Chapter & Hearse

Eighteen

Tricia rapped on the glass as hard as she dared. “Bob! Bob!” she called, but the figure on the rug did not move. She dived for the door handle and yanked at it, but of course it was locked.

She thought of Jim Roth—and how someone had messed with his gas meter—and what had happened when a spark ignited it.

She stepped away from the house, took out her cell phone, and punched in 9-1-1.

“I’d advise you to stand as far away from the house as possible, ma’am,” the dispatcher cautioned in as dispassionate a voice as Tricia had ever heard.

“But what if he’s suffocating?”

“You won’t help him if you die in the explosion, too.”

Within in a minute, wailing sirens broke the midmorning quiet. Thank goodness the Stoneham Fire Department was only a couple of blocks away. Its bright red pumper truck pulled up in front of Bob’s house, with the rescue unit right behind. And bringing up the rear was Russ’s junky old pickup truck. He jumped out and met Tricia on the sidewalk across the street from Bob’s house. “I heard the call on my police scanner.”

Of course.

“What’s the story here?” Russ demanded.

Tricia ignored him as Fire Chief Farrar hurried over to join them. “Man down?”

“Yes, in the living room. There may be a gas leak. It looks like Bob’s lying on the floor, unconscious.”

He nodded, and headed for the house.

The other firefighters were already converging on the porch, dressed in protective gear and masks, and armed with hatchets. They thought to do what Tricia hadn’t: look under the welcome mat for the key. They found it, opened the door, and cautiously went inside.

Tricia found herself clenching her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she waited for something to happen. Russ put a protective arm around her, and she angrily shrugged it off.

“I only meant to be reassuring,” Russ said, but again Tricia ignored him.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably less than two minutes, two firefighters dragged an unconscious Bob from the house, shuffled down the steps, and laid him on the ground. Tricia ran across the street, with Russ in hot pursuit.

She stood by helplessly as one of the firefighters took off his mask and covered Bob’s face. In a few moments, Bob roused and was coughing—a very good sign.

The Stoneham volunteer ambulance pulled to the curb, its lights flashing, and in moments the paramedics had exited the vehicle and relieved the firefighters.

Fire Chief Farrar trundled down the porch steps and waved Tricia and Russ aside, giving the paramedics more room to work. “Ms. Miles, Russ. I thought you’d like to know someone had tampered with the gas meter. We’re airing the place out now.”

“Will Bob be okay?”

He nodded. “They’ll take him to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milford, just to make sure. It’s a good thing you showed up when you did. You undoubtedly saved his life.”

“How about that meter?” Russ asked. “Same as at History Repeats Itself?”

The chief hesitated, and instead of answering Russ’s question, said, “We shut off the gas. Now it’s up to the Sheriff’s Department to determine if there’re any fingerprints. My guess is no. But maybe Mr. Kelly saw something and can give them an inkling of who they should go after.”

And maybe he couldn’t. Or more likely—wouldn’t.

“Can we talk to Bob?” Russ asked.

Bob sat on the grass, his mouth and nose still covered by an oxygen mask, talking with the paramedics and, from the muffled sound of it, insisting he did not need to go to the hospital.

“I guess, but don’t interfere with the EMTs,” Chief Farrar said, and waved at one of his men that he’d be right there. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Tricia and Russ walked across Bob’s lawn until they stood in front of him. Bob moved the mask aside. “Don’t tell Angelica about this, Tricia. Otherwise, she’ll be calling me day and night, and I don’t want her to worry.”

“She might not worry so much if you actually answered her calls.”

He glared at her for a second, then put the mask back up to his face and closed his eyes.

“What happened?” Russ asked.

Bob shook his head, and again removed the mask. “I was taking a nap. I guess I must have smelled the gas, and tried to get up. That’s all I remember.”

Tricia scowled. She knew a lie when she heard one. The house was a shambles. No one could have slept through that kind of destruction.

The paramedics helped Bob onto the gurney, and this time he didn’t protest. “We’re ready to roll,” the female EMT said, ushering Tricia and Russ out of her path.

“Give me a call if you want a ride back from the hospital,” Russ volunteered.

Bob gave a feeble wave, and closed his eyes once more.

Tricia and Russ followed as the EMTs rolled the gurney across the grass and loaded Bob into the back of the ambulance. A minute or two later, they pulled away from the curb—with no lights or siren.

