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counter where Angelica had left it after wrenching it from the wall. She picked the thing up, trying to find the connector, and mashed it against the wall. It immediately started to ring. She lifted the receiver and set it down again, effectively cutting off whoever was on the other end, then snatched it up again and punched in Russ's telephone number.

   It rang and rang. Either it was off the hook, or he was conversing and ignoring his call waiting.

   She slammed the receiver back onto the switch hook. The phone started ringing once again.

   Angelica pushed her aside, yanked the offending instrument from the wall once more, and set it aside. "How about that coffee?" she asked cheerfully.

   "I don't get it. He was worried about how it would look that his paper had no news on the murder, and now his photo appears in a rival paper."

   "Don't you think you ought to talk to him before making all these assumptions? And anyway, what's so bad about that? People are curious. They'll want to see the last pictures taken of a dead celebrity. Although, let's face it, she's not half as newsworthy as old Anna Nicole was when she took a dirt nap."

   Tricia stared at the photo. What was she so angry about, anyway? That Russ had betrayed her trust? Exactly how? She'd known those photos were going to be reproduced in a newspaper—she just hadn't figured it would be used in such a sordid way, or that it would appear so quickly.

   "How about that coffee?" Angelica asked once more, wrapping Tricia's hand around a warm mug. "I have a feeling it's going to be a very long day."

A lumbering,
Granite State tour bus passed by the Cookery at nine fifty-five. Within minutes, the horde of book lovers would descend upon the village, charge cards in hand,

and Haven't Got a Clue would not be their destination. The red closed sign and yellow crime scene tape around the door would handle that. Any inquiries by telephone would be handled by the new outgoing message Tricia had recorded earlier that morning.

   Behind the bus trailed a WRBS News Team Ten van, its uplink antenna neatly folded down the side. Tricia moved away from the Cookery's big plate glass display window, farther into the interior of the store. She'd deleted the messages from newspapers and TV stations on her voice mail, but doubted she'd make it through the day unscathed. And she hadn't been able to get hold of Russ, either at his home or via his office or cell phone.

   Across the store, a tight-lipped Ginny, clad in a yellow Cookery apron, stood beside the register, getting her orders from Angelica, who fired them off like a drill sergeant. Ginny had worked in the store under its previous owner, and it had not been a happy experience. And as for Mr. Everett, in an effort to beef up his limited culinary repertoire, he had shown up for all the cooking demonstrations under the old administration, but since he never bought anything, his attendance at these minilectures had made him customer non grata.

   Tricia wandered over to the horseshoe-shaped food demonstration area that dominated the center of the store, unsure what her role was to be. Too many workers in the shop would only get in the way of customers, and as cooking was the least of her domestic skills, she wouldn't be able to make thoughtful recommendations. Still, she'd learned a lot about bookselling in the year since she'd opened her store. Time to put that knowledge into action for her sister . . . and hope the effort would be appreciated.

   But that's not what she wanted to do. She had no doubt Sheriff Adams would keep Haven't Got a Clue closed for as long as possible, just to spite her. With nothing to read— she'd forgotten to bring along the newest book in the Deb Baker Dolls to Die For mystery series that sat on her bedside table—she'd lain awake half the night listening to Angelica softly snoring on the other side of the bed. She'd spent a good portion of those hours going over her limited options. The sooner the crime was solved—or at least a suspect was identified—the sooner she could reopen. It was up to her to expedite the process.

   And how was she going to gracefully exit the Cookery to do so?

   Finishing with Ginny and Mr. Everett, Angelica moved her gaze, zeroing in on Tricia. Did cartons of heavy books need to be shelved, or did the washroom need cleaning? Tricia didn't want to find out. Instead, she went on the offensive. "Hey, Ange, have you thought about offering your customers cookies? You've got that beautiful demonstration area just sitting idle. Or maybe I could just nip on down to the patisserie and get some for you."

