After her usual run on the treadmill and a shower, Tricia retired to her kitchen for coffee and the morning paper. She thumbed through to the obituaries and found a listing for Montgomery (Monty) Capshaw. It hadn’t been in the previous day’s paper; had Mrs. Capshaw waited until the weekend to list it, a time when more people bought the newspaper?

Tricia read the entry. Suddenly—that was true enough—August 8. Predeceased by his parents, Richard and Margaret Capshaw, and brother, Lawrence. Survived by his loving wife of twenty-eight years, Elaine; and nieces Brenda and Cara. Private interment at the family’s convenience.

As prearranged, Angelica showed up at precisely eight forty-five, suitably dressed in black. Fleeing under the cover of their umbrellas, they hurried to the municipal parking lot. Tricia drove while Angelica rode shotgun to the Baker Funeral Home. Grant Baker’s cousin Glenn was the owner. He stood near the door, directing the mourners to leave their wet umbrellas in stands in the foyer before ushering them into the large open room to the right.

Tricia led the way with Angelica following. The long line of mourners stood in a bottleneck at the lectern with the guest book just inside the door. It seemed like nearly all the Chamber of Commerce members had turned out for the early-morning service. At least David had done one thing right, she thought again, by scheduling the service early enough so that most of the booksellers didn’t have to close their stores to attend.

Finally Tricia stepped up to the lectern, reached for the provided pen, and scribbled in both hers and Angelica’s names while her sister scoped out the crowd. She put the pen down and nodded for Angelica to follow. They stepped inside the viewing room.

“This is going to take forever,” Angelica groused with a sigh. She squinted and leaned in to look at Tricia. “New earrings?” she asked.

Tricia reached up to touch her left earlobe and Christopher’s latest gift. “Just something I picked up. They’re only cubic zirconium.”

“Yes, it’s best not to wear the good stuff when you’re on the job. Although, I must say, they look really nice. They sparkle like the real thing. Where’d you get them? Maybe I should get a pair.”

Tricia bit her lip. Should she tell Angelica about the package in the mail? That could open the floodgates of teasing. Either that or Angelica would annoy her to contact Christopher—maybe in hopes of a reconciliation—as if that would ever happen.

“I don’t remember where I got them,” she lied. “I must’ve had them for ages.”

Angelica nodded, accepting that explanation. “Who do you want to hang with?” she asked under her breath.

“There’s Grace and Mr. Everett,” Tricia said, and waved to them. She nodded for Angelica to follow.

“Good morning, Grace.” Tricia leaned forward and kissed the elderly woman’s cheek.

“Lovely to see you, Tricia, but terrible under these circumstances.” Grace sighed. “Deborah was such a lovely person.”

Tricia nodded.

“At least she got a good turnout,” Mr. Everett said, taking in the crowd.

“Too bad she can’t appreciate it,” Angelica commented.

Tricia felt like jabbing her sister with an elbow, but Angelica conveniently stood out of reach.

“How sad,” Mr. Everett said, shaking his head. “This is the second bookseller whose memorial service we’ve attended in as many months.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have any nasty surprises like we did then,” Angelica said. Tricia gave her a sour look. Angelica hadn’t even attended Jim Roth’s memorial service.

“Where’s the receiving line?” Angelica asked, gazing around the room.

Until she’d mentioned it, Tricia hadn’t noticed that lack of propriety. David stood to one side of the room, and Elizabeth was on the other—as far apart as they could possibly be.

“There doesn’t seem to be one,” Grace said. “Oh look, there’s Deborah’s mother. We should pay our respects,” Grace told Mr. Everett, who nodded. “We’ll talk to you later, dear.” Mr. Everett reached for Grace’s hand and led her toward the head of the room and an easel with a poster board filled with pictures. Most of them were of Deborah as a child and teenager. No wedding picture. None with David in them, and only a few of Deborah with Davey. Perhaps Elizabeth, instead of David, had contributed them for the gathering.

Angelica grabbed Tricia’s arm and spoke low in her ear. “What’s wrong with Mr. Everett’s lip?”

“Wrong?” Tricia asked.

“I think he missed a big patch while shaving this morning.”

