A Fatal Chapter

“Looks like it was today.”

“It wasn’t. I figured it out for myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

Damn him for actually sounding that way. She moved over to the counter, picked up the coffee pot and filled it with water. As she measured the coffee into the filter basket, she glanced askance to see him smiling. Damn him!

She hit the switch and grabbed two clean coffee cups from the drain board. Pixie kept on top of everything during her hours at the Chamber. Tricia set them on the table and brought out and then filled a small pitcher with milk and set it and the sugar bowl and a spoon in front of Christopher.

“What will Pete’s death mean for the Chamber?”

Tricia shrugged. “He worked closely with Angelica on the historical-plaque campaign. It’s a shame he won’t get to see any more of them go up around the village.”

“What else did they have in mind?”

“The cemetery ghost walks were supposed to start in the fall. I suppose someone else from the Historical Society will work with Angelica or Mariana on that. It’s a shame, because Pete was a walking encyclopedia when it came to Stoneham’s founding fathers—and mothers.”

Christopher looked past her toward the refrigerator. “I don’t suppose you have any cookies or a stale doughnut hanging around. I haven’t had di

“The Bookshelf Diner is only a couple of doors down.”

“Come on, Trish,” he chided her.

She frowned. She was going to have deep-set lines in her face if this continued. “Angelica sent me home with a load of leftovers. I suppose I could toss them on a plate and heat them in the microwave for you.”

“That would be heavenly. Thank you.”

Tricia turned to the fridge and doled out the pasta and a bowl of salad. This was like old times, only their dining room in their Manhattan apartment had been far more elegant than the humble kitchen where they now sat. Still, the take-out containers hadn’t looked too much different. The coffee was ready before the microwave went ding. Tricia poured, and then set the salad dressing, silverware, and a paper napkin in front of Christopher. Turning back to the microwave, she retrieved his makeshift meal.

He inhaled deeply. “This smells great. It’s too bad you didn’t inherit the same cooking genes as Angelica.”

No, and she hadn’t inherited the secret-keeping genes, either.

Christopher dug in, obviously enjoying his meal.

Now what could they talk about?

He swallowed. “Have you heard from the insurance company yet?”

Tricia shook her head. “Sometimes I think I never will.”

“Made any headway with buying the building?”

Again she shook her head. “I’m sure Bob will be by to bug me about it any day now. Why is he so keen to dump it? Is he having financial problems?”

“He’s not my client, so I can talk freely about him, and yes, that’s the rumor that’s going around.” Despite what he’d just said, he didn’t elaborate.

“It’s no surprise that NRA Realty has encroached on his territory. Karen Johnson actually believes in customer service.”

“She’s sharp,” Christopher agreed.

“I suppose even she knows Angelica’s secret,” Tricia groused.

Christopher shoveled another forkful of salad into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He shook his head. “Not as far as I know.” He sipped his coffee.

“So, what’s the scoop with Bob?” Tricia asked.

“Legal trouble,” Christopher said succinctly.

Tricia knew all about that. Bob’s fingerprints had been matched to those found in Stan Berry’s ransacked house after his murder. And it came to light that Bob had been arrested for a foolish prank as a teen. He’d skipped town and never completed his community service sentence. Now he was up to his chin in hot water.

Neither of them spoke again until Christopher had finished his meal and set his fork down. “Boy, that was good. You ought to let Angelica give you a few cooking lessons. She’s terrific—at just about everything she does.”

Tricia pushed back her chair and stood. “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon.”

“Who says I do?”

“Me. It’s been a traumatic day. All I want to do is settle back in my easy chair with a good book and forget about real life for a few hours.”

“It might do you good to experience more of real life—at least the good part of it.”

“I have plenty of good things in my life.”

As though on cue, Miss Marple said, “Yow!”

They both laughed.

Christopher pushed back his chair and stood. “Can I at least kiss you good-bye?”

“No.”

He leaned forward and brushed a light kiss against her cheek anyway.

“Hey!”

“So sue me.” Watching where he stepped, as Miss Marple seemed about to trip him, Christopher headed for the door. “Thanks for the di

“No.”

“Okay, see you then,” he said, and let himself out, closing the door.

“That man,” Tricia grated.

“Yow!” Miss Marple agreed.

FOUR

Tricia read far into the night—much later than she’d intended, and it wasn’t as though she needed to finish Agatha Christie’s Death in the Air since she’d read the book at least three times before. But she’d known that the troubling thoughts of the day were bound to haunt her unless she was good and tired before she turned off her bedside light.

Without a treadmill, Tricia was forced to take a brisk early-morning walk around the village. Thanks to a new pedometer, she’d figured out several routes to get in her usual four-mile walk, and she enjoyed admiring the neat homes and gardens—at least when it wasn’t raining. She’d miss that when winter came again, but decided that walking outside was far more enjoyable than the tedium of the treadmill.

It was nearly seven thirty when Tricia returned to her temporary home, and she had just enough time to shower, change, and eat a yogurt breakfast before she turned the plastic CLOSED sign to OPEN and unlocked the front door. Once she did, the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce was officially open for business.

No sooner had she sat down at her desk when Bob Kelly entered. As far as she knew, Bob hadn’t darkened the Chamber’s new office before then.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Tricia asked, knowing full well why Bob had come to visit.

He let his gaze follow the contours of the room that had once acted as the home’s living room. He took in the four desks. “The Chamber never needed more than one employee when I ran it,” he groused.

“Membership is up over a hundred percent since January,” Tricia said, keeping her tone even. “And as you know, I’m not taking a salary.”

“What will they do when you go back to ru

“Perhaps they’ll hire someone else. If membership continues to rise, they’ll be well able to afford it.”

Bob glowered and quickly changed the subject. “Everyone around the village is talking about poor Pete Renquist—and how you found him.”

“I wish I’d found him a few minutes sooner. It might have made all the difference in the world,” Tricia said sincerely.

“Pete and I worked together a lot over the years,” Bob bragged. That was certainly stretching the truth. Under Bob’s leadership, Michele Fowler, manager of the Dog-Eared Page, had pushed the Chamber to team up with the Historical Society on establishing the cemetery ghost walks. That hadn’t happened until Angelica had come on board. Bob’s agenda hadn’t included anything that didn’t bring attention to his projects and his realty company. He’d rebuffed Michele’s suggestion because it offered no monetary value to the Chamber or Bob personally.

“Did he say anything to you before he died?” Bob asked, his tone neutral.