Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

THREE

Despite Angelica’s marvelous dinner, Tricia ate very little. Angelica had insisted she take home leftovers in case she was hit with a case of the munchies during the night, and Tricia carried the containers back to the Chamber in a plastic grocery bag.

She unlocked the door to the office and let herself in. Miss Marple sat in a patch of early-evening sunshine in the kitchen and greeted her with a scolding “Yow!”

“I apologize. But I did leave you kitty treats before I left. It’s not my fault you were nowhere in sight before I had to go,” she explained.

Miss Marple just glared at her.

No sooner had she put the cat’s now-full dish on the floor when she heard a knock at the back door. She ignored it. Several times Chamber members had appeared on her doorstep after hours with some request or other—knowing the business was officially closed, but also knowing that she would be there and expecting her to be willing to honor their requests. She worked enough hours for the Chamber—and gratis, too—that she was determined not to let whomever it was infringe on her personal time—especially when she was feeling so unsettled.

The knock came again, but Tricia stood by the sink, waiting for whomever it was to go away. A minute had passed, and she was just about ready to mount the stairs for her temporary living space when a knock came at the kitchen window, startling her. She turned and saw the face of her ex-husband, Christopher, peering in at her.

“Open the door!” he called.

Tricia frowned. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

She sighed. She knew he wouldn’t go away until she let him in, so she stalked over to the back door and opened it.

“Why didn’t you answer?” Christopher demanded.

“I thought it was a Chamber member.”

He smiled. “Well, I am a Chamber member. Why wouldn’t you want to talk to me?”

“The office is closed, so if you’ve come about a Chamber matter . . .” she said, grabbing his elbow and attempting to push him back out the door, but his feet stayed planted.

“I heard about what happened.”

“Yes, it’s very sad that Pete died,” she said, but she doubted he’d already heard that it was a suspicious death.

“I’m sorry you found him,” Christopher said gently.

For a moment Tricia wasn’t sure what he meant, but then . . . “Thank you.” Then again, she wasn’t about to cut him any slack. He owed her an explanation, and now was as good a time as any to demand it. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that Angelica is Nigela Ricita?”

He shrugged, his expression bland. “She asked me not to.”

Tricia waited for more of an explanation but was disappointed. “That’s it?”

Christopher nodded. “I’m a man of my word.”

Except when it came to a marriage vow.

“Do we have to stand here in the doorway to talk? Can’t we sit down? I’ve never seen your living quarters,” he said.

And you aren’t about to, either, she thought.

He pushed past her and walked into the kitchen. Miss Marple looked up from her bowl and almost seemed to smile. “Yow!” She trotted over to meet Christopher, winding around his legs and looking up at him with adoring eyes.

Traitor!

“You played dumb with me when you said you’d gone to Portsmouth for the job interview to work for her company.”

“No, I didn’t. I really did go to Portsmouth, where I was interviewed for the job working for NRA.”

“Did Angelica interview you?”

“No, Antonio did. She let him make the decision.” Christopher pulled one of the bistro chairs away from the table and sat.

“And he made it knowing you were my ex-husband?”

“I don’t think we discussed it. He asked for my credentials, did some checking, and voila—I was hired. Your sister is a very generous employer. I’d like to say it’s a family trait, but your spirit of generosity seems to have evaporated these past few years.”

And he knew damn well why, too.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

She considered Miss Marple’s water bowl on the floor. “This is a shared refrigerator. I don’t keep wine or have any liquor down here.”

“How about upstairs?” Christopher asked. Tricia’s glare intensified. “How about iced tea?”

Tricia shook her head.

“Coffee?”

“I’m not sure you’ll be staying that long.”

“Tricia, why can’t we be friends? I thought we were getting along a lot better lately.”

“That was before I found out you knew Angelica’s secret.”

“For what it’s worth, among the advice I’ve given her was that she should level with you. I knew you’d be upset. Hell, she knew it, too, but she felt the timing wasn’t right.”

“And when was the timing going to be right?”

“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 dinner yet,” he explained.