Tricia stifled a giggle. “He’s trying to grow a moustache.”

“What for?”

“So he can walk around the village incognito. He’s aiming for one like Tom Selleck’s.”

“That’s a tall order for such a little guy. Maybe he should set his sights a bit lower. Like maybe Charlie Chaplin?”

“Shhh! He’ll hear you.”

“He will not. He’s halfway across the room.”

Muriel Dexter sidled her way through the crowd, followed by her twin sister, Midge. As usual, the elderly sisters were dressed alike, in matching black dresses, hose, shoes, and pillbox hats with tiny veils that almost covered their foreheads, and had probably come from a nice department store some forty or fifty years before.

Muriel waved to Tricia, who sighed. Talking to the sisters could be an ordeal.

“Tricia, good to see you, although under sad circumstances,” Muriel said. She waited for her sister to catch up before she began conversing in earnest.

“How have you ladies been?” Tricia asked politely.

“Worried,” Midge admitted, and looked around the room as if expecting to find a Russian spy behind a pillar. She lowered her voice. “There’s talk about the village that we’re ripe for the picking by alien invaders,” Midge said earnestly.

“Do you ladies honestly believe that?” Angelica asked, startled.

Both heads bobbed solemnly, and Tricia’s gaze traveled to the wall where Cheryl Griffin stood, her furtive glances taking in all in attendance. Probably looking for a Romulan centurion. “If you think about it, it makes perfect sense,” Midge continued. “Here we are in the wilds of New Hampshire—and everybody knows aliens only show up in rural areas—”

“Never in highly populated areas like New York City or Chicago or Los Angeles,” Muriel chimed in.

“We are doomed,” Midge said, and exhaled a weary sigh of defeat.

Tricia cleared her throat and avoided looking at Angelica for fear she’d burst out laughing.

“We were thinking we should sell off everything we own and move to a tenement in New York City. It might be a lot safer,” Muriel said, and shook her head, heaving yet another sigh.

A tenement?

It was Tricia’s turn to exhale wearily. “Ladies, ladies—please, think about it.” She paused. It wasn’t likely they would honor Star Trek’s Mr. Spock and think the situation through logically. It would be up to her to provide the voice of sanity. And yet there was no way she could convince them that their beliefs were . . . crazy-nutso-bananas!

“Ladies,” Tricia began again, “I want to assure you that you will not be targeted by extraterrestrial slavers.”

“Oh?” Angelica asked, with great interest.

“No?” Muriel asked, hopeful.

“I don’t mean to sound morbid, but if you think about it from a purely business perspective, any alien slave master is going to go straight for the young and the brawny. That means teenagers and young men and women of childbearing age. They’ll not only want individuals who can put in a sixteen- or eighteen-hour workday but who will make ideal breeding stock, too. This is one instance when I think you can count your lucky stars that you’re not only collecting Social Security but safely past menopause.”

Muriel’s smile was positively beatific. “Well, if you put it that way.”

Midge gave a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, sister—finally there’s a reason to rejoice in being old! I think we should go to the Brookview Inn tonight and celebrate with a great big steak dinner!”

“I’m for that,” Muriel said, and turned to face Tricia again, grabbing her hand. “Thank you, Tricia. Not only have you made our day, but you’ve made our week, month, and year, too!”

The sisters turned in unison. “Well, that’s a load off of my mind,” Muriel muttered

“Mine, too,” Midge agreed, as they walked away, heading straight for Cheryl Griffin, who Tricia suspected was about to get an earful.

“Nice move,” Angelica said. “I didn’t know you were so well versed in intergalactic business policies.”

“I went through a phase reading science fiction, too, you know.”

“Star Wars era?”

“And a little before,” Tricia admitted. “Of course, if all the aliens want is a food supply, we’re all skunked.” Once again she let her gaze travel the room, noticing there was no coffin. Instead, a small, six-sided cherry cask apparently held Deborah’s earthly remains on a small dais at the front of the room near the easel. The way David had been behaving, she was surprised he had sprung for even that indulgence instead of the standard plastic container that came with a bottom-end cremation. Then again, who said the cherry cask wasn’t just a prop for the service. Was he going to bury it or scatter Deborah’s ashes at a later date? No one had mentioned David’s plans for his wife’s remains.