   "Are you kidding? Now that I have competent help—" Angelica threw a glance in Ginny's direction—"I intend to make my own." She grabbed a book from one of the shelves,
Betty Crocker's Cooky Book
. The former owner had disdained that entire line of cookbooks, but once confided to Tricia that they were among her best sellers. Apparently Angelica had discovered the same thing. "Should I go for plain old chocolate chip, or maybe some blond brownies? The aroma will drive people nuts, and I'll sell a stack of cookie books."

   Tricia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "What ingredients are you missing? I could whip on up to the store for supplies."

   "Good idea," Angelica said, still flipping pages. "But not the convenience store. I'll bet they rarely sell flour. Their stock probably has weevils. You'll have to go to Milford."

   That hadn't been the direction Tricia had planned to go, but she was more than ready to make her escape.

   Angelica headed for the register and grabbed a piece of scrap paper. "Hold on, I'll write up a list."

   Tricia wasted no time waiting for Angelica to change her mind, and retrieved her jacket. Five minutes later, however, she was feeling uncomfortably warm as Angelica added yet another two or three items to her list. "Come on, Ange, you're making a couple of batches of cookies, not feeding a regiment."

   "I know, but I'll need supplies for several days. With Ginny and Mr. Everett here, I can go back to my first love—cooking!" She checked over her list again.

   The News Team Ten van rolled by the shop once more.

   "Ange, if the media calls looking for me, remember I've got no comments on Zoë Carter's death."

   "Right," she said, still distracted by her list. "But you don't mind if I comment, do you? Free press for the shop is free press."

   "Ange!"

   Angelica looked up. "Hey, there is no such thing as bad publicity. And now that I've had time to think about it, I can really milk the story."

   Tricia grabbed the list before Angelica could think of anything else to add—and before she could strangle her. "Be back in an hour or so." Or longer.

   Tricia headed for the back of the store and passed Mr. Everett, who was sorting misplaced books. She waggled a finger and bade him to follow.

   "Mr. Everett, there's a news van that keeps circling the village. I want to avoid them."

   "The hounding press," he said, and nodded. "They can be relentless."

   "I can disable the Cookery's alarm, but can you reset it for me?"

   "Of course. It's the same system we have at Haven't Got a Clue."

   Tricia blinked. Yes, it was the same. That hadn't regis tered before. "Thank you." She searched the old man's face. "And thank you for showing up to help Angelica today. I know this is usually your day off, and you like to spend your time with Grace."

   He held up a hand to stop her. "Grace had to leave town rather suddenly this morning."

   "Oh?"

   "Yes. I believe her sister has taken ill."

   "Oh, I'm so sorry."

   "I am, too. I must admit these past few months I've grown rather used to her company. I shall miss her."

   "If you hear from her, please let her know she's in my thoughts."

   "I shall. Thank you."

   "Okay. I'll see you in an hour or so. And thank you again for helping Angelica."

   "It's my pleasure."

   Tricia disabled the alarm and watched as the door closed behind her.

Tricia sidled
through the narrow passage between the Have a Heart romance bookshop and the Stoneham Patisserie, turned the corner, and peered through the front window. Already tourists jammed the store, loading up on cookies, scones, and other portable pastries. Nikki brushed back a loose strand of hair and took an offered bill, ringing up a sale at the register. Harried but happy was an apt description of her. She looked up, saw Tricia, and flashed a smile. Had she heard about Zoë's death? Probably not, but now was not the time to break it to her. It had been Nikki who had suggested Tricia invite the author. No doubt she'd feel terrible—possibly responsible—to learn of her death.

   Tricia gave a quick wave and moved on. She crossed her fingers, wishing Nikki good luck with the bank loan, and headed down the street to the crosswalk. She looked left and right for traffic, waited for a green pickup truck to pass, and gave a mental sigh of relief that the WRBS news van was nowhere in sight.

   So far, so good.

   Frannie Armstrong was not one to gossip about the members of the Chamber of Commerce. She'd made it clear that putting her job as a receptionist in peril was something she would not consider. But none of the players in last night's drama had been members of the Chamber, except for Russ, Angelica, and Tricia herself. As the eyes and ears of the Chamber, Frannie came across an inordinate amount of useful information. From painting paneling to renting farm and other equipment, Frannie knew where to go or how to do it, and if she didn't, she could direct you to someone who did.