“Poor Bob’s having a string of bad luck,” Russ commented. “I’m beginning to wonder if the intended victim wasn’t Jim Roth at all.”

“You mean you’ve only now come to that conclusion?” Tricia asked, even though she’d come to the same conclusion only seconds before.

Russ bristled indignantly. “And what was your first clue?”

“The night someone tried to break into Bob’s house, of course. And the fact that he wouldn’t talk about his conversation with Jim Roth. He also had a security system installed. Everyone’s been so preoccupied with Jim’s death, they haven’t looked at the big picture.”

“Everyone but you?” he asked skeptically.

Tricia shrugged. “The question is, when is Captain Baker going to get around to making the connection?”

“Why don’t you just tell him? You seem to have his ear on a regular basis.”

“I don’t know why you’re jealous of my friendship with him. You dumped me, remember?”

“That was a mistake. I’ve been trying to win you back ever since.”

“I don’t want to be won. And for another thing, I may forgive—but I never forget.” And with that, Tricia turned and stalked back to her car. This time Russ did not follow.

Once in her car, Tricia retrieved her purse from the passenger seat and rummaged through it until she found her phone. Then she punched in Captain Baker’s private number. He wasn’t likely to answer if he was questioning Frannie or Mrs. Roth, or had gone home to change into his uniform, but she felt she should at least tell him about this latest development. Voice mail answered after three rings.

“Grant, it’s Tricia Miles. I don’t know how tuned in you are to emergency calls, but someone tampered with Bob Kelly’s gas meter—the same as what happened at History Repeats Itself. They’ve taken him to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milford. Maybe you need to have more than just a friendly chat with Bob. Otherwise, he’s going to end up in the morgue—just as dead as Jim Roth.”

It was after twelve o’clock when Tricia made it back to Haven’t Got a Clue, where she found not only Mr. Everett standing outside the door, but Ginny, too. “Where’ve you been?” Ginny scolded. “Frannie never showed up at the Cookery.”

“A number of customers came by, but we had to turn them away,” Mr. Everett said. “We were getting worried about you.”

“I’m sorry. I got a call from Angelica. She wanted me to go check on Bob Kelly. It’s a good thing I did,” she said, and explained how she’d found Bob.

“Wow,” Ginny breathed. “Was there an explosion? Is he okay?”

“No explosion, and he’ll be fine.”

“You’ll have to tell me more, but first we’d better get these stores open,” Ginny said. As usual, she had her priorities straight.

Tricia unlocked Haven’t Got a Clue, and Mr. Everett entered. He immediately reversed the CLOSED sign to OPEN and turned on the lights, while she and Ginny headed for the Cookery. No sooner had they opened the cookbook store’s door than a couple of customers arrived. “We saw Angelica Miles on TV last night. She said she owned this store, and that her new book was available. Do you have signed copies?” one woman asked.

“We sure do,” Ginny answered, and ushered the woman to a stock of copies by the register.

Tricia left Ginny to help Angelica’s fans while she readied the cash register and made sure the tape in the credit card machine was full. After that, she rang up the sale of Angelica’s cookbooks while Ginny bagged them. Neither of them spoke until after the women had left the shop.

“Can I put this cutout somewhere else?” Ginny asked. “Having Angelica looking over my shoulder all day will drive me nuts.”

“That’s what Frannie said. She put it outside. But someone keeps doing stuff to it.”

“Stuff?”

“Dressing it up. Putting goofy glasses on it. If you put it outside, try to catch whoever is messing with it before they deface it.”

Ginny shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Oh, gosh, I promised Ange I’d buy a copy of her book. I’d better do that now,” Tricia said, and grabbed a copy.

“Better take one of the unsigned ones,” Ginny advised. “If customers are actually traveling to Stoneham to get them, we want to keep them happy.”

“You’re right. Ange can always sign mine later,” Tricia said. Ginny handed her a copy of the book from a box behind the counter. Tricia paid for it, gave Ginny a good-bye nod, and headed back for her own store.

Though she hadn’t really expected Frannie to show up for work, she had hoped she’d get a call. Once back inside Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia checked for messages, but there were none. It was time to consult Angelica’s emergency phone list once again.

Leaving Mr. Everett and Miss Marple in charge, Tricia headed for her loft to call Frannie. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to share with her customers.

Tricia settled on one of the kitchen’s island stools, and punched in Frannie’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Hello?” It was more of a question than a greeting.

“Frannie? It’s Tricia. I was calling to see if you’re all right.”

