“Thank you once again for your unwavering belief in me,” Tricia said with heavy sarcasm. “May I go?”

“No. I didn’t see the back entrance open.”

“Betsy had just emptied her wastebasket and left the back door open. Frannie shut and locked it.”

“Then you don’t know for sure that Frannie was telling the truth.”

“We could feel a draft, and I don’t doubt Frannie was telling the truth.”

“Did you see the open door?”

“No, I was standing at the front of the store with Angelica.”

“Did you see anyone else you recognized in the store at the time of the . . . upset?”

Tricia shook her head.

“That means Mrs. Dittmeyer could have let her killer into the shop.”

“I guess. As I said, there were a bunch of customers in the store at the time, and Charlie the mailman was there a few minutes before we heard the ruckus.”

“Did you see him leave?”

Tricia thought about it. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. Angelica and Frannie and I were talking. We weren’t paying attention to anything else that was going on—until all the noise started upstairs.”

“And you thought the victim was making it?”

Tricia nodded. “As Angelica said, she and Betsy had been discussing the limitations of using the storeroom as the Chamber headquarters. Betsy made it plain she was not happy with the situation, and we figured she was throwing a tantrum.”

“Did she regularly do such things?” Baker demanded.

Tricia shrugged and heard others tromping around the apartment. “I don’t know. I didn’t hang out with the woman.”

“And why was that?” Baker asked.

“Because she wasn’t very nice. Or at least not very warm and welcoming.”

“What about the mailman?”

“Charlie? He’s a sweetheart. I suppose you can find him at the post office—after he’s finished his route, that is.”

“Chief?” Officer Henderson called.

Baker held up a hand to stall him. “We’ll talk later,” he told Tricia in dismissal.

She nodded, turned, and waited for the officer to move away from the doorway so she could escape. So much for getting anything accomplished during the rest of the morning—and there was no way she’d be able to visit the estate sale to look at the books on offer.

Tricia found the Cookery crowded with the entire Stoneham police force, who demanded she stay until Chief Baker verified that she was allowed to leave, which took another ten minutes—minutes in which she was not allowed to speak with Frannie, Angelica, or anyone else. When she was finally allowed to return to her store, Tricia pondered the fact that Stoneham seemed to have become the death capital of southern New Hampshire. And why, oh, why, did she always seem to be the one to keep stumbling over the newly deceased?

While she loathed being called the village jinx, Tricia was beginning to think the title might just be apropos.

THREE

With all the chaos going on at the Cookery, Tricia was happy to return to her own store and its relative peace. Relative because her assistant, Pixie Poe, was singing. As she studied the order forms before her, Tricia desperately tried to ignore her employee’s slightly off-key rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” As it was, Tricia had been afraid Angelica might wait out the police presence at her own store by hanging out at Haven’t Got a Clue, but instead she’d chosen to go across the street to Booked for Lunch, the tiny retro café she owned and operated.

Pixie dressed exclusively in vintage togs, so one never knew what era she was likely to represent on any given day. Today she seemed to be channeling the Andrews Sisters, looking like a rather long-in-the-tooth Patty, with shoulder-length blonde hair, pancake makeup, and ruby-colored lips and nails. The customers loved her, and sales had skyrocketed since she’d come to work at Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia had rewarded her with several raises and was thinking of giving her another.

While Tricia’s other employee, Mr. Everett, dusted the back shelves, Pixie once again wandered over to the big display window to look outside, checking out what she could see of the mix of official cars and people, and the investigation into Betsy Dittmeyer’s death.

“They haven’t taken the body out yet,” she said with what sounded like disappointment.

“And when they do, there’ll be nothing to see,” Tricia chided her.

“I know. It’s just . . . well, with the screws blocking the sidewalk, we aren’t going to have any customers, so I’ve gotta do something to keep from getting bored.”

“Why don’t you go read a book,” Tricia encouraged.

“Really?” Pixie asked with delight. “Great. I’m working my way through Dashiell Hammett once again. Love that Maltese Falcon.” Tricia watched her go over to one of the shelves, pluck out a book, and then flop down into the readers’ nook.

Tricia sighed and went back to her paperwork. Pixie might not be working, but neither was she singing.

The little bell over the door rang cheerfully, causing both Tricia and Pixie to look up, but instead of a customer it was Ginny Wilson-Barbero who entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Unfortunately, her demeanor was anything but cheerful. Tricia didn’t bother with the usual pleasantries. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Ginny said, her voice high and squeaky.

“Hi, Ginny!” Pixie called without looking up from her book.

“Hi, Pixie. How are you?”

“Just Yankee Doodle dandy!” she said and, unfortunately, began to hum as she read. From the back of the store, Mr. Everett waved his lamb’s-wool duster in greeting and went back to work.

Ginny inched closer to the sales desk. “I saw the police cars. Well, who could miss them? Rumor has it that Betsy Dittmeyer was killed this morning over at the Cookery.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

“By a bookcase?” Ginny asked.

Tricia nodded grimly. “Fully loaded.”

“Messy,” Ginny said and winced.

“Yes,” Tricia agreed. She noted that Ginny’s eyes were bloodshot and her nose was red, although she didn’t sound like she had a cold. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

Ginny’s eyes filled with tears. “Have you got a couple of minutes to talk?”

Tricia looked over at Pixie, who had turned to look their way. “Sure, Mr. E and I can hold down the fort,” Pixie said. As usual, she’d been eavesdropping.

“Come on,” Tricia said and came out from behind the cash desk and wrapped an arm around Ginny’s shoulder. “We’ll go upstairs and have a nice cup of cocoa.”

Ginny sniffed and allowed herself to be guided through the shop. Miss Marple joined them, scampering up the stairs, while Tricia and Ginny followed until they reached the third floor and Tricia’s loft apartment. Tricia unlocked the door and let them in. “Let me take your coat.”

Ginny shrugged out of the sleeves of her coat, handing it to Tricia, who hung it on the coat tree by the door. She hurried over to the kitchen counter and filled the electric kettle with water, then got out mugs and packets of cocoa mix. “I hope you don’t mind instant. Of course, Angelica would make it from whole milk, and the finest Swiss ground chocolate.”

“She does tend to go overboard,” Ginny admitted, then dug for a tissue in the pocket of her skirt and blew her nose.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to serve a guest. I don’t really keep cookies or desserts up here. But we’ve got some thumbprint cookies down in the store. I could dash down and—”

Ginny shook her head. “No, thanks. The last thing I need right now are more calories.”

“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked. “Have you and Antonio had a fight?”

“Oh, no. He’s the sweetest, nicest man in the world—well, apart from Mr. Everett. I love him to death. I’ve never had an unhappy minute with him.”