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   "How did Zoë respond to these letters?"

   "She ignored them."

   "Did she keep the letters?"

   Kimberly shook her head. "Just the last batch. Sheriff Adams asked me about them the night Zoë was killed. I had to turn them over to her. She seems to think they'll lead to the murderer."

   Tricia bit her lip to keep from saying, "Well, duh!" Then again, she wasn't sure Wendy Adams was capable of solving a petty robbery, let alone a murder. "Too bad. I would've loved to have seen them."

   Kimberly's mouth twitched. "I thought you might say that. I brought copies." She reached for her purse.

   Talk about a surprise. But still . . . "Why give them to me?"

   "Because, besides the press, you're the only one who seems to care what happened to my aunt."

   "Funny. I wasn't sure
you
did."

   Kimberly leaned forward. "I didn't like my aunt very much. She could've helped me a lot more than she did. She interfered with friendships I'd made and kept me from seeing people I enjoyed. But she was all I had, and I guess I feel some kind of weird twisted loyalty to her." She brought out the papers. "If you don't want them, I can always get rid of them." She pulled the little oil lamp to the center of the table, removed the hurricane glass, and waved the papers over the flame.

   Tricia's heart pounded. "No!"

   The old Kimberly was back, and flashed another wicked smile. For a moment Tricia was afraid she'd actually set the pages on fire. Then the smile faded. She placed them on the table and shoved them toward Tricia.

   Tricia swallowed, her hands shaking as she picked up the folded stack. Kimberly had just earned the price of her gargantuan dinner. Tricia read the first note and frowned.

   
An honest woman repays her debts. You've found riches
in your new career, leaving behind those whose financial
life you helped ruin.

   Tricia scanned through the several sheets of paper. They were all like that, random sentences pointing the finger of guilt, but not specifying the crime nor demanding a set amount of cash.

But worst of all, she recognized the handwriting.

Tricia swallowed,
and tried to keep her hands from shaking. "Can I keep these, or at least one of these?" "You can have them all," Kimberly said. "I made more than one set of copies."

"Thank you."

   Tricia couldn't tear her eyes from the familiar script. How many times had she seen that spidery scrawl on book requests and other forms at Haven't Got a Clue? It belonged to Mr. Everett.

   She scanned the lines again. No, he'd made no mention of the books themselves, didn't accuse her of stealing another's work—just that she had unpaid debts. Why would he believe Zoë Carter owed him money? Had she known he was the one sending the letters? Was she shocked when she showed up at Haven't Got a Clue and found Mr. Everett at her signing?

   Tricia thought back to that night. Mr. Everett had barely spoken to Zoë. She couldn't swear on a Bible, but she also didn't remember him being in the vicinity of the washroom at any time before Zoë's body was found. In fact, he and Grace Harris had been pretty much inseparable that entire evening—as they usually were since they'd started . . . well, dating didn't seem the right word—since they'd renewed their friendship over the past winter.

   "Are you okay?" Kimberly asked, pausing in her eating marathon. "You look a little pale."

   "Perfectly fine," Tricia said, but she pushed her plate away. She'd completely lost her appetite.

   Eugenia paused at the table. "Everything all right?"

   Kimberly pushed her plates of uneaten food toward the waitress. "You want to box these up? I'll be taking them home."

   "Sure thing." She placed the check facedown on the table, picked up the plates, and headed for the kitchen.

   Kimberly pushed the check toward Tricia. "Thanks for feeding me for a couple of days. Got any ideas on how I can eat for the next six months?" she added snidely.

   "I'm not your enemy," Tricia said.

   "Yeah, and you're not my friend, either," Kimberly said. She stood up.

   "If you can stand to play the part of the bereaved, you might be able to milk brunch out of the Chamber of Commerce on Saturday. It sure wouldn't hurt you to show a little respect for your dead aunt."

   Kimberly raised an eyebrow. "Not a bad idea," she said, and managed a wan smile. "After all, I did minor in drama in college." She got up from the table, intercepting Eugenia and the bag of leftovers, and left the diner.

