russ nor Baker had been a real contender when it came to comparisons to him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to dwell on that thought, either.

“Although,” Russ offered after a long pause, “she probably hasn’t heard that you and Chief Baker are on the outs.”

“Who says we are?”

“Word on the street is that you turned down his Valentine’s Day invitation.”

“Oh, that,” she said, hoping to make light of the subject. “It’s Mr. Everett’s birthday and Grace is throwing him a surprise party.”

“And you couldn’t bring a date?” Russ asked.

“Grant’s working on the Dittmeyer case.”

“He couldn’t take an evening off to be with you?” Russ pushed.

Tricia shrugged.

“It sounds like you’re making excuses for him.”

Tricia shrugged again. “I’ve had enough dates canceled not to expect much,” she said and hoped he’d drop the subject. She stared straight ahead, watching the portion of road revealed by the truck’s headlights speed by.

Not only were the streets of Stoneham devoid of traffic, but Milford was just as quiet, which made the muffler on Russ’s pickup sound even more obnoxious. That is, until they approached Vintage Road, which had been closed off at Nashua Street, with the police refusing to let them enter—even on foot. But Russ was an old newshound. After parking the truck at the same strip mall Angelica had days earlier, he led Tricia down the block, where they turned and hurried to the cross street. The smell of smoke was thick and they could see flames reaching into the sky.

“It must be one hell of a fire,” Russ said as they neared, joining neighbors who had clustered to rubberneck along the police barricade. Tricia recognized one of them: Betsy’s next-door neighbor, Margaret Westbrook.

“Margaret! Margaret!” she called. The older woman looked around, spied Tricia, and waved. Tricia wormed her way through the others until she was standing next to the woman.

“Tricia! What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I was—” Tricia’s mind raced. “On a date,” she fibbed, just as Russ arrived at her side. “This is my friend Russ. Russ, this is Margaret Westbrook, Betsy’s next-door neighbor.”

Russ’s eyebrows shot into his thinning hairline, and his grin of pleasure was positively creepy at their stroke of luck. Tricia fought the urge to give him a dig in the ribs with her elbow and holler, Down boy!

“What happened?” Russ asked and for once he didn’t have his usual steno pad at hand.

“One of the neighbors was awakened by her dog. When she went to let him out, she smelled the smoke and saw the fire. Soon after, the police were knocking on my door and told me I had to evacuate.” She turned her worried eyes back to the fire. “Isn’t this awful? What if I lose my home? Everything I own is inside. All my photos of my dead parents and husband, my jewelry, and—oh, just everything!” Her bottom lip trembled and Tricia put an arm around the woman’s shoulder, hoping she felt less alone . . . as foolish as that sounded, for she barely knew Tricia.

“I’m sure the firefighters will do their best to save it.” The words seemed terribly inadequate in the face of what might lie ahead for poor Margaret.

“They say it might be arson. Poor Mrs. Dittmeyer was murdered and now someone has set her house on fire? What is this world coming to?” Margaret pleaded.

Russ tapped Tricia’s arm. “You stay with her. I’ll see if I can find out anything.”

Tricia nodded.

“Oh, thank you!” Margaret called to Russ’s quickly retreating back. Russ probably knew all the firefighters and Milford cops and Tricia knew he’d bug anyone he thought had information until he found out what was going on.

Tricia watched a team of firefighters who stood in Betsy’s driveway battling the fire, wrestling with a long hose that trailed behind them to a hydrant somewhere down the street. They aimed a fierce stream of water at the flames, which seemed to finally be calming down, but it seemed to cause the smoke to become even thicker.

Silent tears traced a line down Margaret’s weathered cheeks and every few seconds she let out quavering breaths. It nearly broke Tricia’s heart to have to witness her distress, and all they could do was stand there and watch Betsy Dittmeyer’s pitiful treasures feed the fire until there was very little left.

*   *   *

It was after five when Russ dropped Tricia off at Haven’t Got a Clue. She found a worried Miss Marple sitting behind the loft’s door. The cat immediately rose to her feet, scolding Tricia for leaving her alone in the middle of the night and disrupting her regular routine. But when Tricia slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, Miss Marple attached herself to Tricia’s chest like a barnacle, purring so loudly Tricia was sure she’d never fall back to sleep. But sleep she did, and heavily. And when the alarm went off at its usual time she felt logy, wishing she had another couple of hours before she had to face the new day.

There was no way Tricia was going to run four miles on her treadmill, and she spent the extra time washing and rewashing her hair, which had picked up an unpleasant smoky odor. She tossed the clothes she’d worn the night before in the washer, too. That particular jacket was getting quite a workout that week.

Once dressed, Tricia fed Miss Marple and remembered that days before she’d promised Nikki she’d patronize the Patisserie. It might also be a good time to find out if Nikki actually had encouraged Russ to take her along to see the fire. Tricia locked her apartment door and she and Miss Marple went down to the shop. Tricia grabbed her coat and hat and headed for the bakery.

As before, there were no other customers when Tricia entered the shop. The door buzzed, and seconds later Nikki appeared from the back room. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed to droop as she walked. Was her exhaustion caused by her pregnancy or from arguing with Russ about the baby?

“Oh, Tricia, it’s you. Thanks for stopping by.”

“It feels like a Danish type of morning. Do you have any out back?” Tricia asked, noting the refrigerated case had very few pastries on display.

Nikki frowned and shook her head. “There hasn’t been much call for them lately. I’m trying to stock only what sells. I’ve got chocolate cupcakes and blueberry muffins.”

“I’ll take a couple of muffins. And how about a dozen thumbprint cookies?”

“Sorry. I’ve only got chocolate chip.”

“I’ll take of dozen of them,” Tricia said, knowing Pixie would be ready and willing to polish off at least half of them.