Mariana pursed her lips and went back to her desk, looking disappointed. Had her day been so dull that she wanted to live vicariously through someone’s—anyone’s—adventure, however dull?

“I think it’s a cool place to have lunch,” Pixie said. “I heard the Historical Society is going to have ghost walks this fall. I’m going to sign up. I wonder if they’ll have a special Halloween ghost walk? Do you think they’d want people to come in costume? I love to dress up.”

Tricia inspected Pixie’s costume of the day, which was a navy-themed dress with white piping and a jaunty sailor’s cap to top it off. For a stocky, dyed-redheaded, gold-toothed woman on the high side of fifty, Pixie looked quite cute.

Luckily, the subject was soon dropped, and the rest of the afternoon was lost to phone calls, paperwork, and envelope stuffing.

Mariana left right on time at five o’clock, which gave Tricia and Pixie time to talk, and it was then she realized she’d been waiting all afternoon to live vicariously through Pixie’s new adventures in love land. “Are you spending the evening with Fred?” she asked.

“Yep. It’s a big day for us. Our two-month anniversary. We’re celebrating by getting tattoos.”

Tricia gaped. “But . . . isn’t it early in the relationship for that?”

Pixie shrugged. “We talked about that. So I’m getting the sun, and he’s getting the moon. They’re usually done together as one tat. Later, if things work out, I’ll get the moon, and he’ll get the sun. It’s kind of like a promise we’re making to each other.”

Promise rings wouldn’t be half as permanent.

“You ever think of getting a tat?” Pixie asked.

“I can honestly say no.”

“Everybody gets ’em nowadays. You could get a little book on your arm or ankle. It would be cute, but you need to go to a place that does quality work.”

“It sounds like you’ve done your homework on this.”

“Ya gotta. Otherwise, you end up looking like an old rummy sailor who got drunk and went to a hack. I’m wearing this tat to the grave and it has to look good.”

“You’re braver than me,” Tricia said sincerely.

Pixie waved a hand in dismissal. “Are you kidding? You’ve stared down killers. That’s not something I could do, so a tattoo would be pretty easy stuff for a stand-up chick like you.”

Stand-up chick, huh? Tricia liked the sound of that.

Pixie waxed poetic on all the tattoos she’d seen in prison and beyond, then segued into her latest pedicure and wax—more information than Tricia really wanted to know, but she listened transfixed nonetheless. No doubt about it, Pixie could spin a story. Maybe she’d be interested in volunteering to be a docent for the Historical Society, too, some day.

All too soon it was time for Pixie to leave. Tricia watched as she grabbed her things and headed for the door.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Pixie paused. “When am I going to get to meet Fred?”

“You really want to?”

“Well, of course I do,” Tricia said.

“Gee, maybe you could stop by Booked for Lunch around ten thirty some morning. That’s when he makes his delivery.”

“Sounds good. Maybe I could scrounge a cup of coffee from Angelica at the same time.”

Pixie grinned. “I’ll bet you could.”

“All right. How about we plan it for some time next week?”

“Great.” Pixie headed for the door once more. “See ya tomorrow. And I’ll show off my tat as soon as I get in.” And out the door she went.

Tricia frowned. Pixie hadn’t mentioned just where this tattoo was going to go. Tricia just hoped it wasn’t going to be on an embarrassing body part.

With time to kill before she was to meet Angelica at her loft apartment, Tricia went out back to water the perennials that some previous owner had planted along the west side of the house.

Distracted by thoughts of possible tattoos she might one day get, she was halfway through the job, facing away from the drive, when a noise from behind caused her to turn with a start.

“Bob Kelly, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Tricia asked, nearly watering his shoes with the hose. He took a step back.

“I need you to make a decision, and I need it now,” Bob demanded, his tone formidable.

“Bob, what’s gotten into you?” Tricia asked, turning so that the water ran into the grass.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes!”

“I need the money. I’m going to jail unless I can keep paying that shark of an attorney of mine.”

“You mean because you ransacked your own property?”

“No, because I never finished my community service.”

“I thought that all blew over.”

“It didn’t. I’ve tried to keep it quiet, but it looks like they’re going to make me do time, and when I get out, I’ll be on probation, and not only will I have to finish my community service, but I’ll be stuck with even more of it.”

Oh, what a tangled web, Tricia thought without pity.

“What about all the rent you collect? You own half the village.”

“Make that past tense.”

“You’ve sold some of your properties?”

“Not on Main Street, except for the lot where History Repeats Itself used to be. And now maybe your building, but only because it’s a wreck and I might have to put a lot of money into it if you leave without fixing it.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” Tricia said evenly.

“You’ve got the money,” Bob said.

Tricia did have the money, but she didn’t like being pressured. And she didn’t want to pay more than fair-market value, either. He’d already stuck her for more than fair-market rent. “And how would you know about my financial situation?” she bluffed. Angelica had probably told him. It seemed like she’d shared an awful lot of information with him.

“I have my ways.”

Tricia looked at him with suspicion. “Have you hacked into the bank’s files?”

Bob looked away.

Nobody knew how Betsy Dittmeyer, the Chamber’s former receptionist, had established so many bogus accounts in banks all over the country to hide her ill-gotten gains. Had she confided to Bob how she’d done it when she’d worked for him? Had they worked together? Probably not. If Bob could have gotten his hands on that money, he would have already done so. And once the accounts had been turned over to the district attorney, they were frozen so no one would have access to them.

“I haven’t done anything illegal,” he said at last.

“Since you vandalized Stan Berry’s home you mean?”

“Yes,” he said bitterly. “But I’ve considered doing something very stupid if I can’t buy my way out of this conviction.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not about to tell you.”

Was he bluffing, or was he actually that desperate?

Tricia studied Bob’s face. The skin along his jaw was taut with worry, and the strain he was under was evident by his stooped posture.

“Come on, Tricia, buy the damn building.” He reached into the inner breast pocket of his rumpled green sports coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I’ve filled out the sales contract, all you have to do is—”

“No!” Tricia cried.

Bob slammed his fist against the home’s shingles, and Tricia jumped back, dropping the hose, afraid he might hit her, too. She’d never before been afraid of Bob Kelly, but at that moment she was. She took a shaky breath. “You’d better leave, Bob. Now. I don’t want to be forced to call the Stoneham Police Department to drag you away.”

Bob shoved the papers back into his pocket. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Tricia.”

Tricia took another shaky breath but stood tall. “Are you threatening me?”

But Bob didn’t answer. Instead, he pivoted and stormed off.

Still feeling shaky, Tricia realized the grass all around her was wet from the still gushing hose. Her hands were trembling as she turned off the water, coiled the hose, and replaced it on the rusty metal holder attached to the house. Taking a deep breath, she walked around the side of the building and walked up the ramp to the side entrance, which she’d left unlocked. For a moment she worried that Bob might have gone inside and was waiting for her, but Miss Marple sat in the middle of the hall leading to the office and didn’t seem at all alarmed.