   Tricia drained the last of the wine from her glass. If she'd thought her dinner with Kimberly was tough, an even worse situation awaited her—talking to Mr. Everett. She paid the bill, leaving Eugenia a generous tip, and headed for the door, dreading what was yet to come.

* * *

Tricia had
never been to Mr. Everett's home before, although, as his employer, she knew his address by heart. She drove past the darkened house and saw that his car was missing from the drive. On impulse, she turned into a neighbor's driveway and turned around, then drove across the village to another, more impressive house in a more expensive neighborhood. She well remembered the pseudoTudor home from her previous visits, only now spring flowers nodded cheerily along the neatly tended walk, quite a difference from the forlorn and unkempt appearance it had sported the previous fall.

   Mr. Everett's car sat in the drive, and the warm glow of lights made Grace Harris's home look inviting and friendly. Tricia parked at the curb, marched up the walk, and rang the bell. When no answer came in thirty or forty seconds, she rang again. Light burst from the copper sconces on either side of the great oak door, and it opened.

   "Tricia! My goodness, what are you doing here?" Grace asked. "Come in. Come in from the cold."

   Tricia entered the foyer, which had also undergone a transformation. A vase of fresh flowers graced the marbletopped table, and the polished floor positively sparkled. "May I take your coat?" Grace inquired.

   "No, thanks. I really came to speak to Mr. Everett, if you don't mind."

   "Certainly. William is in the living room. Follow me."

   Tricia already knew the way. The last time she'd seen the room, it had been in a state of dishevelment. Grace's treasures had now been restored to their former places, and a gas fire glowed brightly in the once-dark hearth.

   "Ms. Miles," Mr. Everett said, and stood at her arrival. He'd donned a beige sweater with suede patches at the elbows, and held a well-worn leather book in his heavily veined hands. A pot of coffee and two cups sat on a silver tray on the coffee table.

   "Can I get you—?"

   Tricia waved a hand to forestall an invitation to join them for coffee. "I need to speak with you about a very important matter. May I sit down?"

   "Go right ahead," Grace said, directing Tricia into one of the plush, brocade-covered wing chairs. Grace sat next to Mr. Everett on the loveseat, taking his hand.

   "You've come about the letters, haven't you?" Mr. Everett asked.

   Tricia nodded. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and brought out the copies, handing them to the elderly gent.

   His gaze met hers, his eyes worried. "Are you going to fire me?"

   Tricia blinked. "Of course not! But I suspect you may need to speak to an attorney. As your employer, I would be glad to vouch for you and help in any way I can."

   "That won't be necessary," Grace said, her face growing pale.

   "These aren't the originals," Mr. Everett said, shuffling through the pages.

   "I'm afraid the sheriff has those. Kimberly Peters turned them over to her the night Zoë Carter died. I don't for a minute believe you killed her, but the sheriff hasn't been known for listening to reason."

   Mr. Everett continued to look at one of the letters in his hand.

   "Would you like me to explain, dear?" Grace asked.

   He shook his head. "If you will recall, Ms. Miles, I once owned the only grocery store in Stoneham. My accountant used to chide me for giving credit to customers. Over the years I helped out many people who were down on their luck. Zoë Carter was one of them. After she lost her job at Trident Log Homes, she was in need of financial help. She was proud, but she had her niece to think of. She asked for and received credit from me."

   "To the tune of over two thousand dollars," Grace piped in.

   "It wasn't a lot of money, but when I was struggling to keep the store open, I asked all my customers to try to pay back at least some of what they owed me. Most of them rewarded me by shopping at my competition in Milford. Ms. Carter was among them. After she became a best-selling author, I approached her a number of times about repaying her debt. Even though the store had closed, I myself needed cash when my Alice took sick."

   "I wish you'd come to me, William," Grace said, real tenderness in her voice.

   "I didn't want charity. I only wanted to be repaid by someone who could now afford to do so. I never threatened Zoë Carter; I tried to appeal to her conscience. Sadly, I don't believe she had one."

   "So she knew it was you who sent the letters."

   "Of course. I always put my return address stickers on the envelopes—that was so she'd know where to send the money. I didn't even ask for interest—just what was owed me."

