The phone rang and Mariana answered it. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Mariana speaking. How can I help you?” She listened. “Oh, sure, she’s here. Just a moment.” She stabbed the hold button. “Tricia, it’s for you.”

“A member?”

“He didn’t say.”

Tricia picked up the receiver and pressed the blinking hold button. “Tricia Miles. How can I help you?”

“Tricia, it’s Jim Stark.”

Tricia clutched the receiver tighter. Her contractor. The man who may have been jealous of Pete Renquist’s attention toward his wife. “Jim,” she practically squeaked.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Uh, no.” She forced herself to lower her voice to normal. “No. I’m just surprised to hear from you.”

“I was wondering if you’ve heard from your insurance company yet?” That made about eleven times that day she’d been asked the question. “I’ve got a kitchen remodel to do, and the client wants it done ASAP. It’s a two-week job.”

“Two weeks?”

“I wanted to let you know that my team and I will be tied up ’til the first week in September.”

“Oh, well. Thanks for telling me.”

“I’ll give you a call when I’m at the halfway point with the kitchen to see if you’re ready to schedule my guys on your store.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Okay, talk to you then.”

“Wait!” Tricia said, her thoughts spinning. Did she dare ask him about Pete? Her thoughts raced. “I wanted to express my condolences for the loss of your friend.”

“Friend?” Stark asked.

“Yes, I met your wife, Toni, yesterday, and we shared remembrances of Pete Renquist of the Stoneham Historical Society.”

“Renquist was no friend of mine,” Stark said bitterly.

“Oh?” Tricia asked in what she hoped was an innocent-sounding tone. “I know he had a booth in your wife’s new antiques store. She was so upset at his passing, I just assumed the three of you were friends.”

“In this instance, you assumed wrong. Look, I have other calls to make. As I said, I’ll call you in a couple of weeks to talk about your store reno. Good-bye.”

He hung up before Tricia had an opportunity to say anything more.

The conversation had not gone well, but at least she knew by the tone of his voice that Stark had held some kind of resentment toward Pete. The question was, could Tricia find out just what it was without alienating the contractor?

TEN

She could.

“Eatin’ alone tonight, eh?” Pixie asked.

“Looks like it,” Tricia said.

“Too bad I made other plans, or I could hang out with you.”

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Fred and me are going for burgers, and then he’s taking me to the roller derby.”

“Where?” Tricia asked.

“In Manchester at the JFK Memorial Coliseum. It’s the Queen City Cherry Bombers versus the Petticoat Punishers. Aw, man, it’s gonna be great.”

“I didn’t know you were into roller derby.” There was a lot about Pixie she didn’t know.

“There was a time I used to skate with the best. That was way too many years ago.”

Tricia shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, Pixie was a kickboxer. She was husky but toned.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that. You’d be bored stiff.”

“No, really. I should get out more. Do more interesting . . . stuff.”

“Do you want to come?”

Tricia shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on the time you get to spend with Fred.”

Pixie’s smile was dreamy. “He’s awfully sweet.”

“When will I get to meet him?”

“Maybe my next day off I’ll bring him around,” Pixie said, but her tone wasn’t exactly positive. Was she ashamed of her new boyfriend, or did she think Tricia might look down on him? She hoped not.

“That would be nice,” Tricia said, and hoped she sounded enthusiastic.

Pixie gathered up her things. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Once the door had closed on Pixie’s back, the Chamber seemed terribly quiet.

Tricia shut down her computer and turned off the lights, and the Chamber was officially closed for the day. Miss Marple was again asleep in Sarge’s basket, and she didn’t even look up as Tricia left the office, went upstairs to grab her purse, and then left to find sustenance.

She got a salad to go from the Bookshelf Diner, brought it back to the Chamber, and ate it in the silence of the Chamber’s small kitchen. It was only seven when she finished, but she didn’t have to meet Angelica at the municipal parking lot until midnight.

It would be a long evening.

After finishing her meal, Tricia went up to her stuffy upstairs quarters, turned on the air-conditioning unit in her bedroom, put a CD in the one-disk player she’d acquired, and settled down in the sitting room with another Agatha Christie novel. This time she was in the mood to revisit Hercule Poirot and chose Evil Under the Sun.

The hours had flown by, and Tricia’s eyes had grown heavy, when she set the book aside. She got up to look out the window that overlooked the street. All was quiet.

Though it had taken a while, after her divorce Tricia had learned to enjoy living alone with Miss Marple. However, since the fire, she found she sought out company more often. Besides her standing lunch date with Ginny, she often joined Mr. Everett and his wife, Grace, on a regular basis just to keep in touch. As a consequence of all these lunches out, she’d gained five pounds, which her daily walks—with or without Sarge—had not eradicated. But even that didn’t bother her as much as it would have before that terrible day in February.

She turned back from the window and glanced at the clock. It was late, but she still had more than an hour to go before she was to meet Angelica. The idea of pacing the apartment or watching reruns held no appeal, and the truth was she felt starved for company. Even if it was also Christopher’s favorite watering hole, of late Tricia often found herself patronizing the Dog-Eared Page, showing up for a game of darts or to compete on Trivia Night. Seeing her ex there couldn’t be helped as, apart from the Brookview Inn’s dining room, the pub was the only game in town when it came to social drinking. She enjoyed the Dog-Eared Page. Between the music and the conversations, sometimes she almost forgot about the fire.

Almost.

It was just after eleven when Tricia donned her light jacket, grabbed a pair of wire cutters from the Chamber’s toolbox, and stuffed them into her pocket; she’d need them later. She locked the Chamber’s side door and headed off on foot for the village pub.

Main Street was silent, but Tricia wasn’t afraid as she walked past the darkened businesses. Still, the thought that one of her fellow citizens had probably killed Pete Renquist did cause her to listen carefully as she walked, and to keep a sharp eye out for movement in the shadows. Less than three minutes later, she arrived at her destination.

Though the pub was sparsely populated on that Wednesday night, a boisterous song issued from the hidden speakers in the ceiling. A middle-aged couple sat huddled in one of the booths, nursing half-empty beer glasses, while another, older couple played a game of darts in back.

Michele Fowler sat at the bar with a sheaf of papers spread out before her. She looked up when Tricia shut the door.

“Welcome, Tricia. Come sit down.” She patted the empty stool beside her. Tricia gladly took it. “What can we offer you?”

“Truth be told, I’d really like a cup of coffee.”

“How about an Irish coffee?” Michele offered.

A smile quirked the edges of Tricia’s mouth. “I think I could be talked into that.”