“Blackmail?” Ginny guessed.

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Tricia said, but didn’t go into why.

Ginny lifted her cup, taking another sip. “But who would Betsy try to blackmail—and with what?”

Tricia shrugged, thinking about the Chamber MEMBERS file that currently sat on her computer’s desktop, and remembered she hadn’t called Grant Baker to discuss it. That would have to be next on her list of things to do.

Ginny polished off the last of her muffin and looked hopefully toward the shop door. “I wonder what time my first customer will arrive. Yesterday it was after one.”

“We’ve done better than that over at Haven’t Got a Clue, but not by much,” Tricia said.

“At least it’s given me a chance to plan my Saint Paddy’s Day displays,” Ginny said.

“We didn’t even decorate for Valentine’s Day,” Tricia admitted. “Except for Pixie changing that weird doll’s outfit every other day.”

“That often?” Ginny asked skeptically.

Tricia shrugged. “Maybe it just seems that way.” She drank the last of her coffee. “I should get back to my store. I have some things that need to be attended to.”

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Ginny said, getting up from her stool. “It gets pretty lonely here sometimes.”

Tricia pulled on her coat and hat. “I’ll see you tonight at the rental house.”

“I’ll be there,” Ginny said with resignation, and walked Tricia to the door.

“Bye.”

Since there was no traffic coming, Tricia jaywalked across the street. Pixie would be showing up soon and she wanted to make a list of items she should talk about with Chief Baker. And she wondered how annoyed he’d be to know she’d been keeping possibly pertinent information from him. She decided it might be better to visit at the police station. It felt awkward to talk to him—whether on business or personal matters—at her store with Pixie listening to every word.

There were some things Tricia didn’t want to share with her employee. Talking about Betsy Dittmeyer’s death was one of them. The fact that Baker always managed to steer their conversations to their personal lives made it even more uncomfortable.

Most of all, Tricia wasn’t up to being scolded in front of an audience.

*   *   *

Tricia sat in the police station’s small, drafty waiting room for more than half an hour, glad she hadn’t hung her coat on the rack near the door. Was Baker punishing her or was it his sharp-eyed receptionist/dispatcher? Polly Burgess was probably in her seventies, with thinning, snow-white hair worn in a bun. That day she wore a blue wool suit that had probably served her well over the years when she’d had an office job at St. Joseph Hospital in Nashua. Here in Stoneham it looked a bit prim and proper. But that was Polly, who probably wouldn’t take guff from anyone—she’d sure put the fear of God in Tricia. Every so often she’d look out from her receptionist’s station behind a half wall with a window, probably to make sure Tricia hadn’t lifted a few of the well-thumbed ancient magazines that sat on one of the small tables between the six uncomfortable folding chairs.

Tricia sighed, exasperated for having forgotten to bring a book along, and stared at the walls, noting how in just a few short months the newly opened station already had a rather shabby feel to it. She’d visited a few times before, but felt she’d never warm to the place.

Tricia noticed Polly’s gaze drift to the clock on the wall outside her cubby. Suddenly she sat up, pulled back the window, and announced, “You can go in now.”

Tricia grabbed her purse and stood. “Thank you.” She stepped across the small lobby and reached for the door handle that led to the station’s inner sanctum.

Baker’s door was open. He didn’t seem to be expecting her, for when he saw her, his eyes lit up and he smiled. “Tricia. This is a surprise.”

“I’ve been sitting waiting in your reception room for the past forty-five minutes.”

“Oh? I wonder why Polly didn’t say something.”

Tricia forced a smile. “Perhaps she’s overworked.”

“Well, you’re here now. What’s new?”

Tricia closed the door and sat on yet another uncomfortable folding chair. “I’m sure you probably already know about the fire at Betsy Dittmeyer’s house.”

Baker frowned, distinctly unhappy. “Did you see it on the news?”

Tricia shook her head. “I was there. Russ Smith heard it on his police scanner, called me, and the two of us went to have a look.”

“I thought you were done with him a long time ago,” Baker said, glowering, and sounding very much like a jealous ex-boyfriend.

“I was. And as you recall, he’s married.”

“And as I recall his wife is jealous of you,” he said much louder than he needed to. Had his voice penetrated the thin walls? Was Polly listening? Was she as big a gossip as Frannie? If so, she must run in another circle.

“Not so much, these days,” Tricia admitted and changed the subject. “Have the Milford firemen ascertained the exact cause of the fire?”

He shook his head. “Only that it was arson. They’ll have a preliminary report to me as soon as they know.”

“How soon is soon?”

“Could be a day or two. Could be a week. Could be longer.”

That certainly sounded open-ended.

“That wasn’t what brought you to my office,” Baker said.

“You’re right. Have you had a chance to look at the files on the Chamber’s computer?”

He shook his head and she told him about what she’d found when digging through the files. As predicted, the chief was not happy. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when we talked yesterday?”

Tricia sighed and looked away, taking in Baker’s immaculate office. There wasn’t a paper or a book out of order, and the floor looked like it had recently been polished. His many awards hung on the cheap paneled wall behind his desk in precise rows, along with pictures of him taken with other officers and local politicians during his time with the Hillsborough Sheriff’s Department. “I knew you’d be annoyed, because honestly it should have been Angelica who reported this to you.”

“You had the files. You did the snooping. You should have told me about this as soon as you knew. And when was that?”

“Um . . .”

“This is Wednesday,” he said, eyes blazing, as angry as she’d ever seen him.

“Well, I’m telling you now. And the thing is you’ve had the information since Saturday afternoon when you confiscated the Chamber’s computer. It’s not my fault you haven’t looked at any of the files. I’m just bringing your attention to what you’ve already got.”

“We’re a small department. I don’t have the benefit of passing those kinds of responsibilities off to an investigator. I’m the investigator.”

Tricia handed him her flash drive. “After you copy the files, I’d like to have this returned.”

Baker turned toward the monitor on the wing of his desk, inserted the flash drive, and opened it. “It’s the file called MEMBERS. And don’t forget to study the spreadsheets. I showed them to Christopher, and he’s on tap to find someone to go over the books for the Chamber.”

“You’ve talked to Christopher about this?” Baker asked angrily.

“I needed corroboration that there was something wrong with the files.”

“Why am I always the last to know?” Baker groused.

“Because your force is too small to deal with murder cases?” she suggested.

“Are you intimating that we, a force of seven officers and a receptionist, aren’t capable of solving this murder, but you—a solitary civilian—are?”

“Not at all,” Tricia answered, but she had been reading murder mysteries since the tender age of ten, whereas Baker had only been an officer of the law for some twenty-odd years.

“Who else knows about these files?” Baker demanded.

“Just Angelica and Christopher.”