   "And did you continue to send the letters even after your wife passed?"

   He nodded. "Once or twice a year. Sadly, I can't live on only what you pay me. And Social Security only goes so far."

   "I understand."

   The silenced lengthened, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the hiss of the gas fire making any sound in the quiet room. "You should tell the sheriff about this, if only so that she doesn't waste precious time when she could be going after the real killer. And I'm sure we both want to see Haven't Got a Clue reopen as quickly as possible."

   Grace patted her friend's hand. "I'll call my attorney first thing in the morning and get his advice."

   Mr. Everett shook his head. "No, Grace, I can't let you—"

   "This is one time I won't let your pride keep you from accepting my help. You need competent legal advice, and I'm sure young Mr. Livingston will be glad to help you."

   Tricia stood, unwilling to get into the middle of that discussion. "I'll leave it to you, then, to contact the sheriff."

   Mr. Everett nodded, and then he, too, stood.

   "I'll explain to Angelica why you won't be at work tomorrow. Between Ginny and me, we should be able to keep her happy."

   "I shall apologize to your sister myself, perhaps on Saturday. Thank you again for not firing me, Ms. Miles. I enjoy working at Haven't Got a Clue and would miss the books, you, Ginny, and Miss Marple."

   "Thank you, Mr. Everett. I'm glad you feel that way."

   As Mr. Everett was not a touchy-feely kind of person, Tricia restrained herself from reaching out to hug him and instead extended her hand, which he solemnly shook.

   Grace led Tricia back to the big oak door. "Thank you for looking out for William, Tricia. He's a good man. He's suffered a lot, what with losing his business and then his wife."

   "Yes, I know." Tricia gave the old lady a smile. "I hope your sister is feeling better."

   Grace frowned, looking puzzled. "Sister?"

   "Yes, I understand she wasn't feeling well."

   "Tricia, where did you get the idea I have a sister? I was an only child."

   "But—?" Tricia stopped herself. She wasn't crazy. Mr. Everett had told her Grace had left town the day after Zoë's murder to nurse an ailing sister.

   If that was a lie . . . could she believe anything the old man told her?

* * *

Tricia parked
her car in the municipal lot and walked the block and a half to her own store on autopilot, preoccupied with everything she'd learned that evening. She even had her key out, ready to open Haven't Got a Clue's front door, when the crime scene tape across it reminded her she was still shut out.

   She turned, walked to the Cookery, and took out that key. Entering, she locked up behind her and walked through the quiet store and up the stairs to Angelica's loft apartment, wishing she was taking the steps to her own home.

   Upon opening the door, an eight-pound bundle of gray fur pounced, meowing frantically. "Miss Marple. Did you miss your Mum?"

   "Y
ow!
" the cat replied emphatically.

   "Angelica? Angelica?" Tricia called, but there was no other sign of life in the darkened apartment. She flicked on the switches and padded down the hall to the kitchen. A note was attached to the refrigerator door. H
aving dinner
with Bob. Don't wait up for me.

   "Y
ow!
" Miss Marple insisted.

   "We're alone! Hurray!"

   But Miss Marple was not about to be placated. Her dinner was late, and she'd been left alone for yet another day. Tricia busied herself and fed the cat, who tucked in with gusto.

   Tricia stood in the middle of the unfamiliar kitchen and tried to think of what she should do next. She could unpack some of Angelica's boxes, which would either anger or delight her sister, but she was tired, and the thought of hauling around a lot of dusty, heavy boxes was not enticing.

   
Take care of your own business,
said a small voice within her. Though she didn't have access to the store itself, voice mail continued to pick up the shop's incoming calls. Although the outgoing message said the store was temporarily closed, customers and creditors were still leaving messages that needed to be answered.

   Tricia settled down on one of the stools at the island and keyed in the number to retrieve her calls. Sure enough, there were seven of them awaiting her attention. Three were from customers wanting to know the status of their orders; two were from buyers; someone was interested in selling her late mother's collection of mysteries; and the last was from Frannie. "Tricia, it's me," she said. No mistaking that Texas twang.