“Because it gives us more time to spend together.”

“We already spend two or three hours a day together,” Tricia said.

“Oh.” Angelica said the word oddly, as though she was surprised and yet hurt.

“I’m sorry, Ange. I do like to spend time with you, but I’m worried that people will think you’re using all these photo-ops to grab attention and that it’ll reflect badly on you.”

Angelica looked thoughtful. “That’s a good point. Okay, how about I carry the scissors and ribbon and you be my stand-in for the photo?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“But you’re right. I want the villagers to see the Chamber as an organization that can promote the area—and its members, of which you are one. It’s vitally important that the Chamber grow, but I don’t want to overshadow the organization like—like my predecessor did.” Angelica seemed to go out of her way not to criticize her ex-lover, Bob Kelly, which was commendable. But the truth was, she’d done more in her brief tenure than Bob had done in the previous five years.

“Okay,” Tricia said. “Perhaps we can get Russ to take the picture with me in it and have the caption say I’m representing the Chamber. But won’t the business owner want to be photographed with the head of the Chamber and not just a volunteer?”

“We can do both. I’m sure if I buy a little extra advertising, Russ will do anything I request. Nikki won’t get jealous if he takes your picture, though, will she?”

“I don’t think so.” Russ and Tricia had been an item for a while—but that was before he and Nikki had gotten together. At first she’d been jealous whenever Tricia’s name came up, but she seemed to have gotten over it.

Tricia studied her sister and shook her head.

“What?” Angelica asked, looking down at herself. “Did I spill coffee on my blouse?”

“No. I just can’t get over how you’ve changed.”

“Sorry, Trish, but it’s not me who’s changed. It’s your perception of me that’s changed.”

“I guess you’re right,” Tricia said, and swallowed down the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. “Okay.” She looked down at herself. “Do I have time to change clothes?”

Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “You always look beautiful. Now, let’s grab our stuff and get over there. We don’t want our newest member to feel we’ve neglected them.”

Tricia watched as Angelica strode over to the storage cabinet and grabbed the prop scissors and big roll of red ribbon. Angelica had been right. She was still the oversized personality that had always seemed to dwarf Tricia all those years ago, but somehow the traits that used to bug her so much almost seemed endearing now. Almost.

Less than a minute later, the sisters left the Chamber office and headed up the street on foot.

The Antiques Emporium was housed in what had previously been Everett’s Grocery. The long-empty cinderblock building had been spruced up on the outside with paint and some landscaping, and its inside had been divided into stalls. Those closest to the large bank of windows up front had been stuffed to the gills with the flotsam and jetsam of years past. Not everything was a certifiable antique, for the booths held Fiesta china, old Bakelite radios, vintage clothing, and anything one could imagine—from salt shakers to bone china, and doilies to damask. Pixie would probably go nuts shopping there.

Russ Smith had dutifully shown up with his Nikon and snapped photos of Angelica with the owner and several of the vendors, as well as Tricia and the same group of people. They’d sort out the details of the photos and captions later.

After the preliminaries were observed, Angelica, Tricia, and even Russ were invited inside to partake of refreshments that were laid out on one of the sales counters. Lemonade, punch, and more than a dozen different cookies had been made by the Emporium vendors. Tricia accepted a paper cup of lemonade and grabbed a snickerdoodle. Her grandmother had made the same crisp, cinnamon-laced cookies, and one bite brought back a host of wonderful memories.

“Thank you for coming,” said the Emporium’s owner, whose name Tricia had somehow missed.

“I’m glad I could be here,” Tricia said.

“Toni,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Toni Bennett.”

Tricia struggled to keep from giggling. “Really?”

The woman laughed. “Really. My folks were big fans of the singer Tony Bennett and, well, here I am. And the worst thing is, I can’t sing a note.”

“It’s a wonderful name. I’ll bet most people don’t forget it.”

“It does come in handy,” Toni admitted. She looked around at the customers who’d already entered. “What a beautiful day for our grand opening. I’m only sorry my favorite vendor couldn’t be here today.”

“Oh?” Tricia said.

“Pete Renquist.” Toni shook her head sadly. “I was crushed to hear he’d died. It was Pete who encouraged me to open the Emporium. He was the first to sign up for a booth. He and I brainstormed on numerous occasions on a variety of subjects. He had so many wonderful ideas, so much knowledge, and such a zest for life.” Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears that she quickly tried to wipe away. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I feel the same way,” Tricia admitted. Did Toni know she’d been the one to find him? Tricia wasn’t going to mention it. “Did you know him a long time?”

Toni cleared her throat and forced a smile. “Yeah. I’ve been a volunteer at the Historical Society for about ten years, but I’m not sure anyone ever really knew Pete. He was warm and genuine, but there was a big part of himself that he kept private. I don’t know of any other way to explain it.”

Tricia nodded. “What kind of articles did he have for sale?”

“I’ll show you. Follow me,” Toni said, and led the way to what was probably the booth with the best location. It was large and situated near the front of the store and had good light. Unlike most of the other booths, Pete’s actually contained antiques—primitives: old milking stools, rough-hewn tables and chairs, and antique pottery, mingled with what looked like tin dishes, Sandwich glass, and butter churns. Antique oil portraits and landscapes hung on the wall, which was some six feet shorter than the height of the ceiling and divided his space from another vendor’s.

Tricia eyed the price tag on one of the paintings and winced. “Pete’s wares are a little more . . .” She wasn’t sure how to express it.

“Higher-end than most of the other vendors’ merchandise,” Toni finished for her. “Yes. And I told him he could do much better in Nashua or Manchester, but he told me he’d bought most of them for a song and wasn’t worried about making a profit because he never intended for them to sell. He priced them at what he thought they were actually worth. I think Pete just wanted to help me out until all the booths were spoken for, and then he would have quickly bowed out. Judging by his outrageous prices, I don’t think he expected to sell one item. He was a collector, and this was a way to have his collection admired. Now I’m not sure what will become of it all. I don’t know if he even had a will or an attorney. I can keep the stuff here and, if there are sales, give the money to his estate—but if things work out, there’s going to come a time when I have to pack up everything and rent the space to someone who can actually pay.”

“I’m sure Pete would approve of any decision you make. He seemed like a reasonable guy.”

“That he was,” Toni agreed. “That’s why I was surprised the other day when he told me someone had threatened him.”

Tricia blinked. “Threatened? How?”

“He wasn’t really clear about that. He said he’d found out something while going through some of the Historical Society’s old records, and when he asked someone—and he didn’t say who—about it, was told to mind his own business. Or else!”

“And he didn’t give you a clue who it was he’d confronted?”