Chapter & Hearse

Twenty-One

Tricia awoke to low-hanging clouds heavy with rain, leaving her feeling depressed and anxious about Russ, about Bob, about just about everything. The weatherman’s prediction for more of the same didn’t lift her spirits, either, causing her to worry even more about Angelica going back on the road that morning.

Four miles on the treadmill, a shower, and coffee later, Tricia packed up Angelica’s coffee cake and she and Miss Marple went down the stairs. Miss Marple was ready to start work, and looked puzzled as Tricia grabbed her umbrella and raincoat from a peg at the back of the store before she deposited the coffee cake on the coffee station’s counter and started for the door. “I’ve got an errand to run,” she told the cat. “Mind the store while I’m gone.”

Miss Marple just blinked as Tricia pulled the door closed behind her.

Tricia decided to walk the two blocks to Bob’s house, figuring that parking at the curb in front would only bring attention to her and her mission.

Without a backward glance, she marched up the walk in front of Bob’s house and quietly climbed the steps to his porch, hoping not to alert Bob to her presence.

So far, so good.

She swept her gaze along the gray-painted wooden floor, but didn’t see the cigarette butt that had been there days before. Rats! Had Bob taken a broom to the porch? Tricia peered around the wicker love seat and chairs, wishing the day had been brighter. She was about to give up when she saw the butt in the far left corner. It must’ve been kicked or blown there.

Relieved, she withdrew a small pair of tweezers and a plastic snack bag from her slacks pocket. She sealed the bag and pulled a marker from her other pocket, writing a large numeral 1 on the bag. She blew on the ink to make sure it had dried before stowing the bag in her left pocket.

Her heart was pounding as she descended the stairs and started to purposefully walk back down to the street, fighting the urge to break into a run. But no one seemed to have seen her, and no one challenged her.

Within minutes, Tricia was back on Main Street, and turned for the alley that ran behind the west side of Stoneham’s main thoroughfare. She’d never walked that way before, and took note of how shabby the backs of the stores looked. Behind each building stood one or two Dumpsters, and Tricia’s fingers tightened around the handle of her umbrella as she approached the rear of Booked for Lunch. Had it only been eight months ago she’d found the body of her former college roommate in a garbage tote behind Angelica’s café?

She put that image out of her mind and concentrated on her task. Sure enough, the concrete apron outside the café was littered with soggy cigarette butts. She withdrew the tweezers and the second snack bag from her pocket, snagged a couple of sample butts, and sealed the bag’s zip lock. Stuffing the bag into her pocket, she decided to wait until she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue to compare the butts.

The damage to the back of the Armchair Tourist was evident from where she stood. As Chauncey had said, the back of his store was boarded over with plywood. She wondered if he’d find a large puddle in the back of his store when he opened for the day.

The concrete slab behind the now-empty lot was pitted and cracked, no doubt from debris that had hit after the explosion. It was eerie to look up and see gray sky where less than a week before a building had stood.

Although the rubble had been cleared, the ground was left uneven with potholes filled with rainwater. It wouldn’t be smart to cut through, but Tricia decided not to retrace her steps. That would take her back to the north end of Main Street, and Russ’s office. Instead, she continued south until she reached the end of the block, crossed the street, and doubled back to Haven’t Got a Clue with more than half an hour to spare before opening.

After hanging up her coat and soggy umbrella, Tricia headed for the cash desk and the old-fashioned phone that sat upon it. But before she dialed Captain Baker’s number, she placed the plastic bags containing the cigarette butts on the counter for a comparison. They were exact matches. Of course, she wasn’t sure if all cigarettes had the same filters and paper casings. That would be up to a trained investigator to decide. In the meantime, she had collected evidence that might put a killer in jail. Could there be anything more satisfying than to help see justice done?

Tricia picked up the receiver and dialed, and was surprised when Baker answered on the third ring.

“Grant? It’s Tricia Miles. I have a theory about who killed Jim Roth.”

“Oh?” he said, sounding mildly interested. His boss, Sheriff Wendy Adams, had never been this polite when Tricia had offered her views or suggestions in a criminal investigation.

“Now, don’t laugh—but what would you say the possibility was that one of the suspects hired someone to get rid of Jim Roth?”

A long silence followed that statement. For a moment, Tricia thought the line might have gone dead. Finally, Baker spoke. “Why would you think that?”

“They all seem to have alibis.”

“Seem to have?” Baker repeated.

