While Sarge enjoyed his constitutional, Tricia thought about what Pixie had said. The weather was indeed sensational, and except for their encounter with that curmudgeon Earl Winkler, it had been a good day. If there was a man alive who had a more sour disposition than Earl, she had never met him. What was wrong with him? He represented the people of Stoneham. Couldn’t he be happy for all that had happened in the village? She did a mental comparison of him to Pete Renquist. What a nice man—and fun, too. Not that she was attracted to him, though he made no secret of the fact he was available. He certainly seemed to flirt with every woman he came into contact with. Tricia had been doing her best to stop thinking of men and romance. It was a dead-end street, at least with the two men who seemed intent to pursue her: her ex-husband, Christopher Benson, and the local chief of police, Grant Baker. Instead, she thought about what Angelica had said before she’d left for her meeting. In the future, did she want to do other things besides just run her mystery bookstore?

Since the day after Haven’t Got a Clue burned, Tricia had been buying up mysteries and had even rented a storage unit, which was quickly being filled. Some days she missed the store and her former life there so much that she’d break down in tears—but only late at night, when no one but her cat, Miss Marple, was around to witness it. But then there were days when she felt restless and eager to find something else to do with her life, no doubt exacerbated by the failure of her insurance company to settle her claim. Angelica was a crusading entrepreneur with her fingers in so many pies it made Tricia feel dizzy. Mariana had been right—it was a juggling act, but somehow Angelica made it all seem easy. And what other kind of business could Tricia run in addition to her beloved bookstore?

Open a restaurant? Heavens no! It was too much work with high overhead and low profits.

A day spa? Hands-on personal care wasn’t her thing.

A cat rescue? Now there was an idea, but what if she became attached to her temporary charges? Crazy Cat Lady wasn’t a title she aspired to.

Perhaps sticking to bookselling was her best bet.

They turned the corner heading east. At the first lamppost, Tricia noted the hanging basket had almost no blooms. She could have sworn the last time she and Sarge had walked around the park that the baskets had been exploding with colorful flowers. The leaves looked healthy enough, but where was the color? She’d have to mention it to Angelica. Perhaps she could arrange to have the baskets given a dose of fertilizer or—worst-case scenario—replaced.

Halfway down the walk, Sarge tugged on the leash. Angelica had trained him to do his business only in certain areas of the park, and of course, Tricia was prepared with a plastic bag to clean up after the little guy. And for that, she was glad Sarge was a bichon frise and not an Irish wolfhound.

With that taken care of, Tricia headed for the nearest trash barrel, which was located near the stone gazebo. Suddenly, Sarge began to pull at the leash and bark. Tricia held her ground, looking around for the squirrel the dog had no doubt seen but which she couldn’t locate. Sarge barked even louder and fought to pull her toward the gazebo.

“Oh, all right. You can have a look. But when there’s nothing there, you’re going to feel pretty foolish,” she admonished the dog.

But she’d been wrong. There was something in the center of the edifice.

Tricia halted, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the pair of rather worn leather loafers attached to a pair of jeans-clad legs. She hurried up the steps to see a man lying facedown. Crouching beside him, she held out a hand and forced herself to touch him. His skin was still warm. She stared at his chest and noticed he was still breathing. She grasped his wrist and found a weak pulse.

She let out a breath. Thank goodness this one was alive. She’d found more than her fair share of corpses during her tenure in Stoneham. Sarge had stopped barking and did what dogs do best—held a sniffathon, his nose taking in as much of the fallen fellow as possible, considering how tightly Tricia held the leash. She thought she recognized the clothes and the hair, and she scooted around the still form until she could see that it was indeed Pete Renquist. What on earth was he doing lying unconscious in the gazebo on such a lovely summer’s day? He didn’t seem to be bleeding. As far as she knew, he didn’t suffer from seizures, but he obviously needed medical attention. Tricia pulled her cell phone from her slacks pocket and punched in 911. Seconds later, a voice spoke in her ear.

“Hillsborough County 911. Please state your name and the nature of the emergency.”

“My name is Tricia Miles. I’d like to report an accident in Stoneham Square. A man’s been hurt.”

“Hurt how?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m not really sure. He’s lying in the gazebo and he’s unconscious. He seems to be having trouble breathing. Heart attack maybe? His pulse is rather weak.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Peter Renquist. He lives here in Stoneham.”

“Do you know how to perform CPR?”

“I’ve never had to do it, but I think I could if necessary,” Tricia said, her fear escalating.

“The Stoneham Fire Department’s rescue squad has been dispatched.” Sure enough, Tricia could already hear the squad’s siren. “Please stay with the victim until they arrive.”

The word victim made her shudder. “Of course I will.”

She ended the call and spoke to the man beside her. “Pete? Can you hear me? It’s me, Tricia. Help is on the way. I’m sure everything will be all right. Just hang on.” She said the words with what she hoped was reassurance, crossing her fingers they’d be true.

Pete’s eyes shot open, startling Tricia. His arm jerked up, and he grasped Tricia’s arm with what could only be described as a death grip.

His lips moved, and she bent down to listen, but she couldn’t hear what he was trying to say. “I don’t understand,” she said.

She bent lower so that her ear was close to his mouth.

“I never missed my little boy,” he said, gasping. His eyes closed, and his grasp on her arm slackened as he fell into unconsciousness.

The rescue squad pulled up to the sidewalk, and the EMTs practically spilled from the vehicle. They paused to grab their gear before jogging to the gazebo.

Sarge’s barking went back into overdrive. “Hush!” Tricia said, but she didn’t have the same kind of control over the dog that her sister did. Sarge strained at the leash, and Tricia hurried down the steps to intercept the EMTs. She scooped up Sarge and his barking quieted; instead, he began to growl at the newcomers. “Hush!” Tricia told him again, still without results.

Tricia recognized one of the EMTs as Danny Sutton. “It’s Pete Renquist,” she told him. “I think he might have had a heart attack.”

He nodded. “We’ve got it,” he said, and he and his partner hurried up the stone steps to attend to their patient.

“Tricia!” Russ Smith called, running across the grass toward her. He’d no doubt heard the call for the EMTs go out on his police scanner. He had his camera slung around his neck and held his ever-present steno pad and a pen in hand.

Tricia stepped away from the gazebo, walking fast to close the space between them. “It’s Pete. I found him.”

“He’s dead?” Russ asked, shocked.

“No!” Tricia asserted.

“Well, you’re not known for finding live bodies,” Russ said with irony.

Tricia glared at him. “It looks like he might have suffered a heart attack.”

Russ looked toward the gazebo. “Poor guy. Did he say anything to you?”

“Nothing that made sense.”

They turned their attention to the road, where an ambulance pulled up at the curb. Another set of EMTs hurried to join the firemen, hauling a gurney along with them.