"Penny?" Angelica asked.

"My cat," Frannie said, and smiled.

Tricia shut the door. The wind had picked up as the sun sank toward the horizon. She wrapped her arms around her chest and stalked back to Haven't Got a Clue. The leaves on the trees were ablaze with color, and already the leaf peepers were descending on the village. That was good for business but bad if she was going to be shorthanded, with Mr. Everett going on his honeymoon.

She was preoccupied with thoughts of the busy week ahead when she caught sight of a Hillsborough Sheriff's Department patrol car moving toward her. She paused, squinting to see who was at the wheel; it was Deputy Placer. She realized that she had hoped it would be Captain Baker.

A gust of wind made her shiver.

Now why would she want to see him? Because he'd called and hadn't left a message? Or was it those maddening green eyes that reminded her of her ex-husband, Christopher?

And why think about him at all when she had a date with Russ in just over two hours?

The cruiser rounded the corner as she opened the door to Haven't Got a Clue.

Don't even think about that man, Tricia chided herself as she resumed her position behind the sales counter. But for the next hour, she kept finding herself looking out the big gla.s.s display window, on the lookout for another Sheriff's Department cruiser.

EIGHT.

Tricia showed up at Russ's house at precisely seven thirty. He met her at the door, looking relaxed in a beige sweater with suede elbow patches. Light from the sconces that flanked the door glinted off his gla.s.ses, and his hair curled around his ears. At that moment, he reminded her of an absentminded professor. He leaned forward to give her a kiss. This time his lips actually landed on hers, and she found herself returning the kiss with enthusiasm.

"Whoa, come on in," Russ urged, holding the door open for her, a bit overwhelmed by her greeting.

After a year of what her grandmother would've called "courting," Tricia felt at home at Russ's house. She shrugged out of her jacket and he took it from her, hanging it in the closet. As usual, there was a platter of cheese and crackers on the coffee table in his living room. She usually had to ask him to turn off his police scanner when she dropped by, but this night the scanner was silent. Instead, soft jazz played on the stereo. Perhaps things were looking up on the romance front.

As usual, a cut-gla.s.s carafe of sherry and gla.s.ses sat on the coffee table as well. Tricia took her accustomed seat on the couch, and Russ soon joined her.

"You look tired. What have you been up to all day?" Russ asked, pouring sherry for them both.

Tricia leaned back against the soft leather. "Besides selling books and annoying Angelica? Thinking a lot about Pammy Fredericks. I even went to see Libby Hirt at the Food Shelf, to ask her if she knew why Pammy would want to talk to Stuart Paige."

He handed Tricia her drink. "And did she?"

"No. Did you know Pammy was a freegan?"

"One of those weirdos that eats garbage?"

"I don't think freegans think of it as garbage. More as salvaged food. It turns out Ginny is a freegan, too, although she doesn't want it getting around."

"I can see why."

Tricia thought about what she'd seen at the Food Shelf's dedication. "Russ, you took a lot of pictures at the ceremony yesterday. Was Pammy in any of them? Maybe--"

He shook his head. "She never made it inside the building. And honestly, why would she think Stuart Page would want to talk to her?"

"She asked everyone in town for a job. Maybe it was that simple."

He shrugged. "Let's not talk about your ex-friend."

That was unusual. The last time there'd been a murder in Stoneham, it was all Russ wanted to talk about--and he'd especially wanted to grill Tricia on what she knew about the victim, who'd been a stranger. Come to think of it, he hadn't even called her after the news of Pammy's death broke.

Russ leaned forward, spread some Brie on a cracker, and offered it to Tricia. She shook her head. "I've been thinking about the future. How I might like to try something different," he said.

"Different?" Tricia asked, and took a sip of her sherry.

He leaned back against the cushions. "I've been thinking about writing a novel."

Tricia nearly choked on her drink. "You, write a novel?"

He looked hurt. "Why's that so hard to believe? I'm a journalist. How hard can it be? Plenty of print reporters have turned to fiction. And when I worked at the paper in Boston, I covered a lot of stories that were ripe for a 'ripped-from-the-news' kind of book."

Tricia could think of more than a few journalists right off the top of her head who'd switched gears to become novelists: Laura Lippman, Carl Hiaasen, Edna Buchanan, Michael Connelly . . . But Russ a novelist? Ha! He was so grounded in facts, she wondered if he would be able to spin a tale and keep up the pace for eighty or one hundred thousand words. Of course, she wasn't about to voice that opinion.

"I wish you luck," she said, and raised her gla.s.s. "To your new career."

Russ laughed and raised his gla.s.s, touching hers so they clinked. Then he settled back on the couch. "I've been thinking a lot about the future and what it means for us, too."

Tricia's stomach tightened involuntarily. "Oh?"

"Yeah. We've been going out for . . . oh, just about a year now, right?"

Something inside Tricia squirmed. Was she about to be dumped? "Yes."

"We've had some rough times," he admitted.

"I wouldn't say rough," she interrupted, studying his face. "Just not exactly smooth."

"But overall, would you say you've been happy?"