Had the captain already figured out that Angelica had fudged about Frannie’s alibi? She decided to ignore that possibility and plunged on. “If Bob Kelly, Frannie Armstrong, or Livvie Roth didn’t kill Jim Roth, then someone else had to have done it.”

“That makes sense,” he said reasonably, if not enthusiastically.

“And there’s already someone here in Stoneham who is a convicted felon—convicted of attempted murder. Suppose this person was paid to get rid of Jim.”

“Would you be talking about the short-order cook in your sister’s restaurant? The one you asked me to check up on?”

“I would.”

“And what makes you think Jake Masters killed Jim Roth?”

“I’ve collected some evidence.”

“What evidence?” Baker asked sharply. “Please don’t tell me you moved this evidence from where you found it. That you touched it. That—”

“Of course I didn’t touch it with my hands. I used tweezers.”

“But you did move it.”

“Well, yes—”

“Which would taint it.”

“Oh, dear,” Tricia said, realizing he was right. And why hadn’t she thought of that before she’d donned her trench coat and played Columbo?

“Tricia, why didn’t you call me before you decided to play detective?”

“I figured you might not be interested in what I had to say. After all, your boss—”

“Is not me—and when are you going to get that through your head?”

Silence seemed to be the best reply to that question.

“What was this possible evidence that is now unusable?”

“Cigarette butts. I remembered seeing one on Bob Kelly’s porch on Sunday morning, after Jim Roth’s memorial gathering. Bob doesn’t smoke, which means someone who does smoke was at his house. Possibly someone who didn’t belong there. Like the person who tried to break into Bob’s house on Friday and whoever tried to kill him on Sunday. I got to thinking about Jake and all the smoke breaks he takes at Booked for Lunch, and wondered if there’d be a match.”

“So you picked up that butt and then compared it to the butts behind your sister’s café?”

“They’re the same.”

“Just because Kelly had a visitor who smoked, and Jake Masters smokes, in no way ties him to the murder of Jim Roth. Something you haven’t considered is motive.”

“I have. Jake is extremely loyal to Angelica. Bob has not been treating her very well of late, and—”

“Isn’t it more likely that your sister would try to kill Kelly?”

“Of course not! Angelica was at the Cookery at the time of the explosion. She was out of town when someone tried to break into Bob’s house and when someone tried to kill him by tampering with his gas meter.”

“And why wouldn’t your sister hire this guy to do these things?”

“My sister is not a murderer—she wouldn’t hire someone to commit a murder; she’s—”

“Just as viable a suspect as Kelly, Anderson, and old lady Roth.”

Good grief. Not only had Tricia created reasonable doubt, but reasonable suspicion—against her own sister!

Another long silence followed. Tricia’s fingers clenched the heavy receiver in a death grip as she fought back six kinds of panic. What had she done? Was there a way to fix it?

Finally, Baker spoke. “As it turns out, I checked up on this guy Masters.”

“And?”

“Yes, he is a convicted felon. However, he was a model prisoner. He learned food service when he was in prison. He works two jobs, reports to his parole officer, and has not gotten so much as a parking ticket since he was released from jail two years ago.”

“Oh.” It was all Tricia could think to say.

“Look, why don’t we pretend you never made this call?” Baker said.

“That might be a very good idea,” Tricia agreed, feeling incredibly stupid.

“Tricia,” Baker said, his tone sympathetic, “I don’t want you to feel you can’t come to me with these kinds of theories.”

Very charitable of him. “But?”

“Please, please, in future, leave the evidence collection to professionals. Say those cigarette butts could’ve been linked to the person behind all these crimes; your interfering would make them inadmissible in court.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be interested, and now I feel stupid. I’ve read enough police procedurals and legal thrillers to know better. I guess I got carried away.”

“I understand,” Baker said. And he really seemed to.

“You won’t mention this to Sheriff Adams, will you?” Tricia asked, trying to blot out the memories of how that insufferable woman had embarrassed her in the past.

“I won’t,” Baker promised. “Now, why don’t you go back to bookselling, and I’ll go back to—”

“Eating doughnuts and drinking coffee?” Tricia asked.

“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Baker said, and Tricia could hear the amusement in his voice. “And I’ll keep you posted on how the investigation is going if you promise not to—”

“Interfere?” Tricia supplied.

“I was going to say put yourself in harm’s way. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes,” she said contritely.

“Okay. Have a good day.”

“You, too,” Tricia said, and hung up.

Miss Marple regarded her from her perch behind the register.

“Okay, so I blew it. Don’t rub it in,” Tricia said.

Miss Marple merely gave a bored “Yow.”

