Tricia hurried back to the kitchen, washed out the cat’s food dish, and opened a can of pseudo salmon for her girl, set it down on the floor for her, then changed the water. Tricia wasn’t exactly hungry, but she perused the fridge’s contents. Yogurt. Again. What she really wanted was an egg-white omelet—with onions and peppers—but she didn’t have any eggs and she was too lazy to walk half a block to the Bookshelf Diner. She much preferred the days back at Haven’t Got a Clue when she had a fridge with only her own groceries in it and had the leeway to have anything she wanted for breakfast. As it was, this was another day she would have to put up with a situation not to her liking. And as she’d overslept, she knew she wasn’t going to get her four-mile walk in, either.

While Miss Marple chowed down, Tricia consumed her nonfat yogurt and poured herself another cup of coffee. She was determined to have a much more substantial lunch and would try to remember to call Booked for Lunch to order something other than the tuna plate.

Tricia topped up her cup once more and, with head held high, made her way to the former living room, now office space, in the house. She sat down before her computer and hit the power button, ready to start her workday.

“So,” Mariana said, her voice level, “who was that guy who snuck out the back door after Chief Baker arrived?”

Tricia’s heart froze. “Guy?” she bluffed.

“Yeah. A hunky guy in pajamas,” Mariana said, and her lips quirked into a smirk.

Tricia let out a breath. “If you must know, it was my ex-husband. Angelica and I were out late last night. Someone clipped all the blossoms in the hanging baskets around the village, and we replaced them with silk flowers.”

“And?” Mariana asked.

“Christopher walked me home.”

“So why was he still here at eight in the morning?” Mariana pressed, still smiling.

Did Tricia really owe this woman an explanation? The fact was, nothing untoward had happened between her and her ex, but Mariana sat there with what amounted to a shit-eating grin plastered across her face.

Tricia glared at her. “He stayed for a cup of cocoa and fell asleep in my sitting room.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And I’m sure you have better things to do than further speculate about my personal life.”

At last Mariana looked away. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business what you do on your own time.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tricia replied, but that didn’t help her case. She knew Christopher leaving her temporary home in the early morning was sure to be the subject of gossip no matter how she tried to defend herself. She decided to ignore it and pulled her chair closer to the desk.

Mariana switched on her radio. No doubt she’d waited to do so until Baker had left so she could eavesdrop.

Stop it! Tricia ordered herself. Mariana was not Frannie—and as far as Tricia knew, Mariana hadn’t succumbed to idle gossip. At least not yet.

Tricia checked her e-mails and found one from Angelica.

Looks like I’m busy all day with you-know-what business—and of course trying to track down silk flowers for the hanging baskets. I heard from Antonio—and we’re on for dinner tonight. Will meet you at my place and I’ll drive, then later tonight we can finish replacing the flowers? Tootles.

Terrific. Another late night. If Christopher showed up again, Tricia decided she would decline his offer to walk her home. She turned her attention to her own calendar. Coffee with Mr. E.

Her outlook suddenly brightened. She always enjoyed spending time with Mr. Everett. If the weather was fine, they’d stop at the Coffee Bean, buy a cup to go, and walk to the park, making sure to sit far away from the gazebo—the site of Deborah Black’s death. Now, with Pete Renquist’s death, they had even more reason to do so.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Mr. Everett would be arriving soon. She opened and answered several e-mails before the side door opened. “Hello!” Mr. Everett called.

“Come on in,” Tricia called happily.

At the sound of the elderly gent’s voice, Miss Marple ran up to greet him, winding around his ankles and telling him how much she’d missed him. He scooped her up and she nuzzled his chin, purring loudly.

“I’m always happy to see you, too, Miss Marple,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

“We’re going for coffee,” Tricia told Mariana. “Can I bring you back anything?”

Mariana shook her head. “But thanks for the offer.”

Tricia pushed back her chair and hurried to join Mr. Everett.

He set the cat down. “I’ll see you later, my dear Miss Marple.”

Miss Marple said, “Yow!”

Mr. Everett gestured for Tricia to precede him out the door, and they walked in comfortable silence to the Coffee Bean. Mr. Everett purchased cups of their respective favorite brews, and they headed for the park.

Tricia glanced across the street to look at the refurbished hanging baskets. From a distance, they looked pretty good. She’d try to get a closer view later in the day.

Mr. Everett noticed her staring. “Very odd, isn’t it?”

“Odd?” Tricia asked, facing him.

“That most of the flowers are gone, and those across the street aren’t the same as they were last week.”

“It seems we have some kind of floral vandal in town,” Tricia said as they paused at the corner, looked both ways, and crossed.

“Odder still that there should be lilies among them,” he commented. “I’ve never seen them in a hanging arrangement before.”

Tricia cleared her throat. “How’s Grace?” she asked, desperate to change the conversation.

“Happy in her work,” Mr. Everett said, “as am I. But I shall be overjoyed when Pixie and I can return to Haven’t Got a Clue with you and Miss Marple.”

“Believe me, I’m counting the days.”

“Do you have a timetable?”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m still waiting for the insurance man to call.”

They walked around the perimeter of the park, settling on their favorite bench. Tricia removed the cap from her coffee, blowing on it to cool it.

“It’s terrible what happened to Peter Renquist,” Mr. Everett said.

“Yes. I’m so sorry. I enjoyed working with him through the Chamber.”

Mr. Everett nodded.

“Did you know him?” Tricia asked.

“He worked for me about twenty years ago at the grocery store, stocking shelves.”

Tricia frowned. “Wasn’t that an entry-level job? Pete must have been at least thirty at the time.”

Mr. Everett nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “He was obviously overqualified but in desperate need of employment. He promised he would stick with the job for at least six months. During that time, he became a volunteer for the Historical Society.”

“Did they hire him away from you?”

Mr. Everett shook his head. “He worked the full six months he’d promised me, then found a better-paying job at the library in Milford. The Historical Society hired him several years later.” He shook his head. “Such a shame. He was a hard worker and was well liked.”

“Not by Earl Winkler,” Tricia said, remembering Pete’s last conversation with the curmudgeon.

“Were I Peter, I’d have considered that a compliment.”

“Why, Mr. Everett, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a disparaging word against anyone.”

“If ever there was a selectman who was against seeing the village prosper, it’s Winkler. I will not go into details, but I once had an unpleasant encounter with him back when I still owned my store. That enough members of the electorate saw him as a fit candidate is a mystery to me.”

Tricia knew better than to press him with questions about the incident. The memory must have been a bitter one for Mr. Everett to have even mentioned it. She decided to turn the conversation back to Pete. “Chief Baker wasn’t sure what, if any, burial arrangements were being made. I wonder if the Historical Society will at least hold a memorial service for Pete.”