“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 dinner and the conversation. Can I come by tomorrow night?”

“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 running your store?”

“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.

Tricia studied his face. Now, why would he ask that? Russ had said Pete’s death was suspicious. Could Bob have been responsible?

Bob was a lot of things, but Tricia had never considered murderer to be among them.

“No,” she lied. “What brings you to the Chamber this morning? Looking for Angelica?” she asked.

The dig made him bristle. “Of course not. I’ve come with a fantastic offer you can’t afford to turn down.”

So far he’d cornered her at the Bookshelf Diner, the convenience store, and even on her way to the ladies room at the Brookview Inn, and none of his offers to sell the building that housed her store had been in the ballpark of what she was willing to pay.

“Bob, we’ve talked about this before.”

“Yes, and I’ve taken your comments to heart. I’m willing to lower the price to a more comfortable level.”

He handed her a slip of paper with a number written on it. It certainly wasn’t a number she felt comfortable with. She handed the paper back. “Sorry, there are a few too many zeroes here for me.”

Bob picked up a pen from the desk and crossed out that number, wrote another, and handed the slip back to her.

Tricia frowned and shook her head. “Still too high.”

“That’s the lowest I’m willing to go.”

“Then we won’t be making a deal.” Again she handed the paper back. “If you let me out of my lease, you could put a for-sale sign on the property today.”

“Not a chance. According to the lease, it’s your responsibility to repair the building.”

“And you know I can’t do that until the insurance comes through.”

“Well, how soon is that going to be?”

“I have no idea. It could be tomorrow—it could be six months from now. If you’re strapped for cash, why don’t you put another of your buildings up for sale?”

“Who says I’m strapped?” Bob asked sharply.

“No one,” she lied again. “But you seem to be in a hurry to round up some cash.”

“I am not. The way the real estate market has recovered, I’m just looking to score big.”

Well, he wasn’t going to score big with Tricia. Her lease still had over a year to go, and if they couldn’t come to an agreement, she was prepared to move. She’d hate to lose a prime Main Street storefront, but the way the village was expanding, she was sure she could still make a go of the business in a less desirable location.

“Nigela Ricita Associates is primed to develop the north end of the village. Perhaps I’ll wait until they do and lease space from them. Or, I could just buy a property and develop it myself.”

Bob looked horrified. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I can. And then I’d have exactly what I want and wouldn’t have to worry about a landlord who constantly raised my rent. And, as you pointed out, with the real estate market’s recovery it would be a win-win situation.” Tricia looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll call Karen Johnson over at NRA Realty and see if she has a property I could look at.”

“There’s nothing else on Main Street for sale,” Bob practically growled.

“Perhaps nothing with Kelly Realty, but who knows what Karen has lined up? She’s only been here in the village six months and already has quite an inventory—and made plenty of sales.” Karen had done quite well signing Bob’s former clients, who seemed pleased with the deals she’d made for them.

Bob stuffed the paper into his Kelly green sports jacket. “If you aren’t prepared to deal, then I’ll just find someone who is.”

He’d just said he wouldn’t be able to sell the building in its present condition. Who did he figure would buy it?

“It was lovely to see you, Bob. Did you know you’d let your Chamber membership lapse? I’d be glad to reinstate you right now if you’d like to write us a check.”

“I don’t have my checkbook with me,” he said tersely.

“Shall I send you a bill?”

Bob’s mouth dropped open in indignation, but then he shut it. “Why not?”

Tricia schooled her features so she wouldn’t laugh.

“I’m a very busy man. I have to go,” Bob said, turned and left the office without a good-bye. Tricia was surprised when he didn’t slam the door behind him. Shrugging, she got up, went to the kitchen, and made what was sure to be the first of many pots of coffee that day.

Tricia heard the side door open and was surprised to find Mariana coming through it. “You’re here bright and early.”

“I’ve got a dental appointment this afternoon. Angelica said it would be okay if I came in early I could leave early, too.”

