“Ange, we’re already late,” Tricia called.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Angelica called over her shoulder.

Tricia knew if she wasn’t around to speed things along that Angelica might get distracted once again, and hurried to follow.

The two of them rushed up the stairs. It had suddenly gotten very quiet. Was Betsy over her snit and goofing off with her feet up on the desk and a romance novel open on her lap? Betsy was the only person Tricia had ever met who could look industrious while doing absolutely nothing.

“Something’s not right,” Angelica said as they rounded the landing and saw that the door to the storeroom was ajar. From the floor above, they heard muffled barking from Angelica’s bichon frise, Sarge. Tricia felt Angelica’s index finger poke her shoulder. “Go on in,” she urged.

Tricia’s stomach knotted, but despite her misgivings she also knew if she wanted to assess those books for sale she’d have to move things along. She charged ahead and entered the storeroom-turned-office and cringed at the sight of the mess. How on earth had Betsy created so much chaos in so little time? Chairs were overturned, files were dumped on the floor, the computer tower had been knocked over, and the monitor screen had been smashed, with cracks radiating in a kind of starburst pattern. In the back of the storeroom was an overturned bookcase that had been filled with Angelica’s excess stock of vintage cookbooks.

And underneath it lay Betsy Dittmeyer . . . squashed flat.

TWO

Without conscious thought, Tricia whipped out her cell phone and punched in an all-too-familiar number—911—to report the accident.

When she ended the call, she looked straight at her sister. “You stay here, and I’ll go down and wait for the police.”

“Me?” Angelica practically squealed. “I don’t want to stay with her—she’s . . . she’s dead. And dead people creep me out. You stay here. You’re used to finding and dealing with dead people.”

“I am not,” Tricia protested, but by the time the words had left her mouth, Angelica had hightailed it out of the storeroom and down the stairs to her shop.

Tricia glanced back down at Betsy. She hadn’t been attractive in life, and death hadn’t made any improvements. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth was open, her chin bloodied, exactly what Tricia would have expected from someone who’d been crushed. It seemed incredible that Tricia had spoken to the woman only minutes before and now she was so thoroughly dead. She looked away, taking in the storeroom. How on God’s earth did Betsy make all that mess before she toppled the bookcase on herself?

The sound of a siren broke the quiet. Tricia turned away and took several deep breaths to quell her queasy stomach. Soon the sound of footsteps on the stairs caused her to look up, and her ex-lover, Chief Grant Baker of the Stoneham Police Department, appeared before her with Angelica right behind him. “The ambulance is on its way,” he said, nearly breathless.

“You can cancel it. Betsy’s dead,” Tricia said.

“How do you know?” he asked, hustling past her to get to the body.

“Dead people cease to bleed.”

The chief looked down at Betsy’s lifeless form, then up, his gaze darting around the room. “What happened here?”

“Betsy and I had a tiny tiff before she came up here to work,” Angelica sheepishly admitted. “We heard a lot of noise and figured she was throwing a tantrum up here. Then there was a terrible crash, and it got really quiet. Tricia and I ran up the stairs and . . . this is how we found her.”

Baker nodded grimly, and then began to pick his way through the room, presumably looking for clues.

Tricia shivered in a draft. “It sure is nippy up here. Is the heat up here on a timer, too?”

“It was toasty warm the last time I was in here—which was last night,” Angelica said.

“This doesn’t feel normal,” Tricia said, frowning, while Baker continued his circuit around the storeroom.

Angelica darted into the open stairwell and looked up. “Good grief! My apartment door is wide open. I never leave it unlocked. Oh, my! Sarge!” she cried, and bolted up the flight of stairs.

“Wait! Grant!” Tricia hollered, but instead of waiting for him, she ran up the stairs after Angelica.

Bursting through the doorway to the back of the apartment, Tricia saw no trace of Angelica and pounded down the hall toward the kitchen, where she found her sister cradling her tiny bichon frise.

“Mommy’s little boy,” Angelica crooned as she kissed the top of the fluffy dog’s head while he furiously tried to lick her in return.

“I take it he’s okay,” Tricia said with relief. Sarge had once been kicked like a football, causing internal injuries. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Why is it so cold in here?” She looked around the kitchen. None of the windows were open. She wandered from the kitchen to the living room and into the bedroom. Sure enough, the window that overlooked the alley was wide open. She went to shut it and saw that the fire escape ladder had been extended. If she touched the window, she might obliterate fingerprint evidence.

Chief Baker barreled into the room. “Don’t touch that!”

Tricia whirled. “I wasn’t going to.”

Baker practically knocked her over as he shoved her aside. He stuck his head out of the window, looking from right to left. “Damn. No one in sight. But there may be footprint evidence in the snow. I’d better call in the sheriff’s tactical squad to check things out.”

“A lot of people walk their dogs along the alley,” Tricia said, knowing Angelica was among them.

“Will you please close that window!” Angelica said sharply. “I’m not heating the great outdoors, you know.”

“This window will stay open until the lab team dusts it for fingerprints,” Baker ordered.

“That will make my bedroom uninhabitable. I’ve seen the way you guys throw that stuff around and it’s damn hard to clean up—and goodness knows none of your men ever clean up the messes they leave.”

“This apartment, and especially this bedroom, is off-limits, so why don’t you ladies go back downstairs.”

“And do what? Twiddle my thumbs while you and your men keep customers out of my store?” Angelica demanded.

“May I remind you that your secretary was just found dead on your premises—”

“She was the Chamber’s receptionist—not secretary,” Angelica interrupted.

“—and possibly due to foul play?” Baker continued. “You don’t seem very concerned.”

“Of course I’m concerned—and very upset. Whoever did that to Betsy also kicked in my apartment door, invaded my home, and could have hurt or killed my dog. And now your men are going to blitz my bedroom and keep me out of my own home for goodness knows how long.”

“It’ll only be for a few hours. Now, go over to Tricia’s store. I’ll be over there as soon as I can, and you’ll be back in your store and apartment by tonight,” Baker said with more consideration.

“Very well,” Angelica agreed, but not at all graciously. “Tricia!” she called.

“Go on ahead. I want to talk to the chief.”

Angelica frowned, pivoted, and left the room. Tricia turned back to Baker.

“What did you want to tell me?” he asked.

“Don’t even bother to consider me, Angelica, or even Frannie as suspects in what now looks like a possible murder.”

“Are you saying you all had motives to kill Mrs. Dittmeyer?” he asked wryly.

“Of course not. We were all in the Cookery when all the noise broke out. And there were customers there who can corroborate that, too.”

“Did you get their names? Because when I got here Frannie was the only one in the store. And as far as I’m concerned, everyone is a suspect until I can rule them out.”