Mondays were Mr. Everett’s day off, and Ginny arrived a full twenty minutes ahead of opening, a few minutes after Tricia had ended her call with Captain Baker.

By the time Ginny had made a fresh batch of coffee, Tricia had set up the cash register, and joined Ginny at the coffee station for a fortifying cup. Ginny looked suspiciously at the coffee cake that sat on the station’s counter. “Did you bake it?”

Tricia shook her head. “Angelica did—last night.”

“I thought I saw her car in the municipal lot. This must have been another unexpected visit. Wasn’t she supposed to be out on the road for at least another week?”

“Until Friday,” Tricia confirmed.

Ginny picked up a square of coffee cake, sniffed it, apparently decided it smelled okay, and took a bite, leaving a trail of brown sugar crumbs tumbling down on the carpet. “Mmm. No doubt about it—your sister can bake.” She brushed more sugar from the top of her apron. “What’s on tap for today?” Ginny asked, and bent to gather up the crumbs on the floor.

“I need to be out of the store for a while today. Errands to run,” Tricia said with an unconvincing laugh. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

“I may not be able to fit in our visit to Billie Hanson at the bank.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You do what you have to do. There’s always tomorrow,” Ginny said with a nervous laugh.

Tricia could no longer hide her disappointment. “Ginny, what aren’t you telling me about this mortgage deal?”

Ginny looked away, and Tricia couldn’t help but notice her lower lip was trembling. “Tricia, I’ve had several days to think about it, and I’ve decided. . . .” Ginny sighed, tears filling her blue eyes. “As much as I love and want to keep my house, I can’t let you pay it off for me.”

“Why not?” Tricia asked, hurt and a little confused.

“I thought about what I want out of life, and more than anything—more than keeping my house—I want to start my own business. Much as I love it, the house is a burden on me right now. I can’t keep it and move forward with my life. And moving forward means starting my own business—being my own boss.”

“You’ve seen what Deborah Black has been going through. Are you sure you want to put yourself in that position?”

“I feel bad for Deborah. She wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed if her husband wasn’t so selfish and would help her a little. I’m not interested in another relationship where I have to do all the work. If I can’t find a man who wants to be my partner in all aspects of my life—including my work—then I’ll just have to be alone.”

Tricia’s disappointment multiplied. “I see,” she said, and perhaps she did. She’d gotten over the old ‘feather the nest’ syndrome when she’d married Christopher and made their first home together. But all the while, the thought of opening her own bookstore one day stayed in the back of her mind. And it took the death of her marriage before that could happen. What could she have accomplished if she’d put her dreams of entrepreneurship first, instead of wasting ten years of marriage with someone who’d ultimately chosen to leave her?

“I hope you don’t think I’m being ungrateful,” Ginny continued. “Nobody’s ever done anything so nice for me. But I think in the long run, I’ll be happier if I work toward my life goals first—and then, when I can afford it, I’ll buy myself the nicest house around.” She managed a weak laugh. “In fact, maybe in five or ten years, I’ll buy back my little house. Stranger things have happened.”

“Yes,” Tricia agreed, “they have.” She forced a smile—and a positive attitude. “What will you do in the meantime?”

“A friend of mine in Milford has been looking for a roommate. It’s a two-bedroom apartment. She works nights, I work days. It sounds like it could be the perfect arrangement. And I can even have a pet if I want.” Miss Marple’s ears perked up at that—a coincidence?

“That sounds great,” Tricia said, still working to keep her disappointment at bay.

Ginny nodded, and the awkward moment seemed to stretch. Finally, Ginny cleared her throat. “Is there anything you want me to do while you’re running your errands?”

Tricia cast about the store, trying to come up with something. “Uh, I forgot to vacuum last night.”

“I’ll do it,” Ginny volunteered, “and I’ll put the carpet sweeper behind the coffee station. As long as we still have coffee cake available to customers, we’re going to need it.”

“Okay,” Tricia said, and gathered up her umbrella, her purse with the check made out to Livvie Roth in it, gave Ginny a wave, and headed out the door for the municipal parking lot.

In the parking lot, Tricia unlocked her car, got in, and stared through the raindrop-laden windshield. Angelica was right. It hadn’t been a good idea to offer to hold Ginny’s mortgage—and Ginny had been smart to turn it down. Things might have become awkward. Still, for some reason Tricia felt sad.

She stabbed the key into the ignition and started the car, remembering her promise to Captain Baker not to interfere, and Angelica’s admonition to find reasonable doubt against Mrs. Roth. To whom should she feel more loyal?