“No. But. . . . Oh, dear, I didn’t open the Cookery. Oh, Tricia, I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’ve just been too upset,” Frannie said, and from her wobbly voice, it sounded like she’d been crying. Tricia got up and wandered into her living room, thanking those who followed Alexander Graham Bell for inventing the wireless phone.

“It’s okay. Ginny can cover for you for a few hours. Do you think you’ll be able to make it in later today?”

“Nooooo.” Frannie started crying again.

“It’s okay,” Tricia said at least five times before she could get Frannie to answer again. “Ginny’s willing to stay until closing. Do you think you’ll make it in tomorrow?”

Tricia heard the sound of Frannie blowing her nose—loudly—several times. “I’ll try.”

Tricia sighed. Perhaps that was the best she could expect right now. “Do you need company?” she asked, desperately hoping the answer was no. She really needed to attend to her own store.

“Thank you, but no. Penny and I will be okay.” Penny was Frannie’s orange-and-white cat.

Tricia moved into her bedroom, and stopped at the bank of windows that overlooked Main Street. “Maybe I could bring you something later—from the Bookshelf Diner?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m just so embarrassed. And to make it worse, Captain Baker followed me home from the Brookview after Jim’s . . . wake . . . and practically interrogated me. I think he actually believes I might’ve killed Jim. Me! I loved him. You have to believe me!” And Frannie started crying again.

Tricia cast about, desperate to find something to say to distract Frannie. Her gaze landed on the sign across the street. “Uh, did you know a development company bought the empty lot across the street?” Tricia asked. She wasn’t about to mention the name of Frannie’s dead lover’s store.

Frannie sniffed. “No. But I haven’t had time to think of much of anything, what with everything else that’s going on.”

“It was bought by a development company by the name of Nigela Ricita Associates.”

Frannie sniffed again. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Oh?”

“But I can’t remember where.”

“Well, if you think of it, please let me know.”

Frannie blew her nose again.

“Do you think you’ll be in to work at the Cookery tomorrow?” Tricia asked again.

“I may have to wear a bag over my head but, yes, I’ll be there bright and early.”

“Thank you. I’ll be here at the store for the rest of the day, and have no plans for the evening, so if you need someone to talk to—”

“Thank you, Tricia. You’re a good friend.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tricia said, added a good-bye, and pushed down the phone’s rest buttons. There was another phone call she needed to make. She glanced at her watch. Angelica’s signing was for one o’clock, and it wasn’t yet one thirty. She’d still be tied up. And was it a good idea to tell her about Bob when she had more driving to do later in the day? Learning about Bob’s hospitalization might be too distracting.

Tricia hung up the receiver and decided to put off being the bearer of bad news. After all, there was probably nothing Angelica could do for Bob. And her attentions of late hadn’t been all that welcome. Then again, Tricia could just leave a message telling Angelica she’d checked up on Bob and would call later. That way Angelica wouldn’t worry, at least not too much, and would be able to carry on with her day’s agenda. Tricia picked up the receiver once more and dialed.

With that chore out of the way, she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue.

Booked for Lunch stayed open an extra hour on Sundays, and Tricia anticipated another visit from Darcy with the café’s cash and receipts, so she was surprised when it was Jake who showed up at her door a little after four that afternoon. Clearly, he didn’t want to be there, and tossed the blue bank bag onto the cash desk. “Here you go, Toots.”

Toots?

“Where’s Darcy?” Tricia asked.

“She had other things to do. Like I do,” he said, and turned for the door.

“Wait—what other things?”

He paused. “How would I know? I’m not her keeper. And you’re not mine.”

“Jake, please. We need to get along while Angelica’s gone.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Let me rephrase that. It’s in our best interests to get along while Angelica is gone.”

“If you say so.” Jake opened the door, and the bell’s cheerful tinkle made quite a contrast with the man’s sullen demeanor. He let the door slam shut behind him.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett said. Tricia hadn’t seen him approach from the side shelves. “He certainly is a disagreeable person.”

“Yes, and we may have to put up with him until Angelica finishes her book tour.”

“How long is that?”

Tricia sighed. Another three weeks.”

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett said again, shook his head, and went back to straightening the bookshelves.

An hour later, Tricia tallied up the day’s results. Though they hadn’t been terribly busy, between them, Tricia and Mr. Everett had sold fourteen books during the four-plus hours they’d been open, none of them from the discount shelf and five of them by Agatha Christie.

