Her gaze traveled over to a wrinkled brochure, which also sat on the desk. It was for NRA Realty, a division of Nigela Ricita Associates.

Suddenly the letters of one of the words rearranged themselves in her mind and she smiled. R-I-C-I-T-A rearranged was T-R-I-C-I-A.

Her smile faded as a wave of cold passed through her—like someone walking on her grave. No, it can’t be, she thought, her insides seeming to do a summersault. She studied the letters in the other word. There weren’t enough letters in N-I-G-E-L-A to spell out Angelica. Still . . .

Tricia went into the kitchen to get a trash bag, then emptied the four wastebaskets and tossed the newspaper into it as well. For some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about those jumbled letters. Surely it was coincidence. Angelica couldn’t be Nigela Ricita.

But, like Clark Kent and Superman, Nigela and Angelica had never been seen together. Heck, besides Antonio Barbero, no one in the village had ever met the elusive Ms. Ricita. Antonio did all the talking for his boss. She communicated with her employees via e-mail. That was certainly an effective way of keeping any questions about her identity at bay.

It can’t be.

Tricia stared at the headline once more. The words Angelica Tricia seemed to jump off the page.

Since Nigela Ricita Associates had come to town, they’d invested in the Brookview Inn, the Happy Domestic, the Sheer Comfort Inn, the Eat Lunch rolling food truck, and the local pub, the Dog-Eared Page. They’d bought the building that now housed the Chamber of Commerce. And, lucky for the Chamber, NRA had made improvements despite the fact that they intended to raze the building in the not-too-distant future, and charged the organization far less than the going rate for rent. The company also subsidized the flowers that festooned Main Street, which pleased not just the tourists but the shopkeepers as well.

These—all its—investments had been good for Stoneham and for its citizens, too. Nigela Ricita Associates had created not only jobs, but greater prosperity. Angelica was far too selfish to be behind all that altruism.

Tricia frowned and felt instantly ashamed. Maybe she’d felt that way about her sister in the past, but no longer.

Angelica had hired Frannie Mae Armstrong, who’d blossomed as the Cookery’s manager. She’d given an ex-con the chance at a better life when she’d hired him to be a short order cook at Booked for Lunch. He’d moved from that lowly position to that of head chef at the Brookview Inn. Angelica had been the force behind Tricia giving Pixie a chance to excel, working for her at Haven’t Got a Clue, and with the skills she’d picked up working for the Chamber of Commerce during the past six months, she could probably look for a better-paying job. Angelica was also responsible for Michele Fowler getting the job as manager of the Dog-Eared Page. She’d done a lot of good these past few years. Nigela Ricita Associates had done even more.

It can’t be, Tricia told herself more sternly.

Angelica had an ego the size of Montana. Surely if she was responsible for all the improvements that had taken place in the village, she’d be shouting it from the top of the newly rebuilt village gazebo. What was served by her hiding behind a shell company?

But then Tricia remembered something Angelica had said months before when she’d spilled the beans about the dead brother Tricia had never known about. “You’d be surprised how good we are at keeping secrets in this family.”

But the idea was absurd. How could Angelica be the head of a development company and not tell anyone—especially Tricia—about it? Her life was an open book.

Wasn’t it?

There was only one way to find out.

Tricia reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, intending to call her sister, when she noticed she’d missed a text message from Angelica. Free for dinner? Come over at 6:15.

Tricia glanced at her watch. It was six ten. Oh, yes, she had every intention of crossing the street and confronting Angelica with her suspicions.

It took only a minute for Tricia to leave a bowl of kitty treats for her cat, lock up the Chamber office, and leave the quaint little house. As she walked briskly down the sidewalk heading for the Cookery, she rehearsed various conversational openers.

So, are you Nigela Ricita?

No, too blunt.

Anything you need to tell me?

No, too subtle.

Would Angelica laugh and deny the accusation? Would she break down in tears and beg Tricia’s forgiveness? Somehow, Tricia couldn’t see either of those scenarios playing out. It didn’t matter. Tricia was determined to find out the facts, and if what she now suspected was true, she would—

Tricia stopped dead in the middle of the empty sidewalk.

She had no idea what she would do.

•   •   •

Tricia unlocked the big door to the Cookery and entered, locked it behind her, and crossed the shop to the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment. The layout of this store and her own were so similar that she felt a pang of loss cut a little deeper into her soul every time she entered. When she reached the third floor and opened the door, Sarge bounded toward her, practically apoplectic with joy, despite the fact he’d seen her only a couple of hours earlier that day. “Calm down, calm down,” she chided as the dog bounced up and down as though on a trampoline as they headed up the hall and into the kitchen, where the aromas of onions and garlic wafted.

“Honestly, Sarge,” Angelica chided from her position at the stove, “put a sock in it.”

Tricia looked around on the floor for something to distract the dog. Sure enough, she saw what had once been a knee-high white sock that had been tied in knots and given to the dog as a toy. Tricia picked it up and tossed it to Sarge, who caught it in his mouth, where it stayed, effectively silencing him.

She glanced over at her sister, who was standing over the stove stirring what looked like a pot of spaghetti sauce, still undecided as to what she felt—admiration or total fury. No doubt about it, had Angelica wished for a culinary career, she would have been one of the best. She often said she was happiest with a wooden spoon in her hand. The fact that she did it so well had been a boon for Tricia, who didn’t like to cook and, before Angelica’s arrival, had basically lived on a diet of yogurt and tuna salad, which was convenient but not particularly healthy. But right now food was the last thing on Tricia’s mind.

“I’ve got a pitcher of martinis in the fridge—as well as a couple of glasses chilling. Why don’t you pour us each a drink?” Angelica suggested as she grabbed a pot from the cupboard, no doubt for the pasta.

Tricia was going to need a hardy swig of that alcoholic rocket fuel to get through the upcoming conversation. She opened the fridge and found everything sitting on a tray. Even the skewered olives sat in the glasses. While Angelica filled the pot with water and put it on the stove, Tricia moved the tray to the counter and poured. She handed one of the glasses to Angelica, who barely looked up as she lit the burner.

“What shall we drink to?” Angelica asked, grabbing a spoon and giving the sauce another stir.

Ah, the perfect opening. “Why don’t we drink to Nigela Ricita?” Tricia suggested.

“Why would we want to do that?” Angelica asked diffidently.

“She’s changed the lives of everyone in Stoneham, wouldn’t you agree?”

Angelica shrugged, her back still to Tricia. “I guess.”

“In fact, she’s got to be the best thing that ever happened to Stoneham.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Angelica said, and took a sip of her drink.

“You can’t deny she’s brought a lot of changes to the village.”

“So have you.”

“Me?” Tricia asked, stunned.