“Keeping it all in the family, eh?” he said with a bit of a sneer.

“Christopher isn’t part of my family.”

“But he was for ten years.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You called him, not me, to look at these files.”

“He’s a financial expert. Betsy had been stealing from the Chamber. I wanted him to verify it before I brought it to anyone’s attention.”

“Why don’t you take out an ad in the Stoneham Weekly News and tell everyone in the village? And don’t tell me, let me guess, you’ve also compared notes with Russ Smith on this subject, too.”

“I congratulated him on his impending fatherhood the other day. Betsy’s death may have come up during the conversation.”

“You know damn well it did,” he accused.

Tricia sat back in her chair. She’d known he was going to be upset, but she had no idea how upset. “I could have just kept this information to myself, you know.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Was he implying she was a gossip? She preferred not to think about it.

“I’d advise you to look at every single file on the Chamber hard drive. Betsy hid what could be important information mixed in with things like recipes.”

“Do you have an example?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Then how do you—?” He stopped, turning his piercing gaze on her. “Please tell me you haven’t been poking around in other places you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she bluffed.

“I think you do.”

Tricia didn’t look away. Should she admit Angelica had copied files from Betsy’s home computer and given them to her? The computer had no doubt been destroyed in the fire; only she and Angelica had an inkling of what information it contained.

“I’m just giving you a friendly piece of advice,” she told him.

Baker studied her face. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

“I don’t know what that could be,” she fibbed. Should she mention the cartons in the rental house? She didn’t see how that could be relevant. The money they’d found the previous evening could have been collected from people Betsy had been blackmailing, or it could have been earned honestly from items she’d sold on eBay or found in people’s trash. The latter were unlikely, but possibilities nonetheless.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me?” Tricia said.

Baker frowned. “I have thousands of questions for you, but nothing at this moment that pertains to the case. I presume you’ll be available if and when I do have further questions?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you may as well go back to your store. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Yes, sir,” Tricia said and saluted.

Baker didn’t seem to appreciate her levity. “I’m only going to say this once: I want you and Angelica to stop playing sister sleuths. I don’t want you poking your noses into stuff that doesn’t concern you. I want to keep you both safe. Do I make myself clear?”

Again Tricia saluted. Baker turned back to his computer monitor.

Tricia stood, picked up her purse, and waited for Baker to say something else, but he didn’t. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, turned, and opened his office door, waiting for a reply.

Baker didn’t look up. So, he was going to punish her with silence. Well, two could play at that game.

She walked out of the dreary little office and she didn’t say good-bye.

SEVENTEEN

Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue and found Pixie behind the cash desk waving a Post-it note in the air. “Your sister called. She said she’ll meet you here at five to walk over to the new Chamber office. She said to wear your old clothes. Does that mean you’re going to help her clean?”

“Something like that,” Tricia said and unfastened the buttons on her coat. Why had Angelica even bothered to call when she knew Tricia would be seeing her at lunchtime? She hung up her coat and settled on the stool behind the cash desk that Pixie had so recently abandoned, hoping for, but not expecting, many well-heeled customers with long lists of vintage mysteries they were eager to buy.

Pixie sidled up to the cash desk, looking expectant. “Did you notice Sarah Jane has another new outfit?”

Tricia turned her gaze to the vintage doll carriage that sat along the side wall, partially blocking books by authors whose last names began with the letters T through Z. Maybe it was Sarah Jane’s forever frozen startled expression that creeped Tricia out. At least this latest ensemble included a matching frilly bonnet to cover the doll’s hairless vinyl head. The dress, hat, and patent leather shoes had probably cost some proud grandmother a small fortune, but when the lucky owner had outgrown the outfit—or more likely had never had the opportunity to wear it, except perhaps inside a photo studio—it had found its way to Pixie’s favorite thrift shop, where it had probably been purchased for a song.

“It’s very nice,” Tricia had to agree.

“She’s wearing real vintage Curity diapers, rubber panties, and a taffeta slip under the dress. I thought since we sell authentic vintage mysteries, Sarah Jane should be wearing authentic vintage undies.”

Tricia wasn’t sure what to make of that leap of logic and instead found herself simply nodding in agreement.

“Hey, I had the tube on before I came into work this morning,” Pixie said, changing the subject. “I saw some fire footage on the news. They said it was the dead dame’s house. Did you hear?”

“Yes, I did,” Tricia said.

“They said it could be arson,” Pixie continued, her voice rising as though to elicit a greater response.

“Did they really?” Tricia asked.

Pixie nodded. “The broad lived less than a mile from me, but I never heard any sirens. The truth is, I sleep like the dead. You could play reveille full blast on a bugle right next to my ear but until I’ve had my full eight hours of shut-eye, nothing wakes me up.”

“How interesting,” Tricia said, and repositioned the stapler that sat on the cash desk. “Did you have a chance to make the coffee?” she asked Pixie. “I’m afraid I don’t sleep quite as well as you. I was awake half of last night and got a late start this morning.” She didn’t explain why.

“Can’t you smell it?” Pixie asked. “That Colombian blend you’ve been buying lately smells like heaven to me. You wouldn’t believe the swill that passes for coffee I had to drink when I was in stir. Would you like me to get you a cup?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” She got up from her perch and joined Pixie at the beverage station. Pixie poured the brew into Tricia’s usual ceramic cup, doctoring it just the way she liked it. Watching her go through the motions with such an obvious desire to please made Tricia feel terribly guilty. Pixie might have a few rough edges—eavesdropping being her worst habit—but all in all she’d become an exceptional employee, which Tricia had been happy to report to her parole officer the times he’d checked up on her.

Pixie handed her the cup and a paper napkin. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Tricia inhaled the aroma and took a tentative sip. “Thank you, Pixie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pixie’s cheeks blushed under her pancake makeup and she positively beamed with delight. “Since Mr. E won’t be here until later, would it be okay if I went upstairs and unpacked and sorted that big box of books you bought off eBay? Did I mention it arrived while you were out yesterday?”

“No, but it would be very helpful if you’d take care of it. Thank you, Pixie.”

“Just doing my job,” she said with pride, pivoted, and headed for the back of the store and the door marked PRIVATE. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and scampered off to follow her.