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“Yes, I’ll miss her, too. We seem to witness a lot of people leaving our lives, don’t we, Miss Marple?”

The cat jumped down from the shelf and was soon nuzzling her head against Tricia’s arm as if to say, I won’t leave you.

The words on Christopher’s birthday card to her came back with a poignant pang: The one you love most.

“Yow!” Miss Marple said again, and Tricia turned back to the register to start her end-of-day tasks. She caught sight of her list of booksellers to hit for Davey Black’s education fund and realized she’d missed her opportunity to hit up Antonio for a donation.

Before she had a chance to berate herself, the shop door burst open once again. Mr. Everett stood there, wild-eyed. “I quit!” he said with disgust.

“What happened now?” Tricia asked, wearily.

“Mrs. Crane and I had a disagreement over trash,” he said.

That got Tricia’s attention. “Oh?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Once again, Tricia was glad there were no customers in the store. He walked up to the cash desk, and Miss Marple transferred her attentions from Tricia’s arm to Mr. Everett’s welcoming hand.

“Earlier this afternoon,” he began, “Mrs. Crane asked me to take out the trash but to put it in the Dumpster behind the Coffee Bean. I protested, but she assured me that Mrs. Black and the Kozlovs had an agreement. I did as I was told, and Mr. Kozlov came thundering out the back of the Coffee Bean. I thought for a moment he might hit me.”

“Oh dear,” Tricia said, and winced.

“I repeated what Mrs. Crane said, but he told me in no uncertain terms that they did not have any agreement about the trash. He also said if he caught me putting trash in their Dumpster again, he would call the Sheriff’s Department and report me,” he said with indignation.

Tricia sighed. “What did Elizabeth say when you went back inside the Happy Domestic?”

“That Mr. Kozlov was wrong. Deborah’s agreement was with Mrs. Kozlov, and I was to wait until after closing to put the remainder of the trash in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster. I refused.”

“As well you should have,” Tricia said. “I prefer to think Elizabeth is mistaken rather than that she lied to you. But Alexa was just as upset about the whole situation as her husband. She would have told me if she’d had an agreement with Deborah.”

“My refusal was not acceptable to Mrs. Crane. She called me insubordinate. She called me several other unflattering names as well.”

“Elizabeth did that?” The thought of anyone picking on Mr. Everett appalled her.

“I understand the woman is in mourning. I understand she’s under stress, but there really is no call to stoop to profanity when dealing with an employee—especially when that employee is being paid by a third party,” he continued.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Everett. I had no idea when I asked to you to work at the Happy Domestic that it would lead to . . . to this.”

“May I come back to work for you tomorrow?”

“Yes, you certainly may. And please forgive me for sending you to the Happy Domestic. I had no idea it would be so uncomfortable for you. If it’s any consolation, Ginny will be taking over as manager tomorrow.”

“She should be told about the trash situation. Perhaps she can convince the new owners to pay for a proper-sized Dumpster.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Mr. Everett stared at Tricia for a few long moments. “This was Ginny’s last day?” he asked, his mouth drooping. He rubbed at the bristles of the growing mustache under his nose.

“The purchase went through on the Happy Domestic much faster than anyone could’ve anticipated.”

“So that’s why Mr. Barbero came to the Happy Domestic.”

Tricia nodded. “He’s breaking the bad news to Elizabeth.”

“When he arrived, she dismissed me for the day. I daresay that was a stroke of luck for me. I wouldn’t want her to take out any more of her anger on me.”

“I’m so sorry I put you into that position, Mr. Everett. It won’t happen again. And I’ll speak to Elizabeth about the way she treated you.”

He shook his head and raised a hand to stop her. “That won’t be necessary. She’s no longer in charge of the store. And I have confidence Ginny would never treat her employees as Mrs. Crane treated me.” Mr. Everett smiled once again. “I’ll look forward to coming to work tomorrow, Ms. Miles. Now, I’d best get home to Grace. She’s making meat loaf for dinner.”

“Sounds wonderful.” And what was Tricia going to have for dinner? It was grocery night—the task she hated most. Maybe Angelica had some leftovers in her fridge she’d be willing to share. As long as the cabinet was well stocked with cat food, Tricia saw no need to hit the grocery store for at least another week.

Mr. Everett waved from the door and closed it behind him.

Tricia glanced at her watch. The store was officially open for another fifteen minutes, but a glance out the front window informed her the sidewalks of Stoneham were about ready to roll up for the night, and she flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

As Tricia went through the rest of her list of end-of-theday chores, her mind kept wandering back to the scene that might still be going on at the Happy Domestic. Poor Elizabeth. Poor Antonio.

Her fury rose. David Black was a bully, a coward, and a cad. Angelica had said Deborah was afraid of him. Tricia couldn’t quite picture that. But from what she’d seen during the past few days, the man certainly fit her picture of a prime suspect in Deborah’s death. He’d known she was going to be at the Founders’ Day opening ceremonies. He had to have known the timing of her speech. Could he and Monty Capshaw have been in cahoots?

Monty was dying. Would his insurance have paid if he’d died from the cancer, or would it have paid a lot more if he’d died while flying his plane?

The cliché “hitting two birds with one stone” seemed like it was meant for this scenario.

“I’m going to confront him,” she said aloud.

“Yow!” Miss Marple protested.

“Deborah might have been afraid of David, but I’m not,” Tricia asserted, and grabbed her purse.

“Yow!” Miss Marple warned more strenuously, but Tricia’s mind was made up. “I’ll be back in a while. You’re in charge!” And she closed and locked the door behind her.

David Black’s car sat in the driveway of the neat, white-painted home he and Deborah had shared on Oak Street. At least, she assumed it was his car. She hadn’t seen Deborah’s minivan since the day she’d died. It had been parked in the municipal parking lot. Had David already sold it, too?

Tricia parked behind the late-model Acura. She supposed he couldn’t have afforded a Hummer. That would better fit the macho image he seemed to have of himself. Of course, now that they no longer made them, maybe his next vehicle would be a Mercedes.

Tricia marched up to the door. What was she going to say to him? They hadn’t parted on good terms the day before. Would he even open the door?

She ascended the stairs and pressed the door bell. From inside, she could hear an electronic version of the Westminster chimes. It hardly seemed to go with the humble abode, but then maybe it had been Deborah’s idea of a joke.

The door opened and David stood before her, dressed in a holey gray sweatshirt and grubby jeans. Could the holes have come from sparks from welding? If so, shouldn’t he have worn some kind of protection over his clothes?

“What do you want?” David asked, sounding weary. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Was it guilt that kept him from peaceful slumber?

“We need to talk. About Deborah,” Tricia said.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“David, please.”

He sighed. “What the hell,” he said, and walked away from the door.

Tricia entered the home. She’d never actually been inside the house before, although she’d often dropped Deborah off after one of their Wednesday night girls-only dinners. The descriptor that came to mind was . . . cutseypoo. The living room sported all-white slip-covered furniture, with not a sign that a small child lived in the home. The accent colors were pastel, and the walls were filled with shabby-chic accessories. Not the real thing but the kinds of pictures and knickknacks Deborah sold at the Happy Domestic. And while Deborah was herself a bookseller, there were no signs of any books or magazines cluttering up the room.