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She frowned. “Uh, no.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you okay, ma’am? You look a little pale. Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thank you.” Tricia studied his kind face, and her frown deepened. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Sheriff Adams-”

“Ah.” He nodded. “The sheriff explained there’d been some conflict between the two of you. That’s why she suggested I handle this investigation.”

“Maybe I should sit down,” Tricia breathed. She’d never expected Sheriff Adams to cut her any slack. Then again, Baker could be trying to lull her into a false sense of security. He might be playing good cop in contrast to Sheriff Adams’s bad cop routine.

Captain Baker ushered Tricia to one of the stools at the counter. “I know you’ve already told your story several times to the other deputies, but would you indulge me as well?”

Polite, too.

Tricia nodded and sobered. “Pammy Fredericks -”

“The deceased,” Deputy Placer supplied.

“-was my friend. Sort of.” Tricia shivered as she glanced over her shoulder to the café’s back door, which had been wedged open, letting in drafts of cold air. Thankfully, the garbage cart was no longer visible. The image of Pammy’s legs sticking out of it… Tricia shuddered involuntarily.

“Can you explain that ‘sort of’ comment?” Baker asked, not unkindly.

“We were roommates at Dartmouth and sort of kept in touch over the years.”

“I take it you were no longer friends as of this afternoon.”

Tricia’s insides squirmed. “Until this morning, Pammy had been my houseguest for the past two weeks.”

“And what changed that?” Baker asked patiently.

“I… asked her to leave,” she said, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t really throw her out. I swear! She’d simply overstayed her welcome. If you know what I mean.”

“Go on,” he encouraged.

Tricia sighed. “Pammy took it well. She said she had made friends here in Stoneham and assured me she’d be all right.”

“When was that?”

“About nine forty-five this morning.”

“And you didn’t see her again?”

“Yes, I did see her. But I didn’t speak to her.”

“Where was this?”

“At the new food pantry just out of town. They held the dedication this morning.”

Baker waited for her to continue.

“A lot of people were there. Apparently Pammy wanted to speak to the guest of honor. She made a rather loud fuss, and was asked to leave.”

Baker looked very interested. “Who asked her to leave?”

“Someone in a suit. I think he was part of Mr. Paige’s entourage.”

“Mr. Paige?”

“Stuart Paige. Have you ever heard of him?”

“It would be hard to live in New Hampshire and not hear about his good works.”

“Yes, well, apparently he gave the Food Shelf half the money they needed to open their new facility.”

“And did you speak to the deceased following the event?”

Tricia shook her head. “I didn’t see her again until I found her out back.”

“And what time was that?”

“About an hour or so ago.”

Baker checked his watch. “Approximately three fifty?”

Tricia nodded.

“And other than seeing her at the dedication, you hadn’t heard from her since this morning?”

“I heard of her-but I didn’t talk to her.”

Baker frowned. “What does that mean?”

“She apparently spent the morning going around town putting in job applications and listing me as her last employer.”

“And were you?”

“No! She hung around my store during the last couple of weeks, disrupting things-but she didn’t work for me.”

“Did her ‘hanging around’ anger you?”

Tricia chewed the inside of her lip, knowing where this line of questioning was going to lead. And what would he think when she told him about the forged check?

“I wasn’t happy about it. In fact, yesterday she spilled coffee on a customer’s foot. That was kind of the last straw.”

“But you waited until this morning to throw her out?”

“I did not throw her out,” Tricia said, and realized her voice had risen higher than she would’ve liked. She took a breath to calm down. “I asked her to leave. We had a civil conversation, and Pammy agreed it was time to go.”

Baker nodded, but said nothing.

“There was one other thing…” She hesitated. Did she really have to tell him about the check? He-or his boss-was sure to think it was a motive for murder. No one but she knew about it-unless Pammy had gone around blabbing about it, which she doubted. Angelica hadn’t mentioned it.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

“Her carelessness in spilling coffee on one of my customers really a

Baker eyed her, waiting for more.

She could still say something about the check. She ought to say something about the check.

Why didn’t she say something about the damn check?

Maybe because she knew she hadn’t killed Pammy. It wasn’t pertinent to her death. Baker might follow in his boss’s footsteps and waste a lot of time trying to pin the crime on her-letting Pammy’s killer get away with murder.

“Look, I was in my store, with witnesses, all day. That is, until I came across the street to eat my lunch and talk to my sister.”

“Sister?” Baker asked.

Tricia glanced in Angelica’s direction. “Yes, she owns this café. She hired Pammy today.”

“Why?”

Tricia sighed. Probably to bug me. “You’ll have to ask her.”

Baker looked over at Angelica, then shifted his gaze back to Tricia-assessing them? “Tell me what you saw when you found the body.”

“Pammy. Headfirst in the garbage cart. I suspected she might be dead because she wasn’t moving. I had to force myself to touch her. I found her wrist, but I couldn’t find a pulse.” The stench of rotting food and the revulsion she’d felt at touching the dead had worked together until-“And then I threw up.”

Baker nodded, his expression bland. “Yes, the deputy told me.”

“I didn’t mean to contaminate the crime scene. It just… happened.”

“How do you know about contaminating crime scenes?” Baker asked.

“I own Haven’t Got a Clue, the mystery bookstore across the street. I read a lot of crime stories.”

“How many is ‘a lot’?”

“Not as many as I used to. Only two or three a week.”

Baker didn’t roll his eyes, but he looked like he might want to. Something captured his attention, and Tricia looked to her left. Someone had entered through the open back door-a man Tricia recognized from her last brush with murder. A member of the county’s Medical Examiner’s office greeted Baker with a curt nod.

“Have we got a probable cause of death yet?” Baker asked.

The man had a laminated ID card on a lanyard around his neck. The name on it was Ernesto Rivera. “Suffocation, most likely. Her face was covered by a plastic bag full of trash. Looks like she panicked when she couldn’t get out of the garbage cart. She couldn’t reach the edge of the can. Looks like she tore the trash bags apart while struggling. Her fingernails have all kinds of debris under them. We bagged ’em, and will know more once we get her on the table.”

Tricia cringed at that piece of information. Pammy-her chest and abdominal cavities emptied like a gutted deer. Her scalp peeled forward until-

Tricia shuddered again. Why had she read so many Kay Scarpetta mysteries? The knowledge she’d picked up about autopsies made for an interesting read-if not applied to someone you’d actually known.

“Did she fall into the garbage can?” Baker asked.

“No way-the thing’s about four foot tall. She was on her back. Someone had to put her in there.”

Tricia’s thoughts, exactly.

“Thanks, Ernie.” Baker turned to question Angelica. “You’re the owner?”

Angelica sighed theatrically. “Yes. Angelica Miles. Soon to be published, I might add. Penguin Books, Easy-Does-It Cooking, twenty-four ninety-nine-available on June first.”