“That cheap sonofabitch,” someone behind Tricia hissed. She turned to find Elizabeth Crane standing behind her.

“You mean David?” she asked.

Elizabeth nodded. Her face was pale and drawn, and her mascara was smeared. “He didn’t even let us have a last good-bye with her before he had her cremated. He never even phoned to tell me what the plans were for today,” she said with a catch in her voice.

Too busy wining and dining someone else at the Brookview Inn, Tricia thought, but didn’t dare utter it.

“I’m glad I phoned Mr. Baker last night, or there wouldn’t even have been pictures of Deborah on display,” Elizabeth continued. “That wonderful man put this whole thing together this morning.”

Tricia noticed the dark TV screen in the corner. Lately the funerals she’d attended had had some kind of slideshow to chronicle the deceased’s life. There probably hadn’t been time to assemble one.

“David wasn’t even going to spring for remembrance cards, either. I paid for them. I don’t want people to forget my baby.” She shook her head. “I didn’t approve of Deborah marrying David, but I never thought he’d be so callous toward her—or us.”

Tricia wondered which of the unidentified women in the crowd were Deborah’s two sisters. She exchanged an uncomfortable look with Angelica, who for once seemed at a loss for words.

“Oh my God,” Elizabeth hissed. “What are they doing here?”

Tricia looked behind her to see the woman she’d run into at the bank. Brandy somebody. She’d mentioned having a sister. “Paying their respects?” Tricia offered.

“That surprises me, after the words the fat one had with Deborah after Davey broke his arm.” The woman standing beside Brandy was tall and what Tricia would call ample, but the bulk appeared to be more muscle than fat.

“Water under the bridge at this point, I suppose,” Tricia said.

“What words?” Angelica asked, making a show of staring at the woman.

“Shhh!” Tricia admonished.

“Will you stop shushing me!” she hissed.

“I’ll explain later.”

“I’ve been trying to track down Davey’s missing blanket and I’m sure it was left at the day care center the day he broke his arm,” Elizabeth continued. “Brandy has to have it and is keeping it out of spite.”

“Did you ask her about it?” Tricia asked.

“Yes. She denies she’s got it—the bitch. But that’s the only place it can be. Without his mother and his blankie, the poor baby is inconsolable.”

Davey was nowhere to be seen. Had Elizabeth found a babysitter for the morning?

A woman Tricia didn’t know waved to Elizabeth, who turned and said, “Excuse me,” before she left them.

The large viewing room was filled to capacity, and Mr. Baker had turned the air-conditioning up high to accommodate the crowd, but instead of comfortable, Tricia felt chilled. She shivered, wishing she’d worn a sweater, and noticed Cheryl still standing at the side of the room all alone, looking decidedly out of place. She didn’t seem to be mingling with the rest of the mourners, just holding up a wall.

Angelica scanned the crowd. “Where’s Ginny?”

“I don’t know. I thought she’d be here.”

“I don’t see Alexa and Boris Kozlov, either,” Angelica said.

“And you probably won’t. They had a beef with Deborah over garbage.”

“Garbage?” Angelica asked skeptically.

“It seems Deb needed to cut some corners to stay afloat and sometimes”—here she was stretching the truth—“put some of the Happy Domestic’s trash in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster.”

“That’s as good as stealing,” Angelica said, aghast.

“That’s the way Alexa and Boris feel, too.” Tricia frowned. “I didn’t realize Deb had so many . . .” She paused, struggling to come up with a descriptor.

“Enemies?” Angelica supplied. “If we hadn’t all witnessed the accident, one might think someone had bumped her off.”

Tricia pondered that statement. Of course the plane crash had been an accident. It had simply run out of fuel. Besides, nobody in their right might would deliberately crash a plane into a crowd just to kill off one person.

And what if Monty Capshaw hadn’t been of sound mind?

“Who is that woman in the tight black dress? I’d never seen her before last night,” Tricia whispered. “In fact, she had dinner at the Brookview Inn with David Black and Antonio Barbero.”

