“I’ll just get a cup of coffee and then I’ll be right in,” Tricia told her.

Mariana nodded but didn’t bother looking away from her screen.

Tricia crept back up the hall, looked up the stairwell, and waved for Christopher to join her.

Then she heard the back door open. Startled, she looked up to see Chief Baker come through it. She slammed the door to her private quarters.

“Grant!” she practically squeaked as her heart pounded in her chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The ME has rendered the cause of death for Pete Renquist. I thought you might like to know.”

Tricia leaned her back against the door like a human barricade. “And?” she asked.

“A heroin overdose.”

Tricia felt her mouth drop open. “Pete? Heroin? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Baker said. He sniffed the air. “Any chance I could get a cup of coffee?”

Still reeling from what she’d just heard, Tricia nodded. “Sure. Come into the kitchen.”

Baker followed her into the tiny kitchen, taking a seat at the bistro table. Mariana had evidently wiped up the spilled cocoa from the night before. Tricia made a mental note to retrieve the dirty cup still sitting on her nightstand once she had a moment to spare. She poured two cups of coffee and doctored them both. She hadn’t forgotten how Baker took his.

She heard the old wooden floor squeak behind her and looked to see Christopher, shoes in hand, tiptoeing toward the back door. She wanted nothing more than to throw him a murderous glare, but she refrained, swallowed, and turned back toward Baker, grateful that he sat at the opposite end of the kitchen.

“Anything wrong?” Baker asked.

“I’m—I’m still shocked by what you just told me,” she stammered, forcing herself to keep her gaze on him and not look back toward the door. She heard it quietly close, and she let out a breath. “Heroin?” she repeated, carrying their cups to the table and taking a seat.

Baker accepted the cup and took a sip. “But it wasn’t self-administered.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was right-handed. It looks like someone clobbered him, and then injected him in the right arm.”

“Can just one dose kill someone?” she asked in disbelief.

“When you’re a junkie who hasn’t shot up in over twenty years, yeah—one dose would do it. The body couldn’t tolerate it.”

“But I’ve heard about an antidote—”

“A lot of police and first responders do come armed with Naloxone, but you’d have to know someone has overdosed to administer it. As far as I’ve been able to tell, no one knew about Pete’s secret past.”

Tricia placed her hands around the warm cup, willing it to thaw the chill that had settled around her soul. “Was it difficult to root out?”

“Not after what you told me his last words were.”

“‘I never missed my little boy,’” Tricia repeated. “What did it mean?”

“Little boy is often used as a euphemism for heroin. After we talked, I asked the medical examiner to test for heroin. It would have turned up, but we got our answer a bit faster.”

Pete Renquist a heroin addict? What had turned him around? How had he ended up in Stoneham and at the Historical Society? So many questions she’d probably never have the answers to. And who in Stoneham would have known that Pete had once been a heroin addict?

Then she remembered her talks with Charlie, one of Stoneham’s mailmen, who’d known the Chamber’s former receptionist, Betsy Dittmeyer. He’d met her at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and he’d told Tricia that once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. Had Pete been going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings? If so, whoever else went to them would have known about his addiction.

“You’re thinking what I’ve already thought about. That someone arranged to meet him at the gazebo and then killed him.”

“It does seem logical. But why?”

Baker shrugged.

“Do you think this was some kind of revenge killing?” Tricia asked.

“It seems like most murders are a form of retaliation, for one reason or another.”

Tricia sighed, feeling helpless. “I appreciate you telling me this, Grant.”

Again he shrugged. “I thought you had a right to know. Then again, I don’t want you talking about it, although I’m sure it’ll get around soon enough. These kinds of things always do.”

“It’s such a shame. He was such a nice man.”

“Except for the ex-wife, we haven’t come up with any next of kin yet, but I’ve got a line on some former employers; maybe one of them will be able to tell me more about Renquist’s past.”

Tricia nodded. He was certainly more willing to talk about Pete’s death than he had been the other evening. She decided to keep pushing. “What will happen to the body?”

Baker shrugged. “If he had a will, it might state Pete’s wishes. I’ve got one of my guys calling all the attorneys in the area. One of them might know. He didn’t have a safety deposit box at the bank, and I or one of my men will have a look at his house.”

“Can I come along?”

“No. You’re done with snooping around, remember?”

“I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask,” she said, offering him a weak smile.

For a minute or more they sipped their coffee in solemn silence, then Baker finally spoke. “From what I’ve learned, Renquist leaves big shoes to fill over at the Historical Society.”

“You don’t think his colleague, Janet Koch, can fill them?” she asked, just a bit annoyed.

He shrugged. “She’s got a real life and a husband. Renquist lived alone. From what I understand, his life was the Historical Society.”

“You don’t think a woman is capable of running a business—or a nonprofit organization—and having a life?” she asked, thinking of all that Angelica was successfully juggling.

Again he shrugged. “Man or woman—it doesn’t matter. But having a significant other would draw far too much attention from the job that needs to be done.”

Tricia’s grip on her cup tightened. She wasn’t sure she believed that. But perhaps that explained why Baker was divorced. He had chosen his job as a law enforcement agent over his marriage. He’d told Tricia that his ex-wife had initiated the divorce, and yet when she’d suffered from cancer, he’d chosen to stand by her during the rough months of treatment. Despite the time he’d taken to support her in her time of need, he’d still chosen the job over his wife.

Tricia still felt that it wasn’t a mistake that she’d ended her relationship with Baker. He had many fine qualities, but life partner wasn’t one of them. Still, she liked him and probably always would. She managed a smile.

He noticed. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. “Kismet.”

He frowned.

“How life flows, or doesn’t, for people like Pete. How sad that some selfish person had to cut his life short.”

“I will find out who killed him and bring that person to justice,” Baker declared.

You hope, Tricia thought.

Baker drained his cup and looked up at the clock. “I’ve got to go back to work.”

“And I’m already late starting it,” Tricia said.

“Still no word from your insurance company?” Baker asked as he stood.

Tricia shook her head. Soft fur rubbed against her foot. She hadn’t yet fed Miss Marple, either.

“I’m sure you’ll hear soon,” Baker said.

Tricia stood and walked him to the door.

“We should stay in touch,” he said.

“If I learn anything I think you should know, I’ll definitely call.” She’d known he’d meant that communication between them should go beyond news of Pete’s death, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“No snooping!” he told her again, emphatically stabbing the air with his right index finger.

“Have a good day,” she called as he headed out the door. She closed it and stood staring at it for a long moment. Miss Marple nudged the back of her calf, and said, “Yow!” She wanted her breakfast and fast!