Tricia turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED while Mr. Everett finished the last of his dusting. “Another good day,” he said, returning his lamb’s wool duster to the storage area in the back of the store.

“Not bad for a Sunday,” Tricia agreed. “Do you have any plans for the evening?”

“Grace wanted to go out to dinner, but now that the Brookview isn’t serving on weekends. . . .” He didn’t look brokenhearted, and Tricia suspected it meant one less disagreement about money—and who should pay for what.

“I’ll be off now,” Mr. Everett said. “I shall see you on Tuesday.”

“Have a nice evening and have a good day off,” Tricia said, and closed the door behind him. She didn’t bother to lock it, since Ginny would be arriving in minutes with the Cookery’s daily receipts.

Tricia looked out the window and saw a well-dressed man standing with his back toward the street, looking over the lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood. He held a clipboard and seemed to be making notes. She grabbed her keys, locked the door, and headed across the road. The man looked up as Tricia approached.

“Hello, my name is Tricia Miles.” She held out her hand. “I own Haven’t Got a Clue, the mystery bookstore across the street.”

“How do you do?” said the young man, with the hint of an Italian accent. “I am Antonio Barbero. Very nice to meet you.” And he kissed the back of Tricia’s hand.

She stifled the urge to giggle. Antonio had to be at least ten years younger than her.

“Are you here representing the new owner?” Tricia asked.

“Sì. Nigela Ricita Associates.” He offered no other information.

“I was surprised this lot was bought so quickly,” Tricia said, hoping to draw the man out.

“Our company is interested in expanding our operations in New England. We were fortunate to find this property.”

Not so fortunate for the man who’d died only five days before, but Tricia decided not to voice that opinion.

“As your new neighbor, I’d like to invite you to my store for a cup of coffee. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

The man consulted his watch and then looked up, giving Tricia a dazzling smile. “Sì. Grazie.” She led him across the street, unlocked the door, and ushered him into Haven’t Got a Clue. He looked the place over and seemed to like what he saw. “Is very nice.”

“Thank you. The coffee is over here,” she said, gesturing to the coffee station.

Ginny entered Haven’t Got a Clue, clutching the blue bank bag. “The Cookery’s all buttoned up for the night,” she called, and stopped dead as her gaze zeroed in on Tricia’s guest. Her eyes widened until Tricia thought Ginny’s pupils might burst, and Tricia wondered if she was witnessing love at first sight.

“Antonio Barbero, this is my assistant, Ginny Wilson. Ginny, meet Antonio.”

Ginny staggered forward as Antonio made a small bow. He took Ginny’s hand, and when he kissed it, his gaze was riveted on hers. “Buona sera, signorina.”

Ginny giggled. “Nice to meet you, uh, Antonio.” And she giggled again.

“Antonio represents the company that’s buying the lot across the street.”

Ginny giggled yet again. Really, it was embarrassing to witness her downward spiral into utter girlishness. “Why don’t you take a seat in the readers’ nook, and I’ll pour you that cup of coffee, Antonio,” Tricia said.

The man finally relinquished Ginny’s hand and seemed to shake himself back to sense. “Sì, grazie.”

“Siete benvenuto,” Tricia said and waved a hand in the direction of the comfy chairs.

Antonio started off in that direction, and Ginny grabbed Tricia’s arm, whispering, “I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”

“Just enough to get by,” Tricia said, manufacturing a smile, and stepped behind the counter, grabbing the coffeepot. “I’m afraid it’s not espresso, but we’ve never had any complaints about our coffee.”

“I’m sure it will be beautiful—like the ladies in this shop,” Antonio said, and Ginny nearly swooned.

Oh, she was so, so young, Tricia lamented, and poured coffee into one of the Haven’t Got a Clue tall cardboard coffee cups. “Do you take cream and sugar?” she asked, but he shook his head. She crossed the room to join him, handed him the cup, and took the adjacent seat.

“Tell us about your employer,” Tricia said, dying to hear the dirt but trying to sound nonchalant.

Antonio crossed his legs, showing off the sharp creases in his black trousers. “We are new in this country,” he said, “looking for opportunities for investment. We think New Hampshire and New England in general have great potential for tourist development. I hope you won’t think badly of us for that.”

“No,” Tricia agreed, “the more the merrier. Will your employer be coming to Stoneham to see the property?”

Antonio shook his head. “Is not necessary. I take care of things for the signora.”

