“We’ve got more important matters taking up the bulk of our time just now,” Baker said.

“Have you made any headway on Pete Renquist’s death?” Tricia asked.

The chief looked uncomfortable. “We’re pursuing all leads.”

Which meant no!

“Did you have a chance to speak to Toni Bennett?” she asked.

The name caused Baker to start, as though he had to remember it was the owner of the Antiques Emporium and not the singer. “Yes.”

“And?” Tricia pressed.

“Hearsay.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you’re going to try to find out who threatened Pete.”

“Of course, but hearing he was threatened without any corroborating information isn’t much of a lead.”

She supposed not. “Who else have you spoken with?”

“You are not a part of the investigation,” Baker pointed out, obviously annoyed.

Tricia shrugged. “I spoke with Janet Koch at the Historical Society this morning—to convey my condolences,” she quickly added.

“I’ve spoken with her, too. She wasn’t much help.”

“Have Pete’s next of kin been contacted?” Angelica asked.

Baker nodded. “No help there, either.”

“But you’re doing everything you can to solve Pete’s murder,” Tricia stated, though it didn’t seem to be much.

“Of course.”

Tricia again debated mentioning what Mariana had told her earlier in the day. If she didn’t name names, she could at least make a suggestion—just to get Baker thinking along a different line of reasoning. “It’s well known that Pete liked to flirt with women. Is it possible a jealous husband or lover could have come after him?” she asked.

“Anything’s possible.”

Sure. Pigs flew on scheduled routes. The moon was made of green cheese. And a bridge in Brooklyn was sold just about every day.

Angelica picked up Sarge and stood. “I suppose we’d better let you get back to it.” She didn’t sound impressed with the chief’s progress, either.

Tricia followed her out of the office.

“Keep me informed about those flowers,” Baker called after them.

“If I can be bothered,” Angelica muttered.

“Good night,” Tricia called to Polly as she passed the receptionist’s desk. The woman ignored her.

“Now what?” Tricia asked once the sisters were out on the sidewalk again.

“It’s been a long day and I still have a ton of work to do. We may as well go home,” Angelica said, and they started off. They walked in silence until they came to the Chamber office, where they paused.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tricia said, and gave Angelica a hug. Sarge barked. “I’ll see you, too,” she said, and bent down to pat the dog’s head.

“Why did you tell Grant about Pete’s flirting?” Angelica asked.

Tricia shrugged and avoided her sister’s penetrating gaze. “I just want him to investigate all possibilities.”

“Did you have someone in mind?”

Tricia kept scratching Sarge’s ears. “No.”

Angelica didn’t press the issue. “Well, good night.”

“Night.” Tricia called, and hurried up the driveway. She had no proof against Jim Stark. A part of her wanted to pursue that line of inquiry. What was worse, a bigger part of her—the part that wanted to go back to her old life and home—didn’t.

NINE

Her room was still dark when Tricia awoke with a start the next morning. Her heart pounded and she was drenched with cold sweat. The crippling nightmare had returned, although it no longer haunted her sleep every night as it had during those first bleak days after the fire. Flames had poured from Haven’t Got a Clue’s shattered display window, while firefighters in assault gear directed the full force of their hoses on the fire—and the stock inside. Tricia had felt as though she were being slowly smothered as she’d watched helplessly from the street, held back by many arms that refused to let her go back to save her beloved store.

Of course, it hadn’t actually happened quite that way—but it was close enough. The terror she’d felt when she thought she’d lost Miss Marple had been the worst. Then the realization struck that she might have lost everything else she valued. Still, at the time she’d felt lucky, and her friends—and most of all Angelica—had rallied to support her. She would never forget the kindness she’d been shown. Even strangers had stopped her in the street to express their regrets.

But as the days and weeks dragged on and still there was no settlement from the insurance company—and no end in sight for her enforced exile—she found herself growing depressed. She wanted to go home. To her own home.

Throwing back the covers, Tricia got up, disturbing Miss Marple, and quickly dressed for her morning jaunt. Could the soot-covered treadmill that still stood in her loft apartment be refurbished? She supposed she’d eventually find out. Going for a brisk walk was wonderful in good weather, but not so much fun when it rained. Thankfully the weatherman had predicted fair skies for the next few days. Tricia tied her running shoes and took off. She had a lot to think about as she followed her usual route, speed-walking along Stoneham’s residential streets.

After she’d completed her rounds, Tricia usually ended up at the Coffee Bean for her first brew of the day. Coming back to her rooms at the Chamber office was always made a little more pleasant when she had a really good cup of coffee to kick-start the rest of her day.

However, on this day Tricia headed over to the Cookery. Outside the door, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called Angelica.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Tricia said.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been up for hours. What’s new?”

“I’m outside the Cookery. Can I come up?”

“Of course.”

“See you in a minute,” Tricia said, and stabbed the end-call icon. She unlocked the door and quickly disabled the alarm system, then headed up the stairs.

As usual, Sarge made a wonderful welcoming committee, jumping up and down and barking enthusiastically.

“Want some coffee?” Angelica called as Tricia started down the hall that lead to Angelica’s kitchen with Sarge scampering ahead.

“I’ve already got some,” Tricia said.

“How about some toast?”

“Sounds good,” Tricia said, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

Angelica put two slices into the toaster and turned for her own breakfast. “I’ve got some bad news.”

“Another death?” Tricia asked, horrified.

“No! I called the Milford Nursery. They had a big sale over the weekend. Their stock has been decimated. They can’t replace the hanging baskets.”

“Oh, no! The flowers are such a draw for the tourists. What are you going to do?”

“I could call all over the state, but the cheapest and easiest solution just might be silk,” she said flatly.

“You mean . . . fake flowers?” Tricia asked, aghast.

“Some of them look very lifelike,” Angelica said optimistically.

“Yeah, the expensive ones. What’s your budget?”

“There is no budget. It’s coming out of Nigela Ricita’s pockets.”

“At least they’re deep.”

“I’m just worried that whoever decapitated all those petunias and pansies will just yank out the silk replacements.”

“It’s a possibility.”

Angelica looked thoughtful but said nothing more.

“Who’s going to scour the local craft stores?” Tricia asked.

“I’ve got to be in Portsmouth by ten, and I have a meeting in Manchester after lunch. How about Pixie?”

Tricia shook her head, remembering the cheesy Christmas decorations Pixie had fallen in love with and had wanted to use to decorate Haven’t Got a Clue the previous holiday season. “Her heart would be in the right place, but I don’t think she’s a good judge of such things.”

“Would you have time to shop?”

“Only if you think the Chamber can spare me.”