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   "Boy, you really are into this," Angelica said admiringly.

   "I need to be informed if I'm going to represent the Chamber members' interests."

   "What about the immediate problem?" Tricia asked. "Isn't there some way the village can clean the sidewalks on a more regular basis?"

   "And don't forget these birds are huge. I've had more than one frightened wisp of an old lady tell me the things charged and hissed at her," Angelica said.

   "I know, I know," Bob said. "They're very territorial. That aggressive behavior could become a major liability problem. If someone gets hurt, the business owners could be financially responsible for injuries incurred."

   "Not just business owners," Tricia said. "I was chased just this morning over on Pine Avenue—a residential neighborhood."

   "Cleaning the sidewalks takes money," Bob said, getting back to the subject, "money that hasn't been budgeted. I'm sure the business owners wouldn't like to see taxes go up to pay for it."

   "Not especially," Tricia said, "since it's
us
who pay them—not the building owners."

   "You all knew that when you signed the leases," Bob said.

   Yeah, and he owned half the buildings on Main Street, and had stipulated that his tenants pay those taxes when he drew up the leases.

   "Frannie told me that one of the options is to 'round up and slaughter' them. She said it's under consideration."

   Bob's eyes narrowed. "She had no right discussing Chamber business with you."

   "She had every right. I'm a member of the Chamber, too, you know."

   "Killing them en masse would be very controversial. A lot of people love the damn things. Exterminating them could prove to be a PR nightmare—the last thing the village needs."

   And
that w
as what he really worried about.

   As though to avoid discussing that very subject, Bob launched into an update on the weekend book fair and statue dedication, but Tricia only half listened, her mind wandering back to Zoë and the ramifications of everything she'd learned today. All the facts and innuendo swirled around in her mind in a disconnected mess.

   "Something wrong with the shrimp?" a concerned Angelica asked, once Bob had wound down. "Maybe I shouldn't go so heavy on the garlic."

   Feeling contrite, Tricia gave her sister a wan smile. "It's perfect, Ange." She took another bite and savored the taste, once again thankful she wasn't sentenced to eating tuna noodle casserole.

After dinner,
Tricia retired to Angelica's bedroom with her laptop and the pile of library books to comfort her. The computer looked distinctly out of place in the girly boudoir, the only room devoid of boxes, with its gilt-edged French provincial furniture and the stacks of sumptuous lace pillows lined up against the ivory velvet-covered headboard.

   Angelica's vanity sported scores of perfume bottles and colorful nail polishes. One cobalt blue bottle stood out among the crowd: Evening in Paris talc. Tricia removed the cap and breathed in a much-loved memory of her grandmother. Where had Angelica found it? They hadn't made that scent in decades. A bigger mystery was the thought that Angelica might possibly have loved their grandmother as much as Tricia had. It wasn't something she'd ever considered, and yet Angelica had once mentioned that it was their grandmother's cookbook collection that got her interested in cookery. Either way, grandmother had inspired a love of books in both of her grandchildren.

   Recapping the bottle, Tricia replaced it and settled on the bed, delighted that the little computer sniffed out a wireless connection—probably tapping into the signal from her own home next door. After a few minutes Miss Marple showed up from the depths of the living room's box jungle, settled herself next to Tricia, and purred deeply as Tricia Googled the News Team Ten Web site.

   As she'd hoped, Zoë's murder was still a top story. Portia McAlister had stood in front of Zoë's home late that afternoon, judging by the shadows behind her, and dragged up Zoë's past indiscretions, as well as her literary triumphs.

   "Before her fame as a mystery author, Zoë Carter lived a life of mystery herself. A life that included an indictment for embezzlement," she said with deadly seriousness.

   Tricia listened intently, then hit the reload button and played the video again. As a bookkeeper for Trident Log Homes, Zoë had participated in a scheme to defraud the investors. With phantom vendor accounts, she'd channeled hundreds of thousands of dollars to Thomas Norton's pocket. Norton, the company's married CEO, had had a brief fling with Zoë, whom he declared at the trial to be naive and delusional. Zoë, he asserted, had been under the impression Norton would leave his wife, and that it was her idea to divert the funds.

