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“No, but you sound so serious, which makes me think bad news is coming.”

“Not bad news. Good news.”

Oh, no. Here it came. And how would she reply to his proposal?
No? Yes? I’m not prepared to answer such a serious question on such short notice?

The sherry made her flush. “Russ, don’t you think you might be rushing things?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for the past couple of months. Seriously thinking about it. I think it might be time.”

Tricia looked away, exhaled. She was not ready for this. She was not ready for this at all.

Russ captured her hands in his, looked deeply into her eyes. “Tricia, I’ve put the
Stoneham Weekly News
up for sale.”

“What?” she asked, and yanked back her hands.

“I know this will come as a bit of a shock, but I might have a job in Philadelphia. There’s an opening for a crime beat reporter. I’ve interviewed for it, and so far I’m their lead candidate.”

“What?” she repeated, still unsure of what she’d just heard.

“It’s a terrific opportunity. The pay isn’t great, but I’m certainly not making a fortune here in Stoneham, either.”

“But, but—” She took a breath to steady her suddenly shattered nerves. “I thought you liked being your own boss. I thought you left the rat race in Boston to have a little peace and quiet—and that you’d found it here in Stoneham.”

“It’s a little
too
peaceful around here.”

“Are you kidding? Pammy Fredericks was murdered yesterday.”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “It would be more exciting if I could write about it in tomorrow’s edition—not next week’s. For all I know, the Sheriff’s Department will solve it before I can even report her death. I’m tired of running—and writing—stories about lost dogs, stolen laundry, and the occasional DUI, not to mention vandalism—like the mystery of the smashed pumpkins all over town.”

No diamond ring. The heck with that—no Russ!

“And you say you’ve been thinking about this for a while?” Tricia asked, her throat tightening.

“Uh-huh.”

“What about me? Did you even consider me while you were making this decision?”

He shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I was surprised to hear you say you’d been happy with our relationship. I always thought you wanted more.”

She had. But he never seemed to be listening.

“When will you know about the job?”

“Friday.”

That gave her only a few more days to . . . what? Hope? Mourn?

Think about Grant Baker’s green eyes?

“Is there someone else?” she asked, dreading the answer.

He laughed. “Hardly. Unless you call running a dying business a mistress of sorts. The truth is, I’m bored here in Stoneham. I need something more stimulating—something this hick village can’t offer.”

Tricia swallowed. Apparently she couldn’t offer that kind of excitement, either.

She hardened her heart. “What if the job falls through? Will you keep on looking?”

“I think so.”

“It’s too bad you spent time making dinner. I don’t believe I want to stay.”

“I figured you’d say that, so I didn’t bother to make anything.”

Tricia’s shock at his previous announcement now gave way to anger. “You invited me here, and then you didn’t even make dinner?”

He laughed. “What was the point? You’re leaving, just as I thought you would.”

So now she was predictable!

Tricia rose to her feet and with a supreme effort offered him her hand.

He took it, albeit reluctantly.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Russ. Have a good life.”

She yanked back her hand and stormed off for his front door.

“Tricia, wait!”

Tricia paused, turned. “What for? You’ve made your life’s plans, and I’m not a part of them. I don’t think there’s anything more to talk about.”

“You’re taking this much too seriously.”

“If you’re talking about our relationship, I did, but I won’t from now on.”

She grabbed her coat, opened the door, and then yanked it shut behind her, enjoying the sound of its slam. As she stalked off for her car, she noted the door did not open. Russ did not appear, and he did not call for her to return.

Damn him!

 

 

“You broke
up?” Angelica cried, dismayed. She placed a huge slice of meatloaf on Tricia’s plate, plopped down a gigantic helping of garlic mashed potatoes and a sprinkling of peas, about three times more food than Tricia was ever likely to eat. She didn’t protest. Food had always been Angelica’s way of coping with disappointment.

“I didn’t break up. Russ did.” Tricia looked down at her plate. “Meatloaf? You never make meatloaf.”