   Tricia pushed open the bright, red-painted door and entered the charming little log cabin that served as the Chamber's headquarters. It had once been the home office of Trident Log Homes, which had gone bankrupt a decade before. Though it wasn't her taste in architecture, Tricia could appreciate the charm of the chinked walls, the timbered beams, the daylight flowing through the skylights and brightening the whole interior, and the way its designer had chosen to incorporate a soaring cathedral ceiling instead of a second-floor loft.

   She found Frannie dressed in a blue and white calla lily Hawaiian shirt over dark slacks. Thanks to posters of the fiftieth state lining her workspace wall, she needed only a flower lei to look like she was auditioning for a community theater production of
South Pacific
.

   Frannie was on the phone, but waved a cheery hello in Tricia's direction, then motioned for her to seat herself on one of the comfortable leather couches. On a little wooden stand near a rack of brochures was a self-serve airpot of coffee. The plate of store-bought cookies next to the pot reminded Tricia what her real mission was supposed to be. She pushed down the guilt and took one of the tea biscuits, nibbling on it while she waited for Frannie to finish her conversation.

   A minute later, Frannie hung up the phone. "Hey, Tricia, I tried calling you this morning, but the answering machine kicked in saying Haven't Got a Clue is closed. Isn't it a shame about poor Zoë?"

   "Yes." And about the sheriff shutting down her store, too, although she kept that opinion to herself.

   Frannie shook her head and
tsk-tsk
ed. "I heard you found her. Was it too awfully terrible?" The gossip network was obviously working at peak capacity.

   "It wasn't fun."

   "I feel just terrible for you. And after what you went through last fall, too." She
tsk-tsk
ed again. "Have they arrested that appalling niece for Zoë's murder?"

   "Not that I've heard. In fact, I haven't heard anything. I was hoping you might have."

   Frannie allowed the barest hint of a smile to touch her lips. "Well, I do like to think of myself as being wellinformed, but the gossip mill hasn't really had a chance to get started on this one yet. For my money, it's that nasty niece. You heard the way she talked to her aunt."

   "And the way she talked to you," Tricia reminded her.

   "And me," Frannie said. She shook her head ruefully. "I've lived in this town almost twenty-one years, but I never ran across that young woman before. Then again, why would I? I never had kids, so I never met many. Except the children of Chamber members, of course, at the annual picnic, et cetera."

   "Had you met Zoë before?"

   Frannie thought about it. "I suppose I must have, but it's nothing I remember. The people I know best are affiliated with the Chamber, or work at the library or the grocery stores in Milford. Other than that—" She shrugged. Then her expression shifted, and a sly glint entered her eyes. "Course, they say Miz Carter was mixed up in the whole Trident Homes disaster."

   "Oh?"

   Frannie leaned forward, lowered her voice. "Embezzlement."

   "Zoë Carter?"

   Frannie nodded. "I don't have the whole story, and it seems to me it was all rather hushed up. I mean, if it wasn't—wouldn't I, of all people, know?"

   Yes, she would. "What happened to Zoë?"

   "She didn't go to prison. Seems to me she got off with a suspended sentence. And it wasn't long after the whole sordid incident that she got published."

   If Zoë didn't go to jail, there had to be mitigating circumstances. But this was at least ten years ago, and if the town gossip didn't know the details, who would? Russ had owned the
Stoneham Weekly News
only three or four years, but he did possess the bound volumes of years past. Had the former editor chronicled the story? She'd have to check.

   "I wonder if Zoë was well-known at the library," Tricia mused aloud. "Her historical mysteries had to be researched somewhere."

   "Lois Kerr is the head librarian. Have you met her?" Trisha shook her head. "She's a bit stern, but that's because she's old school. Still, she's the one who pushed for the village budget to include Wi-Fi access at the library. She's a real whirlwind of energy."