There was only one answer to that.

It took only a few minutes to reach the Roth home. She opened the car door, stuck the umbrella out and pushed the button that opened it, then got out of the car, feeling damp and decidedly grumpy.

Mrs. Roth opened the door. “Tricia. What a . . . nice . . . surprise.” Her tone didn’t match the sentiment. The two women stared at one another for several long, uncomfortable seconds before Mrs. Roth said, “Won’t you come in?” and beckoned Tricia inside.

The redecorating had continued since Tricia had last been in the little house. A hooked area rug, festooned with ivy leaves, covered most of the living room’s wall-to-wall carpet. Several lamps were lit, giving the room a cozy glow that made it a pleasant place to be on a rainy summer’s day, so different from what Tricia had seen less than a week before.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” Tricia apologized. “I’m glad I caught you in. I brought you something.” She handed Mrs. Roth the envelope containing the check.

Livvie Roth frowned. “What’s this?”

“Something from the Stoneham booksellers and some of Jim’s other friends,” Tricia said.

Mrs. Roth hesitated before she opened the envelope, removed the check, and stared at the figure on it. “Oh, my.” She looked up at Tricia in dismay. “I couldn’t possibly accept this. Not after what I said about James at his memorial yesterday.”

Tight-lipped, Tricia said nothing.

The old lady shook her head, tears filling her eyes, and wandered farther into the living room, where she settled on the love seat. “After yesterday, you must think me a monster.” She shook her head, but when she faced Tricia once more, her gaze was filled with determination. “For the first time since I met Harold Roth, more than sixty years ago, I am finally my own person.”

“I don’t understand,” Tricia said.

Mrs. Roth stared at the check in her hand. “I was only nineteen years old, an unschooled, impetuous girl who listened to the tales of a lonely GI. When he asked me to marry him, I leapt at the opportunity to leave my little village in the heart of England to sail off to America.” She looked up at Tricia. “Sadly, this country wasn’t at all what I’d expected.”

“Why is that?” Tricia asked.

“I’d been led to believe everyone led a grand life, like in the Mickey Rooney-Judy Garland movies, but Harold wasn’t descended from aristocrats. Instead, he brought me to the heart of America’s rust belt—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The air was bad, our home was a rental, dirty and decrepit. And when he lost his job at the steel mill, we moved from city to city. By then James had come along, and we needed a steady income. So when Harold couldn’t find a job, I had to support us. I worked as a waitress, as a department store salesclerk, and even as an usher in a movie theater.”

She laughed, but it held no mirth. “Harold never laid a hand on me, but he never gave me any affection, either. I can’t say I mourned when he died twenty years ago. Since then it was just James and me. I tried to push him out of the nest, but he wasn’t one to take chances—not when he had someone to take care of him.”

“But he opened a store here in Stoneham. I understand he was the first bookseller to open on Main Street,” Tricia said.

“That was Bob Kelly’s doing,” Mrs. Roth said bitterly. “He talked James into it—told him there was money to be made. That was all James had to hear, and the next thing I knew, he’d signed a lease. And of course he expected me to provide the funds to stock the store.”

“I assume Jim must’ve had some income before that?”

“Certainly. He always worked in retail—never a well-paying job. And he wasted what little wages he earned on gambling and loose women.”

Tricia tried not to smile at that. Frannie was hardly what Tricia thought of as “loose.”

Mrs. Roth continued. “Several years ago, I finally convinced him to join Gamblers Anonymous, and for a year or two he did well. He worked to pay off his debts, and even put a little money aside. And then, when the economy went bad, he started buying lottery tickets. Three months ago, he was at it again full tilt.”

Frannie hadn’t mentioned that Jim gambled. Did she even know?

Mrs. Roth sighed. “Look at me, I’m almost eighty years old, and for the first time in my adult life I have the opportunity to be happy. Lawrence and I may have only a few weeks, months, or maybe a year or two together, but we’re determined to have the time of our lives.”

“Is that why you’re taking a cruise?” Tricia asked.

Mrs. Roth frowned. “How do you know about that?”

Tricia swallowed but didn’t answer.

Mrs. Roth’s frown deepened. “That Armstrong woman, I’ll bet. She seems to know what’s happening with everyone in Stoneham.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “So be it. Yes, Lawrence and I are going on a cruise. And why shouldn’t we? I can afford it—and it’s the first holiday I’ve ever had. Would Frannie begrudge me even that?”