Happy was a relative thing. Still . . . "Yes, I'd say so." Oh, G.o.d. Was he about to propose?

Russ leaned in closer. Could he have a velvet-covered ring box tucked inside his sweater pocket? What was she going to say when he pulled it out? She hadn't even considered marrying again. It had only been two years since her divorce. And-- "It's time we had a serious conversation about the future," Russ went on.

Tricia's spine stiffened, and she drew back. "Are you sure this is the right time?"

He nodded and gave her an affectionate smile. "I am."

Tricia leaned forward, grabbed her drink, and took a large mouthful, gulping it down.

Russ laughed. "Am I that intimidating?"

"No, but you sound so serious, which makes me think bad news is coming."

"Not bad news. Good news."

Oh, no. Here it came. And how would she reply to his proposal? No? Yes? I'm not prepared to answer such a serious question on such short notice?

The sherry made her flush. "Russ, don't you think you might be rushing things?"

"I've been thinking about this for the past couple of months. Seriously thinking about it. I think it might be time."

Tricia looked away, exhaled. She was not ready for this. She was not ready for this at all.

Russ captured her hands in his, looked deeply into her eyes. "Tricia, I've put the Stoneham Weekly News up for sale."

"What?" she asked, and yanked back her hands.

"I know this will come as a bit of a shock, but I might have a job in Philadelphia. There's an opening for a crime beat reporter. I've interviewed for it, and so far I'm their lead candidate."

"What?" she repeated, still unsure of what she'd just heard.

"It's a terrific opportunity. The pay isn't great, but I'm certainly not making a fortune here in Stoneham, either."

"But, but--" She took a breath to steady her suddenly shattered nerves. "I thought you liked being your own boss. I thought you left the rat race in Boston to have a little peace and quiet--and that you'd found it here in Stoneham."

"It's a little too peaceful around here."

"Are you kidding? Pammy Fredericks was murdered yesterday."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "It would be more exciting if I could write about it in tomorrow's edition--not next week's. For all I know, the Sheriff's Department will solve it before I can even report her death. I'm tired of running--and writing--stories about lost dogs, stolen laundry, and the occasional DUI, not to mention vandalism--like the mystery of the smashed pumpkins all over town."

No diamond ring. The heck with that--no Russ!

"And you say you've been thinking about this for a while?" Tricia asked, her throat tightening.

"Uh-huh."

"What about me? Did you even consider me while you were making this decision?"

He shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I was surprised to hear you say you'd been happy with our relationship. I always thought you wanted more."

She had. But he never seemed to be listening.

"When will you know about the job?"

"Friday."

That gave her only a few more days to . . . what? Hope? Mourn?

Think about Grant Baker's green eyes?

"Is there someone else?" she asked, dreading the answer.

He laughed. "Hardly. Unless you call running a dying business a mistress of sorts. The truth is, I'm bored here in Stoneham. I need something more stimulating--something this hick village can't offer."

Tricia swallowed. Apparently she couldn't offer that kind of excitement, either.

She hardened her heart. "What if the job falls through? Will you keep on looking?"

"I think so."

"It's too bad you spent time making dinner. I don't believe I want to stay."

"I figured you'd say that, so I didn't bother to make anything."

Tricia's shock at his previous announcement now gave way to anger. "You invited me here, and then you didn't even make dinner?"

He laughed. "What was the point? You're leaving, just as I thought you would."

So now she was predictable!

Tricia rose to her feet and with a supreme effort offered him her hand.

He took it, albeit reluctantly.

"It's been nice knowing you, Russ. Have a good life."

She yanked back her hand and stormed off for his front door.

"Tricia, wait!"

Tricia paused, turned. "What for? You've made your life's plans, and I'm not a part of them. I don't think there's anything more to talk about."

"You're taking this much too seriously."

"If you're talking about our relationship, I did, but I won't from now on."

She grabbed her coat, opened the door, and then yanked it shut behind her, enjoying the sound of its slam. As she stalked off for her car, she noted the door did not open. Russ did not appear, and he did not call for her to return.

d.a.m.n him!

"You broke up?" Angelica cried, dismayed. She placed a huge slice of meatloaf on Tricia's plate, plopped down a gigantic helping of garlic mashed potatoes and a sprinkling of peas, about three times more food than Tricia was ever likely to eat. She didn't protest. Food had always been Angelica's way of coping with disappointment.

"I didn't break up. Russ did." Tricia looked down at her plate. "Meatloaf? You never make meatloaf."

"Of course I do. It's Bob's favorite meal." Bob sat across the table from Tricia, and both watched as Angelica dished up her own dinner. "I know you told me Russ was a little slow in the romance department, but dumping you and leaving Stoneham all in one go? Wow!" She picked up her fork and turned a sympathetic frown on Tricia. "You've had a rough week."

"Tell me about it."

"Can I have some mashed potatoes, too?" Bob asked, offering Angelica his plate.

"Sorry, sweetie." She heaped his plate and handed him the gravy boat. He drowned his entire meal in the stuff, making Tricia cringe.