“If I promise to return them to the Society today, can I take them now?” Tricia asked.

Michele shrugged. “You’re welcome to them.”

They entered the pub, and Michele immediately went behind the bar. She retrieved the large kraft envelope and handed it to Tricia. “It’s a bit too early in the day to offer you a drink, but I’d love it if you and Angelica could come by this evening so I can thank you properly.”

“That’s nice of you. Thank you. I’ll make a point of mentioning it to her.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

Tricia tucked the envelope under her arm, headed for the door, and closed it behind her. Once out on the sidewalk, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called the Chamber office. Mariana answered. “Could you do me a favor and tell me the number for Karen Johnson over at NRA Realty?” She did. “Thanks.” Tricia punched in the number, and Karen answered on the second ring.

“Tricia, always great to speak to you. What do you need?”

“A favor. You know all the properties that are for sale in the area. Would you be willing to look over some old papers and give me an opinion?”

“Things are rather slow today. I’d be more than happy to give you a bit of my time.”

“Great. Can I come by now?”

“Sure. I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee.”

“You’re a doll, Karen. Thanks.”

•   •   •

When they had opened shop some seven months before, NRA Realty had rented a bungalow at the back of the Brookview Inn. Since then, they’d moved to what had just a month or two before been another shabby little house at the far end of Main Street. Like the Chamber’s new digs, the downstairs had been converted to offices. NRA Associates had painted and landscaped the outside and had spruced up the inside as well, and Karen had hired a receptionist and an associate Realtor.

As Karen had promised, the coffee was hot, and the office was quiet. “Let’s go into the conference room, where we can spread out.”

The pretty black woman sat at the head of the table, and Tricia took the seat to her right.

“So, what’s in this mysterious envelope you’ve been clutching ever since you entered the office?” Karen asked, and took a sip of her coffee.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Historical Society was planning on a series of ghost walks at the Stoneham Rural Cemetery this fall.”

“Sounds like a great Halloween adventure.”

“It did—until Pete Renquist was murdered and his associate Janet Koch was attacked. Last night someone went after Michele Fowler, who had been asked to be a docent for the walks.”

Karen frowned. “And you think the answer to who’s behind the attacks will be found in those papers?”

“I don’t know, but it seems like someone wants to eliminate anyone involved in the project.”

Karen looked even more uncomfortable. She let out a breath. “Let’s have a look.”

Tricia opened the envelope and set the papers on the table before them. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at them. And I don’t even know what I’d be looking for.”

Karen sorted through the pages. “It would seem like the place to start is this map of the cemetery.” She lifted the reading glasses she wore on a chain around her neck and perched them on her nose. The black-and-white map was little more than just lines across the page. “Do you know much about the place?”

Tricia shook her head. “Pete was the expert, but Michele has learned a lot about its history during the past few days.”

Among the papers were several copies of deeds and other official-looking documents. Karen looked at a site map for a piece of land and tapped a finger on it. “I know this property. It’s right next to the rural cemetery. Seems to me I heard a story about it not long after I came to Stoneham.” She frowned, thinking. “There was a tentative agreement between Kelly Realty and Marathon Development. I believe an environmental impact study needed to be made.”

She frowned again, then pawed through the copies of the old documents, coming up with an old black-and-white aerial photo of part of the cemetery. There were several of them in the package. She lay them on the table in a line.

“I need to check something,” she said, got up from the table, and went into her office. A minute later she came back with a color photo printed on copy paper. She tapped her finger on the paper. “This is a satellite photo taken just three months ago. Notice the difference?”

Tricia looked at the photo, unsure what she was supposed to be looking for. Finally she shook her head.

“The old photo of the north side of the cemetery shows a private, probably family cemetery.” She pointed it out, then pointed to the corresponding place on the new photo.

“It’s not there anymore,” Tricia said, not understanding the significance.

Karen nodded.

“What do you think happened to it?”

She shrugged. “The markers were removed, and probably nobody would know the difference.”

“But isn’t that illegal?” Tricia asked, appalled.

“I’m pretty sure it is. A cemetery could be an impediment to development, although not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m from Upstate New York, and I know of two large commercial sites that have small private cemeteries in their midst: a mall in Syracuse and the football stadium in Buffalo. Still, a former owner of the land might have seen the old family cemetery as a detriment to selling it.” Karen frowned again. “The thing is, if there’s a burial plot on a piece of land, it’s required by law to be recorded in the property’s deed.”

Tricia’s mind whirled with possibilities. “Have you ever heard of a deed being modified to remove such a reference?”

“That would be illegal.”

“Which doesn’t mean it would stop someone from doing it.” She thought about it for a moment. “What’s the value of the property?”

“In excess of a million dollars.” She eyed Tricia. “What are you thinking?”

Did she dare voice aloud her suspicion that Bob Kelly was responsible for Pete’s death? He had a lot at stake and yet, at this point in time, not much to lose. He was already looking at a possible jail sentence and was desperate for cash. No way would he want to blow the sale of the property by the cemetery when it could increase his bottom line. She knew Bob had been capable of bending the law, but still—murder?

Had Pete discovered the cemetery was missing? Had he been foolish enough to confront Bob over it? Could they have met at the gazebo? But where would Bob have gotten heroin? Silly question. Just about anywhere these days. But how foolish would he have to be to commit murder in a public place? And yet, there’d apparently been no witnesses. Could Bob have seen Tricia and Sarge walking in the park and hightailed it?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Karen said softly.

“What do you think we should do?”

“We?” she said, and laughed. “I wouldn’t name names, but perhaps if you spoke about this to your friend Chief Baker, he might want to look into it.”

“Good idea. No way do I want Bob to come after me.”

“Do you really think he was responsible for Peter Renquist’s murder?” Karen asked.

“As you said, I wouldn’t want to name names.” Tricia gathered the pages together and replaced them in the envelope. “Thanks so much for seeing me on such short notice, Karen.”

“Happy to do so anytime,” she said, rising. She walked Tricia to the door. “We’ll have to get together socially soon. Are you up for having lunch someday next week?”

“I’d love it.”

Karen lowered her voice. “I get an NRA discount at the Brookview Inn. It’ll be my treat.”

“That sounds wonderful, but only if I can reciprocate another time.”

“I try to never turn down a lunch invitation,” Karen said, and laughed. “I’ll call you midweek.”

“Great.”

“By the way, I wonder if you could give Angelica a message for me when you see her. I’ve been trying to track her down all morning but haven’t had any luck.”