“I can’t speak for Frannie, but I can for myself. I hope you find peace and happiness, Mrs. Roth. It sounds like you deserve it.”

Mrs. Roth nodded, and handed the check back to Tricia. “I can’t take this money. I’m sure there are more deserving souls. Perhaps it could do something for the good people of Stoneham who aren’t as fortunate as you and me.”

“The Stoneham Food Shelf can always use donations.”

“James didn’t have much use for charity—it would be lovely that something good could come as a result of his death, something to help others in some way.”

Tricia accepted the check. “I’ll pay a visit to Libby Hirt at the Food Shelf on my way back to my store. I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.”

“You do that, dear.”

Mrs. Roth led Tricia to the door. “Thank you for helping me these last few days. It’s good to know James had a few good friends—even if he never knew or appreciated it.”

Mrs. Roth closed the door. Although the rain had eased to just a drizzle, a troubled Tricia opened her umbrella anyway, and slowly headed back to her car. Reasonable doubt? She had no doubt at all—there was no way she’d ever be convinced Livvie Roth had killed her own son.

That left her with either Bob or Frannie in the role of murderer, something she couldn’t believe or accept.

There was only one other possibility. Someone else killed Jim Roth. And either Frannie or Bob had to know who that person was.

Frannie had been forthcoming about her relationship with Jim. Okay, not how and when it had ended, but that she’d had a relationship with him. Then again, it was only Tricia she’d confided in about her affair with Jim. She hadn’t been happy when Tricia had told Captain Baker about it, and she’d been mortified when Mrs. Roth had told the Chamber membership about it. Why? There had to be more to the story than Frannie had told her.

Tricia lowered her umbrella and got in her car, setting the damp bumbershoot on the passenger-side floor. She put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the car. Something Mrs. Roth said niggled at her brain. Jim had started gambling again—some three months ago. What had caused him to resume his addiction? Had his and Frannie’s relationship started to crumble at about the same time? She’d said they’d been talking about marriage some three months before all that. What had happened to change that?

Tricia started the car, checked the mirrors, and pulled out into the street. There was only one person who could answer those questions for her: Frannie.

Some days the rain brought people out to shop. That Monday morning wasn’t one of them. Tricia parked her car in the municipal lot, opened her umbrella once again, headed for the Cookery, and didn’t pass another soul on the street.

As Tricia suspected, the Cookery was devoid of customers. The demented Angelica cutout stood behind the counter, no doubt because of the inclement weather. A red-eyed Frannie sat behind the counter with what she’d called a comfort read—an old Nancy Drew book she’d bought at Haven’t Got a Clue the day before Jim’s death, The Clue of the Broken Locket. It had been a bargain because it had lost its dust jacket, and Frannie had probably bought it to help her through the days after being dumped.

“Tricia,” Frannie said in greeting, and put an Easy-Does-It Cooking bookmark between the pages to mark her place. “What brings you out in the rain?”

“I’ve just been to see Jim’s mother.”

Frannie’s lips pursed, and she slammed the book onto the counter. “If I never see that horrible old witch again, it’ll be too—”

Tricia held up a hand to stave off the flow of vitriol. “Frannie, please listen to what I have to say. It’s important.”

“Oh, all right,” Frannie acquiesced, but with bad grace.

“Mrs. Roth said Jim had had a gambling problem in the past, but that he had licked it. Or she thought he had, until about three months ago. Was that about the same time your relationship with Jim changed?”

Frannie looked away. “That’s kind of an embarrassing question, Tricia.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Frannie, but wouldn’t you rather tell me than Captain Baker?”

“But you’ll have to tell him about it, and then he’ll come to me for confirmation anyway.”

“That’s true. But maybe by then it won’t hurt so much to talk about it.”

Frannie bit her lip, and considered Tricia’s words. She sighed. “I guess you’re right.” It took her a few moments to compose herself. “Back in March, Jim did start acting funny.”

“Funny? How?” Tricia asked.

“He started ignoring my calls. He started being busy during ‘our time.’ ”

“When was that?”

“Friday evenings. He used to come to my house on Fridays. We’d have dinner and then we’d. . . .” She let the sentence trail off. She didn’t need to spell it out for Tricia.

“Did you suspect he might be seeing someone else?”

“Maybe. I didn’t want to confront him in case . . . in case he dumped me.”

“Oh, Frannie,” Tricia said, and felt the same sympathy she did for every other friend—and Angelica—who’d confessed to her that their significant other had strayed. She was lucky her ex-husband Christopher had never cheated on her. That hadn’t stopped him from leaving her to find peace in a life of solitude in the Colorado Rockies, and it had hurt just as much.