Ah, a married woman, Tricia thought, or at least an older woman. Then again, how many young women had the money for this type of investment? And it didn’t sound as though Ms. Ricita had to worry about her financial standings—or was she just as enamored of Antonio as Ginny was?

“What other opportunities are you pursuing?” Tricia asked.

Antonio took a sip of coffee before answering. “Hotels and restaurants. My employer wishes to branch out.”

“The Brookside Inn on the other side of the village may be looking for an investor,” Tricia suggested.

“Is a nice place?” Antonio asked.

“The best in town. Head south out of town and you can’t miss it. I’d be happy to make some calls for you.”

“That would be very generous of you. Grazie.”

“What will you do with the property across the street?’ Ginny asked.

“It will be used for retail, although my employer has not yet decided what to open. Perhaps antiques. Perhaps another bookstore. We must study the situation.”

“Will you be staying in the area?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“I am currently based in Manhattan, but it may become necessary for me to relocate as my employer develops properties in New England. I am told is very beautiful here in autumn.”

“It’s the prettiest place on Earth,” Ginny agreed. “Maybe I could show you around sometime.”

Antonio smiled. “Perhaps.” He lifted his cup to Tricia. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. I have appointments in Nashua later this evening.”

“Your boss must be a slave driver, making you work on Sunday,” Ginny said.

“Not at all. I enjoy my work, as I’m sure you must.”

Again, Ginny giggled, her cheeks going pink once more.

“If you’ll give me your card, I’ll make those calls and get back to you,” Tricia said.

“Grazie.” Antonio took a gold business card holder from the inside pocket of his sports coat and extracted two cards. One he gave to Tricia, and the other to Ginny, who looked like she was about to bust.

Once again, Antonio kissed their hands, and with a wave he said, “Ciao,” and was gone.

Ginny let out a loud breath. “I think I’m in love. That is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.”

“Retract your tongue, girl, you’re positively drooling.”

Ginny laughed, and again her cheeks flushed. She remembered the bank bag, and handed it to Tricia.

“How did things go at the Cookery?” Tricia asked.

“Not a bad day,” Ginny said, and dug into her purse for the keys to the Cookery. “But the cutout dresser struck again. I must’ve been helping a customer, and when I looked out about an hour ago, someone had put a black beret on the cutout’s head, and a pair of pink woolly gloves on its hands.”

Tricia sighed. “And you didn’t see who did it?”

Ginny shook her head. “I brought it in at closing. It took me nearly ten minutes to get those gloves off, and then I thought—why did I try to save them? I should have just cut them off.”

Tricia sighed and closed the blinds on the shop’s door. “If nothing else, we at least know a little about the firm that’s bought the lot across the street. I think I’ll do a Google search when I get upstairs.”

“You know, during a lull at the Cookery, I wondered why you didn’t buy the lot,” Ginny said.

“Me?” Tricia asked.

“Sure. It would’ve been a great investment. Eventually it would have paid for itself. If you rebuilt, you could either rent it out or move Haven’t Got a Clue to that location.”

Tricia peered through the store’s main display window, studying the empty lot. If it had been one building over, the narrow lot would have been perfect for Angelica to expand Booked for Lunch—allowing her to serve a bigger crowd al fresco, at least during the summer months. In winter, she didn’t even bother to open the café on Sundays. Of course, if the Brookside Inn continued with its no-brunch Sundays, maybe it would pay Angelica to stay open during the winter. Then again, she didn’t get much time off, juggling two successful businesses and a budding writing career.

“I’m surprised the lot sold so quickly,” Ginny said, and turned away from the window.

“Me, too. But it just goes to prove that being a book town has put Stoneham on the map. Obviously someone thinks rebuilding here would be worthwhile. That’s especially comforting to know after the most recent economic downturn.”

“It sure is. Well, gotta go.”

“Thanks for helping out at the Cookery.”

“No problem,” Ginny called, and headed for the door.

“Wait—we should talk about visiting Billie Hanson at the bank tomorrow.”

“Can’t right now,” Ginny said, and opened the door. “Meeting a friend in ten minutes for dinner. See you tomorrow.” And out the door she went.

Tricia frowned. Was Ginny avoiding the whole subject of the mortgage? Didn’t she understand what allowing the debt to mount was doing to her credit rating?