“That’s fine with me,” Tricia said, and stood to one side, waiting for the coffee to brew.

Mariana got the carton of milk from the fridge, grabbed a cup from the drain board, and poured. “There’re more dishes than usual this morning. You must have had company last night.”

“A friend dropped by,” Tricia admitted, unwilling to say just who it had been, and made a mental note not to leave evidence on the counter again. Mariana handed Tricia the carton, knowing she’d be doctoring her own cup.

“I heard Pete Renquist died. It’s such a shame. He was so nice.”

“Yes, he was.”

Mariana shook her head, poured herself a cup of coffee, then left the kitchen. She settled at her desk, turned on her radio, and jumped into her workday.

Tricia lingered at the kitchen counter, putting away the dishes before pouring herself a cup of coffee and heading down the hall for the office.

The front door handle rattled, and Chief Baker entered the office. “Good morning, ladies,” he called.

Thanks to her being the last person to speak to Pete Renquist, Tricia wasn’t at all surprised to see the chief. “Good morning, Grant.”

“You can probably guess why I’m here.”

“Oh, yes. But I don’t think this is the appropriate place to talk,” she said, eyeing Mariana.

“How about your quarters? I understand you’ve got a cozy living room upstairs.”

“And how would you know about that?”

He shrugged. “I heard it . . . somewhere.”

“I don’t think that’s the appropriate place to talk, either.”

“Would you like to go down to the station?” he asked, his voice much harder than it had been.

“Why don’t we go to the park?”

Baker let out a breath. “To the scene of the crime? That would be satisfactory.”

“Mariana!” Tricia called. “I should only be gone for ten or fifteen minutes.”

“I can hold the fort,” she said.

Tricia took her coffee with her and led Baker to the front door. They exited the building. Tricia was the first to speak. “I’m surprised you didn’t call me last night,” she said as they headed south on Main Street.

“I was on my way over, but then I saw you had company. I thought you and Christopher weren’t dating.”

“We’re not.”

“It looked like you were having dinner.”

Tricia stopped dead. “Were you spying on me?”

“No, I . . . well, I will admit that I was on my way over and saw him enter the Chamber building. I came to the door, intending to knock, but then . . . I don’t know what came over me. I walked around the side of the house and just happened to glance through the kitchen window.”

Tricia hadn’t served Christopher for some ten or more minutes after his arrival. How long had Baker stood there, watching them? And why hadn’t they seen him?

Tricia wondered if Nigela Ricita Associates—rats! Angelica—would spring for a set of new blinds for the kitchen.

“I don’t suppose it would do me any good to report to the police that I’ve got a Peeping Tom when you’re the Tom.”

“It was wrong of me. I apologize.”

“Grant, you have to get over this jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous. Just a little envious.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No, it isn’t,” he insisted. “I envy the fact Christopher and you are still friends.”

“We’re still friends—or I thought we were until about a minute ago. And I thought we’d set those boundaries quite some time ago.”

“We did. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

It had better not.

Tricia took a sip of her rapidly cooling coffee and started walking once again. It took only a few steps for Baker to catch up with her. “I understand Pete’s death has been ruled suspicious,” she said.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked, not at all pleased.

“Around.” She didn’t elaborate.

“There won’t be a ruling until after the autopsy is complete, but the doctors found a suspicious needle mark and a bruise. Until we know why Pete died, we can’t rule that it was a natural death.”

“Jumping the gun, aren’t you?” Tricia asked

“Let’s just say that there have been too many suspicious deaths in this village to rule it out. I’ll be talking with the medical examiner later today, and I want to be informed before I do.”

Tricia paused at the corner and looked both ways before she began to cross the street. “What did you want to ask me concerning finding Pete in the park yesterday?”

“Where exactly was he?”

“I’ll show you,” Tricia said. Again, she had to fight a claustrophobic feeling as she mounted the steps and paused, pointing at the gazebo’s concrete floor. “He was lying right there; his head faced west. As far as I remember, he had on the same clothes as when I’d seen him earlier in the day.”

“When was that?”