   That story fell apart when prosecutors showed it was Norton who squirreled away the missing funds in an offshore bank account, not Zoë. Zoë had never had so much as a speeding ticket, and was the sole support of her recently orphaned niece. Her testimony was enough to convict Norton, while she got off with a suspended sentence, a hefty fine, and an order to make restitution. While out on appeal, Norton skipped the country and died in a car accident in the Austrian Alps—no doubt on his way to tap a Swiss bank account.

   Tricia shook her head, folding down her laptop and setting it aside. It sounded like the plot of a bad movie.

   Miss Marple scolded Tricia for disturbing her, but settled right back down as Tricia grabbed her library copy of
Dead In Red
and picked up where she'd left off reading some hours before. Sometime later, the sound of Miss Marple's purr lulled her to sleep.

   Much later in the night, Tricia awoke to find her book removed and her cat gone, the lights out, and Angelica on the other side of the bed, once again snoring quietly. She rolled over and fell back into an exhausted sleep.

   When she awoke in the morning, Angelica was gone, Miss Marple was back, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Tricia found her robe, grabbed her book, and staggered into her sister's kitchen.

   "Well, good morning, sleepyhead," Angelica said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to her sister.

   Tricia sat on a stool at the kitchen island and took a deep gulp of the fortifying brew.

   Angelica scrutinized her face. "Okay, what's up?"

   Tricia refused to meet her gaze. "Nothing."

   "You ate your dinner and snuck off to bed. And the corners of your mouth never lie. Something's making you unhappy. What did Russ do that you couldn't tell me about in front of Bob?"

   Tricia ignored the question. "I'm sorry I showed up on your doorstep, especially after I told you I probably wouldn't. I must've spoiled your plans for the evening."

   Angelica waved her hand in dismissal. "Don't give it a thought. I already told Bob that as long as your business is closed and you're staying with me, there wouldn't be any fun stuff going on here."

   Tricia eyed her sister. More information than she wanted to know. She turned her attention back to her coffee.

   Angelica, still clad in a robe, headed toward the bathroom. "I'm off to take a shower. Help yourself to anything you want. There's oatmeal, eggs—" Whatever else she suggested was lost in Doppler echo as she disappeared down the hall.

   Tricia looked around the otherwise spotless kitchen, still cluttered with the booty from the emptied boxes. She missed her nice, uncluttered home. She missed her favorite blend of coffee. She even missed her treadmill.

   Beethoven's Pastorale Symphony chimed from inside Tricia's purse. She whipped her head around, wondering where she'd left it and if she
could
find it before she missed the call. Aha! She located it on one of the stacks of boxes lined against the wall. She flipped open the phone and stabbed the button. "Hello?"

   "Tricia. It's Ginny." Her tone was as cold as an iceberg. "What is it going to take to reopen Haven't Got a Clue? I don't think I can stand another day with your sister at the Cookery. He hasn't said so out loud, but I think Mr. Everett feels the same way."

   Tricia's stomach roiled. Angelica had been so kind to her during the past thirty-six hours and yet she didn't seem able to engage that gene when it came to her—or Tricia's— employees.

   "I don't think we're going to see the store reopen until at least the weekend. But I'll speak to Angelica. Again."

   "Will you be at the Cookery today? She isn't as mean to us when you're there."

   Tricia thought about her quest to speak with Zoë's exhigh school English teacher. She could probably do it by phone, but her results weren't likely to be as satisfying. Selfishly, she knew that if Ginny and Mr. Everett didn't show up, she'd have to stay at the Cookery all day and help until Angelica could hire yet another clueless temp from the Milford employment agency.

   Another truth was that the subject of food preparation bored Tricia to tears. The colorful photos in many of the books were great, she supposed, if you were into that kind of thing, but they couldn't hold a candle to the magic of losing oneself in the pages of an enthralling story.

"Tricia?"

   "Don't worry, Ginny. We'll work something out. See you in a little while."