Angelica craned her neck, looked the woman up and down, and raised an eyebrow. “Her name’s Michele something. I met her at some cocktail party Bob dragged me to in Nashua. If I’m not mistaken, she owns a gallery in Portsmouth. Didn’t you say David welded god-awful metal sculptures?”

“Yes. I heard he wanted to quit his regular job and do it for a living.”

“Ha! Retail is precarious enough. Trying to make a living in the arts is just about impossible.”

“Which is why he’s still got a day job. Well, two actually.”

“When does he find time to do sculptures?” Angelica asked.

Tricia shrugged. “According to Frannie, making his art is his second job.” She thought about it. The Blacks had always been in financial distress. Had David just told Deborah he held a second job while he did his sculptures for the gallery? And if that was true, where had he done the work? Deborah had said he kept none of his welding equipment in their garage. She was afraid he’d set the place on fire. Had he fabricated them at his day job? That didn’t seem likely. Could he have rented a studio somewhere?

“We ought to go check out David’s work—to see if it was any good,” Angelica suggested.

“When?”

“How about tonight? Michele may take time out to go to a funeral, but I’m sure she isn’t going to close the gallery because one of her artists’ wives died. I mean, it’s just not good business.”

Did Angelica realize how cold she came off at times?

“Well?” she demanded.

“I guess,” Tricia said.

“Ginny’s been moaning for you to give her more responsibility. Let her close Haven’t Got a Clue and we’ll go to the gallery and then have a lovely dinner. I heard about this amazing Italian restaurant I’ve been dying to try.”

“What about the Cookery?” Tricia asked.

“I have no problem with Frannie closing for me. And besides, you’ve been awfully depressed about Deborah’s death. It might cheer you up to get out of Stoneham for an evening. I know I could sure use it.”

It had been two years since Angelica had relocated to New Hampshire, and Tricia still couldn’t get over the fact her sister felt comfortable with Stoneham’s small-town charm. And of late, she’d spent nearly all her off time working on the new cookbook. Too much time. Despite the friction the night before, Tricia had missed their regular gab fests.

Angelica glanced at her watch. “What’s taking so long? Shouldn’t they have started the service by now?”

An impassive Mr. Baker still stood on the sidelines. Tricia crossed the room to join him. “Mr. Baker, when is the service supposed to start?”

Baker frowned and looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid there is no formal service scheduled. Mr. Black decided against it. He thought a gathering of friends would be adequate.”

Tricia gaped at the man, whose disapproving gaze seemed to be riveted on David Black and the gallery owner. Tricia shook herself, and managed a shaky “Thank you” before turning to rejoin Angelica. “There’s no service. This is it.”

“This is what?”

“A gathering,” Tricia explained.

“What idiot came up with that bright idea?” Angelica asked.

“David.”

Angelica glanced at her watch again. “I need to go.”

“But I’m not ready.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got my umbrella. I won’t melt. I’ll call you later about tonight.”

“But, Ange—”

There was no stopping Angelica once she’d made up her mind about something. Tricia watched as her sister said good-bye to Elizabeth and then headed toward the exit.

David had finally extricated himself from the gallery owner and was speaking with Russ Smith, who bore an expression of surprise. No doubt David had just told him there’d be no ceremony.

Tricia marched across the room to stand before David. He didn’t even acknowledge her. “I’m not paying for anything formal. If you want to run an obituary, that’s up to you,” he told Russ.

Tricia tapped David’s shoulder. He finally turned. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe how little regard you seem to feel for your poor dead wife. This”—she waved her hand at the room at large—“is not what Deborah would have wanted.”

“And how would you know?” David challenged. “You were friends with her for what—two years?”

“Almost three,” Tricia said, bending the truth just a little. It was more like two and a half years.

“Well, I was married to her for six years—and knew her for two years before that. I think I knew my wife much better than you did.”

“Not the way she spoke.”

David’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “The subject is closed.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

Several other mourners were obviously eavesdropping, but Tricia was so angry that she didn’t care. She leaned closer and kept her voice low. “But I do mind. If I didn’t know better, David, I’d say everything you’ve done for the past few days screams involvement in Deborah’s death.”

David’s eyes grew even wider. “Get out.”

Tricia met his gaze. “Gladly.”