“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.