“Of course I do. It’s Bob’s favorite meal.” Bob sat across the table from Tricia, and both watched as Angelica dished up her own dinner. “I know you told me Russ was a little slow in the romance department, but dumping you and leaving Stoneham all in one go? Wow!” She picked up her fork and turned a sympathetic frown on Tricia. “You’ve had a rough week.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Can I have some mashed potatoes, too?” Bob asked, offering Angelica his plate.

“Sorry, sweetie.” She heaped his plate and handed him the gravy boat. He drowned his entire meal in the stuff, making Tricia cringe.

Angelica poured wine for everyone before seating herself next to Bob.

Bob shoveled up a forkful of peas. “I meant to thank you for showing up at the Food Shelf dedication yesterday, Tricia. We had a great showing. I’m sure Russ will give it good play in next week’s issue.”

“Don’t mention Russ,” Angelica snapped at him. “Can’t you see Tricia’s heart is breaking?”

It was anger more than heartbreak that Tricia felt. She cut a tiny piece of meatloaf with her fork, but said nothing.

“Anyway, thanks for showing up,” Bob concluded lamely.

Tricia decided to change the subject. “I went to see Libby Hirt today. I’ve put one of her collection jars on my sales counter.”

“Good for you,” Bob said, and attacked his mound of potatoes. “You ought to get one, too, Angelica, for the Cookery
and
the café.”

“If you say so,” she said, and took a sip of her wine.

Tricia swallowed and looked over at her sister. “Boy, there’s a lot of onion in this meatloaf.”

“Bob likes a lot of onions, don’t you, honey? And they’re good for you, too,” Angelica said.

Tricia took a sip of her wine, turning her attention back to Bob. “Libby Hirt more or less told me that if it wasn’t for you, Bob, the Food Shelf wouldn’t have its new home.”

Bob shook his head, his gaze still riveted on his food. “That’s not true. It was a Chamber effort.”

“Led by you,” Angelica piped up.

“I think it’s a wonderful cause. I had no idea there were hungry people right here in Stoneham,” Tricia added.

“Yes, well, not everyone who lives here has benefited from the rebirth of the village.”

Before Libby’s revelation, Tricia could’ve sworn there wasn’t an altruistic bone in Bob’s body—especially because he was the one who had made out like a bandit from the village’s rebirth, since he owned half the buildings on Main Street. She decided to push harder. “How did you find out about it? What first got you interested in feeding the hungry?”

“There’s a need,” he said simply. “Angelica, could I please have another slice of that wonderful meatloaf?”

“Of course.” She cut him a big slice, sliding it onto the pool of gravy on his plate.

“Yes, but what was
your
interest?” Tricia persisted.

Bob’s gaze hardened as he swung to glare at Tricia. “I grew up in a home where you never knew where your next meal would come from—or even if there would
be
a next meal. I know what it feels like to be hungry—not just for a day, but for days on end. Now, are you happy with that explanation, or do I need to elaborate further?”

Tricia was immediately sorry for her pressure tactics. “I’m sorry, Bob. I shouldn’t have pressed you. I just wanted to know more about you—understand you. I took the collection jar because I want to help my fellow citizens of Stoneham—and hope I never have to know who needs that help.” She said the words, but she thought about Ginny and Brian, wondering what they were eating for dinner that night.

Bob looked away, his lips pursing. Angelica put a hand on his arm, and he turned to her. She gave him a reassuring smile before he turned back to face Tricia. “Thank you.”

Tricia found herself smiling back at him, wondering what it had cost him to say those two very powerful words.

NINE

Miss Marple
greeted Tricia at the door, scolding her for leaving her alone for the evening. To placate the cat, Tricia gave her a bowl of cat cookies, and Miss Marple happily tucked in, purring as she ate.

The light on the phone flashed, indicating a message. Tricia pressed the Play button. The call had come in at seven forty-three; caller ID indicated it was a blocked number. A deep, draggy, electronically altered voice said the same four words, over and over again: “Give back the diary.”