   "Bye," Ginny said, and disconnected. She didn't sound pacified.

   Tricia put her phone away, then searched the fridge and found some whole wheat bread for toast. She was nibbling her second slice, her nose in her library book when Angelica reappeared in her robe, her head swathed in a peachcolored towel. "That looks good. Put a slice in for me, will you?"

   "We have to talk," Tricia said, extracting bread from the wrapper and pushing the lever on the toaster. "You're about to have a mutiny on your hands if you don't treat Ginny and Mr. Everett nicer."

   Angelica looked aghast. "Moi?" she asked innocently.

   "Oui, toi," Tricia countered. She softened her voice. "Ange, you've got a big heart. Why do you lose it the minute you walk into your store?"

   Angelica turned her back on her sister, grabbing her coffee cup and pouring the cold contents down the sink. "I'm a perfectionist. Is it wrong to demand the same from the people I hire?"

   "When you're paying them minimum wage or just above—yes. If you're lucky, you've got two more days with Ginny and Mr. Everett, but if things don't improve this morning, they're ready to walk."

   "But Ginny said she needs the money."

   "She apparently doesn't need it that badly."

   Angelica poured herself another cup, leaned against the counter, and sighed. "Okay. I'll play nice."

   "Good. Unfortunately, I have some errands I have to run today, and may not be available to play referee. So make sure you keep your promise, or they
will w
alk out."

   "What kind of errands?"

   "First off, I want to talk to someone who knew Zoë back when. Someone who might have influenced her . . . writing career."

   "And who would that be?"

   "Her high school English teacher."

   Angelica nodded. "Makes sense. Where did you come up with the idea?"

   "From the village librarian. You know, for such a small town, Stoneham really has a nice library. Cutting-edge, I'd say."

   "I've only driven by it. Looks nice."

   "It's the best value you can get for your tax dollars," Tricia said.

   Angelica blinked, looking confused. "What?"

   Tricia laughed. "Frannie told me that."

   Angelica took another swig of her coffee and swallowed. "Okay. What else have you got on tap for today that's going to keep you from helping me in my shop?"

   "The thing I don't want to do is run into that TV reporter, Portia McAlister. She hunted me down yesterday morning in the municipal parking lot." The memory made her shudder.

   "She hasn't come to talk to me," Angelica said, sounding miffed. "I wish she would. I'd love to get in a plug for the Cookery."

   "Call the station. I'm sure they'd be glad to give you Portia's cell number."

   "Maybe I will. After all, I was at the scene of the murder. I'm sure I can add loads of color to her story."

   "But you didn't actually see anything. Not even Zoë's body."

   "Yes, but you did. Maybe I can milk that angle."

   "Please don't. That'll only get her interested in talking to me again."

   Angelica shrugged. "Oh, all right. I suppose two days later the story is old news anyway."

   She drained her cup and put it into the dishwasher. "Better get dressed," she advised. "Time is money." She turned and headed toward her bedroom.

   Tricia eyed the telephone, then the clock on the wall. It was after nine, surely late enough to call a retired schoolteacher. Abandoning her stool, she picked up the slip of paper with Stella Kraft's number that she'd been using as a bookmark, crossed the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and dialed.

As promised,
Angelica was on her best behavior, greeting both Ginny and Mr. Everett like old friends about to begin a new adventure. They eyed their temporary employer with suspicion, but dutifully donned the Cookery aprons and began the day with, if not enthusiasm, at least not scorn.

   Tricia's appointment with Zoë's former teacher was for eleven, and the four of them started the workday by restocking shelves, dusting, vacuuming, and getting ready for an anticipated glut of customers, who arrived right at opening time.

   At ten forty-five, Tricia was just about to duck out when Ginny cornered her. "Tricia, we need to talk about Saturday."

   "Saturday?" Tricia echoed.

   "Yes, the statue dedication."

   Tricia smacked her forehead. "Rats! I forgot all about it."

   Ginny pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket. "I managed to get a few minutes free yesterday and made some calls. I hope I'm not going to get in trouble about it when Angelica sees it on her phone bill."