“It must have been about nine thirty, at the unveiling for the first historical marker at By Hook or By Book. It was a photo-op for the Stoneham Weekly News.”

“Russ Smith took pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was there?” Baker asked.

“Angelica, Mary Fairchild, and Pete.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

“Not until Earl Winkler showed up.” She shook her head in consternation. “He’s not a very nice man.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, you know what he’s like. He hates the fact that prosperity has returned to Stoneham.”

“Did he have words with Pete?”

“I wouldn’t say words, but you could tell they had differing opinions on the subject.”

“What subject?”

“The upcoming ghost walks at the Stoneham Rural Cemetery that the Historical Society is sponsoring.”

“Would you say Earl had an ax to grind?”

“With Pete? You mean personally?” She thought about it. “I don’t think so. I didn’t really know Pete well. I mean, I’d spoken to him a lot in the past few months because Angelica has cultivated a relationship between the Chamber and the Historical Society. But usually I was just taking messages and passing them on to Angelica. She knew him better than I did.”

“Depending on what I learn when I speak to the ME, I’ll probably speak to Angelica, Mary, Russ, and Earl, too.”

“The discussion wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it wasn’t threatening in any way, either.”

Baker nodded.

“I take it Pete was unconscious when you found him.”

“I thought so, but he did briefly speak to me, and it was just gibberish.”

“What did he say?”

She frowned. “‘I never missed my little boy.’”

Baker’s eyes widened, but then he frowned. “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

Tricia shook her head.

“Not even Angelica or—” He seemed to have to force himself to say the name. “Christopher?”

“No. I told you, it was gibberish.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I don’t want you going around and repeating it—just in case. Promise me.”

Tricia sighed, feeling foolish. “I promise.” She took another sip of her coffee, found it tepid, and frowned.

“How did you come to find Renquist?” Baker asked.

“I took Sarge out for a walk, and he must have sensed something was amiss. He pulled me in the direction of the gazebo and, well, you know the rest.”

“Not entirely,” Baker said, and pulled out a small flashlight to scan the concrete deck and illuminate the dark corners. Tricia couldn’t see anything but dried leaves, a few cigarette butts, and small bits of paper that had probably been blown there months before.

Baker looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll call the Sheriff’s Department to see if they can send out a lab team.”

“Isn’t that a little premature? You don’t even know a crime has been committed.”

“That’s true, but if it has, I don’t want the scene any more contaminated than it already is.”

“You’re the chief of police,” she said, and shrugged. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Do you know if Pete spoke to the paramedics?”

Tricia shook her head. “He was in cardiac arrest when they hauled him away in the ambulance. Unless he regained consciousness, I doubt it. You’d have to ask them.”

“I will.”

Baker studied the gazebo floor once more.

“What do you know about Bob Kelly’s legal troubles?” Tricia asked.

“Just that he has them,” Baker said offhandedly.

“Was a warrant ever sworn for his arrest on the old charges against him?”

Baker nodded. “He was arraigned, made bail, and now it’s up to the courts to figure out what to do with him.”

How had Bob kept that quiet? Did Russ know about it? Surely he would have reported it in the Stoneham Weekly News’s police blotter, along with the missing hubcaps and homes that had been egged after the high school senior prank day back in June.

“I’d better get going,” Baker said, then turned and trotted down the granite steps. “If I need to speak to you again, I’ll call.”

Tricia walked down the steps, paused at one of the trash bins, and poured her cold coffee inside. She started across the grass, but before she made it back to the sidewalk, she decided to make a detour. The Stoneham Historical Society was located on Locust Street, two blocks west of Main Street. Though the day was pleasant, Tricia felt anything but cheerful. She didn’t know if Pete had any relatives in the area, so she intended to speak to his colleagues. Still, it was never a happy occasion to deliver condolences.

The society was housed in none other than the village founder’s home. Hiram Stone had made his fortune in quarrying granite and had built himself a house that, while not a mansion, was certainly bigger and grander than the houses of the people who’d worked for him.