Diary? What diary?

Was this someone’s sick idea of a joke?

Tricia’s finger hovered over the Delete button. Should she erase the call? It was probably just a prank. But what if it wasn’t? The words “give back” indicated someone thought she had a diary. She didn’t. But Pammy had been murdered. Her car had been ransacked after her death. Did she keep a diary? And if she did, why would someone think Tricia had it?

And then she remembered the box of books Pammy had left behind.

The carton was still at the side of the couch, where Pammy had left it just the day before. Tricia picked up the box, setting it on the cocktail table. She shuffled through the titles again. Most of them were old paperback volumes with faded, cracked spines, fiction from one-hit wonders, writers who’d sold one book and nothing else. Today those kinds of authors could be found published (if that was the term) by the likes of
Lulu.com
. The competition wasn’t as fierce back in the early twentieth century.

The only title of note was a first-edition copy of Edith Hull’s
The Sheik
, which might draw a bit of notice from the proprietor of Stoneham’s Have a Heart romance bookstore, but not much. A novel from the Roaring Twenties was bound to read pretty tame in this day and age.

No diary.

Miss Marple entered the living room, sat down on the rug, and proceeded to wash her face.

The books could do Pammy no good now. Tricia folded the carton’s flaps back in on each other. The Friends of the Stoneham Library were having a sale at the end of the month. She could donate the books, and perhaps add a few from her own stock that were used or too shopworn to offer for sale in Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d box them all up and take them to the library.

The telephone rang. Miss Marple looked at the offending noise, as though daring Tricia to answer it to stop its bleating.

Tricia picked up the extension. “Hello?”

The same draggy voice. “Give back the diary; give back the diary.”

“Who is this?” Tricia demanded.

Undaunted, the voice continued reciting the diary mantra. Was it a recording? She slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

Within seconds, the phone rang again. Tricia picked it up. “Give back the diary.”

She slammed it back down. Again, it rang within seconds. Tricia let it ring and went back to the kitchen. Again the caller ID registered BLOCKED CALL. She turned off the ringer, but the phone in the living room continued to trill. She stalked across the apartment and unplugged it from the wall. Now only the phone in her bedroom rang. Thirty seconds later, she’d unplugged that, too, and peace reigned.

“Now, who do you suppose thinks I’ve got Pammy’s diary, and why do they want it?” Tricia asked her cat.

Miss Marple jumped up on the cocktail table, settled herself, and began to lick her left back leg.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not traumatized by those calls,” Tricia said.

Miss Marple ignored her and started on her other back leg.

Tricia’s gaze returned to the carton of old books. If Pammy had a diary, she hadn’t left it here. Did someone assume Tricia had it just because it hadn’t been on Pammy’s person or in her car at the time of her death? Good assumption—only it didn’t happen to be true. Unless Pammy had hidden the book somewhere in Tricia’s apartment. But why would she do that?

Tricia turned on the stereo. One of Russ’s favorite mellow jazz CDs was still in the player. She hit the Eject button, and the tray slid out. Back into the jewel case the CD went. She selected one of her favorites instead, hit the Play button, and Irish Woman began a cheery tune.

Her gaze wandered around the room. Well, she had nothing better to do, and decided she’d search the place. Pammy had had unsupervised access to the premises for hours on end while Tricia was working, as evidenced by her lifting one of Tricia’s checks.

She looked through the books on her shelves, on top of the bookcases, in all the cupboards, under the bed and other furniture, even checking to see if Pammy might have attached the diary to the undersides with duct tape. Miss Marple followed her from room to room, eager to see what this new game would produce. Tricia found a few of the cat’s missing catnip toys and tossed them aside. A delighted Miss Marple flew after them. But there was no sign of a diary.

Finally, having looked through the entire apartment, Tricia returned to the living room, sat cross-legged on the carpet, and scanned the titles on the lower shelves of one of her bookcases. She selected a rather beat-up copy of Agatha Christie’s
The Mirror Crack’d
, and opened it to the flyleaf.