“Do you think he was gambling?” Tricia said, sidestepping the fidelity issue.

Frannie nodded. “Jim got all his mail at his store. Two weeks ago, I sneaked a peek at his VISA bill and saw the Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut listed. He’d closed the shop and gone out of town for a day last month, supposedly on a buying trip. Or at least that’s what he told me.” Her bottom lip trembled. “There was also an item from the Milford Florist Shop. He didn’t send me any flowers, and his mother’s birthday is in August.”

“Is that all your evidence?”

“Getting dumped pretty much confirmed it.”

“What did Jim say? That he’d found someone else?” Tricia pressed.

Frannie shrugged. “More or less. I was certainly surprised to learn that his mother knew about us.”

Tricia didn’t want to go into that territory. “If Jim was seeing someone else, is there a chance this woman might have had a reason for killing him?”

Frannie looked up sharply. “But why?”

“Maybe she was just as unhappy knowing Jim hadn’t broken off with you—until just days before his death.”

“Maybe,” Frannie admitted. “But he didn’t have to dump me. I was prepared to . . . to share him.”

“Oh, Frannie, did you really want to be with someone who cheated on you?”

“Who else has even looked at me in the last twenty years?” Frannie said with a sob. “I’m tired of being alone, Tricia. Apart from getting my cat, Penny, being with Jim—even on a part-time basis—has been the best part of my life these last two years.”

At least a cat won’t betray you, Tricia thought, but didn’t voice that opinion.

They needed to move on from that subject. “What else do you know about Jim’s life away from History Repeats Itself?”

“Not much. He watched the Military Channel. He read a lot. And he went to Gamblers Anonymous meetings.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “Even though he’d started gambling again?”

Frannie nodded.

“Where? And when?” Tricia asked.

“Tuesday evenings, in a church in Nashua. He wouldn’t say exactly where. I think that’s where he met that other woman. And by the looks of that credit card bill, he’d started gambling again. Maybe his mother was afraid he’d bleed her dry—and that murder would get him out of her hair. You could tell by the way she spoke about him at the memorial that she hated him.”

“I wouldn’t say hate. More profound disappointment.”

“You won’t find me crying tears for her.”

No, Tricia was sure she wouldn’t.

“You must have some other clue about this mysterious woman who was seeing Jim.”

“Tricia, I just don’t know. Why don’t you ask Bob Kelly?”

“Why?”

“Because Jim said Bob knew the woman, too—a long time ago.”

“If that was true, why hasn’t Bob said anything to Captain Baker about it?”

Frannie shrugged. “I’m not sure that Bob even knew about her and Jim.”

And how many other women had Bob had a serious relationship with during his adult life? Five? Ten? More? Who said it had to be an adult relationship? Bob had gone to high school in Stoneham. Had he been a teenaged lothario? Try as she might, Tricia couldn’t imagine that.

The bell over the door rang as a soggy customer entered the Cookery. “Welcome,” Frannie greeted with a smile. “Let me know if you need any help.”

The woman nodded, and moseyed along the north bookshelves.

Frannie cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Did you hear they’re going to announce the winner of the Powerball lottery this evening at the convenience store up by the highway?”

Tricia shook her head.

“Should be a big crowd. I’m going. I mean—what else have I got to do on a Monday night? How about you?”

Tricia shook her head. “It’s not my kind of thing.”

“Suit yourself.”

Tricia looked at her watch. “I’d better get going.”

“Do you want me to bring the day’s receipts over tonight?”

Tricia felt weary just thinking of her long to-do list. She really did need to make a bank run for herself and Angelica, along with everything else on her to-do list. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. See you later, then,” Frannie said, and moved away from the counter, heading in the direction of her customer. “What kind of cooking do you like to do?”

Tricia exited the Cookery, but felt in no hurry to return to Haven’t Got a Clue. She really should go see Bob, but had to make the banking a priority. Angelica had hinted Bob had been withdrawn for months leading up to Jim’s death. Tricia didn’t believe Bob was responsible for the explosion, but he was definitely hiding something. Something he didn’t want anyone to know about. He hadn’t told Angelica, the person he was closest to, nor Captain Baker, and presumably he’d been just as tight-lipped with his new lawyer. How was Tricia going to get him to open up and tell her whatever it was he’d been hiding?

Was there a possibility that Bob and Jim had both been cheating—and with the same woman?

There was only one way to find out: confront Bob with the evidence. The only problem was, she didn’t have any.