As she reached for the cord of the display window’s blinds, Tricia saw a Sheriff’s Department cruiser coming up Main Street. It pulled up outside of Haven’t Got a Clue, and Captain Baker got out of the driver’s side. He retrieved his high-crowned hat and put it on before heading for Tricia’s door. This was certainly her evening for visitors. Noticing the CLOSED sign, Baker knocked.

Tricia stepped over to the door and opened it. “My, you seem to be making a habit of visiting me after hours.”

“I wish I could say this was a personal visit, but I’m afraid it’s business.”

“Bob Kelly?’ Tricia asked.

Baker nodded. Obviously he’d gotten her message. “I thought you might like to know St. Joseph’s Hospital is holding Mr. Kelly overnight for observation.”

“That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, he could’ve been asphyxiated.”

“Tricia, the gas meter at the back of his house had been tampered with, just like what happened at History Repeats Itself.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Chief Farrar and I concur; we believe Mr. Kelly may have been responsible. It’s possible he tried to kill himself.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Bob—attempt suicide? No way.” Tricia shook her head. “He just sewed up a deal to sell the empty lot on Main Street. Believe me, Bob loves money more than anything else. He’d never kill himself.”

“According to several members of the Chamber of Commerce, Mr. Kelly has seemed depressed for the past couple of weeks. And if he was responsible for killing Jim Roth, he may have had reason to—”

“Look, I may not be Bob’s best friend and advocate, but he wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s never been in any trouble with the law—why start now?”

“Who says he’s never been in trouble?” Baker asked reasonably.

Was it possible? Though Tricia had known Bob for just over two years, she knew virtually nothing about his past—except that he’d come from a home where food was sometimes scarce. Did Angelica know much more about him? Tricia would have to ask. And yet, Angelica hadn’t wanted to talk about Jake’s criminal past—would she be as tight-lipped about Bob’s past as well?

Still, if Tricia trusted one thing about Bob, it was that he’d go to any lengths to save his own hide.

“I don’t believe it. Bob would never risk his life to further a business deal. He owned the building. He could’ve been killed in that blast,” Tricia pointed out. “And now he’s made a deal to sell the property.”

“Someone wants that lot?”

“Yes, and until the building was destroyed, Bob was one of them. He’s got a lock on most of the property on Main Street. Renting out that real estate is the major source of his income.” Tricia shook her head again. “Besides, someone ransacked Bob’s house.”

“He could have done that himself.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Tricia, there’s no gas stove—just a furnace. The wrench used to loosen the connection on the pipe was on Kelly’s kitchen counter.”

“So? If someone did this to him, they might’ve left it there as a misleading clue. Did you look for fingerprints?”

“It was wiped clean.”

“Was there a suicide note? Was it signed?”

“We found a typed letter on the kitchen counter. Mr. Kelly has denied writing it.”

“Well, of course he would. You should be able to determine if the note came from Bob’s computer printer.”

“Only if we confiscate all his home and office equipment. We’re not ready to do that now—but it’s an option.”

“Do you seriously consider him a suspect?”

Baker didn’t blink. “Yes. So much so, that we intend to present our evidence to the district attorney, possibly as early as tomorrow.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious.”

“But you have at least two other suspects.”

“Who?”

“Jim Roth’s mother. You have to admit her behavior at the memorial this morning was outrageous.”

“She may have had a motive, but not the opportunity. She has an iron-clad alibi.”

“Who?”

“Her”—the captain paused, looked uncomfortable—“gentleman friend.”

“They could be lying.”

Baker didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Who’s your other suspect?”

It pained Tricia to say it. “Frannie Armstrong.”

“Possible motive, but no opportunity. Your sister swears she was working at the Cookery Wednesday afternoon and never left the premises.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Angelica had been cooking in her apartment for most of that day. She wouldn’t have known if Frannie ducked out for five or ten minutes. Had Angelica lied to Baker to protect Frannie?

“Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information about Mr. Kelly to yourself,” Baker said.

“Even from my sister?” Tricia asked.

“Especially from your sister.”

Tricia laughed. “Do you have any siblings?”

“I’ve got a brother.”

“Not a sister.” She waved a hand in the air. “Then you just wouldn’t understand.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t want you talking about this—to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Then why did you tell me in the first place?”

For the first time since she’d met him, Captain Baker seemed unsure of himself. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be leaving now. Until next time.”

He reached for the door handle, turned it, and left the store.

Tricia watched as he got into his cruiser and took off, heading north once again.

She lowered the blinds, grabbed the phone’s receiver, and dialed.

Angelica picked up on the fourth ring.