The society’s hours were from ten until two, but she had a feeling she’d find someone in and the back door unlocked. Bypassing the grand front entrance, she walked along a stone path that led to the back of the building.

The Stoneham Horticultural Society had teamed up with the Historical Society and had done a marvelous job recreating the home’s original Italianate garden. Tricia paused to take in the beauty of this outdoor extension of the home. Beds filled with summer flowers flanked a gravel path that led to the garden’s first focal point, a fountain and lily pond. At the end of the path were the remains of what had been a stone temple, which now sported a round, trellislike structure that acted as a kind of placeholder until they could rebuild the structure. It was walled-in by imposing beech hedges that she’d been told were hand-clipped. She’d visited the garden on several occasions in the past and made a vow that she would not wait so long to visit this place of tranquility again.

“Tricia, is that you?”

Tricia turned at the sound of the woman’s voice behind her. Janet Koch stood on the immense stone patio with steps that trailed from the door. The tall, dark-haired woman was dressed in black, which was unusual for a summer’s day but appropriate under the circumstances.

“You gave me a start,” Tricia admitted.

“I’m sorry. That’s the last thing I want to do today—cause someone else to have a heart attack.”

So Janet hadn’t heard that Pete had died under suspicious circumstances.

“I came to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you. Why don’t you come in and we can commiserate?” Janet said, and with a sweep of her arm, pointed the way.

A large parlor overlooked the home’s garden, but Janet led the way to an office off to one side, where Tricia could smell coffee brewing. “Can I offer you a cup?” Janet asked.

“Thank you,” Tricia said. “As you can see. I brought my own.”

Janet poured for them both, and they each doctored their coffee the way they liked it. “Won’t you sit down?”

Janet sat behind a desk of dark wood that Tricia guessed might be mahogany. Although old, it didn’t match the décor of the rest of the house.

“I feel rather strange sitting at Pete’s desk. Until the board meets in a few days, I’ll be taking care of the day-to-day activities.” She swallowed hard and took a sip of her coffee, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I take it you and Pete were good friends.”

“You could say that. We’d worked together for the past five years, but of course Pete had been here much longer, first as a volunteer and then as one of the staff. We had many a brainstorming meeting right here in this office as we struggled to get funding—that is, until Nigela Ricita made a generous donation.”

“Did she, now?” Tricia asked, her interest piqued.

Janet nodded. “We sent a letter, just our regular yearly solicitation, and were shocked when she sent us half a million dollars.”

Tricia choked on her coffee. “She did what?”

Janet nodded. “That nice young man, Antonio Barbero, brought the check himself.”

“But I never heard a thing about it.”

“And you won’t, at least not officially.”

“Ms. Ricita also made a generous contribution to the Horticultural Society. They hope to rebuild the stone temple at the end of the garden with it.”

Angelica had her fingers in many more pies than she’d let on. But Tricia didn’t want to discuss the further adventures of Nigela Ricita—at least not at that moment.

“I didn’t know Pete well,” she said, changing the subject, “but we’d spoken many times since I came to work at the Chamber. Did Pete have family here in Stoneham?”

Janet shook her head. “He’d been divorced for many years, and as far as I know had no contact with his ex-wife for at least a decade.”

“He mentioned he was a dad.”

“I believe he had a daughter, but they weren’t close. She lived with her mother in California.”

So Pete had a daughter. Then why had he said he’d never missed his little boy? “Just the one child?” Tricia asked.

Janet nodded and sipped her coffee.

“What will happen—I mean, as far as any arrangements?” Tricia asked.

“Pete once told me he wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread in the garden out back. Of course, the board would have to approve it, but I think it would be a lovely memorial after all the time he spent here, and I know it would have pleased him.”

“When did you say the board would meet next?”

“Our next regularly scheduled meeting isn’t for three weeks, but they’ll have to convene an emergency session to figure out how we move forward.” Janet’s frown deepened. “Pete had a joie de vivre that attracted people. It worked well for him in this job.”

“So, he had no enemies?”